---Poetry Export

Here it is the first of April and it is hard to say goodbye to our last poet. I know we wont forget Timothy Steele's kindness in sharing his thoughts and advice . It made our March study special indeed. April’s poets were both known for their wit and humor.

The first is from Ogden Nash.

A Caution to Everybody

Consider the auk;
Becoming extinct because he forgot how to fly, and could only walk.
Consider man, who may well become extinct
Because he forgot how to walk and learned how to fly before he thinked.

This sounds like Nash but you know there is a lot of truth as well.
People are always wanting to move ahead before they have properly prepared for the future..
Interesting. Wonder how many of his poems will also have a truth disguised as humor...?

From Dorothy Parker we have this poem.

But Not Forgotten

I think, no matter where you stray ,
That I shall go with you a way.
Though you may wander sweeter lands.
You will not soon forget my hands,
Nor yet the way I held my head
Nor all the tremulous things I said,
You still will see me, small and white
And smiling , in the secret night,
And feel my arms about you when
The day comes fluttering back again.
I think, no matter where you be
You’ll hold me in your memory
And keep my image there , without me,
By telling later loves about me.

Now this was a surprise to me ...because I found it bittersweet....written
by someone who doesn’t want to be forgotten and who also can't forget.

Remember to subscribe

The end of the month took me by surprise. I meant to post and tell TS how much this month has meant to me. A special month, indeed -- I don't think any of us will soon forget it (even with our bad memories).

Yes, I wanted to say thank you once again too.

Maybe we should email him - we could simply click on his name and his email address comes up... Yes, I think that is what I will do... he was so generous with his posts giving us small lessons as well as background on his work. How special to have him join us for not one but several posts...

Bric-a-Brac

Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Little brigs of whittled oak
Bottled painfully in glass;
These are made by lonely folk.

Lonely folk have lines of days
Long and faltering and thin;
Therefore -- little wax bouquets,
Prayers cut upon a pin,
Little maps of pinkish lands,
Little charts of curly seas,
Little plats of linen strands,
Little verses, such as these.

Dorothy Parker

I am confused about this poem. Many people love Arts and Crafts. These people are not necessarily lonely. It's the joy in being creative. My sister and I would needlepoint and embroider together. My sister was a widow. I had a husband and small children. We had so much fun. It's fun doing mosaics, rug hooking, etc. Am I misunderstanding the poem?

I think there is a reason Dorothy Parker uses the word Little over and over again. This poem, I think, is saying more than I am seeing.

Hats I think you are seeing it for what it is - I think this is the big city attitude towards how average folks develop community with common activities and making their own entertainment - think about it - in a large city you do not have to be responsible for entertaining yourself or creating anything that only you can create it - everything is available - all you need is money -

Beyond the borders of big cities, even today with TV and computers, you still have to work at developing contact with friends and neighbors - it is not like there are so many that you need to run home to have relief from people - and as far as activities to do together - there is always an excuse to create a get-together from quilting, to crafts, to church picnics, craft festivals, home or garden tours, you name it...

This is not in the thinking of folks in big cities who often pride themselves as being a cut above. They are surrounded by museums, opera houses, theatre, restaurants that stay open all hours and serve cuisine not the food of average families, there is a group or meeting or classroom experience for every kind of interest and people crammed together so that you cannot leave your front door without saying good morning to at least 10 people and so planning an activity just to spend more time with these folks is not a high priority.

If I remember correctly, Dorothy Parker was part of the group of elite literary types who met at the Algonquin Hotel who prided themselves in being superior and ironic to each other and in their opinions -

Dilemma

If I were mild, and I were sweet,
And laid my heart before your feet,
And took my dearest thoughts to you,
And hailed your easy lies as true;
Were I to murmur "Yes," and then
"How true, my dear," and "Yes," again,
And wear my eyes discreetly down,
And tremble whitely at your frown,
And keep my words unquestioning
My love, you'd run like anything!

Should I be frail, and I be mad,
And share my heart with every lad,
But beat my head against the floor
What times you wandered past my door;
Were I to doubt, and I to sneer,
And shriek "Farewell!" and still be here,
And break your joy, and quench your trust-
I should not see you for the dust!

Dorothy Parker

Barbara I think you are right but the more I read Parker's poems I dont see them as witty which they are but as sad,. She may deride the things we feel are important but I see a needy person....These people who met and made each other laugh and feel like they were special and above others ..they still have to go home and for many home was a lonely place....we are just beginning to read and discuss these poems but already I am getting a feeling of true lonliness and sadness not humor from Parker;s poem...

I feel the same way. These poems are sadder than I expected from Dorothy Parker.

Barbara, I truly love this line in your musing above:

and people crammed together so that you cannot leave your front door without saying good morning to at least 10 people and so planning an activity just to spend more time with these folks is not a high priority

That is one of the reasons I don't like spring to come. There's always someone in your face in my neighborhood where the houses are 6-8 feet apart.

Dorothy Parker, born a Rothschild, was a sad soul who lost her mother at a very early age. She also lost her step mother when she was young. She was not of the banking empire and joked about marrying Mr. Parker, a wall street broker to be rid of her Jewish personna. There is a story that after she and Parker divorced, when questioned by someone if there was a Mr. Parker she quipped, "there used to be.."
The story is that she and Truman Capote were the best of friends and took great pleasure in belittling everyone that came into the Algonquin, which was their popular meeting place. She viciously offended people and called it wit. Now, we all know that sarcasm is merely anger turned inward and Dotorhy was full of anger and cynicism.

As we read and discuss her poems we need to take into account that she attempted suicide at least three times and she was an advocate for the underdog and for left-wing causes. We will feel her "sting" in the peoms and the contemptuous mocking of fellow friends and enemies, alike.
She declared herself a communist and highly advocated the civil rights movement. She bequeatherd her estate to the MLK Jr. foundation.

I love Dorothy Parker, cry when I read her poems and I even quoted her for many years. ""One more drink and I'll be under the host." Now, you have gotta love a woman that says that.

It means to me,that when i want to get something done, such as getting the local authority to empty the rubbish bins often enough,I may as well be embroidering a tray cloth, for all the impact I have if nobody else gives a damn.

Fortunately, what I want often gets moral support from others

Anna, But Not Forgotten by Dorothy Parker that poem hit my heart. I can tell that Dorothy Parker has loved and been loved. I am looking forward to reading more of her poems. Alf thank you for telling us more about Dorothy Parker. I get the impression she was a lady with a big heart. Barbara, I see what you mean about the big city and the small town. Thanks for helping with Bric a Brac.

Alf, after reading the bio in the header, I see her brother died on the Titanic. She also "On June 7, 1967, she was found dead of a heart attack in her room at Hotel Volney in New York City. She bequeathed her entire literary estate to the NAACP." Thank you for bringing her life to my attention. Now, when she laughs in her poems, I will have a better understanding. When her heart is breaking in her poems, I will understand too.

In the poem Dilemma she is saying "Look if I did act in such a fashion you wouldn't care for me anyway- you would be out of here."
I think that she cared deeply for someone and he did not return her affection in the ways that she wished . She's perplexed because IF she were different he would walk away anyhow. Ergo the dilemma, the quandary. It is a Catch 22 situation for her, she is embarrassed so she blows it off as what the he** you'd dislike me at any rate! I feel sorry for her she is wearing her heart on her sleeve and all the time showing a cavalier, insolent attitude. It makes the rejection less painful.

Yes, her brother was lost with the sinking of the Titanic. I read her bio in college and have since loved to read her writings. She was a dear friend of Capotes, and I love his stories as well. They shared a tortured existence, the two of them, denigrating and belittling others, with their vicious humor.

Her affairs were the "talk of the town." People loved her because she was so much fun and entertaining to be around. Yet they feared her sharp wit.

I really would love to read her full bio. I am going to look for it at the library. I like your interpretation of Dilemma. To hold his love, she could do nothing right. She is "wearing her heart on her sleeve."(Alf)

This is my very favorite Dorothy Parker poem:

There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.

Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
the gain of the one at the top
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle ---

Would you kindly direct me to hell!

Whoops Alf - you just posted another poem and I am talking about the previous poem - I need to read this one before I can comment

For me I am getting something different then love rejected from the poem - the line " And wear my eyes discreetly down," says to me she is referring to the typical and accepted way a women is supposed to act as a second class citizen in order to be acceptable for a man to love - and she is saying that even if she were to act in this acceptable way the man or men would run - "you'd run like anything!"

And then she goes on to say even if she acted like a girl tied to the railroad tracks so that he could be the hero there would be nothing left of either of them - they would fall into stereo types or as she puts it - acting this way would "break your joy, and quench your trust-" so all that is left is not only two dead people but two cremated dead people - "I should not see you for the dust!" not even worth burying nor solid like the dead but like dust they would blow in the wind - in other words I see her saying 'be true to yourself and do not diminish yourself for another.'

Oh my she is really depressed in "Coda" - there were so many literary figures in the first half of the twentieth century who were on the edge with depression weren't there - Parker like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Path and even some of Anna Akhmatova, who we read last year, are all filled with pain that that they show as depression - no Lillian Hellman or Maya Angelou way of handling life much less a Fannie Flagg.

They say depression is anger turned inward - it can also be a physical reaction that requires medication - seems to me we did not have either the medicine or the understanding of depression in the early part of the twentieth century and yet, women were beginning to have the time to use their talents for more than planning parties and seeing to household duties - they were still living in the box of tradition that did not give women a voice much less the ability to go public with their pain or rage. I am wrecking my brain trying to think of a current woman author who writes from a place of angst or depression. Lots of pain written about but the author does not seem to be in the middle of it with no escape.

You are correct, she was a great feminist before her time. I love what you said about "break your joy and quench your trust---
so all that is left is not only two dead people but two cremated dead people - "I should not see you for the dust!" not even worth burying nor solid like the dead but like dust they would blow in the wind - in other words I see her saying 'be true to yourself and do not diminish yourself for another.'
We're all dust in the end and that was part of her epitaph.

I was reading some of Parker's poems online and then came across this:

"A fixture of 1920s literary society known for her acerbic wit and low opinion of romantic relationships, she became a member of the famous Algonquin Round Table."

Her reknown as having a low opinion of romance, etc. shows up in poem after poem.

Algonquin Round Table Includes a list of participants - what an amazing gathering.

It seems we all more or less feel the same way...even today it is not easy to be a woman..if you are strong they say you're not feminine enough..A male newscaster can be dressed casually etc in whatever attire he feels best but a woman is criticized if she is too attractive ( to be serious) doesnt deliver as well etc..on and on I have know several professional women who were astounded to find they were being paid several thousand less than men who had the same education, same job and abilities..When you read Parker's life it is tragic. The poems read by her in the past were mostly ones someone quoted to me and they were all sassy, witty and funny and here I am finding out they may be all of that but there is an undercurrent of sorrow and pain..

Here is a poem by Ogden Nash...it is so like springtime here today,, the temperature was warm, the sky blue, the robins in a hurry to make nests , forsythia display sunshine bright blooms and make a golden horizon ..when I went out this am the dogwood buds had opened and overhead it looked like a thousand delicate tea cups so this poem seemed very appropiate. This will be an interesting month....

Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy
; April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.

Ogden Nash

Annafair, the Ogden Nash April Girl poem---lovely! Thank you!

Afternoon

When I am old, and comforted,

And done with this desire,

With Memory to share my bed

And Peace to share my fire,

---------

I'll comb my hair in scalloped bands

Beneath my laundered cap,

And watch my cool and fragile hands

Lie light upon my lap. -------

And I will have a sprigged gown

With lace to kiss my throat;

I'll draw my curtain to the town,

And hum a purring note.

-----

And I'll forget the way of tears,

And rock, and stir my tea.

But oh, I wish those blessed years

Were further than they be!

-----

Dorothy Parker

Strange that Parker thinks of afternoon as being past it. She was one or two generations before ours. Does she really believe, here in this poem, that even in old age there is tranquillity of spirit?

Please advise me---how does one paste a poem in metred lines and not have to double space every linhe on the keyboard?

Mallylee there is a HTML command that lets me show you without it happening but I am not remembering the command - all of HTML is giving instructions to how your words and sentences appear and all the HTML instructions are between these two signs < and the > -- the < is above the , and the > is above the period.

And so I am going to replace the < with a bracket [ because if I use the < sign it will simply do what I tell it to do rather than you seeing what it is that I have asked it to do and the same with the other part of the instruction that finishes it up - the > sign I will replace with ]

And so where you see [ and ] it is really < and >

to break at the end of a line so the next word starts at the beginning of the next line us simply put br or BR between the < and the > - now using brackets it looks like [br] or [BR]

In order to have the space with nothing written that separates stanzas you can either end the last line with the [BR] and then repeat the [BR] or you can omit the [BR] at the end of the last line and put in a [P] =

Example - and the dog slept[br] [br] all afternoon

or you can do it this way

and the dog slept [P] all afternoon

If you want a word to be in Italics you have to not only tell it but after the word you have to stop the Italic

and so this looks like [i]this looks like[/i]

there are many instructions in HTML that need to be stopped - the way you stop an instruction is always with the slant sign / that is located under the question mark sign - some a few like brakes and paragraphs only need the one instruction where as most instructions need to be stopped.

Mallylee here on Seniornet there is a whole page devoted to how to do all this - I will try and find the page and link the page for you -

Mallylee I cannot find the Seniornet lessons - and the ones I found on the Internet are so involved I was afraid you would get lost - they are giving the entire background and information for HTML as if you were preparing your own web page

This is the best I can find - if you scroll down a bit there are the tags or instructions given with the brackets - called tags - for many of the changes you would be wanting to know how to do for poetry Basic HTML tags and other information

I am going to show you how I did that by replacing the < and > sign with [ and ]

[a href="http://www.geocities.com/athens/acropolis/5969/index.html"]Basic HTML tags and other information[/a]

notice there is the letter a then one space before href=" and then the URL that is copied from the window on the computer followed by another " and finishing up with the ] then you write in whatever you are calling the link and closing the link with [/a] the slant and that a you started out with encased in brackets.

Mallylee I realized I did not do a good job in the first post and it would no longer allow me in to make changes so I am repeating here the example so you can see - I will be giving the proper tag to make it happen but you will see the instruction with the other braket so you better understand - again everytime I use the proper braket the instruction is given and it just happens without you seeing what it is that I have done...

Example - and the dog slept[br]
[br]
all afternoon

or you can do it this way

and the dog slept [P]

all afternoon

If you want a word to be in Italics you have to not only tell it but after the word you have to stop the Italic

and so that in italics this looks like [i]this looks like[/i]

and to center the lines of a poem

[center]

Over The Land Is April[p]

OVER the land is April, [br]
Over my heart a rose;[br]
Over the high, brown mountain[br]
The sound of singing goes.[br]
Say, love, do you hear me,[br]
Hear my sonnets ring?[br]
Over the high, brown mountain,[br]
Love, do you hear me sing?
[/center]

Celery by Ogden Nash

Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.

I love celery especially chopped up in potato salad or tuna croquettes.

I like Ogden Nash. It pays not to make quick conclusions or decisions.

The Abominable Snowman
by Ogden Nash

I’ve never seen an abominable snowman,
I’m hoping not to see one,
I’m also hoping, if I do,
That it will be a wee one.

That cracked me up-- just a wee one. Hahhhhhaaaaaaaaa

How about this one?
Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

How about this one ...?

Come On In, The Senility Is Fine

People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility
. This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.

Ogden Nash

Anna, that's anothor funny one, cute one. I am enjoying Ogden Nash. There have been many times I felt younger than my grandchildren especially when I need help finding a tippy cup. We have never done two poets at once have we????

Sweet Violets

You are brief and frail and blue-
Little sisters, I am, too.
You are Heaven's masterpieces-
Little loves, the likeness ceases.

Dorothy Parker

I love violets. That's not the only reason I picked this poem. I like this poem because the speaker of the poem, I suppose Dorothy Parker shows so much humility. May be Dorothy Parker never felt sure of her successes, so strong in many ways and weak in other ways.

Needed to share this - I just received it in an email

http://www.thedashmovie.com/

BUT you cant read it and think about it too often...I wish every young person would read it and UNDERSTAND what is being said..I like to think as I have grown older that I spent my dash wisely and good...and I just try harder to make sure I am spending whatever time left ...showing the people I care about that I care about them..one nice thing about being older and rather presentable as well ( I mean I try to dress ,..well not too wierd ) but I am finding almost every day I have a chance to say hello and give a hug to a stranger...I hope when they hug back they are telling me what I am saying to them I AM GLAD OUR PATHS HAVE CROSSED and though they never may cross again ...this was a special moment and I am thankful for it..makes me smile the rest of a day when I remember another human and I shared a minute of time...and as long as I live it will always be there ..reminding me life is about people not things...ah well I have a poem by Dorothy Parker to share and here it is..Parker's poems seem to me melancholy ...but when you read her bio you can almost understand and sympathize...

Autumn Valentine<br<

In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.

And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
"Poor thing, do you remember?"
"What heart was that?" it cried.

Dorothy Parker

You crucify me with silence,
Breathing in the filth of others.
I can say nothing...nothing that matters.
Nothing, to stop the vile,
Laid in a cup for you to drown in,
Supplicating to suffocate tomorrow.
Yet...you partake of the poison,
Though, I beg you not to.
Retraining emotion to block all,
You pound the nails in...one by one,
Never once turning to see,
The tears raining upon me.
No longer safe from pain,
I clutch on to my salvation.
My faith garnished with memories,
Unwilling to let go of thine belief.
Freely I give thee the antidote,
Watching as it drips from my veins,
Creating a band of red beads,
To protect the dreams,
Arising tomorrow.

Always Marry An April Girl

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.

Ogden Nash

What a powerful poem there was no name could it be one of yours? I have never read it before but thanks for posting it...

I searched Ogden Nash for a funny poem because I felt sort of down..spring had arrived but now snow is predicted and I was enjoying all the beauty spring provides, working outside...suppose to freeze tonight and I just hope it doesnt kill some of the flowering trees and keep my apple and plum tree from gifting us with fruit...here is the poem

Children's Party

May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover

Ogden Nash

And if they want me, let them find me. I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats, I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands, I took them out to wash their hands. I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces, I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots. I've earned repose to heal the ravages Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself Is a lonely little elf, But progeny in roistering batches Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes, They prefer to squirt each other with hoses, Their playmates are their natural foemen And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it, Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it. They observe with glee the ballistic results Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares That everyone's presents are better than theirs. Oh, little women and little men, Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over, So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover

Ogden Nash

Ouch! Next Saturday, I'll be at my grandson's birthday party. I think I'll bring that poem with me for my daughter and SIL!

With snow thsi morning ..we had none all winter long..and now a hard freeze for tonight ..I was reminded of a poem I wrote some time ago when a similar thing happened......anna The last question was answered this am !!!

Spring?

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?

anna alexander 3/27/99 all rights reserved

Anna I LOVE your poem. You are the best!

Some of us forum members are offline, sometimes for weeks. So I came here today, and saw no posts about Tim Steele's poetry since my last time here March 24. So I knew I'd missed a week's worth of good posts/thoughts here.

Good News though! Most of you might already know this; but I didn't until now. Our past poetry-forum posts are still visible. Just click on "Poetry Archives" button atop our forum-heading, then select the month or 1000-msg chunk you'd like to re-read.

I did that today...and have a million comments to friends' msgs posted March 24-31. Here's a couple of my thoughts back-atcha:

Msg #1094 - Tim Steele's 1980s loss of his looong analysis and summary of Kant's "Critique of Judgment" (he'd hit the wrong key and lost his whole 1980s dissertation). I relate...! Been there in 1980s/done that. Tim, maybe it was your and my Judge that ukp and zapped your "judgments of Kant's Judgments"...? We mortals...don't dispute our Judge's judgments - n'est-ce pas?.

Msg #1100 - Barbara's describing Tim's poems (in toto) as like "flipping thru a book of photographs." Well put! A hearty "seconding" of Barbara's apt description of Tim's poems.

Msg #1105 - Timothy's memories of his Vermont upbringing years recalls/describes my own growing-up years in rural Missouri. But I've not his poetic voice/talent to describe these memories as well as he.

In same post 1105, Tim shared the entirety of his (IMHO masterpiece) "Near Olympic poem. I love this poem's entire story. But I also find it a great example of Tim's ability to construct unusual rhymes or near-rhymes. In this poem I like especially these unusual rhymes:

oddities - banana trees
Oldsmobiles - raised rear wheels
Chevelles - one-time motels
chain link fence - succulents

Tim posted his entire early-1980s poem for us here. Sad to report though, our Seniornet rules for line-breaks aren't known by new folks here like Tim. His posted poem lost the line-breaks and views to us here as one big paragraph. Its words still ring loud and clear...but the RHYMINGS that I love aren't readily visible in his post to us. So...for anyone interested, I've tried to insert line-breaks as he intended...and offer them in this click-on link: http://home.thirdage.com/Reading/jimva/nearolympic.htm

My thanks to our many forum friends' daily posts about Timothy Steele (and now, about our current poets-of-month, Dorothy and Ogden). This is, by far IMHO, SN's best. Thanks to forum friends and...our Annafair!

Great post Jim - it never occurred to me that Tim did not know how to make line breaks and thought he was giving us the opportunity to look at his poem anew written as prose. Now I feel bad I did not offer to help - Anna I think there is a change in season that has affected the muse - after months of not writing I too have a new poem to share...

To My Friend, after the Memorial Service for her husband of 65 years.

In Her Flowered Asylum

Her eyes, (tutelary spirits)
Guard drifting sky webs,
Drink mist drops of memory.
Her threaded face ebbs
Inward. Pale lips repeats,
Speaking into her reality
The murmurs of breathed
Eulogies that generously
Floated while she sat erect
Pretending to reflect
Their ache, as her worried
Heart hunted a lost butterfly.

Was there not a poem by Ogden Nash that went

At midnight in the museum hall
the fossils gathered for a ball
Pterodactyls and Brontosauruses sang ghostly prehistoric choruses
etc.

Included was a line about an elephant "A wrinkled rumpled moth proof hide
its teeth are upside down, outside."

When I search for it, I can not find it.. Does anyone know ? ++ Trevor

It is part of Ogdan Nash's Verses for Camille Saint-Saëns' Carnival of the Animals

Fossils

At midnight in the museum hall,
The fossils gathered for a ball.
There were no drums or saxophones,
But just the clatter of their bones,
A rolling, rattling carefree circus,
Of mammoth polkas and mazurkas.
Pterodactyls and brontosauruses
Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses.
Amid the mastodonic wassail
I caught the eye of one small fossil,
"Cheer up sad world," he said and winked,
"It's kind of fun to be extinct."

Because May is coming soon....with a hard freeze I suppose my plums will not come this year...It is sunny and bright and the sky looks like spring...last night I had to view the moon peeking through early leaves of my oak and pine...and slept under a down comfortor and kept a small fire through the night,...

Barbara I want to tell you your poem was so moving,....a poem doesnt always come easy ..it takes awhile to reach in your heart and pull it out..I am touched by your vison and understanding so I know not just your friend but all will find it so..

It was good to read Jim's post and good to see Trevor and what a great poem he recalled..again Thanks Barbara for finding it and sharing it with all..I have found a poem by one of favorite poets ( the list is getting VERY long by the way) and share it below..anna

April

'Tis the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird
In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard;
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow,
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow;
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white;
On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,
O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots
The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots;
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps,
Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps,
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers,
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!
We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south!
For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth;
For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God,
Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod!
Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased
The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast,-
Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow,
All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau,-
Until all our dreams of the land of the blest,
Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest.
O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath,
Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death;
Renew the great miracle; let us behold
The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled,
And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old!
Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain,
Revive with the warmth and the brightness again,
And in blooming of flower and budding of tree
The symbols and types of our destiny see;
The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole,
And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul!

by John Greenleaf Whittier

Your April poem of JGW made me smile, Anna. Oh such a description of the last week in most of the USA . My goodness, 2 feet of snow in parts of Ohio. There was snow on some daffs I picked; they recovered inside the house. Frozen blossoms - hope their genetics are such that they recover as the temp climbs out of the 20s. Don't know if the forsythia will recover.

~Marj

The Turtle
by Ogden Nash

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

Anna, I enjoyed the Whittier poem.

Your poem In Her Flowered Asylum is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.

Your comment was right on target I was searching for an April Poem and this one seemed JUST right for spring (?) of 2007 Wonder what year it was written I would like to know how many years have passed since the spring he described became OURS

Hats I loved that little poem it is what I call droll humor..I had an uncle who had that kind of humor so I recognize it well.

Everyone here seems to have the COMMON COLD and Ogden Nash wrote a poem about it Not a terse poem but a long one..I had to laugh because I feel he must have been describing his cold and went to great lengths to complain here it is ...anna

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

That's sooooo funny!!

Barbara. thank you for your help with copying with line breaks.

That is funny, Anna. Everytime I catch a cold, I am sure death is near.

I feel that it is the Super-cold.

The Super-cold to end all colds;

The Red Dress

I always saw, I always said
If I were grown and free,
I'd have a gown of reddest red
As fine as you could see,

To wear out walking, sleek and slow,
Upon a Summer day,
And there'd be one to see me so
And flip the world away.

And he would be a gallant one,
With stars behind his eyes,
And hair like metal in the sun,
And lips too warm for lies.

I always saw us, gay and good,
High honored in the town.
Now I am grown to womanhood....
I have the silly gown.

Dorothy Parker

This poem makes me think of a girl's daydreams. In my daydreams, I always looked perfect in some fluffy, frothy pastel gown dancing with the most handsome prince charming in the world. In this daydream, I think the daydream lost its beauty and became false, may be ugly. The poem begins happy and seems to fall into disappointment.

A Very Short Song

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.

Dorothy Parker

I don't hear the word "puppy love" any longer. I loved "puppy love." All the boys were soooo cute. In first grade, I loved Harvey. Later, I would love Johnny Ray and Derek. The biggest thing we did was pass love notes and giggle. I'm not sure how it works now. Dorothy Parker, I think, is talking about the more serious types of loss love.

All of Dorothy Parker;s poetry seems to see the world with dark glasses....even when she writes a humorous line there seems to me a shadow there, a sadness she could not dispel ..of course when reading her bio it is easy to understand why ..and because she could see that men and thier opinions were more appreciated than a woman's that would be enough to make her sad...

I laughed at your memories of your youth..when I was young we exchanged Valentine cards and it was AWFUL if you recieved something called a FUNNY one because they were rather a put down...once though a boy who admired me placed a small heart box of candy on my seat in class..I had been busy talking ( OF COURSE) so when the bell rang I hurried to my seat and never saw the candy ...it caused quite an uproar and my teacher sort of blamed me for making a scene ..even now I wondered how she would have felt if she sat on a box of candy and didnt know it was there...Later he forgave me because it did call attention to him as well..and when we were older we dated quite a bit...even after both us married we remained friends....funny the things that make us remember and smile...anna

One Dorothy Parker fave I'm emailing to several Bridge (card-playing) friends: http://home.thirdage.com/Reading/jimva/bridgefiend.htm

And an ideal segue from Dorothy to Ogden: Parker's poem-of-appreciation to Nash: http://home.thirdage.com/Reading/jimva/toogdennash.htm

And two fave Ogden Nash ditties, followed by his poem about April (both our current month AND, I think, a young lady): http://home.thirdage.com/Reading/jimva/nashapril.htm

To cite the above seven short poems in this one post would get longish. So I hope the above (optional) click-on links will be more accessible and will amuse some forum friends (also those poetry-fan friends who mostly "read over our shoulders" here).

Oh, they really made me laugh! The bridge poem is exactly how my mothers friends used to play. They would make me be a fourth whenever someone didn't show up, pay absolutely NO attention to what they were doing (Let's see, WHAT was trump again?) and bawl ME out when they lost. I've hated bridge ever since.

Like Joan I have been there , done that and while I enjoyed bridge as a GAME I didnt like it when I was made to feel bad because I DIDNT PLAY WELL>>>..ah here is a poem by Dorothy ...sort of wry comment on how some feel ...anna

Solace

There was a rose that faded young;
I saw its shattered beauty hung
Upon a broken stem.
I heard them say, "What need to care
With roses budding everywhere?"
I did not answer them.

There was a bird, brought down to die;
They said, "A hundred fill the sky-
What reason to be sad?"
There was a girl, whose lover fled;
I did not wait, the while they said,
"There's many another lad."

Dorothy Parker

I like "Solace." I think it's about using the wrong words at the wrong time. I have fallen short in this area. I do realize the importance of words, how they are said, when, what tone and why. It's just that it's never easy to be perfect. All I can do is try, hoping my heart is in the right place. I still continue to bite my tongue.

On Cheating The Fiddler

"Then we will have tonight!" we said.
"Tomorrow- may we not be dead?"
The morrow touched our eyes, and found
Us walking firm above the ground,
Our pulses quick, our blood alight.
Tomorrow's gone- we'll have tonight!

Dorothy Parker

There are days we think, "I can't go on." Then, we live through that day, and the next, the next..... until we have years and years behind us and more in front of us. I think this poem is pretty positive.

I had forgotten that poem by Dorothy Parker. My college room-mate used to recite that poem. She has since taken her own life and it struck such pain in my heart when I read it this morning. I thank you for bringing my thoughts back to her, once again.Poetry is like that, it lives forever in our hearts.

Alf, I am sorry to hear about your friend's death. It takes my positive spin of the poem and makes me see the words in another way.

this morning and Hats the poem certainly means something to me...Alf I am sorry your friend took her life and it must be both painful to remember she recited that poem and she left in such a sad way.. The reason it hit me as well is my granddaughter is a student at VATECH where this horrendous ..shooting occured this morning.,She was stopped on her way to class and told to return to her dorm...where she is safe with her three roommates..She was able to contact her mother who emailed me ...but this is the second shooting in a year and bomb threats ...she is shaken and I have been weeping since her mother emailed me..I am thankful she is okay but am devasted at the news that is coming out of campus as I am sure you are as well. I really havent anything else to say it is just too much sometimes...anna

Anna, it is too much. Sometimes it's more than the mind can take, too much sadness.

Our thoughts are with you. Be strong for her (and for us.) We do not wish for anything to happen to your health.

Oh, Anna! I'm so thankful that she is all right! I will keep you, her, and the others in my thoughts and prayers.

I feel very badly for the families and friends of the young people. They were too young to die. Violence in such magnitude is just incomprehensible. Pres. Bush and Mrs. Bush will attend the memorial services today. Also, Nikki Giovanni, a great poet will attend too. Anna, I am praying and thinking about you too.

by Rupert Brooke WWI poet - this seems fitting to honor the dead at Virginia Tech.

IV. The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

That's right Barbara. I saw some of the pictures of the dead, on television, and read some of the blogs.It's true that these will always be frozen in time in their young beauty, But this will not comfort the bereaved at this time.It's true that the world is flawed.

And Barbara I thank you for that poem ...I thank GOD Kathryn was not one of the killers victims but it many ways all the students, parents and people who love and care about others are victims as well. Kathryn has come home although I am not sure she is up to seeing anyone. Her mother said she is so fragile right now and will allow her to decide if she wishes to see the rest of the family. I find myself unable to watch TV and only read what our newspaper says ..I know she is feeling as if she doesnt want to finish her education there..She is a junior and of course this fall a senior...While everyone wants to know what went on ( for me I can't take too much of it ) the students feel that the media coverage is just keeping the thing up front and doesnt allow them to begin to put it behind them...something that would be difficult in any case but now seems to make it worse. Two students from this area were among the victims...Hats Niki Giovanni ( I hope I have spelled that correctly is a member of the Poetry Society of Virginia and has been a speaker at some of our meetings ) I think her speech at the convocation was perfect and according to the information I read she had found this young man so offensive she said she would quit rather than teach him..and they transferred him out of her class. Honestly I have been sick since this happened and really just ..I cant say but if the sun would only shine and the weather would be spring..perhaps I can feel there is hope for healing...forgive me but I will be back...love to all.anna

The Firefly
by Ogden Nash

The firefly's flame Is something for which science has no name
I can think of nothing eerier
Than flying around with an unidentified glow on a
person's posteerier.

What a perfect poem ..it makes me smile...My granddaughter and her mother came by yesterday It was so good to embrace her and hug ...I held back my tears because for now there are few left ..I searched and searched for a poem to post but I have written a small one.. and will share it here..While I wrote it for her it is really to remind myself that even in the darkest days life goes on ...anna

For Kathryn Rose

welcome home my beloved child
let me embrace you and hold you tight
in your eyes I see your pain
but it is time to let in a little light

today we will celebrate
and wipe away our tears
I wish there would be no more
but loss will come throughout your years

in time you will learn to celebrate
the lives of those that once were here
your tears will still return
but you will smile because they once were near

in the darkest days of winter
God takes our hand and brings
the promise of the flowers resting
the promise of another spring.........

anna alexander 4/21/07

Anna, what a perfect poem for this week. Is "Kathryn Rose" your granddaughter's name? What a beautiful name. Thank you for sharing your poem here.

Yes she is named Kathryn Rose and it fits her well...Found a poem by Nash that reminds me of the old Burma Shave roadside signs....does anyone remember them?

Lather As You Go

Beneath this slab
John Brown is stowed.
He watched the ads
And not the road.

Ogden Nash

Actaully is seems summer arrived with temperatures near 80 I think this poem about August by Dorothy Parker seems to almost fit this hotter weather which arrived on the heels of winter saying goodbye...

August

When my eyes are weeds,
And my lips are petals, spinning
Down the wind that has beginning
Where the crumpled beeches start
In a fringe of salty reeds;
When my arms are elder-bushes,
And the rangy lilac pushes
Upward, upward through my heart;

Summer, do your worst!
Light your tinsel moon, and call on
Your performing stars to fall on
Headlong through your paper sky;
Nevermore shall I be cursed
By a flushed and amorous slattern,
With her dusty laces' pattern
Trailing, as she straggles by.

Dorothy Parker

The posts here this month are a great read. Thanks, forum regulars!

Anna's g-daughter, WHEW! Lightning doesn't strike twice in same place, they say (except on meant-for-it designated lightning rods).

In Virginia (near DC), I worked 28 years with folks whose kids were growing up. Virginia Tech was the favorite college-of-choice for many of them in, say, 1980s-1990s. My co-workers' kids have graduated now and are into careers whose titles I can't even pronounce.

Virginia Tech is longtime highly respected It also has become an Atlantic Coast Conference powerhouse in football, basketball, wrestling and several other "ACC" sports (both for men and women).

Today I thought I'd share a pic of Annafair's Virginia in springtime. This photo won an award of some kind last year. This year's springtime in VA is likely a similar scene: http://home.thirdage.com/Reading/jimva/virginiainspring.jpg

Also, here's a Dorothy Parker poem that spoke to me (once I could get around her somewhat inaccurate "Ozarks dialect"....of which I'm THE expert).

"Poem in the American Manner"
by Dorothy Parker, from "The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker,"
(copyright 1996 by Stuart Y. Silverstein)

I dunno yer highfalutin' words, but here's th' way it seems
When I'm peekin' out th' winder o' my little House o Dreams;
I've been lookin' 'roun' this big ol' world, as bizzy as a hive,
An' I want t' tell ye, neighbor mine, it's good t' be alive.
I've ben settin' here, a-thinkin' hard, an' say, it seems t' me
That this big ol' world is jest about as good as it kin be,
With its starvin' little babies, an' its battles, an' its strikes,
An' its profiteers, an' hold-up men--th' dawggone little tykes!
An' its hungry men that fought fer us, that nobody employs.
An' I think, "Why, shucks, we're jest a lot o' grown-up little boys!"
An' I settle back, an' light my pipe, an' reach fer Mother's hand,
An' I wouldn't swap my peace o' mind fer nothin' in the land;
Fer this world uv ours, that jest was made fer folks like me an' you
Is a purty good ol' place t' live--say, neighbor, ain't it true?

This poem is in "sonnet" form (14 lines, anyways). And i LOVE sonnets.

What spoke most to me was line 9: "And its hungry men that fought fer us that no one employs." That was certainly so in "Nam conflict.

I also liked her line 8: "An' its profiteers an' hold-up men--th' dawggone little tykes!" This, to me, succinctly labels these "anti-community" folks as immature brats. And that, they surely are. Labels won't change them, I know; but for me, this was a poignant thought from DP to me.

The picture is a true of Virginia in Spring..Of all the places I have called home I can truthfully spring in Virginia is special The dogwood trees hold arms of flowered snow, Azaleas in many colors are everywhere ..Bradford pears present huge bouquests along the highways and in the yard, All of the bulbs are ours to admire, my Iris now is reaching for the sky , I have lilacs in my back yard and my rose bushes had buds eager to open ...other flowering trees almost overwhelm with thier beauty and thier fragrance ..it is almost overwhelming but I SAY OVERWHELM ME SPRING!

Found a poem by Dorothy Parker ..it seems to me she is saying she doesnt need to travel because her mind takes her wherever she wants to go...I am glad I have had the opportunity to travel far and wide but I must confess I am also happy now to stay put and allow my memmories warm my soul..does anyone see this differently?

Hearthside

Half across the world from me
Lie the lands I'll never see-
I, whose longing lives and dies
Where a ship has sailed away;
I, that never close my eyes
But to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tell
Wait, where older waters swell;
Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,
Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,
Vibrant with the singing dead,
Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine,
Quiet valleys dip and shine.
Where their tender grasses heal
Ancient scars of trench and tomb
I shall never walk: nor kneel
Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part,
Where I travel goes my heart;
Where I stray my thought must go;
With me wanders my desire.
Best to sit and watch the snow,
Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

Dorothy Parker

Hi Jim in Jeff!

AnnaFair, I love the last lines of Hearthside by Dorothy Parker.

If I seek a lovelier part,
Where I travel goes my heart;
Where I stray my thought must go;
With me wanders my desire.
Best to sit and watch the snow,
Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

Dorothy Parker

Thanks to all of you for sharing so many poems this month. I have changed my views about two poets. What one wrote is totally different from what I thought she wrote, if that makes sense.

I susppose you speak of Dorothy Parker I have read a lot of her poems what surprises me she often shows herself in a bitter light...reading her bio makes that understandable but makes me sad ...here is perhaps the last DP poem for this discussion ..We had terrific thunderstoems and HEAVY rain all of yesterday ...actually 24 hours and I was off the computer with a flashlight handy as we did have flickering lights and thought we might lose electricity.So we had no fair weather here and again DP makes me feel sad for her...Even a good relationship has stormy seas but I prefer the calm and happy seas...anna

If ever I needed a month of humor this was that month Hope next month will give us some advice and see how a Persian poet felt centuries ago.. Will he show us things have stayed the same even if we call them by different names. ?

Fair Weather

This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine. that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm
.

So let a love beat over me again,
Loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
Sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
That casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds
.

Dorothy Parker

SONG OF A CONTENTED HEART
(from "Not Much Fun: The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker," 1996)

All sullen blares the wintry blast;
       Beneath gray waves the waters sleep.
Thick are the dizzying flakes and fast;
       The edged air cuts cruel deep.
The stricken trees gaunt limbs extend
       Like whining beggars, shrill with woe;
The cynic heavens do but send,
       In bitter answer darts of snow.
Stark lies the earth, in misery,
       Beneath grim winter's dreaded spell---
But I have you, and you have me,
       So what the hell, love, what the hell!

The wolf, he crouches at the sill,
       And grinning, bares expectant fangs,
While heavy o'er the house, and chill,
       The coming of the landlord hangs.
Each moment, on the shrinking door,
       May sound his knocking's hideous din.
And more and more, and ever more,
       The eager bills come trooping in.
The milkman clamors for his due,
       The grocer and the cook, as well---
But you have me, and I have you,
       So what the hell, love, what the hell!

I chose to share that one of Dorothy's today because to me, it IS her. What the hell; right, Dorothy...?

"Wordsmith" can define many, maybe most poets; but I'd rate Nash's "syllable-smithing" ability a cut above. "Fragonard" (not in my dictionary either) I chose to share today because as a farm-lad I had a favorite uncle Clarence who would buddy with me on his Sunday visits to his parents and my farm in Missouri Ozarks sticks. One game we'd do together was exchange spontaneous rhymes (two-liners) about things in sight. So once I tried this on him:

"I love my uncle Clarence....And then, I could only come up with: "Because he wears nice pants." And until today, I knew no rhyme for Clarence. Now...I see Ogden do it...THREE times in one ditty!

FRAGONARD (Ogden Nash)

There was an old miser named Clarence,
Who simonized both of his parents.
"The initial expense,"
He remarked, "is immense,
But I'll save it on wearance and tearance."

The second ditty below is another of Nash's examples of syllable-smithing.

The Third Jungle Book (Ogden Nash)

Why does the Pygmy
Indulge in polygmy?
His tribal dogma
Frowns on monogma.
Monogma's a stigma
For any Pygma.
If he sticks to monogmy
A Pygmy's a hogmy.

And three more Ogden-ditty faves of mine:

"Of all the things that I would rather,
It is to be my daughter's father."

Ouch! I'm not sure which poem that extract came from.

Which the Chicken, Which the Egg?

He drinks because she scolds, he thinks;
She thinks she scolds because he drinks;
And neither will admit what's true,
That he's a sot and she's a shrew.

And perhaps my longtime favorite Nash ditty:

The Hunter

The hunter crouches in his blind
'Neath camouflage of every kind,
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys.
This grown-up man, with pluck and luck,
Is hoping to outwit a duck.

My apologies to my uncle Clarence in heaven...who on earth was an avid hunter...beagle hounds, hunting jacket and all.

Annafair, today I live in Missouri exact same distance from Northpole as I did in Virginia. One easy measurement yardstick...is US 50, an east-to-west highway (except for terrain-dictated deviations now and then). And in northern Virginia (inside DC beltway), I lived two miles north of US 50 as it headed into DC. And here in Missouri, I now live 3 miles south of US 50 as it heads from Lake of Ozarks into Jeff City.

So both here and there, the general climate is similar. One difference is that Virginia's wooded areas cover less of state than Missouri's Ozarks which cover the whole southern half of Missouri (due to last Ice Age roughly reaching what's today's Missouri River which cuts Missouri into northern/southern halves, the northern half being prairie/farmland similar to Iowa's).

So...I'd say Virginia's springtime in wooded areas is similar in both flora and fauna to Missouri's southern half. Lovely, lovely, lovely...!

P.S. - Howdy, Hats (right back atcha, a wee bit late), from Jim in Jeff (Jefferson City, Missouri).

Thanks so much for your selection of poems...wise choices as well as your remarks...and yes spring is lovely in both of our areas ...although to find the beauty here is just out my door and everywhere but when I lived in Illinois we always drove south to the Ozarks in spring to see how lovely spring can be., My oldest brother when he returned from WWII said it was the plain of Illinois he missed the most..I have to confess while I love to go back and do love the plains I am always ready to return to the forests areas ...even the farms of Virginia seemed nestled near forests and hills ...of course when you drive through the plains when there is an ocean of wheat and the wind making waves I have to admit that is breathtaking....

I chose this poem by Ogden Nash because it made me smile I have lied about my age for years claiming I was 22...not because I feared growing older or looking older ..but when people knew how old I was they treated me older ! Have to confess that raised my Irish Ire ...here is the poem ...

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Ogden Nash

This has always been one of my favorite poems from Khayyam I know I was young when I first read it and have tried to remember , but don’t always succeed. to be careful in my speech ...not to make it correct but make it kind.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Khayyam;s little gems are so profound. And so universal. It feels like putting on a coat from some exotic bazaar, air full of strange smells, ears full of strange sounds, and the coat feels like a second skin it's so comfortable.

Your post was very profound as well I have decided to use the first link It gives 3 explanations of the poem...and here it is anna The first is considered a literal translation , the second the real meaning and the third Fitzgerald;s who translated and his book is the one most read.....I think it is interesting to see what each says...anna Which do you like best?

Literal:

The caravan of life shall always pass
Beware that is fresh as sweet young grass
Let’s not worry about what tomorrow will amass
Fill my cup again, this night will pass, alas.

Meaning:

To be aware of each moment spent
Is to live in the now, and be present
Worry for morrow shan’t make a dent
Caring for the now, your mind must be bent.

Fitzgerald:

One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One moment, of the Well of Life to taste--
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Starts for the dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!

Greek class is over on May 4 and I'll be free to enjoy poetry and books outside of the Classical Greek World again for a while.

Between a few health problems and my course there was just no time.

I've been reading the past few posts here and can see that I'll have to get 'back on track' literarily but I'm delighted with the choice of poet as well as the book Brideshead Revisited which I will also be joining.

It's a perfect spring day here and my heart is light--and now, having read the May choices it's lighter yet.

Alliemae

Mrs. Sherlock, your post is very beautiful.

You have been missed so take that chair over there,,,it is deep and soft and you can relax but we hope you will give us your opinion too....here is my poem for today I dont know about the rest of you but we have been having RAIN and THUNDERSTORMS so I have been off the computer and watching the sky ...today just rain but cold enough to have a small fire in my little stove... The poem and the explanations are interesting...to me. It seems to say to get through life you have to drink ..to avoid what life is all about ...what is that old adage EAT DRINK and BE MERRY BECAUSE TOMORROW YOU DIE....life is so much more than that to me...

Literal:

Drinking wine is my travail
Till my body is dead and stale
At my grave site all shall hail
Odor of wine shall prevail.

Meaning:

I live life just like a game
Joy by any other name
And joy till death all the same
Even my grave shall proclaim
Joy has been my only fame.

Fitzgerald:

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

Could someone please tell me just what meaning to take from the last two lines? I guess I understand Jesus suspiring, but what is all this about the white hand of Moses, on a bough, putting out?

Could it be some blossom on a flowering tree, perhaps ? ++ Trevor

I am so glad to see you here and without doing any research will take a guess...Moses and the burning bush ...do you suppose he means puts out the fire..Gee it has been a long time since I read that portion of the Bible but it seems he reached into the burning bush to obtain the 10 commandments ..anyone more knowledgeble about this .? I will have to go back and read it ...God will be surprised as I havent read that part in YEARS...Please come back and join us again ..How about another Australian poet /.we did Henry Lawson but I recall you posted some very very good poems by Australians and I want our discussion to cover the world...GOOD TO SEE YOU ..my best , anna

I should have checked first but God did not give Moses the commandments when HE spoke to him from the burning bush ...Guess I need to read the 1st five books again...but I still think the poem has something to do with the burning bush...any one?

I find the 3 interpretations interesting....makes one think doesnt it?Which do you think is best?

Literal:

This Universal wheel, this merry-go-round
In our imagination we have found
The sun a flame, in the Cosmic lantern bound
We are mere ghosts, revolving, the flame surround.

Meaning

In our imagination, the Cosmic Wheel
Will cause us pain and cause us heal We find our source give life and steal
We are phantoms that think and feel.

Fitzgerald:

For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

I can't be unbiased since I've loved the Fitzgerald translation for many, many years.

In this one I like the Fitzgerald best, although not in some of the others.

Since the only translation I knew were the Fitzgeralds and loved them ...they flowed and were filled with beauty and truth to me ,,but I like to compare the three,...sometimes it helps to see how other translations view the same four lines...so here is today's rainy and chilly here in the east by the way....oh where is Spring I say ...Hidden in some far Cathay ? sorry I just think in rhyme sometimes....I like Fitzgerald here..what a beautiful way to say that the sun was rising and bathes the turret with the morning light..

Literal:

The sun with its morning light the earth ensnare
The king celebrated the day with a wine so fair
The herald of dawn intoxicated would blare
Its fame and aroma, for time having not a care
.

Meaning:

Even from the bright rising sun
The moon that has playfully spun
We learn love, joy, and even fun
Before our time’s sand has run.

Fitzgerald:

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

WOW! Fitzgerald is amazing!

Now the "meaning" for that latest one on 104 post doesn't jive for me as does the Fitzgerald.

Literal:

Those who went in pursuit of knowledge
Soared up so high, stretched the edge
Were still encaged by the same dark hedge
Brought us some tales ere life to death pledge.

I have always heard the old saying "ignorance is bliss." I think knowledge does bring some darkness. I learn about the culture of a country, I see beauty, ugliness, poverty all mixed up together. It must take will power, strength of some sort to want to gain new knowledge.

This part of the Rubiyat also makes me think of explorers spelunking in caves, rowing down the Amazon or Congo and mountaineers. I thought of Marco Polo too.

I find it hard to understand all three translations of the Rubiyat. This has kept me from posting. Usually, I can only translate one or two in my head hoping those two are making sense.

Pardon me for dropping in late to your party. I haven't yet read all the posts but the prospect of multiple translations is interesting.

I believe my mother's beautiful taupe fabric-textured copy with gold lettering on the cover and spine was a Fitzgerald translation. Along with "Leaves of Grass," The Rubiyat" was a common tool of seduction given by gentlemen to women. (I'm probably not the first to mention this.)

When I first looked into the book (at about thirteen years), it was the strongest non-Christian writing I'd come across. Honestly, even as a five year old I understood the Bible stories were not literal. (I'd asked at four what God stood on to create the earth--not that smart, just a born skeptic.)

While being aware early on that my Grandmother's faith--owing to an iconoclasic family-- was just one philosophical option, I really loved and embraced the beauty and spirit of the overall religion. (Though even as a child I took "eternal life" with a grain of salt.) But it was still a huge shock to read articulate and beautiful lines arguing the temporariness of the human experience. I read on in vain for a way out of such brevity but failed to find it.

Late in life, I look forward to catching up on all your insights into this work.

Barbara65b, welcome! Thank you for giving me a new and inspiring way to look at the The Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam. I didn't know how to read it. As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've ever been near it. I wasted a month just being afraid to take a peek at the work. You have made me want to delve deeper in to this work of poetry. Thank you for being here. I hope you will share more of your thoughts this month. I would like to apologize for being so presumptuous as to take on such a beautiful and valuable work. I am regrouping to reread the header again, more slowly and waiting for helpful thoughts from others who might come to post here.

BARBARA: WELCOME, WELCOME!! Are you new to Seniornet? It's a warm place, where friends can meet around a cup of coffee and discuss poetry, or anything else.

I dimly remember seeing a similar copy of the Rubiat in my parents house, but I don't think I ever read it until now.

Welcome Barbara glad you are posting here - been been busy busy busy - just peeping in - looks like many of us were busy this Spring -

I have read bits and pieces of the The Rubaiyat but never before had I read the entire poem - and in fact I am still not finished - not exactly an epic is it - after awhile reading it reminds me of a Litany of Victorian Proverbs.

I thought this site was interesting with various interpretations of each quatrain Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Funny how some poets affect us and others that I was expecting to be moved and found the work to be hohum - I think my biggest surprise was Walt Whitman - reading his bio was helpful and again a surprise - I really knew little about him except his poetry seemed to express a fiercely patriotic view of America.

With Omar Khayyan I have heard the Bread and Wine and thou bit forever it seems but after reading a few of these quatrains I grew bored. That was when I realized I was not experiencing any mental pictures and for me what I hear immediately becomes a picture in my head or a schematic design if it is based on theory. With Omar it was one simple truth followed by another and yet another all in the same meter - not enough mental stimulation for me.

I too am enjoying Omar for first time. Much info about him is in header links; thanks, ANNA!

Today I also honor/applaud Edward J Fitzgerald, who in mid-1800s made Omar's thoughts accessible to English-speaking folks. Fitzgerald's intent was to paraphrase the spirit of the author (rather than word-for-word literal translations).

Omar seems to me one of history's rare "Renaissance Men," genius's in more than one field. Others surely include: Ben Franklin; Galileo; Edison; etc. One outstanding contemporary of Omar's fits the term too: Abbess Hildegard of Bingen. Omar lived 1048-1131; Hildegard, 1098-1179. Here's an aside link to more about Abbess Hildegard: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hildegard_of_Bingen

I envision Omar as an anti-establishment rebel (Muslim vintage). He was either Atheist or Agnostic...so got mostly shunned during his time. Not believing in an afterlife, he often advocated living each day fully...his quatrains expressing a joy of life in the present tense. ("Eat, drink and be merry; for tomorrow we die," as someone else once said.

Fitzgerald wrote "paraphrase translations"; and did so...real well. Nothing like his, re Omar's quatrains translated into English. He did these paraphrases several times (different words, same thoughts). I have a book with his first, second, and fifth translations. Each quatrain version reads differently, but expresses same thoughts. For an example (any quatrain would do), here's 3 translations of Omar's imagery about DAWN:

Fitzgerald's First Edition:
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Fitzgerald's Second Edition:
Wake! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height
Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night;
and, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Fitzgerald's Fifth Edition:
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

All above capitalizations and indentation choices are Fitzgerald's, natch. Different expressions of same thoughts...each retaining the essence of Omar's thoughts...800 years earlier. I like it...a lot!

owwww I like the last "...who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night," personifying dawn - yes, I like that...

The first translation is the one I have known and loved since I was a teen. Your note, Barbara, does put a new spin on the verse, but the entireity of the first is more lyrical to me.

Another Persian poet - a young women poet writing today...

The Wind Will Take Us
by: Forugh Farrokhzad

In my small night, ah
the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees
in my small night there is agony of destruction
listen
do you hear the darkness blowing?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.

listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.

O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands
give your lips to the caresses
of my loving lips
like the warm perception of being
the wind will take us
the wind will take us.

If you notice Barbara is now the discussion leader.She has graciously answered my call for help.This is the first time my left hand and arm has felt well enough to do a lot to typing, On May 5th your fearless "leader" caught her left foot on one of those cement car stoppers in a parking lot....while the right foot kept moving. The result was I landed face down on the cement sidewalk ....using my left hand to break the fall helped some but it was the beginning of trouble spelled with a capitial "T" I broke my nose and had 5 stitches, My left hand , elbow, shoulder suffered bruises and the left side of my cheek was bruised as I hit the car going down. My knees were bruised and lacerated ..(CEMENT IS NOT SOFT OR KIND) the toes on my both feet also suffered since I had on open toed shoes and they were skinned and scraped..The ENT said when he took the stitches out my nose was a blt to the left and if I wished he could push it back I DONT WISH...I is a functioning nose and that is all I require..Yesterday , the second week anniversary I was allowed to blow my nose !! Never thought I would look forward to this as an "EVENT" how much we take for granted..As you all know I have had a series of illnesses starting last year and continuing into this one..I am so far behind on necessary tasks and things that need my attention .and it is hard to write this I wrote Marcie and said for the time being I have to leave poetry as the leader,

All of you know what an able person Barbara is .like the rest of us she too loves poetry, finds the special and deep meanings to the poems we share and a talented poet as well. YOU WILL BE IN GOOD HANDS>>>I will post as well but there will be times when I wont be here..The bones that are bruised will take time to heal ..and I will take some time to heal..

Xrays proved nothing was broken except my nose They even did a brain scan and assured me I do have one..not too bright but it is there ...This discussion and all of you that post here are so special to me..We have shared here in such a way I feel I know you well and consider you my good friends,.You have inspired me, encouraged me, invited me into your lives and blessed me in a hundred ways. I will continue to peek in and post when I can..

Even when I dont you will be in my thoughts and prayers ....hugs and love to each and remember YOU ARE SPECIAL PEOPLE and to Barbara ,. thanks from my heart to yours....love all, anna

AnnaFair: Your first obligation is your health. Falling is serious at our ages, as bad as your injuries are, the dreaded broken hip was not among them. I'm sure I speak for all of us when I wish you a speedy recovery. I know how the bruised bones can hurt; I fell in the bathtub a while ago and still sometimes I wake during the night in pain, can't find a comfortable spot, have to take another pill. Ruptured sleep slows recovery, I hope you can rest well. You will be in our thoughts and prayers.

Barbara: What a trooper! That is the standard of SeniorNet volunteers, always ready to step when needed. Your leadership will be very welcome. Thank you.

Anna, I am so sorry to hear about your fall. I am glad Barbara is willing to take your place as Discussion Leader. We are in good hands. Thank you Barbara. Anna, take care of yourself each and everyday.

Barbara, thank you for sharing The Wind Will Take Us by: Forugh Farrokhzad. The use of the color "green" threw me off. Could anyone help me with this part of the poem?

O green from head to foot
place your hands like a burning memory
in my loving hands

Thanks Jackie - mixed feelings - Yes, Anna needs to heal and she deserves a long rest - she has worked on this discussion for years now, month after month after month.

However, I will sorely miss her. She did promise to peek in as often as she is able and when she heals we may work out an arrangement where by she does a month and I do a month or some combination -

Like Anna there is something about reading and talking poetry that touches a different part of my heart and brain - Poetry has a way of bringing out the wonder in all of us in addition to touching our memory and our feelings. Reading fiction or any book for that matter more often does not hit such deep chords within us compared to reading poetry.

I was so relieved that Anna had already chosen the June poet of the month - whew - and so Keats it is... I do want to review with everyone where we have been. Before the end of the month my plan is to create a table including the poets Anna found for us to study and group them according to when in history they were writing and their home country. That way we can see the holes and everyone can offer suggestions so that we can fill in a few of the holes.

During our chat last night on the phone I agreed with Anna - one of the pluses of reading a poet each month is finding out more about them and the lives they lived - Their life history seems to nail their poetry to a tree that makes such perfect sense. The poet who came alive for me after reading about his life was Walt Whitman - had no idea - I only associated him with these very gushing patriotic views of America.

Well onward - we still have 10 days in May although Memorial Day weekend is coming up - I will be attending my grandson's graduation in Lubbock over the weekend but I will be able to do a quick post from their house, probably on Sunday.

Hats - glad to see you this morning - my take on the green is she is following with the analogy to the leaves on the trees - the leaves are being blown around by the wind as part of this agony of destruction she speaks to -

And now I even see more in the poem - wow hats thanks for bringing that up - because she speaks of her lips which we think of as red therefore, like the restless moon is red this poem is a more personal wind - personal emotions and could even be read quite sexual. Which reminds me to even read deeper since the poems of St. John of the Cross from Spain sound very sexual and yet, they are about his love of Christ - her loving hands and burning memory hmmm need to read this poem a few more times.

Wow! Now I need to go back and read the poem again. I am not familiar with the poems of St. John in Spain.

Wait a minute - aren't the colors Red and Green often used in the flag of Middle Eastern nations? Aha - Persia is Iran today and sure enough here is the Iranian flag Flag of Iran this poem than can be read as the winds of change that hopefully will not bring what is feared - the clouds turning to rain. Not trying to be flip but like the song something about not raining on my parade.

Hats here is a link to the poetry of St. John of the Cross each title is a link to the poem. The poetry is the start of his books - the one you may have heard about is "The Dark Night of the Soul." when you scroll down on this link the entire book is there The Dark Night of the Soul

Been having fun finding other Persian Poets - This amazing site is devoted to Rumi - What I think is so amazing, every time you open the site there are a few of the poems that change automatically - I kept closing and opening the page and each time I was greeted with another poem.

The concept in this one took my breath away and then this second one was to me a logical poem opening the heart a little more with grace and beauty.

You are broken-hearted too, you shall find cure in love;
If you listen to me and pursue this ailment.

I sought a soul in the sea
And found a coral there;
Beneath the foam for me
An ocean was all laid bare.

Into my heart's night
Along a narrow way
I groped; and lo! the light,
An infinite land of day.

Barbara, what a beautiful site!

Here is another current Persian Poet from Iran.

An Ode To A Tree
By Siavash Kasrai

You are the tall figure of desire, O' tree

The sky embraces you at all times
You are tall, O' tree

Your hands are full of stars and your soul full of spring
You are beautiful, O' tree

When winds make a nest in your tangled leaves,
When winds comb your green hair,
You are fantastic, O' tree

When the wild fingers of rain grasp you,
In its cold feast
You are the sad, sweet-singing musician, O' tree

Under your feet,
Here is night and night-struck people whose eyes
Have not seen the day
How is it that you have seen the day?
How is it that you have seen the sun?
And you are amazingly gazing at them, O' tree!

As you bound the earthly people by a thousand strings,
Don't be scared of thunder,
Don't be scared of lightning.
You will prevail, O' tree

Don't rebel, O'scared tree that like our hope,
You are with us, but still lonely, O' tree.

That poem by a Persian poet reminds me of a poem by a Maori who chose to write of a tree as the symbol of life succumbing to the horror of a nuclear war.

No Ordinary Sun

Tree let your arms fall:
raise them not sharply in supplication
to the bright enhaloed cloud.
Let your arms lack roughness and
resilience for this is no mere axe
to blunt nor fire to smother.

Your sap shall not rise again
to the moon's pull.
No more incline a deferential head
to the wind's talk, or stir
to the trickle of coursing rain.

Your former shagginess shall not be
wreathed with the delightful flight
of birds nor shield
nor cool the ardour of unheeding
lovers from the monstrous sun.

Tree let your naked arms fall
nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
This is no gallant monsoon's flash,
no dashing trade winds blast.
The fading green of your magic
emanations shall not make pure again
these polluted skies ... for this
is no ordinary sun.

O tree
in the shadowless mountains
the white plains and
the drab sea floor
your end at last is written.

Hone Tuwhare.

pronounced "Toofareh."

Homepage for Hone Tuwhare

Thanks for extending our reading by posting the Tuwhare tree poem, 3Kings

MarjV and 3Kings thank you.

Wow - thanks for the link MarjV - great information and a nice intro to this poet who we would never have heard about if it weren't for you 3kings.

There are so many unfamiliar words and sounds that accompany the information on Tuwhare - I wonder if the Maori sounds and words are commonly known and heard in Australia.

Barbara. It's New Zealand actually, not Australia.

Many of the words are known to NZers, and Maori is an official language of the country. But it is true that not many Pakeha ( Europeans ) know much about the Maori language..

As for Tuwhare, I do like his earlier works but in later years his art has somewhat left him. A pity, as I used to think he had so much promise... +++ Trevor

I am new to SeniorNet. I might join you all in your discussion of John Keats. I know of his work more than I know his work so it would be a good learning experience.

Lizabeth

Lizabeth: That would be my case as well so we will be learning together. Have you read the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam? What poems do you like?

3 kings thanks for the heads up in New Zealand - I researched the Maori in Australia and learned there are many families who have moved to Australia however, what was more delightful was finding some tribal stories that I became lost in the websites reading about a culture we have known only briefly - we have discussed a book and a movie here on SeniorNet that was popular a year or so ago. Something to do with a young girl, her defying tradition and learning the ways of a warrior and a whale.

Lizabeth so glad you found us and will be joining us for Keats - like so many I too had known of his Odes but that was about it - did not realize how young he was when he died. He was certainly prolific during his short life.

Reading the Bios on the poet of the month has been for me such a boon - I am so glad Anna started this concept - I think of all the poets the one that has been the most difficult for me to share and discuss has been our current poet - the poem is grand but only one poem and the theme revolves and revolves from birth to coming death or fading yesterdays bordering on the melancholy - I cannot discover another theme in all the quatrains - Has anyone found another theme at work in the Rubaiyat?

Barbara, then is the Rubiyat without hope?

LIZABETH: I was just about to edit my post in "Read Around the World" to mention "Poetry" when I saw you're ahead of me. I'm looking forward to Keats, too.

ah "Hope" - is there hope when the world circles the sun or turns on its axis - he seems to suggest that to 'Hope for...' the 'for...' will turn to dust - I think like Rumi the culture is based on the turning - that to Love in an ecstatic flight into the infinite is all there is. Most Christians have their lives centered in Faith, Hope and love - and once we understand 'Hope unseen' and 'Hope in the unknown' we act on our Faith that leads us to fill our lives with Love. However, even though we learn not to place a particular desire at the end of our 'Hope' we still expect the possibility that things will happen. I am getting a sense here the Persian view is not Hopeless but rather Hope is unnecessary since there is no call to Faith but rather, a call to Love with our lives nothing more than a twirling repeat that we fill with love.

I do not know enough about Persian philosophy but from reading the Rubaiyat and Rumi that is what I have deduced. Even the two new poets do not seem to write about a call to arms or to exalt in the wonders of the nation - they seem to identify their patriotic fervor, passion with colors or a tree. Almost like saying what is - is...your passion is a given and here is another way to express a another shade of love.

Excuse me if this is a repetition because I have not yet read all the messages before this one but I just opened the link to the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and was dazzled.

First of all there are all these translations! I was only familiar with the Fitzgerald translation and this site has the "literal" and the "meaning" translations. Well, I found the literal to be the best, at least in the poem I looked at and I also found the Fitzgerald translation to be way too flowery and ornate. I wouldn't call it a translation at all actually.

Here is an example: Literal:

I resolve daily that at dusk I shall repent For a night with a cup full of wine spent. In the presence of flowers, my resolve simply went In such company, I only regret that I ever resolved to repent.

I really like this version the best. I loved the last sentence: "I only regret that I ever resolved to repent." What a hoot!

Meaning:

Every morn I decide to repent at night For embracing the joys of heart and sight Yet every night, what seems right With all my might, embrace delight.

I found this totally confusing.

Fitzgerald:

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

Fitzgerald captured the gist of it but then went way beyond the beautiful simplicity of the original.

I really want to read all the other posts before I post again. But 139 is a lot of posts to read...

Lizabeth

Each to his own. I'll take the Fitzgerald, and leave the rest... Trevor

Trevor, I tend to be very impulsive. So now I skimmed through all the posts for this month and saw that in some cases, the Fitzgerald translation was superior to the others. I also saw lots of posts by others who found the different translations as interesting as I did.

I particularly noted that in one post the person found several translations by Fitzgerald of one poem. I really liked that because I am very interested in the process of writing. I like to see how poets and artists in general work.

So Trevor, thank you for post because it pushed me to go back and not base my opinion on a single poem.

Lizabeth

Fitzgerald flowery? I would say more mythical. His words evoke such visions that I am awe struck at their beauty. They sound like some persian miniatures look. Ornate, touches of gold, exotic flora and fauna lurking, and clothing at once demure and revealing.

Mrs. Sherlock, your writing is beautifully descriptive.

XIX I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

Mrs. Sherlock, I think so too.

LXIV Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

I too am writing before reading all other's thoughts here, and hope I'm not duplicating too much

Barbara's finding Omar depressing, I too find true. But he believed in no afterlife; and, like many atheists, felt a gnawing need to say so. Perhaps he was more agnostic than atheist, unconsciously wishing to be challenged and proven wrong...?

At any rate, I do find a few of his quatrains...in earthy, guttural ways, uplifting. Here's a quite memorable one, I think:

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

That above was Fitzgerald's fifth rework. Of his versions of this quatrain, I like it best.

But to show some of Fitzgerald's reworkings-thoughts, here is his first translation:

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

And this is Firtzgerald's second translation, it barely differing from his first...just a couple word-changes:

Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

But I agree that Khayyam's "Rubaiyat" is mostly a downer to read. He reminds me much of another's thoughts some 2000 years earlier than Omar: the writer of Ecclesiastes (attributed to Solomon, son of David). That O.T. book begins:

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher,
vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
What profit hath a man of all his labour
which he taketh under the sun?

And the book's last chapter repeats: "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." But wait! Someone has added six more verses...adding that the Preacher nonetheless went on to live righteously, helpful, promoting and seeking knowledge. Then adds a summing up: "Fear God, and keep his commandments: For this is the whole duty of man."

I'm kinda glad someone had the audacity to up and add those last verses. "Just a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down"?

Hmmm I do not see him as an agnostic - or an atheist - but then I do have an issue with the concept of words that have been used to create divisiveness and those two word definitions seemed to be wrapped up in the formal organized Christian views. I guess there are those who consider Taoism or Buddhism to be an agnostic view of the world as well, where to me they are both filled with love -- and aspects of all these religions are practiced by various Christian groups.

Having been educated by the Benedictines which is a meditative order and the Carmelites a contemplative order it is easy to hear and accept words by Sr. Joan Chittister O.S.B. that often include quotes from Sufi writers or Liu I-ming or Hasidic stories.

Actually, I am in awe that a group of people can go directly to the concept that their lives are nothing but a twirling round an axis of love. I am too caught up in the every day muddle of whose on first and can I get there fairly rather than simply twirling my dance of love letting first take care of itself and thinking who ever is on first can run their own bases.

However, as a long poem to twirl on a common thread I fall into wanting to read of the journey to first or a bit about the view on the journey to first or from first, rather than the formula for twirling in Love repeated with many variations.

Looking forward to tomorrow with a new poet whose place in history has not faded – amazing to be so gifted at such a young age.

Thank you, Jim, for posting the different versions. I find that fascinating. I agree that the fifth revision was the best because it put poetry before food and drink.

I also like the loaf of bread instead of a little bread because it matches the jug of wine.

And it is not just a flask of wine, but a jug.(I am assuming that the jug is larger than the flask). Not just a little bread, but a loaf. Not just one poem, but a book. Everything in its entirely... including the Thou...all of Thou too...

Lizabeth

JIM: must be something wrong with me: I like Ecclesiastes, especially in Hebrew.

Incidently, the Hebrew word that the King James translates as "vanity" (haval) is usually used to mean a waste, or a pity. In English, it's translated Abel: his life was wasted when he was killed by Cain.

What a beautiful heading! Barbara, did you design it for this month?

Barbara, some of Keats' poems are very long. With you and others here, I would like to have one of the long ones explained or interpreted slowly. I am familiar with Ode to a Grecian Urn. It is very beautiful. I didn't realize Keats lived such a short life.

Scrawler, how are you and parents?

Oh yes, I miss scrawler - I hope she is finding satisfaction mixed with a little joy while helping her parents it what sounds like a major lifestyle change.

Hats let's nip away at Keats - some of his long poems we could do by either a link or better yet, break the poem down into a daily dose so that over the course of a few days we could see the poem posted and discuss it a bit each day -

This seemed too perfect - not only is it mentioning the month of June but it talks about a past - a past filled with sounds and honor - reminds me of something we could be saying to Anna - here is to "To fair hostess Merriment," Anna, our Robin Hood for the past 7 years.

Robin Hood. To a Friend

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Ofthe leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grene shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her---strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.

Barbara, that sounds like a great idea, a "daily dose."

Barbara, in "Robin Hood," I sense sadness for days gone by. Reading the first five lines of the first stanza I feel secure. Line six through ten are not clear to me.

Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forests whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

Help!

I think it helps hats to use the alternate definition of these words and then you can just about grasp it...

With the comma after "shears," it appears then "Frozen North, and chilling East," is defining the "shears."

And so I get that the winter shears or cuts, shreds the "sounded tempest" -- A violent windstorm, frequently accompanied by rain, snow, or hail. Furious agitation, commotion, or tumult; an uproar.

The "sounded tempest" sounds almost like a clarion call - the winter can be more than seasonal weather but the winter that fell on the land because of bad laws and the Forest feast from the whispering fleeces - fleeces -- . A soft woolly covering or mass. To defraud of money or property; swindle.

I see that the winter tempest is a call to stay protected in the covering of the forest feast - feast being the bounty of the forest - and in fact the bounty is being swindled from the forest just as the people were being swindled by the king and the tax collector because in that time in history the forests belonged to either the king or the Pope and Robin's group living in the forest were not paying either rent or lease.

Seems to me if I remember correctly the Magna Carta if filled with page after page of the ownership of the forests and Forest Laws that affect not only the killing of animals but the taking of firewood, digging the earth for agriculture, keeping pigs in the forest on and on.

I guess you could sum up the fight between Robin Hood and the King's Brother - Richard was in the Holy Land - as a fight over the forests - the first environmental laws - that were later sorted out by Henry and did not die out as an issue till the seventeenth century.

Thank you, Barbara, for the historical background. It certainly makes the poem richer. When I read the poem, I just felt a strong longing for the past. I think Keats was not just mourning the loss of Robin Hood and Maid Marian but the way England was in those days.

I found these lines particularly interesting:

And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her--strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money!

Is this a criticism of England and how things that were once beautiful were being commercialized? If I am right here, that criticism would ring true even today.Look what we are doing to the environment.

Lizabeth

I think I have always been caught up in the Robin Hood stories as the people being taken advantage of by the King and the Sheriff - and now all of a sudden I see that Robin Hood and his band were living off the land, they were not adding to the forest feast but taking without replenishing or replacing the basics they needed to survive. I read someplace that of the animals that were protected there were two that were near extinction in the forests by the time the Magna Carta was signed - the wolf and the boar.

There were not as many Royals who could have hunted and feasted on the boar and so it had to be the people who over hunted - as for the wolf I do not remember ever reading the wolf was killed for its meat but for its fur and danger to humans who lived near or in the forest. And so for the first time I realize no one is clean when it came to how we protected the forests. According to need the bounty of the forest was taken regardless if it was the 13th century or the 21st century. hmmmm.

Well talk about chance - I saw the word Gamelyn in the poem and thought I knew what was being said till I decided to look it up - hallalua - look at this...

The English Royal Forest and the Tale of Gamelyn
Like Athelston, Gamelyn also springs from the East Midlands. The tale’s basic plot, however, is more widely known than that of Athelston, thanks to Shakespeare who adapted Gamelyn (probably through Lodge's Rosalynde or Eupues Golden Legacie) for As You Like It. The plot concerns the plight of a young orphan whose unscrupulous older brother usurps his patrimony and mistreats him. Yet sibling rivalry is merely the superficial theme of Gamelyn, as false friendship is the superficial theme of Athelston. Gamelyn is an allegory of a deep and peculiarly English socio-political concern that originated in the Conquest and grew in the subsequent centuries of Norman-Angevin rule--that is, the Forest Law instituted by William I.

Although there is no direct mention of the Forest Law in Gamelyn, its plot corresponds unmistakably to legal history. The dramatic inpetus to Gamelyn's rebellion against his brother is the latter's misappropriation and mistreatment of the land bequeathed to Gamelyn by their father. This the poet makes clear early in the poem. After the father's death, "Sone the elder brother giled the yonge knave… (lines 70-100). By repeating the situation three times 74-5, 84-7, and 97-9), the poet firmly establishes Gamelyn's motivation: he resents deeply John's usurpation and misuse of his lands, and he wants to recover them.

aha - when I looked up English romanticism - the list of defining attributes include -- an emphasis on individualism; spontaneity; freedom from rules; solitary life rather than life in society; the beliefs that imagination is superior to reason and devotion to beauty; love of and worship of nature; and fascination with the past, especially the myths and mysticism of the middle ages. And so of course the story of Robin Hood but more these other myths fill out the romantic poets references.

Lizabeth, my favorite lines are the ones you picked. After reading the poem a few times, I greatly enjoyed it. I am left feeling like a romantic, fitting the description that Barbara gave above.

"aha - when I looked up English romanticism - the list of defining attributes include -- an emphasis on individualism; spontaneity; freedom from rules; solitary life rather than life in society; the beliefs that imagination is superior to reason and devotion to beauty; love of and worship of nature; and fascination with the past, especially the myths and mysticism of the middle ages."

"So it is; let us sing," I feel gives us the right to honor the past. It is not crude or rude to take time to remember. It is okay to remember the beauty of times past. These times of love and beauty have a way of passing quickly like day into night and night into day. "Though their days have hurried by."

The very last line gave me a bit of trouble too. "Let us two a burden try." Is memory a burden we carry? There are the beauties of memory. Also, the burden of knowing that memories are only reality in a dreamlike form. Because memories are like mirages they are burdensome. There is a special ability in knowing how to handle looking at the past, then, coming back to face the present and future without what we have delighted in seeing in the past.

The posts here are wonderful. I am new here so it is so nice for me to see such intelligent and questioning analysis.

Hats, I also had problem with the last line. My question was different. Keats refers to "we too". Who? Keats and a friend? Or are the two Keats and the reader? I think I prefer that interpretation. He is inviting the reader into the poem.

But then, Hats, I agree. What is the burden that we should try with Keats? I am not sure there either.

Lizabeth

Lizabeth, thank you. I did not notice the "we." I like the ideas you have given about Keats involving "reader" or a particular "friend."

Lizabeth - I also like the "we" to be Keats and the reader - after reading more about his life of course any effort in life and in fact life itself would be easily called a Burden. Parents, Brother all dead, poor so he could not marry the one he loved and then he contracts the dreaded TB and dies so young. Although, seems to me without such a difficult life I have heard the word "burden" used to describe taking up an effort in life.

Hmmm I wonder if that is the problem with out pop culture - we want everything to be fun and easy regardless if we are denying a talent or gift because to pursue the talent or gift is a responsibility or duty that could be emotionally difficult to bear.

Well I keep being surprised - I did not realize that "burden" had this meaning -- A principal or recurring idea; a theme: "The burden of what he said was to defend enthusiastically the conservative aristocracy” (J.A. Froude).
See synonyms at substance. Music.
1. The chorus or refrain of a composition, especially of a 15th-century carol.
2. A drone, as of a bagpipe or pedal point.
3. Archaic. The bass accompaniment to a song.

Now that puts a different light on taking up a burden -- a song...

And that makes all the sense in the world. A burden is a song.

Barbara, thank you thank you.

Because the first line of the stanza is: "So it is; yet let us sing"

Methinks I must use the dictionary more when I don't understand a word or phrase. Clearly words are slippery symbols that elude our understanding over time.

Lizabeth

A minor point:

He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas

Keats lived during and after the Napoleonic wars, when England was rapidly expanding her navy. It takes several acres of good trees to build a ship, so the forests must have been being depleted for this purpose.

OH yes, Lizabeth - and I had to re-read the poem - now that we have "burden" being a song -- I like the idea of the 15th-century, carol but more, since I play the 4 string dulcimer the concept of the drone as part of the rhythm and melody is a strong connection for me - anyhow when I re-read the entire poem it is riddled with references to music - this poem has taken on a new meaning - between understanding the Forest Laws, the mythical stories that are important to the Romantic poets and now the music - including these phrases --
"Sounded tempests"
"...the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill"
"lone Echo"
"Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty"
"merry morris din" [which must mean the music for a Morris Dance]
"the song of Gamelyn"
"...her wild bees
Sang not to her"
"let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn
and finally -- "Let us two a burden try."

I am trying to figure out what could the "ivory shrill" be - the word shrill sounds like the sound it makes - we associate ivory with piano keys but that would not be a medieval instrument - I wonder if this is a possibility -- "Medieval Smallpipes

These small chamber pipes were based on the Hummelchen from drawings by Praetorius. The name Hummelchen in German means bumble bee which is a good description of their voice. They have a small straight bore or concentric chamber in the key of D and two brass mounted drones in a single stock, a narrow bell on the chanter, and a velvet cover with ivory fringe." -- Hummelchen Praetorius / little bumble bee -- a Pew Carving of a boy playing a Medieval Bagpipe

I've often wondered...why is Keats pronounced KEETS and Yeats pronoucned YATES?

I do realize these wonderful poets are two generations apart and from different English-speaking countries. Doesn't seem the answer, per se.

Lizabeth...your posts are for me fresh air here. Don't go away!

Yes Pat, a bit more history - and so the decimation of the forest continued with man's need for raw material... I guess the question is was the forest more valuable than the exploration made possible by ships, the trade embarked by ships and the wars that were fought with ships...? I wonder what life would be like had Nepolian won because of the lack of a English Royal Navy...?

We are learning so much from one poem - amazing...

Jim I wonder is it a case of tomato versus tomato

aha - it may be as simple as the root - Yeats is from Ireland and Keats is English - according a the Irish -- "ea" is said - Most usually /a/, occasionally /e/ -- where as the English pronouciation is /e/ -- "ea" - like; heat

Wait a minute - I remember reading a novel and something about the forests after Elizabeth they were disappearing because of Charcoal makers and the need for Charcoal to make glass... hmmm no mention of glass being the culprit in our poem though is there -

Ok found this site that talks about the need for Charcoal during the Napoleonic wars in order to make gun powder - "1815 AD

This year saw the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Britain’s forest cover was at an all time low. Charcoal production had remained a high priority to feed the vast number of gunpowder factories throughout Britain and oak woods had been used extensively in leather tanning to feed the military’s demand for saddles, boots and other goods. The Government called on landowners to plant trees, particularly oaks, to help restore our forests.

It was around this time that "plant explorers" such as David Douglas brought back specimens from as far afield as NW America and China, and these have become established in gardens and forests throughout Britain. As far as trees are concerned the most noticeable specimens introduced are the Douglas Fir and Sitka Spruce, both of which thrive in our climate and produce the softwood needed by today’s timber industry.

Also, it was only in the mid-19th century that iron ships were finally proved to be stronger than wooden ships (Brunel’s SS Great Britain was launched in 1843) and quality hardwoods such as oak were no longer needed for shipbuilding."

Golly the more we dig the more we learn the things we have forgotten. No wonder there are people who know how to invest during times of crisis - they know what is needed in order to produce the products needed during the crisis - I don't know about you but gun powder did not come automatically to my thinking - like Pat I would have thought of ships. And it certainly sounds more romantic than gun powder - however Keats does talk about ship building doesn't he...

There is not only the mention of musical instruments in the poem but there is the musicality of the poem itself. I wonder how it would sound read aloud with musical accompaniment.

I enjoyed the images of the small bagpipes. This is seriously off topic but there is a wonderful section on Musical Instruments at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and if you get the audioguide, you can look at a particular instrument, key in the number on the label and hear it being played. That was a memorable experience.There were many instruments there that were totally unfamiliar.

Lizabeth

Hi Barbara,

I didn't understand your comment "tomato vs. tomato." If it is a personal post from you to Jim in Jeff, please excuse my intrusion. Since it is written in an open forum, I thought my question would fit in with other questions.

Thank you all for your concern. My dad took a turn for the worse so he is in the hospital. We are trying to find a good nursing home near where my parents live since my mother still wants to live in her home. We are working on getting some people in to help her around the clock.

Again thanks for your concern. My brain is a little warped right now, I'm afraid I havn't been able to focus on anything except hospital trips right now.

Scrawler, my thoughts and prayers are with you. Thank you for taking time to respond.

Scrawler thanks for the update on your parents - our thoughts and prayers are with you - it has to be difficult trying to help your Mom while your Dad is so ill. I just helped a friend whose husband died the end of March - he was 90 and could not shake his final illness. Charlotte is still in her home at 88 and is doing quite well. There is so much available now to make it possible to stay in your own home and she is doing fine. After hip surgery in January and knee surgery last summer she is actually back to driving and taking her daily walk.

Hats - it is the old song that has two ways of saying certain words - Tomato is one of the classic - some say toe may toe and others say toe mah toe - it was simply my effort to inject some humor in the differences that Jim noticed between Yeats and Keats - but then I looked up Irish and English pronunciation sites and found there was a real reason for the different way we say the two names.

Barbara, I remember the song. I didn't think of it at the moment of reading the posts. Most of the time my thinking can get into gear very slowly. I also have, unfortunately, memory problems. This is embarrassing because some of you have more years than me and can remember everything. I have a neighbor with an iron memory. Anyway, thanks for explaining the "tomato." I can hear the song in my head.

I have started reading "Everyman" by Philip Roth. Lo and behold the dedication is from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Here are the lines.

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow..."--John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale"

I don't know which poem is going to be chosen next. I just thought it was so serendipitous to read part of this poem at this time in a novel.

Well Let's Do IT - Ode to a Nightingale - Yes! Should we take it piece by piece - let me see how long it is so we can break it up...

Oh it is not bad at all - let's do three days - 3 stanzas and 3 stanzas and 2 with a wrap-up - I guess we should look up the definition of an Ode and find out what makes a poem an Ode - so maybe we should reverse it and do 2 stanzas and then 3 and 3.

OK here are the first 2 --

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains,: My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains: One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,: But being too happy in thine happiness, -; .....That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,; .......... In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,: Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been: Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,: Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,: Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,; ..... With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,; .......... And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,: And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Oh don't you love how this sounds on your tongue -- "With beaded bubbles winking at the brim," -- I think I will go around today repeating the line - I love it!

Keats is such a wonderful poet. I hope we can make everyday count until the end of the month. This is a time for me to get acquainted with his life and poems. I am very excited.

I read somewhere that Keats has the best command of the English Language - even if it he is not the best he is someone I hope use as a model for how to construct a sentence that not only includes words in their rightful place but the sentence brings wonders to our minds.

OK on the hunt for the Ode - it appears there are differences

The Ode
Intro to the basics of writing an ode, including the Pindaric and Horatian .

The English Ode
The Palinode is a song, discourse or poem recanting a previous one. It has a lengthy history in both serious and humorous verse.

Ode: usually a lyric poem of moderate length, with a serious subject, an elevated style, and an elaborate stanza pattern.There are various kinds of odes, which we don't have to worry about in an introductiory course like this. The ode often praises people, the arts of music and poetry, natural scenes, or abstract concepts. The Romantic poets used the ode to explore both personal or general problems; they often started with a meditation on something in nature, as did Keats in "Ode to a Nightingale" or Shelley in "Ode to the West Wind."

OH here is a nice single page description The Romantic Poets and the Ode

Gotta run - I am excited to think of what you may find on the Internet about an Ode or maybe someone has a book with description of poetic forms.

I read Keats wrote three Odes, "On Melancholy, To a Nightingale, On a Grecian Urn," all in one month ( May ). That's a remarkable output, don't you think?

Also , it surprises me that these pieces with their burden of melancholy were written in May, a springtime month. It seems to me that such thoughts expressed therein would more likely to arise in the Autumn months than the spring. ++ Trevor

I had to analyze the rhyme scheme etc and it is awesome. Here goes:

There are 10 lines to a stanza and the rhyme scheme for each stanza is perfect!

ababcdecde

first stanza: pains a drunk b drains a sunk b lot c happiness d trees e plot c numberless d ease e

The second stanza is equally perfect. Am I repeating myself? Sorry, I am in awe.

I can't catch my breath. That is so difficult to do and actually say something and then all the other poetic devices he uses too..!!!

Wait! There is more. There is a pattern on the page of each stanza too.

Lines 1, 3, 5 and 9 are at the margin. Lines 2, 4 , 6 and 10 are indented. Lines 7 is indented 4 spaces from line 6 and line 8 is indented 4 spaces from 7.

I think this follows perfectly in the next stanza as well.

Enough for tonight or I will have a heart attack.

Lizabeth

It is interesting to read the first two stanzas knowing that at some point in his brief life Keats was taking or addicted to laudanum.

From Wikipedia: Laudanum is an opium tincture, sometimes sweetened with sugar and also called wine of opium.

On the run today - I will have time this evening - thanks Lizabeth - your joy in reading the poem as it conforms to the meter of the Ode is contagious - and yes, amazing, so many of the late nineteenth century artists have a history of using Opiates.

Hello. It looks as if SrNet is determined to refresh our literary educations this summer. Some great discussions. Wow--Keats. I wonder who among the poets around that time were not using recreational drugs. Shelley & crowd, yes. Coleridge, yes. I don't remember hearing it about with Wordsworth. And I believe he tried to help Coleridge quit.

Though more heavy duty, some of their drugs were looked upon as marijuana is today--as a right and a facilitator, at least among artistic types in both eras. And also eras in between. Of course, artists of all kinds as a group have always considered themselves above society's rules. I recall Coleridge felt it enhanced his poetic vision. Probably true of the others until the inevitable deterioration.

But you people know all this already.

This poem is so beautiful. This morning I am struck by these lines.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The song of the Nightingale is everlasting, throughout centuries, throughout Bible times he has sung his song to many generations. I especially like the mention of "Ruth" hearing his song while working in "alien" corn.

Oh hats I do not know my Bible the way some do - what alian corn was Ruth working in?

Ruth was not in her homeland. She lived with Naomi in a foreign land. After her husband's death, she picked wheat and brought it back to Naomi. I can't remember the whole story. I do not know my Bible well either, Barbara. I just remember some of the story of Ruth, Boaz and Naomi.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget: What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret: Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,: Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;; ..... Where but to think is to be full of sorrow; .......... And leaden-eyed despairs,; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,; .....Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,: Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,: Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,: And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,; ..... Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;; .......... But here there is no light,; Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown; .....Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,: Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet: Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;: White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;; ..... Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;; .......... And mid-May's eldest child,; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,; .....The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Barbara, if there is a new format to how we are discussing poetry, would you explain it please? Thank you.

Not really hats - change always makes us question though - the other day when we said we wanted to look at this poem my plan was to put up the first two stanzas and also to find out what was special about an Ode and then I missed yesterday so I just put the next three stanzas up and tomorrow I will put up the last three - but we can talk about the poem in whatever order makes sense for you or whatever lines fit your muse today - no real rules - just like Anna set us all up - and so if another poet hits your fancy include the poem however, we will focus on a poet a month which has worked out well for us - don't you think...

"Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; "

And this becomes the fate of Keats himself. I would like to pinpoint this against the chronology of his life.

I just did some fact checking and the poem seems to have been written in 1819. The reference is said to be to his brother Tom who passed away in 1818. .

I think there is some foreboding in these lines, intentional or not.

Oh I found the story hats - Story of Ruth and Naomi

I did not realize the Scott Fitzgerald novel "Tender is the Night" is a phrase from this poem - his story makes more sense now - with this poem as inspiration his novel had to be about youth and death, filled with melancholy and pathos.

Yes, knowing the story of Keats we can see the foreboding can't we -

I always liked the word eglantine - but I was always disappointed in the look of the rose - almost like a wayside wildflower - which I guess it really is - however, I did not know there was a breeze also named eglantine till I read this description next to this photo of an eglantine rose

Interesting facts about the rose. Wonder if they can isolate the gene for fragrance in roses. So many are beautiful but lack fragrance. It's difficult to imagine the life of a young man which resulted in such beauty. Paris Hilton, anyone?

So many familiar qoutes in this poem: "alien corn", "tender is the night".

The story od Ruth is one of the most beautiful in the bible. Best known for the fondness between Ruth and her mother-in-law. When Naomi urges Ruth to go back to her people, Ruth gives another familiar quote:

""Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, there will I go; and where thou lodgest, there will I lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

JoanK, how true. Those words are so beautiful and meaningful.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time: I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,: To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,: To cease upon the midnight with no pain,; .....While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad; .......... In such an ecstasy!; Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -; ..... To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!: No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard: In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path: Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,; ..... She stood in tears amid the alien corn;; .......... The same that oft-times hath; Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam; ..... Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell: To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well: As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades: Past the near meadows, over the still stream,; ..... Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep; .......... In the next valley-glades:; Was it a vision, or a waking dream?; ..... Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

I wonder - do you think these words
"is like a bell
To toll me back from thee "
is what prompted the title "For Whom the Bell Tolls"... in Hemingway's book you have Robert considering suicide when he is wounded and cannot continue but wrestles with the idea since his father had committed suicide and here in this poem Keats is talking suicide - can't tell if he means literal death of the body or death of his spirit that comes with the heart ache he is describing.

Huh - I thought the words sounded familiar - another phrase used as a movie title Darkling I Listen

It is difficult to imagine his life Jackie isn't it - lots of wounds in his life and so he is deeper than maybe most - but his education must have been special because I think it was probably common to loose your parents while you are young and then also loose a brother. It does not say but I wonder if he felt responsible for his brother - if the brother died after the parents were gone he may have felt responsible for him. There was a note on one of these sites from his sister at the time of Tom's death which makes me think the sister was already married and no longer taking care of them.

They keep talking about his being poor so that he could not marry the love of his life and yet, the houses he lived in and then traveling to Italy he could not have been that poor. Everything I read seems to show a young man without any rough edges - almost as if he belonged in a cherrywood edged vitrine.

Joan I forgot about Somerset Maugham's "Alien Corn" - wow this poem was a touchstone for many a writer...

Here is a change of pace - its cute...

Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric,: How many mice and rats hast in thy days; Destroy'd? -- How many tit bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears -- but pr'y thee do not stick: Thy latent talons in me -- and upraise; Thy gentle mew -- and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists --: For all the wheezy asthma, -- and for all
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off -- and though the fists: Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists: In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall.

The cat poem is so wonderful. You just put a big smile of my face. Thanks!

John Donne wrote the words "for whom the bell tolls" in Meditation XVII. Here is the relevant excerpt: No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

Do these above lines pertain to Keats illness?

Thank you Mrs. Sherlock, I read that particular verse to my son a few days ago. I have forgotten what we were talking about.

AHA Thank you Jackie - so John Donne it was - lovely how poems stay with folks that they then use to create more literature - Hemingway was never a favorite author of mine and yet, a few of his books are really quite wonderful and now knowing he was familier with poets suggests I need to give a new look at Hemingway.

Interesting words to remember hats --
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

I'm not sure I can see the richness in dying however, to cease the midnight with no pain would be a blessing. I had a grandfather and an aunt who each laid their heads back on their chair and died, other family members experienced various kinds of trauma as they died and from what I can deduce that seems more typical of death today.

Keats did take care of Tom - "Keats spent three months in 1818 attending his brother Tom, who was seriously ill with tuberculosis. After Tom's death in December, Keats moved to Hampstead." John was the oldest and Tom the youngest.

Here is --

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,: And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while for rhymes I search around the poles,: Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birthday, Tom, and I rejoice: That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whispering noise: May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this world's true joys, -ere the great Voice: From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.

Very moving. So evocative of the hours after a death.

I've been thinking off and on about the vision I get reading the first sentence of "To My Brothers" - the concept of family knitted together in warmth like a flame crackling among fresh laid coals is a lovely thought - it is an easy picture since I was the one who took care of the fire in our house during the winter - banking it at night and shoveling new coals on it is the morning. I remember standing if front of the firebox door and feeling the warmth penetrate my whole body and remember standing over the grate in the living room floor where the warm rising air dried my hair. Simpler times when we all had a role to keep the household going more than making good grades in school.

Oh,my. What a difference in the image your comment brings. I've never had fires except in the fireplace and usually then only on special occassions. Thank you for sharing your memories. It brings the words to a new life that had been hidden from me.

Lots of great thoughts going on here. A few good posts do get lost in shuffle. Not many tho, thanks to forum regulars and Barbara.

Here's some asundry comments:

I've not read Keats yet...gotta get going. Re pronunciations of Yeats vs Keats. I get it now...an Irish/English dialect difference dilemna.

Gee, I wonder now what my Scotch/Irish folks tied our today's tongues to. It was mainly Scotch/Irish (Daniel Boone among us) who restlessly crossed the Appalachians to pioneer and settle our mid-western states. Many terms in our unique regional dialect does trace back to Shakespeare and King James Holy Bible. But those were Englishmen.

Re Bible...I didn't see any post yet of "Story of Ruth's" significance. Ruth, a non-Jew (Moabite) married a Jew Boaz and became great grandmother of David--from whose lineage Jesus came! I like that idea of "universality," and I am thankful Ruth is a Book in our Bible.

Hats, I too love the lines you posted from Ode to a Nightingale. THAT alone, will for sure make me yearn to learn Keats a lot better.

3Kings...your comment about Keats' gloomy thoughts in May, is spot on. Maybe he third-sensed this was...his own Autumn of life?

Re tomato vs tomahto...Hats and Barbara, I did understand that one right away. There's a wonderful Gershwin Bros song "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off," sung by Fred Astaire in a 1936 film "Shall We Dance." It's so good...that I'm going to end this post with a link to its lyrics (as best I could find in a phonetic version tonight).

http://www.theromantic.com/lovesongs/letscallthewholethingoff.htm

Scrawler, Hang tough.A bump in the road, for sure. We with you.
FairAnna, You too...go, Girl!

More on the Nightingale:

I can't seem to leave that one alone. At least not yet.

I have read Keats before but never really appreciated the artistry.

I love the sound of the words when I read the poem aloud. It is so melodic. It just feels good to say the words.

But the last stanza...well, I have a problem with the last stanza..a bit overwrought.I can't get it read well without laughing a bit. I sound too melodramatic even when I try to tone it down.I

I think poetry exists on so many levels. It has meaning. It has a visual pattern on the page. It has rhythm. The words can be musical. It conjures up visual images. I guess what I am saying is that a good poem is a full and rich sensory experience.

Lizabeth I re-read the Ode and tried to figure out why that last stanza seems so over the top - my take is the use of the word "Forlorn."

It seems so woe-begotten - seldom do we speak today of anyone being forlorn - I think we see everything as possible where as forlorn seems so helpless and helpless makes us uncomfortable.

It occurred to me that Keats wrote this poem when James Monroe was President and John Adams was still active - I looked up these men with the word Forlorn -

It appears to be a word used by folks we have not associated with depressive helpless personalities -

Here Washington Irving uses "forlorn" to describe D.C. out of season

-- "In 1809, the British minister Francis Jackson likened the American Capital to the British, yet spoke about Washington's "wild, desolate air from being so scantily and rudely cultivated." All were agreed, however, that Washington was charming during "the season." Mrs. Madison's drawing room would be filled with "gallants immaculated in sheer ruffles and small clothes", exchanging delightful small talk with "dainty belles in frills, flounces, and furbelows." But during the congressional recess even President Madison thought the city was "a solitude." "You cannot imagine", wrote Washington Irving in 1811, how forlorn this desert city appears to me, now that the great tide of casual population has rolled away."

Earlier by almost 45 years Abigal uses the word in her letter to John describing the letters of a "forlorn Wretches Hutchisons" - again, we do not think of Abigal as a depressive helpless spirit - she railed with John about the limitations placed on women and yet, in the letter we read all sorts of words seldom used today - "to act his pleasure - fate - felt anxious [when was the last time you admitted to feeling anxious] - melancholy Event - distressed widdow - Poor afflicted woman - intreet you - children send duty - Mamma unfeigned Love" -- all sounding rather dramatic however, I think because we use different words today with a belief in empowerment for all.

Forlorn and empowerment are on opposite sides of the universe. From the song of a bird today we would hear hope because we believe everything is possible and therefore, the attitude of Forlorn is for some sad sack who cannot dust himself off - even a major illness is not looked at with much sadness when you have folks like Lance Armstrong writing books filled with the belief that everything is possible.

Here is most of Abigail's letter -

... -- I feel somewhat lonesome. Mr. Thaxter is gone home, Mr. Rice is going into the Army as captain of a company. We have no School. I know not what to do with John.

-- As Goverment is assumed I suppose Courts of justice will be established, and in that case there may be Buisness to do. If so would it not be best for Mr. Thaxter to return? They seem to be discouraged in the study of Law, and think there never will be any buisness for them. I could have wishd they had consulted you upon the subject before you went away. Mr. Rice has asked my advice? I tell him I would have him act his pleasure. I dont chuse to advise him either way.

-- I suppose you will receive 2 or 3 Vol. of that forlorn Wretches Hutchisons Letters. Among many other things I hear he wrote in 1772 that Deacon Philips and you had like to have been chosen into the Counsel, but if you had you should have shared the same fate of with Bowers. May the fate of Mordeca be his.

-- There is no body admitted into Town yet. I have made two or 3 attempts to get somebody in, but cannot succeed, so have not been able to do the Buisness you left in charge with me.

-- I want very much to hear from you, how you stood your journey, and in what state you find yourself now. I felt very anxious about you tho I endeavourd to be very insensible and heroick, yet my heart felt like a heart of Led. The same Night you left me I heard of Mr. Quincys Death, which at this time was [illegible] [illegible] a most melancholy Event, especially as he wrote in minets which he left behind that he had matters of concequence intrusted with him, which for want of a confident must die with him.

-- I went to see his distressed widdow last Saturday at the Coll. and in the afternoon from an allarm they had, she and her sister, with three others of the family took refuge with me, and tarried all night. She desired me to present her regards to you, and let you know she wished you every blessing, should always esteem you as the sincere Friend of her deceased husband. Poor afflicted woman, my heart was wounded for her.

-- I must quite the subject, and intreet you to write me by every opportunity. Your Mother desires to be rememberd to you. She is with me now. The children send Duty, and their Mamma unfeigned Love.

Yours, Portia

And yes, thanks for reminding us to read again and again this Ode - the words tumble and fit - it is a joy to read outloud isn't it.

Jim in Jeff, thank you for posting the lyrics to a well loved song. Thank you for more details about the story of Ruth.

Barbara, thank you for showing the often used term forlorn in historical times. It isn't a word we hear today. Also, thank you for explaining a little about the relationship between Keats and his younger brother, Tom.

Lizabeth, your words are very special. Thank you.

"I think poetry exists on so many levels. It has meaning. It has a visual pattern on the page. It has rhythm. The words can be musical. It conjures up visual images. I guess what I am saying is that a good poem is a full and rich sensory experience." (Lizabeth)

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toil me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

So I examined the last stanza again this morning to see what causes all the drama.I am personally not sure for me at least that the word "forlorn" did it.

I think it might be something else--- the !!!!! Yes and there are five of them and also the repetition of the word "adieu." Three adieus and each with an exclamation mark. But five exclamation marks can lead to substantial drama. Don't you think!!!!!

Beautiful last line though...

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

Without the hyphen, would the pause between "music" and "do" be quite as long? One count of a pause for the colon and another count of a pause for the hyphen. Lovely. Double beat of silence and then the question and because it is a question it does not quite end the poem but rather extends it.

OK I am beginning to get it - found a few sites with bird calls - this site has 5 connections for Nightingales -- However, it is this site where the Nightingale sings for four and a half minutes that I think adds greater meaning to that last stanza. Thrush Nightingale

Listening to the song of that bird for that much time I could feel myself becoming attached to the bird - The bird does have a plaintive sound - I used to know the sounds of the various modes but it has been too many years since I have played regularly my Dulcimer.

We are today only using the Ionian mode and sometimes the Aeolian which is a minor sound - however, there is the Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, and Mixolydia modes and it is the Mixolydian that I believe has that high more plaintive sound.

Except this "bluegrass "ol' Joe Clark" is more upbeat and in a lower scale than if it were played on the Dulcimer - but it is in the Mixolydian mode.

Trying to imitate a bird call on a string instrument you would have to use one of these other modes that sound less like the music we hear today -

After listening to that second link to the song of the nightingale you can see how Keats on a chair he brought from the house to sit under a tree listening to the bird for hours would then feel attached - the bird's song is in a minor sounding tone so that he easily attached his sorrows to the sound of the bird and then when it flew off you can imagine him watching it disappear as if taking his heart with it - leaving him as Tom left him and his parents left him - his thread to all that which was real is his knowledge that he too will one day fade and fly off from this earth to join them. And so as the saying goes - not good-by but Adieu...!

The Van Trapp family on stage - So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu.

I am still attached the the word "Forlorn" as being the jar into the early nineteenth century so that I can't help wonder if today we are so sure we can fix most difficulties that we almost feel we can beat death. And since bottom line we know we cannot, we prefer, like a good coach during half time, not speaking about what cannot be accomplished.

Barbara,

These are powerful words,

"I am still attached the the word "Forlorn" as being the jar into the early nineteenth century so that I can't help wonder if today we are so sure we can fix most difficulties that we almost feel we can beat death. And since bottom line we know we cannot, we prefer, like a good coach during half time, not speaking about what cannot be accomplished."

There are some words at the beginning of the poem I did not understand.

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

The word or words I do not understand are in bold.

Thank you for the links.

Lethewards - v., poetic phrase meaning to die. Lethe - n., mythological river whose waters cause forgetfulness, oblivion.

hats, Teachers usually explain it by sprawling on a chair as if they have no energy and they are in a drug induced stupor.

Lethe from Wikipedia

Barbara, I am laughing. Thank you for the definition and the role playing. The nightingale songs are beautiful. The mythological definition is very interesting.

Studies have been done about the persistence of Elizabethan speech here in the NC mountains. It's not difficult to find people who use archaic expressions unlike the old expressions of my Indiana relatives with ties to Amish and other early groups who traveled past the mountains as land had been claimed. Queen Elizabeth's "aint" persists and is defended even when other substandard words are dropped.

A young (eight year old) girl student at a local private school is one of many who use the unusual archaic pronunciations. Some are elegant; some would be considered substandard English. At the moment, the pronunciation that occurs to me is the name "Maurice." I referred to her brother as "More-us." The girl looked surprised and offended. "No," she said. "His name is "Mah-rus." Pretty, but not easy for my mid-American ear to adapt to.

Those who use the old pronunciations and words--sorry I can't come up with more right now--are those who live in more remote areas and whose lives center on more remote churches. Some in these families have never left the county. But that has noticeably changed in the thirty-five years we've lived in this small (but growing) university/resort town. Some are even attending the local state university, which some had viewed as a hotbed of Marxism and temptation. Amazing, though, how bright. elegant, (and land wealthy) some of these people are. Their assimilation in the overall community is easily accomplished.

Was it Jeff who used the English expression "spot on?" This term has popped up everywhere this year. I'd wondered what would replace the ubiquitous "Exactly!" of the last decade. Guess it's "Spot-on.".

I hope to catch up to this interesting discussion eventually--some of my favorite poems. "Time" this week has an article on Ruth Lilly's (grandaughter of Eli Lilly) $200,000,000 gift to bring poetry to more people through "Poetry" magazine and the Poetry Foundation. The Foundation will promote public read-alouds, etc. The greater emphasis will be on more accessible poetry, though the magazine was the first to publish Eliot's "Prufrock."

Barbara--

Thank you so much for the nightingale sounds. I find things like that enrich my enjoyment of a poem or book so much--when someone posts music, sounds or art that relate the topic at hand.

It also brought to mind a recent visit I made to the NY Historical Society. They had a wonderful exhibit of Audubon's Birds and as you passed some of the drawings, you could hear the sounds of the birds. So as you were looking at a particular painting, you were also hearing it.

I am grateful for the many trees outside my window. I live in Manhattan and it is not a given that there will be so many trees, and in the morning, especially when the sun comes up, the birds chatter furiously. I love to listen to the birds. It is a gift to me to hear them.I can hear them now in the background as I post this.

Well we sure are a spread out group geographically as well as our lifestyle differences and yet, we all find beauty and wonder in poetry. I love it don't you...

Lots of wildlife around here but no nightingales or thrushes - this year I have a wren hoping in and out of my potted herbs on the patio and ever since we moved into this house when we built it in 1966 there have been a family of bluejays nesting in one of the trees along the the usual morning doves, cat birds, cardinals, sparrows, owls and of late a bunch of big black starlings have been sweeping in. They chase all the birds away from water and divebomb the song birds if they enter certain areas of the yard. Grrrr dislike them more than the hawks that circle high on the summer thermals from the bottom of the mesa.

Again the backyard is the nursery for the fawns - have 3 back there this year with two mamas that come each morning and late afternoon to clean them up and nurse them - one mama is taking care of 2 fawns -

There is the usual possum, raccoons that knock over my small flowerpots, of course the squirrels - in fact funny - one of the squirrels became inventive this year - I am looking at one of the oaks and see this rather large orange knot sitting on top of some ball moss growing off the oak branch - I cannot tell what it is but it seems too solid to be a flower - I notice two squirrels - one trying to keep the other at bay - finally even with my long distance camera lens laying on the breakfast room table I cannot tell what this object is in my tree. Out I go - of course the fawns scatter - it turns out it is a peach partially eaten - the squirrels are taking the peaches from the peach tree and not gobbling them down but storing them on the branches of one of the oak trees - that was a new trick... The peaches are not ready to eat but I grabbed a few to ripen on a plate in the window because if I wait they will all be partially eaten.

I wonder if next week we should tackle the "Ode to the Grecian Urn" - we are getting this Ode thing down and that seems to be the other poem most folks associate with Keats...what do you think?

A few days ago I heard the story about the missing flags on soldiers graves for Memorial Day. When someone noticed the bases that held them were untouched, they realized that squirrels were removing the flags to cozy up their homes.

May I be forgiven for saying that Ruth Lilly's $200,000,000 might better have been used to create a foundation to fund pharmaceuticals for the poor in, say, Louisiana. My hometown is the home of Eli Lilly. The company was revered, with no history of scandal. As a young woman, I attended a dinner given for some of Lilly's international male and female representatives. (I worked in a summer clerical job for the hostess.) They were extremely attractive and spoke multiple languages. I'm not quite so starstruck these days.

BARBARA: I miss so much the birds I used to see or hear in my home in Maryland. Over the years I lived there, I saw over 200 species of birds. And every morning I was greeted by birdsong. In the Spring and summer evenings, the woodthrush would sound it's bell-like note.

But even though the woods and fields behind my house remained untouched, there was enough building around that in the last years, few birds would come in, and I rarely heard song, even in Spring. Sighhhh.

Here where I've move in California, there seem to be few songbirds. I am near the ocean, and can see the beauty of gulls circling overhead, and the slow majesty of flocks of flying pelicans. But no songs.

That Joan is the unexpected to me - everything changes regardless if we move or stay - nothing stays as we have grown to love it - maybe we are saying adieu more often than we realize.

Barbara, I would like to discuss "Ode to the Grecian Urn."

OK here we go with the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" - it is not as long as the "Ode to the Nightingale" and the placement of lines is a bit different. Since there are only 5 stanzas lets do them all at once - I think this poem it filled with contradictions and it is easier to see them looking at the entire poem...

Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,: Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express: A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape: Of deities or mortals, or of both,; ..... In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?: What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?; ..... What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard: Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,: Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave: Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;; ..... Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;: She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; ..... Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed: Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,: Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!: Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,; ..... Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,: That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,; ..... A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?: To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,: And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,: Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,; ..... Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore: Will silent be; and not a soul to tell; ..... Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede: Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;: Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!: When old age shall this generation waste,; ..... Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all; ..... Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

1820

I knew I saw a photo of the Grecian Urn - found it - only after seeing the urn could I really make a connection with the first stanza. Beuaty Is Truth

And this MSN site has a reading of part of the poem Encarta "Ode on a Grecian Urn"

I can see the urn quite vividly while reading this poem (although it has a lot of different pictures on it for one urn -- it must have been pretty big LOL).

The young would-be-lovers and maidens in the spring forest is surely the archetype of the "romantic period's view of ancient Greece. In the "idyllic picture, the lovers would always catch the maidens (never mind whether this was idyllic for the maidens or not -- the Romantics never worried about that) But on the earn, they are frozen in time: never achieving their goal, but never losing the anticipation of it.

The town scene with no people in it seems less common (probably on the other side of the urn.

I have no trouble, unlike the person in your link, hearing the urn tell us that "truth is beauty..". I don't think Keats is talking of a mysterious talking urn, here. It tells us in the same sense that looking at the night sky tells us how vast the universe is.

Just want to comment on this section for now...There is so much to say about this poem...

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

..... Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss

..... Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

This section seems to deal with immortality. And the best kind of immortality too...eternal life without aging. The figures are caught in time. They never fade. They never die. Forever young.

I think Keats is musing about how life is not like that...people die. He suffered many deaths in his immediate family and from what I read was sick himself so to think of the beauty of the urn capturing youth and fixing it in time is important in the context of his own experience.

More comments later...

Lizabeth, I think you have really captured, for me, the main theme of the poem.

"This section seems to deal with immortality. And the best kind of immortality too...eternal life without aging. The figures are caught in time. They never fade. They never die. Forever young.

I think Keats is musing about how life is not like that...people die. He suffered many deaths in his immediate family and from what I read was sick himself so to think of the beauty of the urn capturing youth and fixing it in time is important in the context of his own experience."(Lizabeth)

I think this is why we take photographs. We are trying to "freeze" special moments, wishing that we could experience our children as babies again, a wedding, a graduation or just a child falling from a tricycle.

Aha - like minds hats - your post is up before I finished almost the same thoughts - I love it...here is my post...

Been thinking on this concept of being frozen in time - at first my thoughts went to family photographs and then I realized I have a mental picture of family members and after not seeing my children or the grandchildren for some months although they have changed in my mind I see them as they were at a certain time and have to make the adjustment to the reality - but for those family members who have gone on - I remember them when they were younger rather than how they looked before they died.

Which brings me to those we see in the movies and on stage - it is a pleasant surprise when I hear some of the folks who made certain songs famous sing those songs sounding as they did 40 years ago while they look so different - and some in the movies I think of them in certain pictures that they became famous for and I am shocked and do not even like seeing them as they have become - one who shocks me because she has aged is Elizabeth Taylor and I have to think hard to remember Paul Newman in his latest roles - to me he is still Hud Bannon or Brick Pollitt.

In fact when I look in a mirror I am still shocked - I look and think - what happened? - and now I notice my skin is not as tight on my arms - how can this happen when in my head I do not feel any different than I did 30 and 40 years ago...

And so I am wondering if photographs and movies are our Grecian Urns and if time frozen in a likeness is how our mind is more comfortable... and if that is true then it is much easier to understand the difficulty accepting change - especially change that we do not orchestrate .

Joan you are so right - those gods were always "taking" the goddesses or their offsprings and then the Romans and the Greeks seemed to have thought women were on this world for them - that is powerful mythology for women to have jumped on and changed - the change is still not complete but we have started haven't we...

Lizabeth ever since you have shared you live in New York City my mind is racing about how you must have more possibilities to fill you time than most - has this poem prompted you to run up to the Museum - I forget the name - it backs up to Central Park and has these grand stairs at the entrance and I remember they have a permanent collection of Greek and Roman art/statuary - I wonder if there are any Grecian Urns in that exhibit.

Off the subject but have to ask - have you been to the Gallery with the special Monet exhibit that the major collector was on Charlie Rose show last week telling about the collection and the life of Monet...

Barbara, JoanK and Lizabeth all great posts. Barbara, in your link I enjoyed hearing the lady read the last lines.

hmmmm hats - thanks for the reminder on the reading - I just linked to the site again. After listing it brings up for me a question about old age -- "When old age shall this generation waste" hmmm if truth is beauty and truth be that old age is part of life than old age is beauty rather than waste - I find often I am having to justify my abilities now that I am in my old age - and I do not like it... and here even Keats suggests that his generation wastes old age and makes a comparison to the ageless depicted on the Urn. I am not sure I can dope out what he means by "waste" and maybe I am jumping to conclusion but "waste" is not an uplifting word or one I associate with Beauty.

Looking at the endings and a different pattern emerges - which may clarify my musing about age...

A
B
A
B
C
D
E

loath D
escape C
ecstasy E

grieve C
bliss E
fair D

above C
cloyed D
tongue E

evermore C
tell D
return E

say’st D
all C
know E

Interesting the line I am having trouble with - "When old age shall this generation waste," - is indented as the line that says - "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all" - however, the ending is the same as the line that says – " Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st," - some how I think Keats is saying what I hope he is suggesting – that youth shall remain as depicted on the Urn however, "in the midst of other woe than ours" – meaning that as we age and maybe because of age there are woes however, woes or not the kernel to hang onto is that - "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---

Lizabeth - I noticed when you shared the section of the poem in order to get the lines to stop you ended up skipping space - helpful hint - if at the end of each line you use brackets <> that are above the comma and period on you keyboard and between the brackets you use the letters br or BR the line will break and you will start a new line with your next word without having to skip a line of empty space.

The way to indent is another whole story - there is on SeniorNet a page explaining some basic HTML that in time you may want to try out - here is the link to Discussion Posting Tips - Have Fun!

This is the third time I have tried to post this message. Okay, deeeeep breath.

I was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art just this morning and yes, I saw the Grecian urns.They are at the entrance to the new Greek and Roman galleries.

Museum of Art, New York City, Roman and Greek Gallery

This link (if it works) will take you to a wonderful article on the new galleries but more importantly there is a multimedia presentation to the left of the article. If you click into it, you can actually go into the galleries and move around inside and there is also a gallery talk. It is beyond superb.

When I return to the Met, if I take photos of the Grecian urns, is there a way to post them inside the message?

As far as the Monet exhibit is concerned...yes, I know of it but have not seen it yet. Shame on me.

Wonderful - just grand - the cool blue gray tone of the one gallery is so right for the statuary - and isn't she lovely the portrait of Spring.

Lizabeth I am going to go into your post and turn your link into one that will not send the computers of some folks into this wide space that affects all their posts from your post onward - little by little you will begin to learn how to do these things -

As to your photos - I think your photo can be shared as a link in a post and it certainly can be put into an attachment that is available on the bottom of each post - see where it says Browse - that browses your computer and you simply click on the photo link that you want to share - some SeniorNet discussion we are allowed to share in the post our photos but it takes knowing how to reduce the size and number of bites so we usually do not share a photo directly in this discussion.

I may be able to get Pat to help us with a few of your photos - so let's keep that option opened and then she can reduce them to the allowable size and bites for SeniorNet. Just let me know when you have your photos ready.

Terracotta neck-amphora (jar)

Terracotta amphora (jar), ca. 490 B.C.

I want to see if this works. It is easier to provide links from the Met site. These are I guess urns in a general sense but have different uses. There are a few of them on this site but I liked these two the best.

I also had a question. I used to believe the poem was called "Ode to a Grecian Urn," not "Ode on a Grecian Urn." So what is the difference? My thinking is that an ode to an urn would be a poem in praise of the urn, while an ode on the urn would be a poem about the urn. What do you think? I think it does matter.

Annafair I wish you'd put in one of your beautiful poems...I don't like Keats.

Annie3 why not share a poem you like - Annafair is taking time off - she has been ill and had a bad accidents but on top she needs some time - and so if there is one of Annafair's poems in the archive why not share it in a new post or any poem that makes you feel good - I remember last month having a time appreciating Omar - and so we all understand that everyone is not taken with every choice of poet for the month - but add a poem you do enjoy and we will all be pleased to read it as a change of pace.

by the way I did a table to show the poets of the month we have studies so far...

Poet	Born/Died	Place Poetic Movement	Month Studied
Langston Hughes	1902 - 1967	USA Harlem Renaissance	February 2006
Seamus Heaney – Noble Prize	1939 -	Northern Ireland Modernism	March 2006
Mary Oliver - Pulitzer Prize	1935 -	USA	April 2006
Gwendolyn Brooks	1917 - 2000	USA Black Arts Movement	May 2006
Pablo Neruda, Nobel Prize	1904 = 1973	Chile	June 2006
Henry Lawson	1867 - 1922	Australia Colonial Period	July 2006
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Pulitzer Prize	1892 - 1950	USA Feminist, Modernist Movement	August 2006
Walt Whitman	1819 - 1892	USA First Urban Poet	September 2006
Ted Kooser, 13th US Poet Laureate	1939 -	USA Rural America, Small-town America	October 2006
Anna Akhmatova	1889 - 1966	Ukraine Acmeist poet	November 2006
Maya Angelou	1928 -	USA American Memoirist, Civil Rights	January 2007
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.	1807 - 1882	USA Traditional American	February 2007
Timothy Steele.	1948 -	USA New Formalist	March 2007
Dorathy Parker Ogden Nash	1893 - 1967 1902-1971	USA New York Round Table American Humorist	April 2007
Omar Khayyam	1048 -1122	Persia Islamic	May 2007
John Keats	1795 - 1821	England Romanticism	June2007

LIZABETH: what wonderful links. I've spent ages just going through them.

I think you're right about "to" and "on". You've really made me think. "Ode to" would be talking to the urn. In this "ode on", he starts out talking to the urn, then shifts to talking to the figures on the urn (the pipes, the lover, the boughs etc), with some talking to himself ("what town is this?"), and ends up talking to the urn again.

Perhaps it is this real interaction with every figure on the urn, and the whole that gives (to me) a feeling of immediacy, of being there, that I didn't feel in "Skylark". We can't see the urn, but we (or at least I) DO see it, and feel it's beauty.

BARBARA: I sent you an e-mail. First I got a message that it couldn't be sent. Then I got a message that it HAD been sent. AAAGH!! Would you let me know if you got it.

For those of us who read the Iliad together a few years ago: the description of the urn reminded me a lot of that wonderful passage where Homer describes the scenes on Achilles' shield. I wonder if Keats based it on that, or on an urn based on that.

Nope Joan - there is no email from you - here is my email address augere@ix.netcom.com - hope you can make it work...

I'm with you Lizabeth and Joan - to and on makes a difference - I put an 'Ode to a Grecian Urn' in Google and all the sites come up had the title 'Ode ON a Grecian Urn.'

hmmm this could be an American versus British English thing -
looks like:
American English - on the weekend
British English - at the weekend
American English - on a team
British English - in a team
American English - please write me soon
British English - please write to me soon

And so we have the Brits saying to - in please write to me soon and the Americans saying on - in on the weekend or on a team -

However this poem is written by a Brit and it is on an Urn rather than to an Urn. Could we be making more of the on/to than it warrants and this is simply a difference in a Brit versus American understanding...? Although, I do like the idea Keats is talking to these characters depicted on the Urn.

Lizabeth, thank you for the link. I intend to enjoy it.

BARBARA: ahh, prepositions in the English language! Who can understand them. When I taught ESOL, I remember trying to teach "We live IN Maryland, ON ---- Street, AT number xxxx. The party is IN July, ON Saturday, AT 8 o'clock." ok.

The book said "If a vehicle holds one person, we get "on and off it"; if it holds more, we get "in and out of it". I kept thinking "that's not right. What about a bicycle built for two?"

Not looking at the title closely might have led me to write down the wrong preposition for the "Ode on a Grecian Urn. There is definitely a difference between "on" and "to." Good discussion.

Barbara, thank you for the list of poets discussed in the past.

I'm so sorry to hear about Annafair, I didn't know

Found this -- "the Vale of Tempe --

A vale is a valley with a stream or river running through it. The Vale of Tempe, or “Tembi” in Greek, lies at the foot of Mount Olympus, home of the Greek Gods. The goddess-huntress Artemis resided in the Vale of Tempe, often joined by her brother, Apollo, and it was a favorite locale of many of the Greek Gods in legend, due to its dramatic scenery. In fact, the laurel used in wreaths to crown the victors in the Pythian Games at Delphi was traditionally collected from the banks of the river Peneus that winds through the Vale of Tempe.

"Vale” is a deceptive term, since the Vale of Tempe is only five miles long and more closely resembles a gorge at points, bordered by sheer rock cliffs. It eventually opens into a wide plain. These characteristics made the Vale of Tempe of strategic importance, since it was one of only a few northern entrances to Thessaly, an ancient Greek city-state.

And then this bit about the Laurel used to make the wreathes -- "DAPHNE was a Naiad Nymph of either the River Ladon in Arkadia or the River Peneus in Thessalia.

She was loved by the god Apollon who pursued her relentlessly until, in her exhaustion, she cried out to Gaia for assitance and was transformed into a laurel tree.

In a festival at Delphoi, a branch of a sacred laurel tree was fetched to Delphi from the Thessalian vale of Tempe."

I love these lines:

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.

Why? What is so appealing to me here? Because reality is never quite as beautiful as what we imagine. So the unheard music that we imagine is sweeter than the music that we hear. Who or what can live up to the perfection of our dreams?

Oh my - "Who or what can live up to the perfection of our dreams?" - yes, yes, yes, and how often folks become disappointed if not angry when that perfection of their dreams doesn't materialize.

OK I am excited and hope y'all will be pleased - Keats was the last poet that Anna had scheduled and so we turn the page - since this is already mid-June I thought I better get on the stick.

One of the poets we all loved was Ted Kooser - the 13th US Poet Laureate and that gave me the idea - most states have a Poet Laureate as well as we have a couple of posters from New Zealand. It seems New Zealand is about to officially start choosing a Poet Laureate - there had been a well known winery who designated a poet but this was not someone chosen by a government committee. Sad to say Missouri where Jim lives does not have a Poet Laureate but on his home page he says his favorite poet is Kahlil Gibran and so we may, unless he has another druther, choose Kahlil when we do Missouri.

And so I thought lets' every other month devote our Poet of the Month to a current Poet Laureate from the state or nation where those of us who participate live. I am hoping each of you can use your library to find more material for us - I am ordering at least two books for each of the poets as they are scheduled - and since they are live poets I will make an effort to see if they would be willing to share at least one post with us. I think we were spoiled when Timothy Steele shared each week the entire month.

In between we will have a poet that will continue to fill out our desire to read from the different schools and movements of poets through out history.

And so with that this is what I have come up with to see us through the year - hope y'all will be as excited about this schedule as I am.

Joan thought we could start out with the Poet Laureate from California - Al Young since he is a professor at Berkeley - although it sounds like he is a visiting professor on the road just now - I am thinking the poetry of Al Young may be easier to find in your library - I ordered today 2 of his books "The Sound of Dreams Remembered: Poems, 1990-2000" and this one no longer published but a used book heaven

Then in August I thought let's do Robert Service It will be fun reading poems that are centered in the frozen north country when we are roasting in our mid-summer temps - Most of his work is on the Internet so like a true prospector who carried little into the wilderness we will not be running to the library or the book store in August.

Then came the big decision - Barbara65 and hats are from Tennessee - however, with books entitled "The Light in the Kitchen Window: Poems" and Kin both of which I have ordered - that sounds too much like cosy family kind of poetry and so let's save Margaret Britton Vaughn for November, a family centered holiday month and then it came - of course - September in New York...

And so Lizabeth any thing you can help us with in September the Poet Laureate for New York is Billy Collins - I have ordered "Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems" and also a copy of "Picnic, Lightning (Pitt Poetry Series)"

Then for October what better than a Native American poet - I think you will be pleased reading the work of Joy Harjo - I love the way she weaves Native American mythology into some of her poems and where there will be a few poems that speak to the conditions today she is not on a rant as many Native American poets when they write about life today on and off the reservations. Some of her poems are on the Internet and so you can start exploring if you are curious.

And that leaves December that we are much looser with - this time I thought let's call in Winter - so that any poem or poet we share it is a poem that speaks of winter - from Shakespeare to Donald Hall.

Next year we can pick up more of the Poet Laureates from the states we represent and from around the world --- About our in-between poet - please, if you have a favorite poet that you would like to see us feature as an in-between poet please email your suggestion to me - I hope we can schedule 6 months out at a time and that gives us plenty of time to browse our libraries and for me to contact current poets to see if they have the time or inclination to share with us.

OK - the schedule looks like this -

July - Al Young, Poet Laureate California
August - Robert Service
September - Billy Collins, Poet Laureate New York
October - Joy Harjo, Muscogee poet
November - Margaret Britton Vaughn, Poet Laureate Tennessee
December - Winter poems

You have made me smile all over....I adore adore adore Billy Collins. I think I have three of his books on my shelves.

I heard him read one of his poems in the Cathedral of St, John the Divine which is so near my apartment. There is a Poet's Corner there and he read "Undressing Emily Dickinson." How appropriate for a church... Another smile.

I thought this was interesting. I found it on one of the posted Keats websites:

" It seems clear that no single extant work of antiquity can have supplied Keats with the suggestion for this poem. There exists, indeed, at Holland House an urn wrought with just such a scene of pastoral sacrifice as is described in his fourth stanza: and of course no subject is commoner in Greek relief-sculpture than a Bacchanalian procession. But the two subjects do not, so far as I know, occur together on any single work of ancient art: and Keats probably imagined his urn by a combination of sculptures actually seen in the British Museum with others known to him only from engravings, and particularly from Piranesi's etchings. Lord Holland's urn is duly figured in the Vasi e Candelabri of that admirable master"

When I tried to find the Piranesi work, this is all I came up with and it doesn't look at all like what I think of when I imagine a Grecian urn.

http://www.metmuseum.org/TOAH/HD/pira/hob_41.71.1.13.14.htm

So what did Keats see and where? What inspired him? I always felt he was referring to a very particular urn, but perhaps not..

Interesting Lizabeth - no Urn that depicts the scenes described by Keats in his poem - imagination really at work -

Joan I am so glad you like the list and sure hope you can find more on Al Young - I cannot wait for my books to arrive.

And Billy Collins you have seen and heard him read - how great Lizabeth - so glad you have more of Billy Collins poems that you can share - from the little I have read he seems to have a sense of humor.

I briefly spoke with Anna tonight and she heard him read as well - I forgot where but I think it was someplace in D.C. - she is feeling some better but is still not 100% - her Kudos for the list of poets we will feature warmed my heart - by late summer Anna said she would post a bit she said she really needed this rest. She is emailing one of her new poems that I will post in a day or two.

Joan I didn't realize how close you and Anna had been - I knew you were living not too far from each other but didn't know you and Anna would meet. I bet you still have one foot planted back east and the other beginning to feel the soil of California under your toes.

BARBARA: to my great joy, Anna and I keep in touch: what a wonderful friend! But we haven't yet met face to face. We were planning to at the Seniornet conference last fall, but it fell through.

I laughed at the picture of me with one foot in Maryland and the other in California. It hurts to think of it! But it's true, figuratively if not literally. I think I'll always be a DC/Marylander at heart. But I'm working hard to be at home here: I love being so near the ocean, and the people are so nice and welcoming here that it makes it easier.

Barbara, your new schedule is going to be exciting and interesting including everybody in some way. I have never heard of the lady poet from Tennessee. Have you heard of her Barbara65?

Lizabeth, I didn't picture the Grecian Urn looking like that either. In the literature books there are always pictures of the urn. I like those last questions you asked about Keats inspiration and the looks of the urn. "So what did Keats see and where? What inspired him? I always felt he was referring to a very particular urn, but perhaps not.."(Lizabeth)

Could Keats have drawn an urn in his imagination after seeing so many Grecian urns in different places?

JoanK, I had an uncle and aunt who lived in Baltimore on Edmoundson Ave. This was a hundred years ago.

Lizabeth, you are so great! You just answered my above question.

"" It seems clear that no single extant work of antiquity can have supplied Keats with the suggestion for this poem. There exists, indeed, at Holland House an urn wrought with just such a scene of pastoral sacrifice as is described in his fourth stanza: and of course no subject is commoner in Greek relief-sculpture than a Bacchanalian procession. But the two subjects do not, so far as I know, occur together on any single work of ancient art: and Keats probably imagined his urn by a combination of sculptures actually seen in the British Museum with others known to him only from engravings, and particularly from Piranesi's etchings. Lord Holland's urn is duly figured in the Vasi e Candelabri of that admirable master" (Lizabeth's quote from a Keats website)

I would like to know how a Poet Laureate is chosen, by whom and for how long? Does a state have more than one Poet Laureate?

I would prefer not to buy so many poetry books. Is it possible that we follow the same kind of format as we have with Keats. That is, someone posts a poem by that poet and then we discuss it.

I would like to do the kind of in depth analysis we have been doing, one poem at a time. Is that the way you all have been doing this in the past? I am new here so I am just commenting on a preference. If there is a particular and different way that you have always done this, I will certainly respect that.

Oh and Hats, that etching by Piranesi is not even an urn; it is a candelabrum. So I prefer to think that he knew of and saw somewhere a Grecian urn, either in a book or museum or somewhere. Then he used his imagination to create the particular scene on the urn that we find in the poem.I find all the contextual discussion very interesting. It enriches the poem,

Lizabeth, that candlelabrum looks huge. On another subject, I love Billy Collins. I am very interested in reading the poem about Emily Dickinson.

In a hurry today - appointments galore - can't complain because I love what I do - but real quick -

Joan I remember the move from Kentucky to here in Austin - took some time, in fact a couple of years however, it was the same thing, folks were so open and warm and then my children were still requiring I be engaged in the community so before I knew it I was "home." I hope you will be soon at "home."

hats the poet from Tennessee sounds like a delight - I believe each state has their own manner in which their Poet Laureate is chosen - usually there is a committee or board or commission - names are suggested - readings of their work is arranged - in some cases the Governor makes the choice - other cases it is a committee vote - but the position usually accompanies a grant and then you serve as Poet Laureate for a certain period of time - I have read, do not remember where that in some cases you are Poet Laureate for life and when you die is when a new Poet Laureate is chosen.

Lizabeth, no need to purchase books of poetry - we usually all contribute a poem now and then - we have been taking a bit more time with each of the Keats poems but we do usually 'add our two cents' about each poem, how it affects us, what we get from the poem, and any other comments that will help us learn more about parts of the poem like references to places and things.

Most all the poets have some poetry on-line and so to Google the poet by name, find a site and copy and bring those poems to this discussion is how some like to add to our body of knowledge. And then some do go to their library and borrow a book of poetry written by the poet of the month. It just feels good to have contributed a poem to the month's discussion.

By doing the state Poet Laureates we may not all have access to their work however, whoever lives in that state will most likely find their books available in their public library - that will be a boon for those Poet Laureates that are not as well known say as Billy Collins - I have purchased the books just because I like to have my own - I often get them used from Amazon for a couple of dollars or less - but that is me - we all do what is most comfortable for ourselves.

As we contribute the poems we all have learned just a few basics as to how to break lines or how to center a poem in their post - others of us learn more, like how to indent but that is not necessary - just learning to break lines is really the only technique - oh yes, and how to share a link so that the other computers are not out of wack - a long link to another site can really cause havoc - and so it is really only those two techniques that we learn.

I love that you added to our discussion this month the photos of the urns and the link to the Met. This made our enjoyment of the Keats poem so much richer - I would love to chat but really running late - still in my PJs and have to meet someone all the way up in Pflugerville by 9:30 - gotta dash...

Got it hats - Emily Dickenson - now on the list...

Barbara, thank you.

Are we still working on The Grecian Urn?

J. Keats

CXCIII. La Belle Dame Sans Merci

"O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 5
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. 10
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, 15
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. 20

"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, 25
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 sigh'd full sore; 30
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

"And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd—ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd 35
On the cold hill's 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!' 40

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

"And this is why I sojourn here 45
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing."

Why is the lady without mercy? This I never understood. I love the words.

Any art lovers out there, don't miss our PBS program club discussion of Simon Schama'a PBS series on the power of art. Thosae of us who read his biography of rembrandt together know how interesting Schama can be. Van Gogh and Picasso air this Monday.

Join the discussion at:

VAN GOGH AND PICASSO

"La Belle" sits in the moment when conflict is crystallized. It reminds the reader that once one experiences quintessential love, all other experiences pale in comparison, and it asks the question, "Is it worth it?" The "death" of the knight and his powerful male companions, along with the desolation of nature, point directly to Keats' answer: No. For Keats, the sustained anticipation of an event is better than experiencing the event itself."

La Belle (Credit for above quote)

Barbara, I hope it is alright. I posted the above poem.

Great - been so busy I have not had time to respond hats - sorry - another appointment this afternoon.

I had heard this poem read on one of the poetry tapes I keep in the car - it sounds as romantic as the movement suggests - reminds me of those paintings by Waterhouse - in fact let me look for it... sure enough here it is John Waterhouse: La Belle Dame Sans Merci and this one is just too good not to include Sir Frank Dicksee: La Belle Dame Sans Merci

I remember reading at one time that Ivanhoe was written about this time as well - did you read Ivanhoe when you were in High School? I think it was freshmen year because there was MacBeth and Hamlet and then senior year we did both Miles Standish and The Scarlet Letter. Ah memories...

What I get out of La Belle Dame Sans Merci is more of the concept that Lizabeth brought to our attention - that our dreams are better than reality. I get all caught up with how this poem and many others suggests it is the women who plays the Lorelei to this hapless helpless Knight hanging around after the lake grass has died off and the bird have flown south and the grain is in the barn.

There are many romantic novels about the knights, especially on the crusades that speak of their 'fever-dew' as being their heightened sexual urges. I did look up the significance of placing the lady on the horse and it appears to be like here in Texas when a guy puts his hat on a girl - very significant - NO ONE TOUCHES a guys hat - it is more than a symbol of his manhood - it is as if they punched him. And so I get that they knight placing the lady on his horse is a very significant move on his part that he expects to have reciprocated - ahum

AND THEN "SHE found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;

Oh dear, my twenty and twenty first century view of women trumps this drivel that we read while moaning in our youth - no wonder girls had and still have a view of themselves that they must control guys using their looks and sex -

I am having difficulty like you hats of seeing her without mercy however, in the time in history this was written I am assuming the knight in arms gave his all, symbolic of placing her on his horse and giving her jewelry if only made of field flowers - another very significant gift during the middle ages and for his efforts he found himself alone on the cold hill.

Sounds to me like his imagination was working overtime and reality did not match his dreams.

OK found a solution for those of you who have difficulty turning a link into a something that will not affect some computers - this is a trick many of the posters use in the political discussions - I see no reason we cannot introduce it here

You copy the address or URL and bring it to this site where after you copy it in the window a small address or URL will come up and then you copy that and place it in your post -

What happens with a long address or URL is that on some computers it makes the post as wide as the address or URL - some of the links are very very long and so every post from that link on is so wide you can only read the discussion by scrolling every post sideways. It is terrible for those whose computers react this way.

And so if you will bring your links to this site Tiny URL -- Bookmark the site so it is always handy - and then bring your links to the site to reduce the address or URL to a tiny one and then simply use the new tiny URL in your post...

Hope that helps.

hehehe after trashing the Romantics view of women I have to show another side of Keats don't I -

I love this little poem

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.

hehaha I guess I like to read about a Grasshopper among the grassy hills then a love struck 'disappointed' knight alone on the cold hills.

And here it is - Anna's poem --

Wednesday Morning Postcard

A sliver of sunlight revealed
A spiders fragile home
A nest of nothingness
An airy construction
Unseen until caught
In that limpid light
The sun moved on
Left behind a shadow
Of a spider sleeping
In the center of his nothingness
anna alexander Wednesday, May 23, 2007©

First of all, thank you for the beautiful paintings. They enhanced my visualization of the poem.In responding to poetry, I , at least, hope that some of my senses are engaged.. The paintings helped me see the poem.

Now onto music (sound--rhythm and rhyme)--hearing the poem. I think Keats' poetry is very musical. So if I look at the first stanza it flows lyrically through all the lines until I get to the last line: "And no birds sing."

Wow..what a difference. I think that is four stressed beats. It totally pulls the stanza up short and makes me focus on those lines. It is startling. The music mades a dramatic shift.

Now he does this in every stanza but I think no where does it work as strongly as in the first one.

I've been reading the posts regularily. Since you have been talking about future poets I bring to your attention New Zealand's Janet Frame (1924-2004). She was a fascinating woman.

This website does her great justice - Janet Frame , bio

And you can see a movie based on her life. "An Angel at My Table". I got it from Netflix.

Barbara, it's always such a pleasure for me to read one of Anna's poem. What expressions of beauty in her poetry.

I agree, Annie 3 - and this one about the spider is especially pleasurable. Spider webs are such a mystery and so beautiful.

I rarely read poems aloud when I read them -- I am a poor reader-alouder, and I get caught up in my stumbling. But thank you for reminding me, LIZABETH, that you really have to do that with Keats, to hear his music.

When we read Don Quixote, we got more than enough of "La Belle Dame Sans Merci". Much of the book is a parody on this plot: the knight who has been lured and left forlorn by a fair maid, and wanders desolate. Quixote is hilarious wandering desolate and writing bad poetry, and Sancho Panza doesn't care for it at all. Apparently, it was a favorite plot of romantic poetry at Cervantes' time (earlier than Keats, but apparently the tradition remained).

Anna, your poem is very interesting. The last line "center of nothingness" catches my eye. It is a poem worth thinking about for awhile especially with the strange beauty of the spider's web.

MarjV, thank you for the link about Janet Frame.

Barbara, thank you for the painting by John Waterhouse. I really like that one although the color is dark. The dark, muted grays and browns do match the mood of the poem, at least, that is my feeling.

I read Ivanhoe, not in school, on my own. Now, I need to reread it. I might have it mixed up with another title. My memory is not clear at the moment.

"Critics have noted in Frame’s work the deep-rooted influence of the Christadelphian faith—the investment of everyday objects with numinous significance, the recurrent themes of literalism, apocalypse and resurrection..."

I have never heard of this faith. It is also interesting to read about the hard life led by Janet Frame and her mother as well. I will look for the movie.

On the first reading, I took this poem by Keats as a lighthearted poem. On a second reading, I see it as more serious. I think it is speaking about the songs of poetry. Poetry is always around us in some form whether in the singing of a Cricket, the dance of the grasshopper or the beauty of an intricately woven spider's web which Anna wrote about in her poem.

The poetry of earth is never dead:
The poetry of earth is never ceasing

KEATS

This site is very interesting because it alleges that there were two versions of "La Belle Dame:. Both are on the site. I just printed them out because I am incredibly curious as to the changes.

http://englishhistory.net/keats/poetry/labelledamesansmerci.html

From the site:

"There are two versions of this very famous ballad. The first version is from the original manuscript and the second version is its first published form. The first is generally considered the best; it was altered upon publication. We do not know who did the alteration."

Now it gets even more interesting because what we are reading today is the first version, (1819) not the "published" version (1820)

The differences are fascinating. More on that later (hopefully)

Lizabeth, the two texts are very interesting. I tried to find how one differed from the other. I will wait for someone with a better eye to talk about the differences. Thank you for the link.

"Some readers maintain that the poem is really about Keats's confused feelings for Fanny Brawne, his fiancée, to whom Keats could not commit fully." (Answers.com)

Have we talked about Fanny Brawne?

Fanny Brawne

Oh my quite an evocative letter to Fanny - the little I had read he could not marry her because he was considered too poor. That whole issue of money had a different character than today and I have not researched it enough to know the nuances - however, so many stories of that period in English History seem to be about the having or not having or the loosing of money.

Of the two versions of the poem I had to look up Knight-in-arms and wight - a great difference in not only the sound but the meaning - who could have sympathy for a wight where as a Knight-in-arms sounds noble - but more he had to have certain experiences - here is a link describing the qualifications for a Knight-in-arms

you are so right hats - the poem "On the Grasshopper and the Cricket" reinforces for us how Keats heard poetry - not just words on paper but to him it was the sounds - a song...

Some of the sounds I knew and loved are drowned out as Austin increases in size - I notice there is a barely audible sound that is in the air now - you cannot distinguish that it is traffic or the many ACs turning but you know they are the basis for this pitch - I notice if I try to sleep in - there is a point in the early morning during the week when my ear picks up something and I no longer have a solid sleep - I wonder if that is why I like to sit on my front porch late at night - often around midnight, and I finally feel a relaxation sweep over me. This barely audible sound reminds me of the high frequency sound devises you can get to chase certain animals away.

I have grown to love the convenience of living where I am but I sure miss the sounds - oh there are birds, and deer and even late summer crickets but there was a time when I could practically hear the grass growing.

Oh, yes the kiss on the eyes is different - I wondered if the number four was significant - I looked it up in my trusty "An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols" by J.C.Cooper and nothing hit me however the two eyes with two kisses per eye hmmm maybe the number two is the significant number - as in the past talking to poets - they seldom plan a poem with the symbolic meaning behind their words and yet when the symbolic meaning is brought forth they agree it adds to the intent of the poem.

See what you think of four versus two. Briefly, hitting just the high points the number four is -- "from four the first solid figure is produced; it is the spatial scheme or order of manifestation, the static as opposed to the circular and dynamic. It is wholeness, totality; completion; solidarity, the Earth; order; the rational; measurement; relativity; justice; There are the four cardinal points, season, winds, side of a square, arms of the cross, rivers of Paradise and the infernal regions, seas, sacred mountains, watches of the night and day, quarters of the moon, tetramorphs, and in the West there are the four elements [five in the East], four gospels, the number of the body with three of the soul, chief archangels, chief devils, Fathers of the Church, cardinal virtues, horsemen of the Apocalypse. Etc...

Two: Duality; alternation; diversity; conflict; dependence; otherness; the static condition; the rooted, hence balance, stability; reflections; the opposite poles; the dual nature of man; desire, since all that is manifest in duality is in pairs of opposites. The Binary is the first number to recede from Unity, sin which deviates from the first good and so denotes the transitory and corruptible. Christ with two natures as God and man. The life-force.

Although to me 'two' is the number that says more in the poem Keats did choose the number 'four' as the word to include in one of the versions of this poem.

Okay so here are two versions of one of the stanzas. Which one is "better"?

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gaz'd and sighed deep

And there I shut her wild sad eyes

So kiss'd to sleep.

OR

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.

Opinions???

Welllll, I like the second version better than the first one. The number, four, of kisses helps to show his deep love and his yearning to magically take the wildness from her eyes.

The number four makes the poem more specific and descriptive.

I went back and forth - I do like "full sore" - it has an emotional catch to it that "deep" does not - and of course if you are using "full sore" than you have to use "four" - I tried other words that rhyme with sore however could not find any that worked better or as good.

For a bit I thought I liked the way "wild sad eyes" read - I still like the way that line reads more than the "wild wild eyes" however, it makes her less someone to conquer who had enticed him into her grotto where as "wild wild" keeps her as the lorelei.

Barbara, do you have a special method to choosing which poems we will read during the month?

I know Endymion is long. I have an interest in that one. Lizabeth, is there any special poem by Keats you would like to discuss? This is addressed to all of the posters or lurkers in the Poetry Corner. Barbara, what do you want us to read? Do you have a list?

No list - just go for it -- like you I am becoming more intimetly aware of the poetry of Keats - we have all heard of him but like all the poets we spend time with we are learning to really appreciate their work.

Wow a 1000 lines - how do you want to split it up - say 100 lines a day for 10 days - what do you think - we could make sure it is around 100 lines but we probably wouldn't want to make a break in the middle of a stanza. So some days it would be less than 100 lines and other days more...

Barbara, If you choose to do it, that makes me feel happy. I am not good at math. You will have to tell me when to go and when to stop.

"Endymion"? I feel overwhelmed thinking about reading a poem that long. Could we stick to shorter works? Just my humble opinion.

But please do not let my lack of energy stop the group from selecting it for our next work and I will do my best to tag along...

Lizabeth, maybe you are right. I, of all people, shouldn't ask for a long work. I just felt all of you are so intelligent it's now or never. It's totally up to Barbara.

It is long - but I know what you are saying hats - we do not do these poems well on our own and this is an opportunity -

OK Bibliomania has it broken down into 4 sections - pretty equal sections - each section has 3 stanzas - wait a minute - hold the phone - Bibliomania is not doing the entire book - it looks like this poem is actually 4000 lines -

Oh dear - that is just too long - it would be a month long discussion much like we discussed Rime of the Ancient Mariner or Eliot's Wasteland.

A commitment to one long poem really has to be in a discussion of its own - Maybe if we do not have a full schedule we could do it this coming winter - however, it would be in addition to this ongoing poetry discussion - Sorry hats but it is just too big a challenge - had it only been what Bibliomania shows it would have been a challenge but do-able - when I saw it on Bartleby that is when it became apparent it is like a book of its own

The other poem that is also long that is included in so many CDs and books of classical poetry is his "Eve of St. Agnes" - at this point in the month I think it may also be too long - 380 lines in 42 stanzas of 9 lines each -- we would have to do 4 stanzas a day for 10 days - that really hardly gives us time to reflect on what we are reading and it would be time to go on to the next days assignment.

Now I did notice a poem I am not familiar with I Stood tip-toe upon a little hill - 245 lines and in 12 irregular size stanzas - a couple of the stanzas are short so they could be combined but one is quite long and would take a couple of days to digest. hmmm even that sounds too long for the time we have left - We only have 11 days - I hate to throw cold water but let's consider one of these long ones, probably Endymion as a separate discussion sometime this coming winter -

Another that I would love to do which would take up as much as two months is Hiawatha - I am finding many texts about the real Hiawatha and to read a text about the real person along with the poem I think would be fascinating - but again, a challenge outside of this discussion.

Please, let's include in the next 11 days any poem with say a max of 100 lines - that way we can devote a couple of days to the poem - we are looking at more than our initial reaction to the words and I love that is what is happening - I love it that we are bringing in other influences to better understand the times and the poem - the art, mythology and understanding the meaning of words that we think we know till we look closer.

I hope you are not too disappointed hats - but this is one time I think we would be frustrated having bitten off more than we can chew.

The Bartleby - Keats site is really good for choosing poems - there are a whole host of Keats poems to choose - let's go for it - a few titles that are a bit long that we could get our teeth into - in fact we would have time for more than one of these titles...
Fancy
Imitation of Spenser
Ode
Ode on Melancholy
Ode to Psyche
On receiving a curious Shell
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem
To Autumn
To Charles Cowden Clarke
To George Felton Mathew
To Hope
To Some Ladies
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain

There are others that are short but these are the mid-length poems that I think we could still do justice to in the time we have left.

I would like to do "On first looking into Chapman’s Homer."

Why? it is very short. It is very famous. I never understood it.

Barbara, thank you for going to all that trouble. I know you are very busy. So, it was very kind of you. Lizabeth is on the perfect path. I would love to do the short poems. I would like to say Endymion was not chosen for its length.

I would love to read "Chapman's Homer."

I am a little embarrassed to have chosen that long poem. I do know short poems are just as challenging as long poems. I do not want others to think I have chosen a poem because of length.

John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.

24. On first looking into Chapman’s Homer

MUCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken; 10
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

I googled and got this:

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer is a sonnet by English Romantic poet John Keats (1795-1821), written in October 1816. It tells of the author's astonishment at reading the works of the ancient Greek poet Homer as freely translated by the Elizabethan playwright George Chapman.

So what was so special about that translation that inspired Keats? I think I need to do more digging.

I just did a quick peek check of Chapman's Homer.

Ouch! It is in rhymed couplets!!!

hats thanks for understanding - whew - that was a great suggestion though - we would have never known about what the poem entails if you had not suggested it - please no embarrassment - in fact Kudos for giving us an opportunity to research Endymion and now we even have a list of some of the medium length Keats poems.

Lizabeth - great suggestion; we are now looking at a Sonnet - we looked at the Ode and learned of its ending schemes and the indentations being important to the lyrical poem or song called an Ode and now we can look at the Sonnet for a bit about its construction.

We have not been doing that in the past and for some of us looking at the construction gets overwhelming but this is such a great site - Professor M. Wendy Hennequin at the U of Conn. has made the understanding of a Sonnet so simple - in fact the simplest to understand that I have ever read.
Building Blocks of Sonnets

Thanks hats for posting the poem - like most of us you probably copied and pasted the poem adding the appropriate breaks - a tip for what it is worth - I typed out a couple of poems and what a difference in my understanding - as good as Lizabeth's reminder to read the poem aloud.

Before I turn my attention to this poem I have to share - I finally ordered Timothy Steele's book All The Funs In How You Say A Thing: An Explanation Of Meter & Versification Remember he was trying to teach us about endings - by having a resource to read will help me not only to understand but to re-enforce some of the formulas that are still used by poets today. Of course I will share whatever he includes that can help us better understand what we are reading.

Ok onward to a Sonnet - "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" - this link to the poem gives a bit of history behind Keats writing the poem
U of Toronto - On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Had to look up - de·mesne(d-mn, -mn) n.
1. Law Possession and use of one's own land.
2. Manorial land retained for the private use of a feudal lord.
3. The grounds belonging to a mansion or country house.
4. An extensive piece of landed property; an estate.
5. A district; a territory.
6. A realm; a domain.

and so the 's' is silent

sure enough - in eastern Panama is the Gulf of Darién - a wide bay of the Caribbean Sea between eastern Panama and northwest Colombia. In 1513 Vasco Núñez de Balboa led an expedition across the Isthmus of Darién (now the Isthmus of Panama) and became the first European to view the Pacific Ocean from the New World - Wikipedia has a pretty good map Isthmus of Panama

hehehe of course I cannot stop - had to find out who this Chapman fellow is - Chapman translated Homer’s epic the Odyssey - originally published in folio, 1614–16.

Lizabeth and Barbara, so many good posts. I will come back after reading the links. I am very excited.

Well according to the University of Toronto site, Leigh Hunt said Keats did not know his Greek gods all that well but it was fun to look up Apollo - I especially liked this site Apollo

From some website:

I. The Italian (or Petrarchan) Sonnet: The basic meter of all sonnets in English is iambic pentameter, although there have been a few tetrameter and even hexameter sonnets, as well.

The Italian sonnet is divided into two sections by two different groups of rhyming sounds. The first 8 lines is called the octave and rhymes:

a b b a a b b a The remaining 6 lines is called the sestet and can have either two or three rhyming sounds, arranged in a variety of ways:

d c d c d d d c d c d e c d e d e c e d d c e d c

The exact pattern of sestet rhymes (unlike the octave pattern) is flexible. In strict practice, the one thing that is to be avoided in the sestet is ending with a couplet (dd or ee), as this was never permitted in Italy, and Petrarch himself (supposedly) never used a couplet ending; in actual practice, sestets are sometimes ended with couplets

The point here is that the poem is divided into two sections by the two differing rhyme groups. In accordance with the principle (which supposedly applies to all rhymed poetry but often doesn't), a change from one rhyme group to another signifies a change in subject matter. This change occurs at the beginning of L9 in the Italian sonnet and is called the volta, or "turn"; the turn is an essential element of the sonnet form, perhaps the essential element

So now I have to check the poem again to see if the change from one rhyme group to another signified a change in the subject matter.

Yes, after the 8th line there is a defined break in the poem and he now tells using figurative language how he felt reading Chapman's translation of Homer.

Why did that translation have such an impact on Keats? So great an impact that he wrote a sonnet describing it...

I found this site to be very interesting although perhaps a bit too analytical for my taste:

http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/cs6/homer.html

I don't know - I just don't get it - I can see what he is doing by talking about having 'been there,' 'done that,' 'seen it all,' but not really appreciating the wonder of it all which he points to in the rebuttal part of the Sonnet.

What I don't get is Keats had not been known as an adventurer or a traveler other than moving to a few towns in Britain and his sojourn to Italy when he was already quite ill. And so now after reading Chapman he feels like, in American terms, 'Jack Armstrong' with the wonders of the discovery in the sky and the Americas as his 'breakfast of champions' - what is this really all about - what is he trying to say - or is this really only a bit of fluff mixing up history and writing in a form to highlight being on top of his game...maybe I am asking the same question you are asking Lizabeth - 'Why?'...

The Homer translation was published 200 years before - had it only be discovered hidden in some library - the second half, the rebuttal half of the Sonnet isn't about Homer at all but a vague allusion about a new planet and the discovery of the Pacific Ocean as seen from a peak 300 years earlier. I don't get it - "Why?'...

BARBARA: "why?"

Either Chapman's Homer was the first time he had read Homer, or the first time he had read a translation that wasn't so stuffy, he couldn't make heads or tales of it (IMO -- have you ever seen Pope's Homer? Ugh!). And he is discovering Homer's beauty for the first time (as a bunch of us did when we read the Iliad in Lobardo's translation). This discovery overwhelms him, and he compares it to the discovery of a new world (in Keats' case, a world of wonderful poetry). Over the top, yes, but he was a man who lived for poetry -- makes sense to me.

ahh - OK - thanks - makes sense now...

I found his mistaking Cortez for Balboa rather amusing. I guess no one corrected him prior to publication. I found that rather interesting.

On further investigation:

"11] Cortez. Actually it was Balboa, not Cortez, who first crossed the isthmus to the Pacific. Keats had read Robertson's History of America and apparently confused two scenes there described: Balboa's discovery of the Pacific and Cortez' first view of Mexico City. The two passages read as follows:

"At length the Indians assured them, that from the top of the next mountain they should discover the ocean which was the object of their wishes. When, with infinite toil, they had climbed up the greater part of the steep ascent, Balboa commanded his men to halt, and advanced alone to the summit, that he might be the first who should enjoy a spectacle which he had so long desired. As soon as he beheld the South Sea stretching in endless prospect below him, he fell on his knees, and lifting up his hands to Heaven, returned thanks to God, who had conducted him to a discovery so beneficial to his country, and so honourable to himself. His followers, observing his transports of joy, rushed forward to join in his wonder, exultation, and gratitude" (Bk. III).

"In descending from the mountains of Chalco, across which the road lay, the vast plain of Mexico opened gradually to their view. When they first beheld this prospect, one of the most striking and beautiful on the face of the earth; when they observed fertile and cultivated fields, stretching farther than the eye could reach; when they saw a lake resembling the sea in extent, encompassed with large towns, and discovered the capital city rising upon an island in the middle, adorned with its temples and turrets; the scene so far exceeded their imagination, that some believed the fanciful descriptions of romance were realized, and that its enchanted palaces and gilded domes were presented to their sight; others could hardly persuade themselves that this wonderful spectacle was any thing more than a dream. As they advanced, their doubts were removed, but their amazement increased. They were now fully satisfied that the country was rich beyond any conception which they had formed of it" (Bk. V).

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Online text copyright © 2005, Ian Lancashire for the Department of English, University of Toronto. Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.

Sad to say, I don't yet know Keats. Wish I did. He lived in same times as those depicted vividly by my novel-writing 20th century hero Patrick O'Brian in his 21-volume fictional sea-faring Aubrey/Maturin novels.

To me so far, Keats' best regarded works seem "odes." They didn't sell well in his short lifetime...but are now recognized as influences on many later 19th & 20th century poets.

I can relate to his "rejection." In 2003 I wrote my only living aunt (in-law aunt) an "Ode to my Aunt Bea." In it I praised her movement to widow-hood, my uncle and her husband having died. She didn't reply, and next Christmas her card was only signed, "Aunt Bea." Like Keats, my best efforts are sometimes mis-received. Like him (should he have lived longer), I hope to continue sending "Odes" to others.

Here's an ode by Keats I've just read, and that I like a lot. Sadly, Keats' "season in the sun" ended in his Springtime:

The human seasons

FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honey’d cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

Keats...1820

Still...I like Shakespeare's similar theme 200+ years earler better:

The Seven Ages of Man

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and 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 honour, 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 lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.

Shakespeare's "AS YOU LIKE IT," 1599

I hope Shakespeare and Keats above words seem similar themes to others here besides me.

Thank you for making this interesting comparison. Yes, Keats and Shakespeare have similar themes..but I was surprised to find Shakespeare's take very critical of all the ages while Keats is clearly once again the romantic. I have read "the ages of man" before but never noticed that.

For Shakespeare the infant is puking, the schoolboy whining, the lover sighing like a furnace, the soldier impulsive, the justice just playing his part...

For Keats, the cycle of man's life is close to nature, Man is almost like a flower: first budding, then opening, slowly closing and finally dying because after all, it is mortal,

. On another note, this sonnet of Keats is different. Its rhyme scheme is abab/cdcd/efef/gg. This is the classic Shakespearean sonnet form. So it seems Keats has mastered more than one form of the sonnet.

Terrific Jim - yes, I have to agree Shakespeare has it...

I can't get past the youth of Keats - to me he is a prolific young writer, never the husband or father of his own toddler, always the young lover or inquisitive young man still learning, listening to the world around him, having experienced far more trauma with death than most as well as, being responsible for siblings as if a father and mother all rolled into one -

A dreamy sort of youth who writes about his world with a lyrical ear. No crashing around like a Dylan Thomas kicking and screaming through life.

Your complement of Keats' "The human seasons" balanced off Shakespeare's "The Seven Ages of Man" is brilliant.

...by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

describes Keats so well - he never reached the Autumn of his years much less winter - definitely a young man comfortable in quiet coves where as by the time Shakespeare penned "As You Like It" he was 35 and knew all about;

"...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."

Come to think of it that whole group of poets from that time were tame in comparison to those who were older by only 20 or 30 years and those who were younger by 10 to 20 years. There was Lord Byron, Shelly, Keats, Wordsworth - all very flowery with Odes and Sonnets and long lyrical poetry as if walking across a room covered in tissue paper not making a tear with their steps - the Gothic tales were not yet born, just flowers, and trees and nymphs while the French had their bare breasted Marianne and the US had the frontier and a new Eden along the Hudson River.

Whoops there you are Lizabeth - you too picked up the same lines used by Shakespeare - I have never looked closely at the Shakespeare Sonnets to figure out if they are all the same Sonnet Pattern - I wonder - I think I still have a book around here with just the Sonnets - that would be a exercise to take on...

Timothy Steele's book "all the fun's in how you say a thing" arrived today - Holy Hannah this is a tome to reckon with - no little slim chap book this - whew, and written where I have to stay focused - he says he wrote it mainly for, ahum, "first and foremost for younger readers, especially students who may for the first time be examining the corpus of verse in English." 366 pages including 15 pages of Index - no quick read and if this is the level of reading for "younger readers," wow...

He makes an interesting observation about the ten-line stanzas Keats uses in his odes about the Nightingale, Melancholy, the Grecian Urn and Indolence - he says, "they open with quatrain of an English sonnet, followed by the sestet of an Italian sonnet" - he goes on to explain further the rhymed pentameters - We looked at both the Nightingale and the Grecian Urn - this prompts me to look again with another bit of information how a Sonnet form can be part of an Ode.

Interesting Keats uses eye rhyme in love/cove - according to Tim, "in the earlier stages of our language, when pronunciations was less settled than it is today, poets and readers evidently would, to maintain rhyme, adopt now one and now the other way of saying a syllable that had two possible pronunciations." Do you think that was the way readers adapted to love/cove?

"to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook" -- I like the thought of a brook as a threshold - a threshold to a raging or a wider river; a threshold to the woods and meadows drinking from its waters; the brook where life begins as water moving clear and, like all things in their infancy, will easily dry up or rush along taking creek bottom stones and soil with it; a carrier of leaves and twigs that are not caught by rocks or fingers of grass on the banks, later depositing the leaves and twigs on a dam that grows over time to an island.

Thank you Jim in Jeff for the comparison between Shakespeare and Keats using the stages or cycles of life. You always have a lovely, unique spirit of individuality where poetry is concerned. It's like you come in at just the right point and pull our thoughts together or shine new light in a corner we have missed. It is always a delight to see your name much like seeing AnnaFair's name. Thank you for making me see what I would have missed.

John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.

18. To a Friend who sent me some Roses

AS late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 5
A fresh-blown musk-rose; ’twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell’d: 10
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.

Roses growing in the wild are beautiful. So are the roses that grow in someone's yard. The most beautiful roses are those sent to us from a husband, lover or friend. ___________________________________________________

But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.

I am puzzled by these lines.

when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 5

hats it will be interesting to get the feedback from some of the others who post but this is what I come up with... it made no sense to me till I figured out who this "Wells" person was - here it is Charles Jeremiah Wells -

I do not think Keats is referring to a real "knight" so much as saying anyone with courage and good will in their hearts like the attributes of a knight of old, will take up their work as the shield, sword and horse are the symbols of the work of a knight with the shield symbolic of the hero persevering.

The dented shield to me suggests a well used and embattled hero who persevered with each new adventure and so like the skylark was up and ready with the break of each day.

And then my take is that the adventure may have been to take in the wild roses however, the knight is sidetracked, placing more importance on the roses and compliments from Wells.

Oh, I am so glad. I wanted to know about the person, Wells. I didn't think it possible to find anything.

Hats, Thanks for your thanks. Re your Q, I could be totally wrong...but I think Keats is using colons as internal periods (saving the period for use only in line 14). Therefore, the thought ends with "shields:" (line 4), line 5 beginning a new "sentence." So I think he earlier there was describing twilight (dew, etc). So the knights come out to court, woo, and joust again (dented shields suggesting it a regular evening practice). Or...maybe I'm thinking too strongly about Cerano de Bergerac...the knightly shy poet with the big nose.

Lizabeth, you are right that in those two comparisons, Keats is romantic and Shakespeare is a cynic. I think Barbara hit on best explanation...Keats in his romantic youth, Shakespeare a bit past his hot-to-trot years.

Barbara, thanks for the future "Missouri poet" consideration. Right now, I'd rather we discussed a Missouri poet. Kahlil Gibran seems a bit heavy, and not Missourian, even in personality. Missouri has had some worthy poets, many of whom moved elsewhere in their adult productive years. So I'll study on it, and give a nomination later. Meantime, some poets that Missouri likes to claim: T.S. Eliot; Maya Angelo; Eugene Fields...there's more. I'll get a round tuit soon.

Edit: I see Barbara post a different take on Hats' "knights." As in most good discussion groups, is much to be said for both interpretations. And hopefully other's takes too.

Here's one thought. Please consider it just my early, hasty nomination. No hurry, is several months before this monthly subject's turn.

Naomi Shihab Nye: A contemporary poet who writes about today's current events. An Arab-American born & raised in Missouri, she today calls herself a "traveler"...but says her roots are mostly felt in St Louis, Mid-East, and San Antonio (her current home).

Here's one of her contemporary-subject poems, "Blood": http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16411

Maybe gives a sample of why I find her thoughts relevant today. But she's not just a "contemporary voice": she's a teacher, author, longtime publisher of poems, and more. A google search on her name would return lots of info links. She might even agree to be available to chat with us, should she be our group's discussion feature in some future month. Food for future thoughts, forum friends...?

Back to John Keats...of interest to me after reading other's posts here about sonnet structures, was to find that Keats wrote a sonnet about SONNETS. It doesn't speak volumes to me, but might to others.

"ON THE SONNET" by John Keats

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness,
Let us find, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of Poesy:
Let us inspect the Lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.

Oh what a delicious challenge this is!

Hmmm...first I think Keats is criticizing the sonnet form itself. He says English is chained to dull rhymes and the sonnet has too many restrictions. Then he says, well if it has to be like that, can't we find something more interesting than what we have now? So he turns to the Lyre..a musical instrument. How interesting is that considering all our conversations about the musicality of his poetry? But why a musical instrument? Because it relies on rhythm, the stress of every chord. It does not rely on rhyme which constrains but rhythm which gives it lyricism. Now here it gets rough for me. What does he mean when he says "Let us be jealous of the dead leaves in the bay wreath crown"? Does the muse of Poesy wear a bay wreath crown? And then the couplet at the end. I am not sure I get it. If we can't free the Muse or the sonnet from the restrictions of the form, at least what? "She will be bound by garlands of her own." What does that mean? HELP!!!!

And I checked out the poetry of Naomi Shihab Nye. Sounds fascinating. I am certainly willing to study her work.Thank you.

I agree with Lizabeth. I have read Blood. I was left with the feeling of wanting to read more of this poet's works. I am so glad you mentioned her Jim in Jeff.

"Naomi Shihab Nye: A contemporary poet who writes about today's current events. An Arab-American born & raised in Missouri, she today calls herself a "traveler"...but says her roots are mostly felt in St Louis, Mid-East, and San Antonio (her current home)."

Whew so much to talk about - OK first of all great Jim that you are offering us a poet for your state - her name sounded familiar - I thought I remembered seeing her on Texas Monthly on PBS and sure enough - there is even a photo of her current house in San Antonio - Naomi Shihab Nye and I am with Lizabeth and hats on the reading of "Blood" wonderful and powerful poem... super suggestion - let's read her work even if she is not 100% from Missouri - if Texas didn't have a poet Laureate I would say let's use her to represent both states but Texas does have a Poet Laureate status.

Finally one of the books I ordered with the poetry of Al Young arrived - "Heaven" - the other I ordered would not be here on time so I cancelled it and order another entitled "Coastal Nights and Inland Afternoons" that should be here next week. His work will be quite a change of pace for us - very contemporary - not many flowers, trees and nymphs going on with Al Young. One great poem about a bag lady in October in I think it was New York - nothing maudlin - just great...!

OK let me post this and then onto the Sonnet you found for us Jim - I love it how we all bring our thinking and life experience to a poem so that there is another aspect and side seen with each of the poems posted - really makes me giggly and anxious to read the posts.

This is what I get from the Keats Sonnet "On the Sonnet' --

To me Keats is saying that the English rhymes are dull however, we are chained to them just as Andromeda was chained to the rock - and just as Andromeda was horrificly chained to the rock she was beautiful as he is suggesting the Sonnet is also beautiful regardless chained to dull rhymes- or lovely to put it in his words -

As long as we are constrained by the dull rhymes he is asking, let's look at the rhyme division called feet - I love it how he uses sandals and naked foot of the 'Poesy'/poetry to refer to foot division.

All this about the Lyre is really saying that foot division and word division do not always coincide. In addition, when reading we do not always agree to give the same weight to a word or space so that it will affect the line's rhythm. Since our English language speech pattern is mostly iambic - we sometimes force words into that meter making it fit the Sonnet iambic meter.

And so, just as the weights and stresses of each chord on the Lyre require attention to hear and to learn - a lot of attention, since they are subtle rather than easy to hear and play - the listening requires so much attention it is like abstracting a coin from the great miser Midas - but even more - there is much by looking at the line and word division/feet that will turn the Sonnet gold as the Midas touch turned everything to gold -

Then he is saying, if only there was not all this irregular sound and forced meter so that the English language would be as static - and he uses the image of the dead laurel/bay leaves on a crown as a static but still glorified bit of nature. For the Romantic that would be something to explain since nature in its purity was valued and an example of 'dead' nature has to be shown as glorious.

Keats goes forward with - if language was static it would allow the poet to be more creative without spending so much time on the mechanics of a poem - so that the poet could expand on his thoughts reaching heights of creativity worthy of a crown, without being bound by the irregularities consistent in the English language as compared to say the French language. Therefore, the Sonnet poet could attain the laurel crown that goes with greatness.

Barbara--

I think I had some of it but you deepened it so much. Thank you, Bravo!

I especially liked how you opened me up to the foot in the sandal and the poetic foot.I missed that entirely.

And your explication of the final couplet was right on the money too.

Wonderful work.

Forum Friends: Thanks for considering my tentative future suggestion, Naomi Shihab Nye...for discussing some later month here soon.

Today, here's one of Keats' that shows his more humorous side (to me anyway). It kind of "won me over." However, it's not "typical Keats."

Sharing Eve's Apple, John Keats: "Posthumous and Fugitive Poems"

                 I
O blush not so! O blush not so!
    Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
    Then maidenheads are going.

                 II
There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't,
    And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught,
    And a blush for just begun it.

                 III
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
    For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
    And fought in an amorous nipping.

                 IV
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
    For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
    We have not one sweet tooth out.

                 V
There's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no,
    And a sigh for I can't bear it!
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
    O cut the sweet apple and share it!

Forum friends, if I could take only ONE Keats poem with me to that proverbial "desert island," it'd definitely be this one.

Thanks for the Kudos Lizabeth - we all chip in our impressions around here knowing there is no one way to interpret a poem - I think some of the most fun we have is when a line hits us with a memory or new look at some aspect of life - so far Keats has not touched our hot buttons - although I think the sandal and naked foot was a delight it was not bringing up some new way to view the world around us.

I read somewhere that the Romantic poets were all about individualism - maybe connecting to the world around them as an individual is different than earlier poets - I am not sure I get that description. It could be since we live in a time and in a nation that places its raison d'être on individual rights and expression then I just do not pick up that aspect of Keats poetry.

We could not do all of "Endymion" however, these lines are often quoted from the poem - thought they would be nice to hear -

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy for Ever

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits...

I am having a difficult time finding beauty today since it is raining again - yesterday, the streets became raging rivers as I was driving home - our many steep hills were rushing waterfalls with lakes at the bottom - it was a challenge to pick my way home avoiding these rivers and waterfalls - and here it is raining again - the creeks are over flowing and the damns are opened in sections to keep the lakes from spreading - I am so tired of changing plans because of the rain... Last night one of the does was on the patio looking through the breakfast room window at me working in the kitchen. I sware she was saying, 'come turn this off I am tired of laying down in the wet.' Maybe that was my "thing of beauty" and I need to see pouring down rain without thinking like a child who rhymed -- rain, rain go away come some other shinny day.

Wheee Jim - "the Apple" - a desert Island poem - OK

Looks like your post came up while I was writing mine and so we have two poems to look at - just what I need on this rainy rainy evening -

Oh Jim what a hoot - I love it - I laughed and laughed - read aloud it is a jewel - hahahaha - these lines are marvelous... great fun - where ever did you find this Keats belly laugh.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't,
    And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught,
    And a blush for just begun it.

And then the last is a riot:

There's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no,
    And a sigh for I can't bear it!
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
    O cut the sweet apple and share it!

I saw it at B&N today in "Complete Poems of Keats." Was in a section of his "posthumous and fugitive" works. Is a-typical Keats, I concede.

Well it is a gem - I did not know he had it in him -- so far his work is so flowery - this is a riot...Thanks for sharing it - I am still laughing...

"A Thing of Beauty" is also a Keats' treasure. It speaks to most of us here.

Great poems: I didn't know Keats had such humor in him either. And a thing of beauty is a treasure:

Barbara: if you are tired of the rain, I wish we could share! I can't believe how much I miss the rain: not the gentle fall rain, but the real gully-washers. There's nothing like lying in bed at night, all warm and cosy, listening to the rain on the roof.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

These lines are a thing of beauty.

By the way how do I get poetry to hold form on the page without skipping lines? I know someone explained this before but I lost the post (too lazy to reread everything and find it again).

Lizabeth - where you want to break the line you put the letters BR or br between the brackets that are above the comma and the period on your keyboard that look like <> - If I do it to show you the only thing that will happen is it will break the line and you will not see it so I am going to replace the brackets you must use with other brackets to give an example - the brackets you must use are <> - I am going to use ( ) as an example:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: (br)
Its loveliness increases; it will never (br)
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep (br)
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Try it on a post and if you mess up we can help you through - once you get the hang of it you are on easy street...

What I do is creat the HTML for thd first line in a poem and then copy and pasteafter next lines.

A poem to practice bracketing

we are bracketed
in so many ways
by our thoughts
beliefs
and histories
Hopefully we learn
to break the brackets

Just me playing and trying to see if the form holds...

tra la - you did it! - and how much fun to write a small poem about the brackets of life - great!

Now the question - are the brackets of life worth learning??? hmmmm I guess they keep us safe so that our energies can be more focused - hmmmm is that what Keats was saying in his Sonnet about writing poetry - I do not think he saw mastering the mechanics of the Sonnet as a good thing and in a like mind are brackets a good thing or...?

Ah..you got it. I was playing with Keats' poem on the sonnet. Very good.

Are the brackets in our lives the boundaries that we set for ourselves? And we need them so we don't ooze out into chaos?

Or are the brackets in our life, our birth and our inevitable passing? The very things that make us mortal...

Someone sent this to me. Perhaps you will enjoy it. I found the reading a bit overly dramatic. Maybe that is how Keats would have liked it.

http://www.suhsd.k12.ca.us/mvm/netlinks/1keats/nightode.html

huh I did not know that pards was short for leopards and further I did not know that Leopards pulled Bacchus's chariot. Interesting - I wonder why leopards - looks like a need to look up the myth about Bacchus and see what I can find - interesting - thanks Lizabeth.

And another rendition of the same poem by Robert Pinsky. Much less dramatic but a bit hard to hear the audio:

http://www.rc.umd.edu/editions/poets/audio/pinsky.html

Barbara, thank you for posting 'A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever' by Keats.

Lizabeth, thank you for both sites.

Jim in Jeff thanks for sharing the one Keats poem you would take to a desert island.

Yes hats the line that struck me is "A flowery band to bind us to the earth," - I wondered if that is what keeps us attached to our family and home and community - that these are sources of beauty that bind us in a lovely way and when we no longer see the beauty that is when we cut the ties - but more I wonder if it is beauty that is the basis for hope - when things look dark we either know that beauty can exist or we turn to the beautiful as our beacon of hope.

Barbara, we can never cut the ties to family, home, community. Blood binds us forever. We may leave home for awhile. We will always go back again. My mother use to say "blood is thicker than water."

My mother would also say "Beauty is only skin deep; ugly is to the bone."

I hear you - and yet, there are some folks who are so ugly they are U-G-L-Y and if you never see them again it would not be too soon... then you wonder how someone like that ever got mixed up with the family "blood" - ah so... I guess I like wearing rose colored glasses and prefer thinking of the beauty in each family member rather than accepting we are all tied by blood - its true but beauty is so much more pleasing to dwell upon...

I am so excited about doing Al Young next month - here is a preview of how he talks to poets --

FOR POETS

Stay beautiful
but dont stay down underground too long
Dont turn into a mole
or a worm
or a root
or a stone

Come on out into the sunlight
Breathe in trees
Knock out mountains
Commune with snakes
& be the very hero of birds

Dont forget to poke your head up
& blink
Think
Walk all around
Swim upstream

Dont forget to fly

I like the message of the poem. "Don't forget to fly." What a nice thought.

From Keats to Al Young---what a long trip in time between the two. And in styles. It should be interesting.

Up late. Mind racing.

Barbara--how nice of you to mention my name. I've been spending way too much time on the Drabble book and Schama, to the detriment of Keats. I've missed some exciting poets over the last year. Not too keen on a lot of the state poets. I have heard of Billy Collins; he sounds interesting.

Randall Jarrell and John Crowe Ransom were from Tennessee. Modern poets.

Barbara65b (I) am in North Carolina. I was once coy about my location and remarked I was close to the Tennessee line, and it kind of stuck. I'm in the NC mountains which used to be cold. This winter it was often warm and we had days in the nineties in April when we usually get our last snow. Nice but creepy.

I'll check the NC poet laureate, but we've had some biggies like A. R. Ammons.

It would be good if you used a book or three that listed important, revered poets with their states. Fifty years ago I grew up in Indiana, and I'm not at all touchy that we seem to have had no first rank poets. Sidney Lanier, mediocre I'd guess. We memorized several poems by James Whitcomb Riley--The Raggedy Man, When the Frost is on the Punkin, and the thought-provoking Little Orphan Annie.

I can recite them today!

I don't think anyone would mind if you, Barbara, impose some kind of standard. Unless there are passionate suggestions, of course. Just a thought.

Your posts and all the posters' comments are far better than courses I've had. Thank you.

OH wow Barbara I wonder how far you are from my daughter - she is in Saluda which is east of Hendersonville - if you are not too far when I visit during the Holidays maybe we can meet for a cup of coffee...

Looks like - "Gov. Michael F. Easley appointed Kathryn Stripling Byer, of Cullowhee, to be North Carolina's poet laureate on February 24, 2005. As poet laureate, Ms. Byer serves as an ambassador of North Carolina literature, past and present. She succeeded Fred Chappell." North Carolina Arts Council

You are so right Lizabeth - from the classic with carefully composed meter and language to a poet who says it with street language that bounces and flies...

We can have fun here reading current poets and well established poets included in the canon of western literature - In some instances our own poetry is as thought provoking as those contemporary poets recognized with fellowships and other Kudos - I am looking forward to reading the work of poets I have not heard of realizing they have a body of work that has brought them recognition -

Most of the state Poet Laureates do have a few poems on the Internet and hopefully those of you, who live where the featured poet is representing the state, will be able to locate a book of their poetry in your local library easier than those of us who are scattered in other areas of the country.

Some of the state Poet Laureates are better known and have many books published - Billy Collins is an example - and some I am not familiar with their name or contribution - We will be on an exploration however, in-between we will alternate with established poets, many who we know and love - Some of you have made a few suggestions that are definitely on the list for the next go-round.

And any poet who is featured that does not have many poems on the Internet I will regularly write out poems from the books I order - again, I hope those who live in the state we feature will also share poems from books that they were able to borrow from their local library or like Jim, stop off at B&N and copy a poem or two from a chapbook in stock.

This will be our adventure into new sounds punctuated by months featureing the sounds we have known and loved while including poets from many different schools or movements as we build our anthology in this discussion - by including the state Poet Laureates we sure will have a handle on the work of a current crop of poets won't we.

Well I am ready to examine another Keats poem - this is Tuesday and we have 4 days to examine one of the Great Romantic Poets. If someone wants to make a choice - great - if there is no choice by tonight I will find and add something...

Oh, all right. We'll see how that goes.

I'm in the northern area--Boone, with Blowing Rock eight miles away. The land of jet engine winds and big snows, at least until the last few years. We moved here after four years in Atlanta and eleven years in Savannah. We occasionally questioned this decision.

Your daughter lives in a lovely area. Our daughter worked at the Carl Sandburg house at Flat Rock one summer. (In the late fifties, Sandburg showed up at our university to give a lecture on a particular topic and ended up playing his guitar and singing the whole time. The English department was furious.)

Robert Frost was even more past it appearing at a college in Atlanta in the sixties. It was thrilling anyway.

hahaha hehe "Oh, all right" I love it I can't stop giggling hehehehehe - it will be fine - you will be fine - we will have fun - if nothing else we can safely give our opinions where it is a bit difficult to admit you do not like the poetry of an established revered poet whose work is written about as well as many books published filled with their "revered" poetry.

I need to look on a map - I do not remember how far Blowing Rock is from Grandfather Mountain - we visited Grandfather Mountain during one of my fall visits. Not planning a fall visit this year - my daughter is coming here for two weeks in August.

God bless Atlanta but someone needs to help them learn how to successfully mark their highway - I have yet to go through Atlanta without getting turned around and landing downtown - in comparison Houston is a dream but Atlanta - oh dear - we keep meaning to spend some time in Atlanta but the visits take on a life of their own and we run out of time each and every time - loved the Carl Sandburg house - loved his library of books with papers poking out of each tome where he marked the pages he wanted to reread or note. Ah and the goats - yes, the goats... the house is in a lovely setting.

My cousin and her family is up near Chapel Hill - we got together a few years ago and I need to do that again... My daughter would love for me to move to NC but for me it is like being in a dark tunnel with all those trees - I like the big sky and I really like the hot sun of summer - I just like Austin.

                  Ode to Indolence

     'They toil not, neither do they spin.'

One morn before me were three figures seen,
      With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
     In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
     When shifted round to see the other side;
          They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
     And they were strange to me, as may betide
          With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

How is it, shadows, that I knew ye not?
     How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
     To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days?
Ripe was the drowsy hour;
     The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
          Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
     O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
          Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness?

A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
     Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
     And ached for wings, because I knew the three:
The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;
     The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
          And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
     Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, -
          I knew to be my demon Poesy.

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
     O folly! What is Love? and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition - it springs
     From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
For Poesy! - no, - she has not a joy, -
     At least for me, - so sweet as drowsy noons,
          And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
     That I may never know how change the moons,
          Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

A third time came they by: - alas! wherefore?
     My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
     With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
     Though in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
          The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine,
     Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
          Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

So, ye three ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
     My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
For I would not be dieted with praise,
     A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
     In masque-like figures on the dreary urn;
          Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
          Vanish, ye phantoms, from my idle spright,
     Into the clouds, and never more return!

Indolence - n.
1. Inactivity resulting from a dislike of work - laziness inertia, inactivity, inactiveness -
2. A disposition to remain inactive or inert; "he had to overcome his inertia and get back to work"
3. faineance, idleness - the trait of being idle out of a reluctance to work
4. shiftlessness - a failure to be active as a consequence of lack of initiative or ambition

Phidian - The division of ancient art into periods—a pre-Phidian (or archaic), the high or sublime style of the great Greek sculptors Phidias and Polyclitus of the 5th century BC, the elegant or beautiful style of the sculptor Praxiteles and the painter Apelles.

Phidias (or Pheidias) son of Charmides, (circa 490 BC - circa 430 BC) was an ancient Greek sculptor, universally regarded as the greatest of Greek sculptors.

throstle; n
1: a spinning machine formerly used to twist and wind fibers of cotton or wool continuously
2: common Old World thrush noted for its song [syn: song, thrush, mavis, Turdus philomelos]

masque also mask (măsk) - n.
1. A dramatic entertainment, usually performed by masked players representing mythological or allegorical figures, that was popular in England in the 16th and early 17th centuries.
2. A dramatic verse composition written for such an entertainment.

spright(sprt) n. -- Variant of sprite.
sprite (sprt) n.
1. A small or elusive supernatural being; an elf or pixie.
2. An elflike person.
3. A specter or ghost.
4. Archaic A soul.
5. Meteorology A large, dim, red flash that appears above active thunderstorms in conjunction with lightning.

What a perfect summer poem....indolence. I have to read it a few more times to see if I am getting it. One thing popped out at me immediately are the references to the urn. I like how this poem ties to the others...

I like to say aloud these lines slowly:

My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:

So much delicious alliteration in the last line...stirring shades and baffled beams...

Of course I am not sure what that means actually but it sounds so wonderful to speak the lines..

What are shades? shadows? omens of death? and beams? sunbeams? then why baffled? shades(dark) and beams (light)? Hmmmmm....

I also think it's exciting to see "the urn" mentioned again in a new poem. Did Keats use the "urn" as an inanimate object often in his poems? The urn must have fascinated him with many possibilities for his poetry.

Running around with appointments this morning - I will be back late this afternoon - yes, that Urn really fascinated Keats didn't it - or if it was not one urn the thoughts he carried in his head about an urn with the characters depicted frozen in time.

I've been mulling on Ambition - with these words "pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued eye;" it sounds like weak ambition - almost frozen ambition - or ambition that is not sure enough of itself to picture success. Keats couples Ambition with "demon Poesy" which says to me this is referring to his uncontrollable need to write poetry.

I am trying to figure out how the word Ambition is being used - is he suggesting the need to write poetry is beyond his capacity to control where as ambition is a controllable virtue and therefore he does not write with any ambition because he has no control?

I get the impression the speaker is sorrowful because of the "nothingness." The speaker is not speaking of loved leisure. He regrets the lack of anything in his life.

Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
to steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days?

Is the speaker looking upon love, ambition and the demon poesy as his enemies? Why?

Hats you have some areas that are confusing and I have other areas that are confusing me -

When I look at the entire poem two images seem to be repeated - the number 3 - we have 3 figures and he turns the urn 3 times - the 3 figures represent 3 aspects of human life he speaks of 3 ghosts - three seems to be an important concept

In my Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols the number three is symbolic of:
      creative power; growth; forward movement overcoming duality; expression; synthesis -
     Three is the first number to which the word "all" has been appropriated and The Triad is the number of the whole, in asmuch as it contains a beginning, a middle and an end(Aristotle)
     The power of three is universal and is the tripartite nature of the world as heaven, earth and waters, it is man as body, soul and spirit. Three is a heavenly number representing the soul (four is the body) Three introduces the all-embracing Godhead - Father, Mother , Son,
     Three greatest Hermes; Three Nobel Lords, Three wishes, Three tries, Three princes or princesses, witches, weird sisters, fairies. The moon goddess is three persons, two black and one white.
     The Trinity, three gifts of the Magi, denials by Peter, crosses on Calvary, days of the death of Christ, Faith, Hope and Love, Three fates, three-in-one Moira, Erinyes. Three charities, graces, sirens, Orphic symbolism has the triad of Being, Life, Intelligence...

The various symbolism for three goes on for another page...

The other seems to be various words from Shadow to shade, un-haunted, ghosts, phantoms, masked figures, even his reference to a sprite - all, according to my trusty book on symbolism, says that these words represent a soul which is another word Keats uses in this poem.

Keats starts this poem with a quote from Mathew about the Lilies of the field - and so with the quote, the many references to the number three and to the soul - I am trying to sort this out - I cannot figure out what the Bible quote has to do with all of this except maybe saying the soul is everything - that our body is not to worry about...?

I think there is a meaning under the words - that many are said using irony rather than a straight forward statement. But Love, Ambition and Poesy are important since the three figures on the Urn are supposed to represent Love, Ambition and Poetry - I think he is saying those three attributes are the signature so to speak of his soul and it is so difficult - "she has not a joy,"

I think you are right hats - he regrets a day without writing poetry which is a day of nothingness and yet, he is tied to only feeling whole or worthy if he does write so I think he is saying these three attributes are like enemies as a statement of irony, to try and get the message across how important he thinks these three attributes are - so important in fact they are handed down in history by being depicted as ancient art form.

Lizabeth to use your reference "My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams" sounds to me like he is saying - His soul in like a lawn sprinkled with flowers but his soul [shades] stirs - the baffled beams could that be the structure - his structure is baffled between his flowery nature, or flowery what... - good thoughts and good will that is in his soul but his soul is stirred by deeper, maybe darker ghosts from his past -

Ambition for what - "Ambition - it springs From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;" hmmm that only describes how ambition acts in/on him -

I think the answer is in the last stanza where he describes how his head in the flowery lawn - Ok that says to me he is saying, his intelligence dwelling on the the things of his soul is sentemantel like a pet lamb. And the three aspects of him, not just his soul but he is saying he, Keats is love, ambition, poetry symbolized by the three on the urn that go from this flowery lawn into the night - the dark side of his soul maybe - the three aspects vanish from a pixie like ability to play with poetry, ambition and love - they vanish into the clouds.

The words that confused me are - "That I may never know how change the moons,
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!"
but now I think he is saying he does not want the scientific explanation of how the moon changes from full to a toe-nail sliver - the scientific explanation represents common-sense - he prefers the idea of the world he sees as being interpreted poetically without logic.

I still do not have this poem - I think there is something under it all that is alluding us - maybe as y'all share your thoughts we can piece it together because hats I think the words you shared in your post are not so much enemies as difficult urges or aspects of who he is.

Lizabeth picked up on the alliterations which again shows the importance he is putting on the concept of ones soul - I get the impression he sees his poetry as coming from his soul and is speaking of a soul not just as separate from his body but the source of his Love, Ambition and Poetry.

Please, share more of your thoughts because this poem I still think is saying more and it would be nice to see if we can figure it out...

Barbara, you are right. This poem is very confusing for me. I will read your post again and the poem again.

Thank you for all the symbolic meanings of the number three.

OK - we have time - let's pull this poem apart and look at it piecemeal - if someone wants to post another poem that is fine - we have a few more days of Keats - and this poem is also about a Greek Urn it seems fitting to follow through and see if there really is something more profound than the obvious in this poem.

     'They toil not, neither do they spin.'

One morn before me were three figures seen,
      With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
     In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
     When shifted round to see the other side;
          They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
     And they were strange to me, as may betide
          With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

How is it, shadows, that I knew ye not?
     How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
     To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days?
Ripe was the drowsy hour;
     The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
          Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.
     O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
          Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness?

Matthew 6:28 Parallel Translations

"And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin,

"And why worry about clothes? Notice how the flowers grow in the field. They never work or spin yarn for clothes.(GOD'S WORD®)

And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

And why are ye anxious concerning raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

And why are you troubled about clothing? See the flowers of the field, how they come up; they do no work, they make no thread:

Aha "make no thread" - is the quote saying as much about what society considers "toil" - spinning is toil - is Keats saying what he does is OK even if his work is not the kind of toil that produces a product required to take care of the physical...?

This is just a guess. I think the Bible verse is pointing to ambition, love and poesy. Likened to three figures on the urn, these shadows haunt the speaker of the poem. These three figures do no work of any kind. Yet, they wreck havoc in the speaker's life by taking away his willingness and joy in work.

How is it, shadows, that I knew ye not?
How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days?

Only those who live by indolence could steal away indolence.

Barbara, how do you make an indentation???

The three figures on the urn no longer toil or spin. They have no ambition, they can not love, they can not write or enjoy poetry. They are frozen in time and space. They neither toil nor spin.

oooh I think you got it - the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plane - I think she's got it!!!

Now the whole poem is making sense - he is not an empty urn but an urn with Love, Ambition and Poetry stamped into his soul. And Love, Ambition and Poetry are valued as the ancients valued the gods and as such, frozen in time as they are permanently stamped on his soul. Keats does not toil or spin for the gift of these god like attributes.

There are several ways to indent - I have noticed most of the HTML turns the following sentences into a larger font size and so I adopted Jim's method of using - Ok I will spread them out with space between each so it will not do what it is designed to do which is indent & n b s p ;

If you repeat those 6 letters and symbols 5 times there is one indentation and then copy and repeat without any space the same 6 letters 10 times there is a second further indentation - by using this method the size of the font does not seem to change -

An other way is to use the DL system where between brackets<> you put DL and then in front of every line that is regular you put DT between the brackets <> and for every indented line you put DD between the brackets <> then you close the DL system with a /DL between the brackets <>.

hats since I originally showed the 6 letters and symbols followed by a dash I rewrote the post but to make sure you get it here are the 6 letters and symbols repeated

& n b s p ;

Hi. I've got the meaning of those two lines the other way around. Keats says he wants to be "unhaunted" by everything but nothingness. The pull to create perfection (one meaning of the number three) in poetry is spoiling his enjoyment of the gifts of summer--the flowers, etc. but particularly the nothingness (indolence) he'd otherwise be enjoying.

You've all three understood things I missed.

Thanks. Barbara, for your time-saving (for us) research.

I too wondered what Keats was getting at by describing his love of poesy and his ambition to get it right (???) as white--pure and beautiful--and then refers to it as a shadow--something dark and perhaps even ominous. I guess that mirrors the conflict it represents for him. He loves creating and perfecting poetry but is sacrificing his direct enjoyment of nature.

Could that be right? When I began typing this apparent contradiction, I was baffled.

RE the Bible quote: Maybe he's saying his poetry is like clothing the beauty of nature--unnecessary. Or as we sometimes say, he feels he's "gilding the lily." Wonder if that biblical quote gave rise to that expression?

I think at the beginning he sees the three figures on the urn and he is roused from his indolence.He wishes to join them, to fly away "and to follow them I burn’d/And ach’d for wings because I knew the three" but finally they faded and he bids them goodbye. He returns to his relaxation. But I think I am missing something in stanza VI. Why is he okay with their leaving? This is an ode on indolence, not an ode to indolence and yet it seems he is content at the end to rest in the grass. I just read it again. I think he is okay with their leaving because he has enough inspiration for his poems without them. So he is not upset when they left. Of course I could be totally wrong here...perhaps oversimplified it completely...

twinkle, twinkle little star
twinkle, twinkle, little star
how I wonder what you are.

With Keats, I prefer to hear the poem, enjoy the poetic language rather than pull out the meaning. Maybe because it is hard to get the meaning, but the use of language dominates what he has to say.

For example:Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;

The language and in particular here too the use of punctuation to create pauses makes the reader slow down when reading it and thereby experience what Keats is writing about. How delicious is that?

I have a question. The speaker in the poem is not always the poet, right???

'Old Meg she was a gipsy'

Old Meg she was a gipsy,
  And lived upon the moors,
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
  And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
  Her currants pods o' broom,
Her wine was dew o' the wild white rose,
  Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills,
  Her sisters larchen trees-
Alone with her great family
  She lived as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
  No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
  Full hard against the moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
  She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
  She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
  She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
  She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
  And tall as Amazon,
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
  A chip-hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere-
  She died full long agone!

I need help with 'Old Meg Was a Gipsy.' The line "Her book a churchyard tomb" confuses me. What does it mean? I like Old Meg because of her independent spirit. I also like her because she loved nature.

I like poems that mention color. This one mentions Meg's red blanket. What is an "Amazon?" I think of a very tall person.

While Anna was here, I think we talked about one poet's use of color. He used the color "white" in many of his poems, I think. She also used her hands making "plaited mats of rushes." These she gave to the people in her community.

I have another full day and will be back later this evening to catch up on all the great thoughts - lots to chew on here and another poem as well - congrats to those trying out breaks and indentations - I bet you feel accomplished - thought I would try to figure out what a "Chip-Hat" was - the nearest I can deduce is it is like a knitted sailors cap - there are some definitions that suggest it is a hat made of chipped wood or stone that makes no sense to me...OH I wish I had time - catch you later Barbara, Lizabeth and hats...

Right, Lizabeth. The medium is a huge part of the message. The sounds and rhythms are what make poetry and contribute to the apprehension of its meaning. Poetry is not a telegram (email?), hmm? I enjoy your discussion of these elements. You're carrying the ball nicely there!

It's also essential to untangle the syntax of a poem's lines to make full sense of it. For example, "nothingness" sounds somewhat negative, but in the two lines it ends, he's holding it up as a desirable summer experience. Of course, we know he really wants to write poetry.

What a change. I liked the Meg poem, hats. Thanks. About the churchyard tomb: Could be Keats is saying that although she was unchurched, she understood that death lay waiting for herself, the cottagers, and all of nature. Nevertheless, she celebrates nature and life by creating wreaths to share. Just as Keats creates poems to share, even with the threat of death hanging over him and his listeners, particularly in those times. Don't we all go on making our wreaths?

At first, the reader (or listener) feels removed from Meg, then we may begin to realize we share a great deal with her. Knowledge and a need to create or share, maybe?

Hats, Congrats on your "indent a line" mastery! Now, to be truly useful, you need to combine this knowledge with (and get handy at) simple copy/paste techniques. For example, in my "You Say You Love" post below, at beginning of line two I typed & n b s p ; (without the embedded spaces) twice; and then I typed the text of that line. Then, before typing line 3, I selected and copied that line's two leading & n b s p ; (twelve characters in all) onto my PC's invisible clipboard. Then I typed line 3. Then at beginning of line 4, I did a clipboard "paste" (control V), then typed text of line 4. To do a paste doesn't remove what's on clipboard. At line 5, I did two pastes in a row, then typed line 5 text (O love me truly!"

Takes some practice, this copy/paste stuff...but sure beats typing 6 control characters to get each ONE space of indentation. FWIW, I think the alternate (DL, DT, DD) technique far more fraught with paths for failure. Also, Seniornet allows us only 30 minutes to "edit" what we've just posted...not much time for experimentating and re-editing a post.

Keats lived in an age (1795-1821) newly evolving from Classicism into Romanticsm. I understand European music (Beethoven, etc) in such terms; and I think Literature and the various fine arts were evolving similarly (in Europe, anyway).

Whether that's accurate or not, I've found Keats' poems mostly overly-Romantic. But his time was during a major new movement, so he is excused for early-on exuberance. We could say same for our 1960s "beat poets," I think. A little "over-done" to today's tastes.

Keats' contemporaries (Shelley and Lord Byron) were doing same style. But I've enjoyed several Keats' (less ornate?) poems. One I posted earlier was "Sharing Eve's Apple." Below is another. This one speaks to me, suggesting why some later-life romances don't have quite the "magic" of our youth). I like this poem for other reasons too:

You Say You Love

You say you love; but with a voice
  Chaster than a nun's, who singeth
The soft Vespers to herself
  While the chime-bell ringeth --
    O love me truly!

You say you love; but with a smile
  Cold as sunrise in September,
As you were Saint Cupid's nun,
  And kept his weeks of Ember.
    O love me truly!

III

You say you love; but then your lips
  Coral tinted teach no blisses,
More than coral in the sea--
  They never pout for kisses--
    O love me truly!

You say you love; but then your hand
  No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth,
It is like a statue's dead--
  While mine to passsion burneth--
    O love me truly!

O breathe a word or two of fire!
  Smile, as if those words should burn me,
Squeeze as lovers should--O kiss
  And in thy heart inurn me!
    O love me truly!

I like the symmetry (both its form and its thoughts). And I think the indentations help show this symmetry to us. Also...there's that durn "URN" of his again ("And in thy heart inurn me!").

And here's a Keats poem that reminds me of our own careless, reckless early-20s ages:

Women, Wine, and Snuff

Give me women, wine, and snuff
Until I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection;
For bless my beard they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

A bit distasteful to some forum friends' religion, perhaps. But is likely just a youth's exuberant "word-picture" of a Saturday night binge.

I forgot to mention how the child-like meter of the Meg poem belies the stringent, practical message. What a mind this young man had! I'm one of those who likes to know the year I which a poem was written. Not only to relate it to the biography of the poet-artist but also to the body of work. Those dates aren't always easy to come by.

Jim's "You Say You Love" poem is clearly in the (obligatory?) Let's Get It On genre exercised by Andrew Marvell, Donne, and most other poets to this day. Religious poets (and tract writers) created the same sort of exhortations for the love of God. As Keats says in Jim's little poem, "There's never enough."

Over-the-top, yep. Keats was an adolescent and post-adolescent. That allowed or compelled him to express the spirit of his time to the max. He never had the chance to do otherwise.

"At first, the reader (or listener) feels removed from Meg, then we may begin to realize we share a great deal with her. Knowledge and a need to create or share, maybe?"(Barbara65b)

At first I did feel a lack of closeness to Meg. She seemed too different, maybe odd. Then, deeper into the poem I began to see she wasn't totally different from the rest of us: loving the people around her, loving nature, using her hands to create. Her life was not lived in vain.

Then, she moves away from me again as far as intimacy. Her lack of "real" family, no named burial site, I feel it's saying noone knew, in the end, where she was buried. Although her burial place is in question, she is still remembered.

God rest her aged bones somewhere-
She died full long agone!

Jim, thank you for more help. I am always in need of help where computer rules and poetry are involved. I have printed out your post about copying and pasting. I will try my best to make this "easy" way work for me.

I like both the poems you posted especially the first one. I see it as another humorous one. Maybe my humor is off today. I hope not.

Hi, HATS! it's even later there than here. Can't you sleep, like me, or are you up early?

Hi JoanK,

I always wake up or my cat wakes me up. I can't sleep straight through. Sometimes I look around for you or Emmabarb. Now, I'm getting sleepy.

Good night, sleep tight.

I think it is the poet, Ted Kooser, who uses the neutral color of white in his poems. This makes his poems have a certain delicacy.

Are we starting a new poet tomorrow? Not that I am getting bored with Keats...well....maybe a little....

I can't believe it's the end of the month.

Wheee - lots of posts to read - it took awhile to get to the nature of Keats - and I am not sure we really know him as Jim pointed out mid-month but his carefully chosen words are to me like listening to a Mozart Concerto - no rampant symphony crashing and thundering but a nice measured beat.

Jim thanks for reminding us that Keats was writing poetry while Beethoven was in full swing - my take is that Beethoven freed up music far more than Keats freed up meter and versification. I think maybe the idea of Romanticism could be expressed either like a full blown Shrub Rose or a more tightly formed Floribunda - both as sweet and romantic but there are differences. For me Beethoven is a Shrub Rose while Keats is the Floribunda.

Don't you all just love it how several of us react to different aspects of poetry - Lizabeth is right there all the time helping us hear the sounds - the music - the meter - the construction - while hats sees the color and finds the heart of the poem - Barbara brings our attention to how the poet fits in his own history and Jim broadens our view with every post he shares from the fun of Keats to his place in the romantic movement -

I must add my two cents on the lines -
     "Her wine was dew o' the wild white rose,
           Her book a churchyard tomb"

Her "Glass of Wine and a Good Book" is taken from what is free - the wine being dew and the good book being the phrases chiseled on the tombstones in the churchyard. I think you are spot on Barbara when Keats chose to include the tombstones as reading material he was foreshadowing the end of his poem
     "God rest her aged bones somewhere-
           She died full long agone"

Not having many Gypsies here in the US it is difficult to get the complete flavor of Meg however she reminds me of a tough lady hanging on and only one step up from being a homeless person sleeping under a bridge. I like the grit of Meg and as you say hats, she creates with a love of nature and for others.

Jim leave it to you to find the fun among the many serious poems - you lighten us up everytime you post...Thanks

Hehehe and yes, Keats really had a thing for those 'urns' didn't he...he almost sounds desperate as if he 'needs' a love to fill up his urn - he sure does not sound like the character Meg he created in his earlier poem.

He really got melodramatic in my opinion with "a smile Cold as sunrise in September," oh my... hahaha and his "beloved Trinity" is like a "Saturday night binge" - I guess we can assume you are quite familiar with a Saturday night binge hehehehe

Joan thanks for checking in - were you able to find anything in your library written by Al Young - I ended up with two of his books - "Heaven" and "coastal nights and Inland Afternoons poems 2001-2006"

Pat will be uploading the new heading either tonight or in the morning - in preparation you might Google Al Young and find a poem or two if you have not been able to locate any of his books - I will type out poems from these two books -

We leave a structured adolescent with a wonderful command of formal English to someone who has made it his business to travel widely and experience a full life while keeping his contemporary poetry tied to the images, issues and words of today. Since I think of Keats in the same breath with Mozart this will be a switch from Mozart to Charley Patton, father of Delta Blues

"AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;"

-- James Russell Lowell (19th century)

That is a snippet from Prelude to Lowell's long narrative poem about a knight seeking the Holy Grail, "The Vision of Sir Launfal." The "snippet" is itself three verses; and can be revisited here: http://www.ongoing-tales.com/SERIALS/oldtime/POETRY/June.html

Yes, Keats' month with us here is expiring (group discussion-wise). Just as I'm beginning to dig him. O'well. Is good to move on, and is also good to visit Keats further privately, we who chose to do so.

One last Keats verse from me, this from midst of his longer "Sleep and Poetry" poem:

Stop and consider! life is but a day;
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an everchanging tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm.

Montmorenci might refer to a prestigious family in olde England, or perhaps to their sizable estate there. Is immaterial to the stanza's beauty. In this one, like in some other Keats poems, I truly do see Lizabeth's earlier comment...the beauty of sounds of Keats' poetry.

I also see in it more of Barbara65b's "obligatory Let's Get It On" overture. But to me it mostly bespeaks Saul Bellow's "Seize the Day."

If I seem to drag my feet with the state poets. it may be partly due to my reading what all of you had to say about some Keats poems. Though I've read a number, I've only done a close analysis of a few--Autumn, etc. The first place I studied poetry was run by "Alexandrians"--don't remember where that name came from. This method emphasized close stylistic analysis. We had to identify poets by obscure poems based on rhyme scheme, meter, various use of interior sounds, alliteration, etc. Ho, hum. But I do think it adds to my enjoyment of poetry.

The second school was usually the opposite--the teachers tended to read the poem, make a comment or two and move on. After chafing at the bit with the former close textual analysis, with the lighter touch I'd think, "What? That's all you're gonna do?" Even literature can be politicized.

A couple of years ago I was barb34 on SeniorNet. That got lost. Marcie gave me the onlne name "Joy." Can't beat that. But when I clicked online, barbara65b popped up, which I forgot I'd ever used here. (Wish I were still 65 or born in that year.) I was surprised to find what seems like the same two or three dozen people all over SeniorNet. hats was one. The familiar names are nice, but it's good to see new faces and personalities too.

BarbaraSA--If you take a dicier mountain shortcut, the distance between Banner Elk and Blowing Rock is about a dozen miles or so. By highway, it's about seventeen miles to Boone and another eight to the Rock. In 1972, it was a pastoral, sometimes boring, little town. Now it's gridlock at most hours, shops, bistros. Many groups are adding to the population: a burgeoning university, a ten year Maharishi development, and now Laurelmore, a development with multi-multi-million dollar homes and a clubhouse that makes Biltmore look modest. People who moved here for the laid-back, casual atmosphere are in shock at the Beemers, etc. Now comes the Ferrari crowd to make this "a true mountain community." Shucks, we've had it wrong all these years!

NC was just named the 48th worst state in caring for its roads. Astonishing, especially since it's a tourist/retirement state. Now a consortium of Duke, ASU, and other schools concludes NC beaches will vanish by 2080 with the big storms predicted, mere strips by 2030

Not to discourage you from moving close to your girl. You'd love the arts--and politics--of the Asheville area.

According to their web site, my local library has two of Al Young's books. When I called to put them on hold, the librarian only found one. She said the other wasn't on the shelf, although it hasn't been taken out for five years. Oh, well!

Amazon doesn't seem to have the book I ordered, and with my Senior memory, I've already forgotten it's name. It was something like "Words turning into themselves" (That's not right, but close).

I found this

Chip bonnet, Chip hat, a bonnet or a hat made of Chip. See Chip, n., 3.

3. Wood or Cuban palm leaf split into slips, or straw plaited in a special manner, for making hats or bonnets.

So I surmise it is similar to a straw hat.

Great posts - been reading along.

We are running with Keats right to the midnight hour it seems - we do get attached in the short months that we focus on a poet don't we -

After our days and days of torrential rains it was a perfect day today - here it is the last of June and only 90 degrees - wow that for us is a wonder - there is a lovely breeze this evening - however, I am ready for summer which means temps in the high 90s and low 100s - actually believe it or not the low 100s is far more comfortable since it burns off the humidity.

Barb I too have wondered about my name - I never did change it - when I tried to register on SeniorNet those many long years ago - seems to me it was back in maybe '94 or maybe '95 someone had to do it for me - the computer I was using was just not cooperating and so they used my real name and a password that I still have to this day.

For me I think it is fun to hear where folks live - I wonder if it colors our perspective on what a poem means to us - I think I may have been half way up your way Barb when we picked up I-40 on our way to Chapel Hill and then on to the coast where my sister lives. Hopefully our schedules will allow us to meet around Christmas - maybe we could plan on meeting for lunch or coffee in Morganton which looks to be about half way between Saluda and Blowing Rock.

I hear Asheville is nice and filled with laid back artists - again, it is just all those trees grrr makes me feel closed in like I am in a dark tunnel -- in fact traveling east once I hit east Texas there are trees and trees and trees with less and less sky. Ah so we all have our druthers...

Oh great Joan the book is one I do not have - great - looking forward to what you find that you would like to share with us from his book. I wonder if it is, "The Song Turning Back Into Itself" which is a book filled with some of his earlier efforts - it is no longer being published if that is the one - what a coup you are bringing to us.

Wow Marj - wow again - you found the elusive Chip bonnet - and so it is made of plaited straw - that makes one of the sites I found make so much more sense. Thanks so much for sharing that bit -

Oh can you see her now walking about town in her straw bonnet, probably with old faded and soiled ribbons and her red blanket or cape or whatever it was it was red. I like that image even more than the knitted cap - sort of jaunty. Great Marj...

I just decided to treat myself tonight - and in honor of Al Young I stopped off at Whole Foods and picked up some lovely goat cheese from California called Humboldt Fog could not find a California wine I wanted so I chose a French wine - a Gigondas, a piece of cat fish dipped in pecan crumbs is in the frying pan for Al Young's Mississippi roots that I will place on a bed of red Lettuce Chiffonade with raspberry pecan vinaigrette and top the catfish with a bit of a mixture of sourcream and raspberry Habinero sauce, and finish it off with a couple of Sopaipillas to celebrate Al Young's visit to Mexico -

I have some Kid Ory and James Booker on the HiFi while I sit back and read Al Young and feast on this wonderful dinner till later tonight when I must watch the PBS Brit Coms.

WHY A HUSH SHOULD NOT BE RUSHED

In the push of time, it's all too easy
to overlook the ineffable,
the intoxicating quality of everything
that is; the way old patterns of seeing
blind us to what is framed right
before our bleary eyes, Heartbeat
and decaying with the tide
of every breath that takes our death away.
The world of look is finally a mirror
We breathe upon in our own sweet time.

Al Young - HEAVEN collected poems 1956 - 1990

IN THE TENDER WOODLAND

In the tender woodland
where peace drips like cool rain
from the silence-drenched leaves
of poplar trees at twilight,
I stand upon a cabbage-clean rock
and look toward the gray pines,
where moonlight has tangled itself.

1958 Al Young

YES, Barbara. That's it! I'll let you know more when I pick the book up.

What lovely poems. I'm confused by "Heartbeat" in the first one. What is he saying there, do you all think?

These lines are interesting

"-- decaying with the tide
of every breath that takes our death away.

Wow! I turn to see who the new poet is and find that my alma mater is celebrating its 150th! I know the way to San Jose, now you all can too.

Wow!! I am excited to read Al Long's poems. He is a new poet for me.

Jim, thanks again!

MarjV, thanks for telling about the chip hat.

This has been a busy weekend. Two of my grandchildren and son just left. I will get myself together and catch up as fast as possible.

"Her "Glass of Wine and a Good Book" is taken from what is free - the wine being dew and the good book being the phrases chiseled on the tombstones in the churchyard."(Barbara)

I have fallen in love with the first poem posted. So often, I myself, become too busy and miss so much beauty that is free and all around us, the wonders of life.

the way old patterns of seeing
blind us to what is framed right
before our bleary eyes,

I like Al Young's use of the word "framed." There are still lifes, landscapes, seascapes, portraits all around us worth just stopping and looking at for a moment. These are framed paintings outside the museum.

"I stand upon a cabbage-clean rock"

I love this line simply because it is such a different way to see a rock.

There are audios for four poems by Al Young in the header. I don't think the complete poems are given.

Hats I cannot find the audio - is it another link to one of the links in the heading?

I did find this information by following the link to the California Arts Council.

Desert Dispatch -- "Al is a total jazz fan; he's written like 500 liner notes for albums," Robbins said. "He's very close to jazz. He writes lyrics over jazz tunes. We have that common background. Jazz is all interpreting life for yourself, and that's what Al does."

Young often jumped from reading to singing in the middle of a poem to further express a word or phrase. The majority of the performance was improvised - a feature that helps keep it fresh every time, Young said.

Young, who's father was a musician, said the combination of words and music has special meaning to him.

"Reading alone or to music is enjoyable, but when the music works and you can interact it makes everything a joy," Young said. "It's a real pleasure to just stand up there and see what's going to happen."

And then this in the Pasadena Weekly -- "Young, an award-winning poet who got his start as a musician in the late '50s in New York playing folk, blues and jazz on guitar, also sings popular standards during the reading: "I Thought About You," "Quiet Nights," "All the Things You Are," "I'm Old-Fashioned"...

..."Poetry and music are one and the same, really," Young said. "You can play a song anywhere, and people will get something out of it — but when you start using words, people can't understand the words, and so that limits it. But you're still dealing with melody and rhythm and harmony."

Another link I found to be helpful Jazz Poetry

And this is a page of Jazz Poetry by various poets

What Makes a Jazz Singer

Oh I like this explanation -- "What makes jazz unique is the freedom of interpretation and expression. Sure, jazz consists of many chords and scales, but it's the ability of the player to improvise and play the music the way they feel it that sets jazz apart from most other types of music. Jazz is music for musicians. It's like a language spoken through musical instruments. Sometimes the player has the ability to say things through music that he can't express in words. You have to listen with not only your ears and mind, but your heart as well, and you have to know enough about music to understand what is being said. When you have reached that level of understanding, you can develope an appreciation for jazz" -- from Discussion - What makes Jazz, Jazz

OK I am beginning to see the pattern that makes your observation Joan make sense -

...the way old patterns of seeing
blind us to what is framed right
before our bleary eyes,
which keeps the eye/seeing image going - then as if in mid-stream we have this second over-riding thought -
Heartbeat
and decaying with the tide
of every breath that takes our death away.
which is saying to me that our heart beats to the time of our lives and with each breath, like the tide moving in and out, brings us closer to our death.

Then he wraps up the two thoughts with his final lines - I have underlines the words that I think are matching the thought Al Young brought to our attention in his earlier lines.
The world of look is finally a mirror
We breathe upon in our own sweet time.

Wow - this may be the month to explore Jazz - I am not as familiar with the construction or harmony of Jazz although I love listening to many of the Jazz artists and pretty much have a knowledge of the history of Jazz greats. I really do not know musically what the difference is in Blues versus Jazz - I know the difference when I hear it but not so to speak what the construction of the two styles. hmmm this could become a more interesting month than I imagined.

Barbara, the link is from the heading.

1. Click on LitLinks

2. Clink on Al Young's Net

3. Click on Al Speaks (there is a little microphone)

I have put Al Young's book on hold at the library.

Thanks dear - I am off to hear THE MAN...!

I love his voice. Thanks for all the links. It will take time to read through each one.

Up Jumped Spring
by Al Young

for Nana

What’s most fantastical almost always goes
unrecorded and unsorted. Take spring.
Take today. Take dancing dreamlike; coffee
your night, creameries your dream factories.
Take walking as a dream, the dearest, sincerest
means of conveyance: a dance. Take leave
of the notion that this nation’s or any other’s earth
can still be the same earth our ancestors walked.
Chemistry strains to correct our hemispheres.
The right and left sidelines our brain forms
in the rain this new world braves—acid jazz.
The timeless taste her tongue leaves in your mouth,
stirred with unmeasured sugars, greens the day
the way sweet sunlight oxygenates, ignites
all nights, all daytimes, and you—this jumps.
Sheer voltage leaps, but nothing keeps or stays.
Sequence your afternoon as dance. Drink spring.
Holding her hard against you, picture the screenplay.
Take time to remember how to get her spells together.
Up jumps the goddess gratified; up jumped spring.

Take walking as a dream, the dearest, sincerest
means of conveyance: a dance.

I like thinking of walking as a dance. We ride in our cars so much it's possible we have forgotten how to dance.

I think this conversation is going to be very interesting. The musicality of Al Young is very different from Keats. We also do not have the resources to assist us as we did with Keats.

Understanding and appreciating Young might be much like participating in a jazz improvisation.

Up jumps spring

I'm going to play with some of these lines..

Up jumps spring or spring jumps up but up jumps spring makes us look at it in a fresh and new light. prepostion verb subject...
reverse order grammar.

Then:

The right and left sidelines our brain forms
in the rain this new world braves—acid jazz.

I read it first as the right and left sides of our brain form but no..."sidelines" of our brain

and brain and rain rhyme

and this "new world braves" refers back to brave new world

but this new world braves (pause) acid jazz.

I could feel the rhythm there. I had fun trying to read the poem creating pauses in different places, not at the end of the lines necessarily but in other places to give it a jumpier quality.

I know jazz well and was a major jazz fan in my early years hearing some of the now considered to be old jazz greats perform live.

Then he writes: "Sequence your afternoon as a dance." Hmmm...dance through my day?: Or cut my day into long and short steps, glides and slides...What kind of dance? mambo dance jazz dance or cha cha or hip hop dance...Do I hip hop through my afternoon? (smile)

AY's voice is pure music to my ears.

Thanks, Hats, for bringing that part of the link to our attention.

Perhaps, we can read Al Young's poems while listening to Jazz composed by another person.

FreddieBryant

MilesDavis

Al Young is a jazz fan and sometimes sings?--I'm in.

Re: "I'm Old Fashioned"--We attended a party in Savannah in the sixties, and, who walked through?--Johnny Mercer, one of my favorite poets, a sublime lyricist. He walked straight to the townhouse kitchen, fifth of whiskey in hand, to pay respects to his beautiful niece who was hosting the party. (Sadly, he later disrespected her--an event that ended their relationship which she relates in his biography, "Skylark." In addition to the drinking, he was somewhat emotionally disordered and flouted the rules of civility to wife and family.) A police car waited outside the party. Apparently, he didn't want to be approached by anyone. In fact, no one paid much attention.

I've learned to appreciate his lyrics even more through the years. He'd written more great standards than I'd realized. They can often stand alone as poems. Mercer was fortunate in the gifted composers who provided the melodies his lyrics deserved. He's probably foremost among those who raised popular music to an art form.

It turns out Al Young taught writing right here in town. I knew that name was familiar. I thought it was the jazz connection. Funny how we'll go out of our way for things out of town and iss what's in our own backyard. What were we doing in 2003?

Barbara65b: "What were we doing in 2003?" I was doing a wonderful week-long "Elderhostel" study-vacation in Savannah. The program included tours, lectures, and a "Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil" movie. Mercer was/is a proud name in Savannah. And well-deserved IMHO: "Moon River," plus many other songwriter hits: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Mercer

Al Young's books aren't at my mid-west public library. I've just ordered one of his collection of poems from my library's inter-state connections service. Might take a week to get to my library. Barnes & Noble doesn't have his books in house, nor orderable at this time.

B&N's index says a new Al Young book is due out October 2007, "Something About the Blues. Sounds worth our waiting for!

I too liked the vocal readings by him (thanks, Hats). But I like to also see the printed words of a poem. Hopefully...I will soon.

hats those two links to music by Miles Davis and Freddie Bryant were too good to just be included among the many links we post as we read this month - we really can't keep making the heading longer and so if you come up with any other great sound links as we go through the month we could make a plan to change these two out - so that each week we have another Jazz player to listen to while we are reading the poetry of Al Young.

Barb sounds like an experience of a lifetime that was not all that we hope for - but then it seems there are more tortured souls who write and in fact nearly all the arts are filled with folks addicted to drink or drugs. You also a Jazz fan - in keeping with improvisation we will all have our interpretations of the poems this month - how great is that - individuality!

Lizabeth your background in Jazz is going to be so valuable to us - I can see already you are getting the different sounds from a poem - interesting that you picked up on the Jump word - what came to my mind was the Maasai warriors jumping and then the tradition carried into the days of slavery - jumping the broom - didn't know it was a tradition in Ghana that was changed a bit and practiced in the US before there was legal marriage allowed.

But back to the jumping dance among the Massai warriors - one of the sites I read it was explained jumping was an expression of celebration - I thought that was a great symbol for Spring - we think of Spring as a celebration of the new and having survived the winter don't we.

I had no idea what acid Jazz was and so on the trail of finding out here is a site that has many links to soundtracks of Acid Jazz after listening and even going to the Amazon site and listening to excerpts from those Acid Jazz CDs I am still not sure I know the differences.

The more I read the poem though I am seeing that the mention of Acid Jazz could also mean that since dance is walking in life and then chemistry in the air, pollution, is like acid or acid rain which is landing on - to use the Barbara Streisand's phrase - "our parade" or to use Al Young's word 'Jazz' as in - all life is 'Jazz'...!

I realize over the years my association with Jazz has been mostly Blues and the very early Jazz greats - I have a few Wynton Marsalis CDs and a few CDs of the Big Bands but most of all I like the current music of folks like Dr. John, Maria Muldaur and Stevie Ray Vaughan - Dr. John sees me through each year on my non-stop drive from Austin to Saluda.

I am trying to figure out the association with Jazz and Poetry since the typical blues song is AAB in 3 lines and from all I read typically Jazz is 12 bars - however, I do not think it is the construction that translates into the Poetry - from what I am reading it sounds like the concept that each chord can go in many directions and a dissonance 7th is typical therefore each word, or phrase can go in many directions including a bit off center of the theme.

Marj he does have a nice voice doesn't he - and his poetry is so much richer when he reads it - thanks again hats for those links.

Jim I hope the book comes soon for you - in the meantime we will try to keep you afloat by typing out a daily dose of the poetry of Al Young from the accumulation of books and web sites we are all finding. "Something About the Blues" sounds like the poetry that would match my love of the blues - I agree that is one on my list...thanks.

The Elvis I Know Well Was Spiritual

The Elvis I knew well was spiritual.
The books he'd read on mystics, yoga, Jung
and Jesus, Buddha--long before your digital
technology kicked in and Mao Tse-Tung
became an icon you could click--he tried
to buy enlightenment. He thought a check
might do the trick: big bucks, love-tendered, wide
and blank. No deal. No Ouija board, no deck
of tarot cards could trump his fate. His star
beamed underneath (or far beyond) the God
he knew as blackness, gospel, blues. As far
as light-years went, Elvis could ride and nod.
He couldn't get high on glory, glamour, fame.
Blissless, he drugged you with his moves, his name.

Al Young - coastal nights and Inland Afternoons poems 2001-2006

Wow this one is almost tradional with its endings - ababcdcdefefgg

Years later, I read in an item from my university exactly what I'd experienced--that my classmates were appalled by Elvis (in about 1957), but the class following us (by and large) became fans. Some were shocked by his performance, but after listening to nearly all the jazz greats, Sinatra, etc. I was amazed at Elvis' (sorry!) lack of star talent. And that people said he invented rock. I realize there are many who heard something we didn't.

There were, though, a number of others--black and then white singing and playing rock when Elvis was a child. Have't some of you noticed a lack of perspective or knowledge on many things historical by young commentators and writers? I keep hearing that women wanted to be Marilyn Monroe. No--we wanted to be Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, or other untroubled women stars, if at all. And even those ladies had such sadness. Audrey's first husband, Mel Ferrer, invited a beautiful young woman in our church (working on a film) to his apartment--"Just the two of us." She was a devout girl and said no, thanks.

Yes, the Mercers were important in Savannah history. My husband wrote a bit about them in an article for a history journal. When we first arrived in Savannah, our second floor apartment (a cheap rental then) looked into the actual garden and to the side of the Mercer House in the movie. We knew a couple of people from the movie and the documentary. It's indeed a big party town, and like many port cities, lots of looking the other way goes on. The older ladies in the documentary were in denial or dishonest about the overall openness of the city. Enough gossip. Isn't it fun?

Jazz--which meant (again) "getting it on." Sorry, I couldn't resist!

Barbara, so glad to hear we may be in the same boat, so to speak. I know so much about jazz and then, finally, technically very little. My father sang professionally semi-classical. summer theatre things (father, grandfather, four brothers all Presbyterian ministers) without ever developing the lifestyle of some musicians. I gave it a try a few times--ugh! (Not the lifestyle!)

Maybe I'll learn more about that here too. This Al Young is some fellow.

Doesn't the Elvis poem qualify as a sonnet. If so, how cool is that?: I mean a sonnet about Elvis! I love it.

I love these lines:

--long before your digital
technology kicked in and Mao Tse-Tung
became an icon you could click--he tried
to buy enlightenment

I really enjoyed the part about Mao becoming an icon on the computer, How everything is technology and famous people are now only icons but not icons in the usual sense but more icons like smiley faces. Commercialized. And how Elvis tried to buy enlighenment. Something that cannot be purchased. Only reached.

I wonder Lizabeth - the rhyme scheme sure matches the Shakespearian Sonnet - it is the turn that is not as easy to see - a b a b c d c d e f e f g g

It is just that the pair of couplets are supposed to closely relate to the other quatrains while offering a metaphor and if I remember the first 8 lines are supposed to speak to the problem so to say with the last 6 lines the turn or volta showing the opposite of the problem

In many ways that is what Al Young did by first outlining how Elvis wanted the enlightenment of the holys even by purchasing it before - creating the metaphor between an icon on the computer and a world figure icon - The problem that I do not know if it is a problem or not is, that the turn is not a clean turn - the sentence "No deal. No Ouija board, no deck of tarot cards could trump his fate." lalalalala - could easily be considered a turn it is just that it does not start neatly after 8 lines - hmmm maybe an improvised Sonnet turn for today's time in the world of Jazz...??? What do you think?

Barbara you are so right - not many of us wanted to be Marilyn - and I even remember the whohaha between those who thought Frank was next to God and those who thought Bing had a permanent spot in heaven - I remember asking my mother at the time if anyone was thought more loved than Bing and she told my Bing had replace Rudy Vallee -

I too am always amazed at how folks not born when history happens think of it today - recently in line at the Grocery store as a few waxed poetic about their Grandfather being in the invasion on D-Day and then with great ownership the one's grandfather was also touted as being in the Battle of the Bulge - don't remember at the time all this pride and circumstances but rather a dogged attitude towards winning and doing our part here on the home front.

Barbara writes:

"maybe an improvised Sonnet turn for today's time in the world of Jazz...??? What do you think? "

Sounds right to me. Not a strict Shakespearean sonnet. Perhaps rather an Elvisean sonnet...?

And isn't some of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World coming true? That's what he's saying, of course.

My husband is a jazz fan but still considers Monheit and Krall jazz artists. I do enjoy some of Monheit's work, and I think she'll loosen up after she feels fully established. Hard to accept since mu husband enjoys a musician as improvisational as Keith Jarrett. (We went to one of Jarrett's Carnegie Hall concerts.) I enjoyed reading to him jazz critics saying what I've said in "What Makes A Jazz Singer?." At one time, he didn't understand why I said Frank Sinatra was a jazz singer. Reading the article, I realized I know a little more of the technicalities than I thought. Thanks for the link.

I am waiting for my book to come from the library. I also ordered one. Sorry I am not able to contribute any poems until my books arrive.

GEOGRAPHY OF THE NEAR PAST

The trick
without anyone's
catching on to it
is to swim against
world current
knowing it to be as much a dream
as it is drama on the highest stage
but without losing touch
with spirit or with light

Realer even
is to move as if
nothing has ever happened
which is likewise
as true as foam or fog

Each universe is only
an ever-shifting sea
in the surfacing eyes of former fish

Barbara, that's a beautiful poem by Al Young. I need to read it a few times. I don't have a comment yet.

I feel the poem is about choosing your own way, going against the mainstream. If you can remain true to yourself, doing what pleases you and not the crowd, then it's important in the process to remain honorable.

without losing touch
with spirit or with light

Isn't it Vishnu that brings the universe into creation with the opening of his eyes as he floats on a snake in the sea of nothingness that was before the universe.

This poem to me is a very eastern look at life when nothing is real and therefore, rather than thinking what we do is a scene on the stage of life that Shakespeare talks about rather, think that what we do only matters to our thinking - our thought of what integrity means to us because life and the universe is all a dream, a fog, a shifting sea.

For me I like that concept - I remember when I was in grade school being told that it does not matter if you are doubted for something you did not do - that you may even be falsely punished - what does matter is that you and God knows and that is all that matters - since I am aware there are many times, no matter how hard you try, you are not understood because the other person is working with their view of the world and there is no changing them - and so like you hats I like this poem which reminds me all that matters is my integrity.

Barb found the site with audio of Diana Krall and after seeing her photo and hearing her voice I realize I have heard her on some PBS concert. As she sings the thought comes to me of a voice that slide over and around a definite beat. Which may be for me a good definition for Jazz that I can transfer to the Jazz poets.

Young seems to be looking at the big picture. In his career, he's swum against the tide, as it were. He avoided going along with the trend for black writers--militancy or Afro-centrism--and was criticized for it (according to his biography). But he questions what difference it will make in the larger scheme of things.

"the eyes of former fish" may be a reference to his fellow man, a continuing link in the phylogenetic sequence which began when one-celled creatures evolved into fish and waddled onto land. Young seems to be expressing pride in his self-determination and individuality while indicating he's just one tiny human unit in a massive ocean of time. This is probably not an unusual sentiment--one many experience to a degree--but one that's particularly relevant to Young.

If Young had conducted himself differently, his contribution would've been more trivial. He chose to reference a wider spectrum of his humanity by incorporating into his art his many life experiences as a man as well as a black man.

We have about everything by Diana Krall. For me, she shows a lot of musicianship and knowledge of jazz without the freshness and spontaniety. But many people would not agree with that.

In 1955, I got to stand in front of a stage for two hours listening to Louis Armstrong and some of the best in the business and in the same year got a nod from Count Basie at an introduction. That was a very good year. Two more artists with colorful lives. A Basie orchestra was still performing a few years ago.

I've recently heard a couple of excellent new female jazz vocalists on music choice. (I'll have to think about their names, though I looked them up on amazon. Gamborini? There seems to be a little renaissance of both jazz and classic pop vocalists around the world--England, etc. But, typical fogey I am, I keep hearing the sounds of the originals in my head.

Oh my here is a bit more of his sea and light theme and do your own thing;

INTIMACY

Right up under our noses, roses
arrive at middleage, cancer blooms
and the sea is awash with answers.

Right here where light is brightest,
we sleep deepest; ignorant dreamers
with the appetites of napping apes.

Right this way to the mystery of life!
Follow your nose, follow the sun or
follow the dreaming sea, but follow!

I really like "follow the dreaming sea" - that says so much to me... it does not matter - all that matters is your view because the sea of humanity is not only a dream but as a dreaming lot they tend to nap with all their answers and ideas of right and wrong...

Yes, that is what I need to hear. As I age I find there are many more voices telling me what I should and should not do and how I should live my life... I think to make the person behind the voices more comfortable rather than thinking first of my best interests... Yes, I like what Al Young is saying or rather, how I am interpreting his poems to be saying what I want to hear.

Barbara, I love the Diane kral website. Her voice is smooth and velvety. I am reminded of the Jazz Al Young would like.

In the poem above, Intimacy, I think Al Young is saying what seems without solutions at our age is solvable if we look around us. Even the sea as the tide rolls in can breathe answers to our ears. In other words, at our age, we are open to accept miracle, the unbelievable.

In the quote in the header Al Young speaks of

"Look on all life as color -
vibratile movement, heart-centered,
from invisibility to the merely visible."

yeah here am i
am standing
at the crest of a tallest
hill with a trumpet
in my hand & dark
glasses
on.
bearded & bereted i proudly stand!
but there are no eyes to see me.
i send down cool sounds!
but there are no ears to hear me.

Carl Wendell Hines, Jr.

Carl Hines Jr.

Like the shark who feels low but
frequent sound waves from afar
telling him it's dinnertime
somewhere under the sea,
I feel the pull of waves
splashing from my own center,
softly, slowly--
lapping at my insides like a
long-forgotten dream that pops up
changed around years later,
more familiar & realer than noon

Al Young(The Blues Don't Change)

I see the word "dream" over and over in Al Young's poems.

I've been to Half Moon Bay. AY's description is a vivid explanation of what I feel when musing at the seaside.

Stanza 1: To thine own self be true

Stanza 2: Disregard the past

Stanza 3: Hmmmm.....

Each universe is only
an ever-shifting sea
in the surfacing eyes of former fish

We can't pinpoint where we are because everything shifts (maybe)

But the last line???? Who are the former fish? What is he referring to?

Anyhow it seems to me that Young is talking about individualism. Be yourself. Stand up for who you are.

I wonder if Young has his own personal symbolism and that is why in some poems it is difficult to break through.In some ways, I am finding some of Young's poetry harder to understand than Keats.

Anyone else share the same feeling or am I all alone in this?????

Barbara65B writes: "the eyes of former fish" may be a reference to his fellow man, a continuing link in the phylogenetic sequence which began when one-celled creatures evolved into fish and waddled onto land."

I like that a lot but then why is it "former" fish? Before we became man? A nod to evolution perhaps? Or am I still in the sea of confusion?

hats--Thanks for the website suggestion.

Something my husband & I can share. He really hasn't gotten into the internet and his new computer since retirement--maybe this'll do it. Because we do share the music. He does enjoy hanging out and walking with all the buff people at the health center. Mmmmm.

Lizabeth--I'll think about that question.

BARBARA WOW! I recently said much the same to a dear, ailing friend.
“ right under our noses, roses arrive… here we are ---
and all of a sudden we have an epiphany in middle age- of course our “time” is nearing due to cancer (or what ever disease has taken up residence for the duration) and pow- we begin to see things differently, an awareness washes over us with loud, angry and sure sounds.
Duh! We have been dozing through life as the beacon has been summoning us all along-
the Neanderthals that we are- napping and snoozing thru it all.
"Right this way, " Mr. Young proclaims. Right this way! As if we were circus barkers awakening from a long slumber;
“ Step right up folks!”
follow! Someone is leading. WHO could that be?
That is so profound, isn’t it? I really like this poem and the Intimacy it portrays.

ALF!! How great to see your post - yes, you really bring it home - we do all nap through life don't we till something jars us into the reality that there is an end and, what matters and, and, and...

I love it - "Right this way," Mr. Young proclaims. Right this way! As if we were circus barkers awakening from a long slumber; "Step right up folks!"

It is sure taking more work doen't it to read Al Young - I think part of the difference is that Keats worked with a Western Christian philosophy that we were educated in school to understand, where as, Young is bringing to our attention a philosophy that continues to mature and is representative of ideas only available to us within the last 50 years after most of us were out of school.

During the last 50 years Al Young had to be on top of the latest philosophy since he is and has been a college professor. Joseph Campbell changed a lot of basic thinking about God and mythology, science has adjusted the thinking of many along with fractal geometry and art, DNA, the effect of radiation [remember in the 50s dignitaries were sitting on park benches 7 miles from the explosion of an Atom Bomb with sun glasses as their only shield]

Even music has changed significantly in the last 50 years - when you think of Sean John Combs/P Diddy rapping down the walk at the Diana Concert compared to the 1957 Chuck Berry singing the songs of Nat King Cole.

So far I am seeing all this new knowledge and understanding basic to the thinking in an Al Young poem and it speaks to me - makes me question, remember, ponder, examine my philosophy of life, my approach to the world around me.

Each of the poets we have spent time with in the last two years have brought a different set of gifts to us with their poetry, time in history, life and philosophy of life. This to me is exciting - Poets who I thought I knew came alive in ways I never imagined. And poets I had not heard of were introduced as we listened to their "Jazz"...

Thanks Barb, it's great to be back!

hehehe this is surely individualism at its best when 3 simple lines, 15 words can evoke as many interpretations as we are coming up with - Lizabeth no help here - just hang on - like a John Lucus movie it appears there are worlds of awarness...

Each universe is only to me that is saying we are all individual universes - it says "Each" so therefore, there has to be many - and that says to me it has to be an allegory. Unless, we are talking about other dimensions - hmmm maybe that as well.

an ever-shifting sea Since we are, what is it 90% water or maybe as high as 98% water, again he could be referring to individuals - or are there universes that have come and gone [as Vishnu blinks a universe comes into existence and dies] then Vishnu blinks and another universe come into existence - each living being can attain freedom from cycle of births and deaths and so like the ever-shifting sea we reach for that freedom. Or if we are each a universe than we reach for the freedom from the cycle of birth and death that is Vishnu blinking...???

in the surfacing eyes of former fish Could this be humor? - Saying goodbye as the dolphins leave Planet Earth in "So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish," the fourth in the series of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."

As I understand it there are Greek, Shinto, African and Polynesian creation myths with a Big Fish as part of the story. Even the Christian uses a fish shape to designate Jesus - we could go all over the map with the image of "the surfacing eyes of former fish."

"I wonder if Young has his own personal symbolism and that is why in some poems it is difficult to break through.In some ways, I am finding some of Young's poetry harder to understand than Keats."(Lizabeth)

Lizabeth, I have the same feeling. I read somewhere that Al Young had studied Buddhism. It is possible this is the philosophy coming across in his poetry.

Mrs. Sherlock, thanks for telling about your time at Half Moon Bay.

Barbara65, you are welcome.

Each universe is only
an ever-shifting sea
in the surfacing eyes of former fish

Something in this poem, I am guessing, is about reincarnation. The words "former fish" speaks of another life lived in another body. Each life lived or each universe experienced is only given for a short time until the next life shifts into place. There is a repetition here of life lived over and over and over......

Barbara, are we touching on the same theme?

If a sea is "ever shifting," it is easy to miss the changes because of constant movement. Is Al Young speaking again of our blindness, not seeing the wonders of this life because we act like dazed fish swimming through the water not realizing, not seeing the changing colors, not feeling the different motions of water. Are we swimming through life like fish? Every once in a while coming to the surface to see a hopeful change, then missing the several universes? Sadly, feeling sure there is only one universe available to us.

Former fish, well, in our progress up the evolutionary ladder we spent time as sea creatures which could loosely be called fish. That's how I read it. He takes the profound and wraps it into a few short words which can be quickly skimmed, the depth (pardon the pun) only revealing itself slowly. What a master of words he is.

I've got to get into the bedroom and turn my computer back on to see that video.. I sent it to my daughter (who'd heard of him). She subscribes to New York event publications. She loved the video, loved Al Young.

I couldn't understand some of the references in Up Jumped Spring. He begins the syllabic repetitions, a kind of circling back that continues through the poem, in the first line. guess we've moved on from that challenging poem. OK with me.

"former fish"--humor, definitely, BStA, and a seawater bucketfull of serious truth in our face. I thought the Vishnu interpretation was way out there but then learned he had some interest in Buddhism. (He does live in California.) My first reaction to hats' reincarnation suggestion was skeptical also. But he may have had an interest in that too.

There is something in Al Young's poetry that makes it easy to understand why he remained in California. He didn't settle in New York, the Midwest, Santa Fe, etc. I don't like to confine it to a few words, but it is, as two of you have suggested, an interest in Eastern ideas. An explicit and implicit transcendentalist quality which found a kinship and nurturing in California. So far, there's often a kind of heady, fizzy feeling, balanced by intellect and learning. On the other hand, he had to have moved way beyond just those qualities--enough for me--to garner so many awards in so many places.

A good poet to be considering around Independence Day. Very American, with references to other continents--a mix which is also American.

Young also has a touch of Keats' post-adolescent excitement with life and learning. It's nice not to outgrow some of that and fun to share it with him.

"changed around years later" in Half Moon Bay. Yes, that must be reincarnation, especially in that context. Again a sea reference. He's offering alternatives to Christianity.

Lizabeth-- Yes, evolution in Geography's surfacing fish. And the meaning can incorporate Barbara's interpretation of "each universe" as each individual person.

"Intimacy"-- "middleage" "right here where light is brightest" It's a Buddhist belief that the height of spirituality is achieved in middle age, particularly around the age of forty. But we miss that because (think also of Wordsworth and Thoreau) "we are napping," Young says. The world is too much with us, etc. And Thoreau paraphrase: Not one man in a thousand is truly awake.

I've got to start meditating!--one of these days

Where's Jim? In re-reading, it occurred to me what a wonderful elderhostel experience Savannah must've been for him--perfect. Unless it was too hot. Many times every summer, we'd leave the house in our un-air conditioned car, and by the time we reached the (new) mall a couple of miles away, our clothes were sticky with sweat. And the idea of almost any physical activity in those temps and humidity was frightening.

Harking back to the (broken?) Elvis sonnet--what a sly tribute to someone who translated black music then turned to consumerism for his spiritual highs. An ironic choice of forms that probably made Young smile when he thought of it. It was as if Elvis was a person he might have revered.

Barbara65b, this Jim feels lucky if he gets here 3/4 times a month. Jim has, since Katrina, dedicated his offline efforts to volunteer activities.

My Savannah elderhostel week in 2000 was indeed a gorgeous study-vacation. Thanks for asking.

My review of my experiences then...is now a longtime post in an appropriate online database where Elderhostelers shopping for their own next EH often browse when trying to choose their next EH study-vacation.

However, getting to that online review from here involves several clicks. So here's an easy click-on link to my review just before I posted same to that online EH-programs database in 2000: http://home.thirdage.com/reading/jimva/savannah.htm

P.S. - I'm also a longtime "jazz music" fan. Color me...fanatic. So I hope to have some helpful chime-in thoughts this month. (God willing, and the creeks don't rise.)

Thanks, Jim. Lots of familiar places. And W W Law was a familiar name even in the sixties. Our apartment was just off Monterey Square, and I strolled our son to Forsyth park. We watched out our second floor windows as the National Guard oversaw integration when Armstrong/Atlantic University was a downtown college. (The troops were unnecessary, because virtually everyone with the school, including students, favored integration. The rest of the town, maybe not.) The students at the school were very interesting. Many of the bright young people of the "first families" did not want to leave their social set and stayed on for a couple of yeas.

We've heard about some of the developments you mentioned, Jim. The Savannah College of Art and Design is another big change. My husband and son enjoyed visits in 1995 and 2004 respectively. I especially enjoyed your description. since I never seem to make it past Myrtle Beach.

Pertinent to poetry-- I sat behind Conrad Aiken at a writer's conference there in the mid-sixties. (I'm not a writer, just a groupie.) He was deaf at the time and someone read his poetry. (A nanny occasionally brought his young son to Forsyth Park from their nearby townhouse.) Fascinating city and fascinating people.

Thanks, Barbara65b, My year-2000 Savannah elderhostel study-vacation week was indeed memorable.

As were: W.W.Law (he even led our city-wide bus tours at age 77). And Teddy Adams (a contemporary horn-playing Savannah jazz musician). And George O'Neil, a phoenics prof at SS University. And EMMA KELLY, a minor character in "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil."

And "Nita's Place." A small Southern foods lunch-place.

I today no longer can recall Monterey Square from Savannah's 20 other downtown "Squares" (oases of square parks among the city's streets). After ending my Elderhostel week, I stayed on to do a club-credit Volksmarch 6.2-mile (10K kilometer) walk. Its trail went thru each of Savannah's 21 public-park squares.

I don't know your Conrad Aiken. I'll now research him online soon.

Today is the 45th day of rain with very few hours of dry much less an hour or two of sun, as today.

The sun was out today till about 3:00 and the town was like a bee hive - everyone running around shopping to get what they needed, lawns being mowed, service providers in their vehicles all over town - I noticed them on nearly every street parked outside of homes - from AC service to pest control to plumbers to arborists to painters, deck repair, roofers, lawn service on and on and on.

With the wildlife burrowing into everyone's homes - I purchased these sound devices to rid the house of mice I can hear at night - I expected to see mice by the thousands cascading down my walls from the attic - and a raccoon got into my garage, tumped over the garbage and it was hours of cleaning up and getting him out. The deer keep standing under trees or when the lightening comes they lay in the open curled up as small as they can get - my concern is that the roots of some of the trees have little soil as it is and now the soil is beginning to wash so that I am expecting trees to start toppling - the Live Oaks are different they have a deep tap root that goes through rock if it must.

My poetry for the last couple of days has been GRRRRRRRR!!!!!! – Since hospitals are for profit, regardless of a patents circumstance, after their body is at a certain point of recovery after surgery they are dismissed and land on the street – with this weather I am part of a group who tries to get those who are dying into Mary House so they do not have to die on the street.

Then we had one situation that we do not usually get into but there was no room at the Battered woman’s center – an old lady, wheel chair bound was beat bloody with several broken bones by her son - we just had to get her off the street. And so with the flooding rain another aspect of the human toil is flushed to the surface that all I can do is periodically help out.

I have not been observing or acting out exactly the stuff of Keats – more like Ginsberg’s "Howl" or "Do Not Go Gently into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas.

Needless to say y'all took second place in my allotment of time - Now, I am needing to get caught up - I finally sat down this evening and read the Intro to "Heaven" written by O.O. Gabugah – pages of 'remembering when' however, the last few paragraphs are worth copying – I think they will help us…

When I look up O.O. Gabugah, I am confused - could this be a pseudonym for Al Young? O.O. Gabugah interviews himself

When I Google O. O. Gabugah this pops up Cold Mountain interview with Al Young

aha – found this O.O. Gabugah the militant poet was Young's satirical treatment of such message writing, and O.O. makes an appearance in Sitting Pretty.

Tra La - yes, a pseudonym - "The pressure on him became so great, and so ludicrous, Young invented an alter ego, O. O. Gabugah, deriving the name from the South African poet, Hugh Masakele’s album The Americanization of Oogabugah. (Growing up in Johannesburg, Masakele watched Tarzan movies, heard "natives" uttering phrases like "Oogabugah, bowa masa," and for a while, actually thought that somewhere in Africa, people spoke that way.)Ploughshares - Al Young: A Profile

BarbaraStA-- I thought you must be unaffected by the flooding. And you're out there in the trenches-a hands-on kind of person, as suggested before. Good for you!

I believe you're in Austin, and it's hard to imagine they're dumping people on the street, as recent reports have shown happening in LA. So it's a happy party kind of town--if you're well off. Does Sandra Bullock, a current Austin resident?, know about this situation? Wow, does that lady have clout. Everybody adores her, from NY to Austin to LA.

I thought Austin reached out to Louisiana people after the hurricane, or perhaps that was mostly Houston.

We put in a sonic device several years ago because a single mouse (I hope it was a mouse) was in a bedroom wall. I didn't see it on a list of approved devices, and I've always wondered why. We've had raccoons and possums in our garage and two bears in the neighborhood (close to town) but no deer.

Here's hoping nature will be kinder to your area. And parts of our area (NC & Tennessee) have the opposite--a severe drought.

You are correct--one of the bios reveals that Young took an African name as a pseudonym for an alter ego.

When you left, so did most of your class, Barbara. Waaaaaah!

I liked this from the Cold Mountain interview with Al Young:

"Poetry is a sonic medium, even though we're oriented to it textually, and we think about it as something on paper. But until it's heard, it's only half alive, or on paper it's half-dead, at least in my reckoning." .

Barbara - still have your other posts to catch up on and Jim as well - this is usually a rather laid back group Barbara and post when they feel the "music" - no fear we are always here - and we are not so formal that there is a certain poem to discuss either - so if a few of the older posts are hitting your chords - go for it...

As to the city of Austin - yep, huge influx after Katrina and Rita - some are still here making this city more connected with the south - since music is so much a part of this town we have a few who have settled in - But that never translates to the poor - have you noticed - folks do not like the poor - all the talk about immigration and people of color are usually about the taxes that are required to support their needs - the talk is never about those who are highly educated and adding to the high Tech industries in the US - it is about the folks who need help - and hospitals are no longer a place that thinks of people first - their bottom line is paramount - and so there are some who have to try to figure out alternatives that give dignity to the poor.

It is interesting being associated with Marian House and seeing how these folks end up in their predicament - for each there is a different story but it is most often a case of someone who was stuck with an illness they could not afford to maintain the care required or they were not able to find work after having been fired and went into deep depression along with drink or drugs or some other misfortune in life made them different than the kind of applicant that would be considered even at a Wal-Mart - it is so easy for us to think of these folks as lay abouts - and I also think we try to protect our selves from our own fears that there but for the grace of God go I. For some reason we like to protect everything we earn and have the darndest time sharing it with the poor although we think nothing of sharing it with the tax evasions and programs to lighten the financial burden of those in the high income brackets - ah so I am beginning to get on my soap box - need to stop NOW!...

OK quoting from the Intro to "Heaven" --

"In Contemporary Poets, put our by St. Martin's Press, Al Young says his poetry is "characterized b by a marked personal and lyrical mysticism as well as a concern with social and spiritual problems of contemporary man in a technological environment that grows hourly more impersonal and unreal. My favorite themes are those of love, the infinite, change ability of the world as well as its eternal changelessness, and the kind of meaning (both private and universal) that flowers out of everyday life. My influences in general have been Black culture and popular speech (Southern rural and urban U.S.) and music in particular."

Al goes on to put his finger on some of those influences: "Afro-American folks and popular music, Caribbean music of both English-and Spanish- speaking people; American Indian poetry and song; Hindu philosophy." And when it comes to talking about poets he admired and maybe learned a little something from, the list of names he dropped includes the poetry of The Bible, Li Po, Rabinadrath Tagore, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Federico Garcfa Lorca, early T.S.Eliot, Leopold Senghor, Nicolás Guillén, Blaise Cendrars, Kenneth Rexroth, LeRoi Jones, Nicanor Parra and Denise Levertov. from knowing him, however, I could add plenty of other names to that list, even tho I know how much Al hates putting lists like this together. the worst think you can ask him is who his favorite poets are. He probably wouldn't mind if I just squeezed in Omar Khayyam, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Emily Dickenson, Walt Whitman, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Edgar Lee Masters, Langston Hughes, Dylan Thomas, Gavriela Mistral, e.e. cummings, Kenneth Patchen, Gwendolyn Brooks, Julia Fields, Bob Kaufman and Victor Hermández Cruz.
<skip>
Al Young and I do and probably always will have our little differences--which are mainly political--but what keeps making me go soft on his stuff is the same thing that yanked me into poetry in the first place: It'll make you feel good about being alive. I happen to believe that feeling good about your-self is better than all the smack, crack, coke, smoke and booze in the world; it's even more important than being rich and famous and powerful. But, see, there I go jamming my personal opinions all up in your face again.

All this money they're spending tryna bust up the dope traffic and educate and rehabilitate people about drugs-- i's all a waste until you realize what Al meant in that poem of his called"for Poets," with the last line that goes:"Don't forget to fly." It comes down to being a spirit problem, don't you think: Not being connected with anything; not even your ownself.

So now we come to the seven steps, which are all built up from my favorite Al Young sayings. It's interesting to flip thru these "spindrift pages," as Dylan Thomas liked to call'em, and get an idea about how the poet finally started getting his voice (and voices) together down across the seasons. It's occurred to my you might find it pleasurable to keep these particular lines an licks in mind while your' reading around in this very special book from my pal Al, who, by the way actually believes what they express.

The blue print is mine - I want to find links to these poets - I think that would be an aid to our understanding this man's work...

Interesting from his list of poets he is influenced by the only ones I even know and have read are: The Bible, Li Po, Federico Garcfa Lorca, and early T.S.Eliot.

That leaves more than half I have never read or even heard about -- Rabinadrath Tagore, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Leopold Senghot, Nicolás Guillén, Blaise Cendrars, Kenneth Rexroth, LeRoi Jones, Nicanor Parra and Denise Levertov.

Wow lots to read isn't there...

What a delight to know that of those favorites he shares with us we have read a few here on SeniorNet...

Omar Khayyam,[read this past spring]
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,[Books and Lit. read Cervantes last year]
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, [Books and Lit. read Coleridge - oh I forget the one about the ship with the sailors all ghost - I think we read him last summer or maybe the year before]
John Keats, [Yep, last month's focus poet]
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Emily Dickenson,[she is on our list]
Walt Whitman,[we read Whitman last year and what a delight]
Paul Laurence Dunbar, Edgar Lee Masters,
Langston Hughes,[I believe Langston Hughes was the very first focus poet we read]
Dylan Thomas, Gavriela Mistral, e.e. cummings, Kenneth Patchen,
Gwendolyn Brooks, [yes, last year we read her dynamic work]
Julia Fields, Bob Kaufman and Victor Hermández Cruz.

Again, a few I never heard of - Edgar Lee Masters, Kenneth Patchen, Julia Fields, Bob Kaufman and Victor Hermández Cruz.

I have Mistral's poetry in French that I found in Aix a few years ago. Boy would I have to work to brush off my French - not sure that will be a priority now... hehehe as my grandmother would say even at age 92 - that is for when I get old!

Lizabeth - yes, I can see how that article would catch your fancy - he is saying much about sound and the music of sound - picking up I also like when he says --

"Yes, just the sheer physicality of poetry and music. I've grown impatient with the textual fixations of poetry. That is, because poetry has been under the wing of universities and colleges for so long, a lot of people think of it as something that lives on the page. I love what's happening today, where kids are writing poetry and getting out and reading it. Of course some of it's bad, some of it's good. What's important is that, by voicing and vocalizing it, they're bringing it back to life. Poetry lives in people. "

We have all enjoyed the links we find where the poetry is read I am reminded that you are the one who tells us you have read the poem aloud - I do not always remember and I am so glad when you remind us...

Ah so, Masters is the Spoonriver poet - Masters

hmmm no wonder I do not know the poet - this man is a Senegalese poet Léopold (Sédar) Senghor (1906-2001) never did read the poets from Africa or for that matter South America - Asia yes, and the Western Canon of poets.

Rabindranath Tagore The Nobel Prize in Literature 1913 - this site includes some of his poetry Rabindranath Tagore

Vladimir Mayakovsky - some of his poetry Mayakovsky

Whew quite a collection of poets to be influenced by - my oh my - and the list is only started -

Wow I was feeling a bit overwhelmed realizing how many influences on Al Young are so different than my own - till I re-read this link from the UK to an Understanding of Poetry I have saved and is my saving grace...Introduction to Poetry

"...The poet writes a poem, the artist paints a picture, the composer writes a song but if no one ever reads the poem, looks at the picture or listens to the music, then what value do any of them have? It can be argued that the last person in the creative chain is the reader, the viewer or the listener. In other words - you.

For example, if you look at a painting or a photograph taken of a place you know well then that experience will be different from looking at a picture of a location which you don't know at all. If you read a book which deals with an activity you know something about let's say sailing or skiing then your experience is different to other people reading the book. We are all individuals and therefore as we read it is a unique individual perspective we bring to the experience. As you work through the exercises and take part in the on-line discussions, try to retain your individual opinion describing it and justifying it to other members of the group."

How do you spell relief as the jingle goes - because that is it - we all bring to the read our own perspective because of our individual experiences - and that has been the wonder of this discussion - we all share a different perspective because of the individual nature of our lives - tra la - and Al Young sure has had many influences on his life that are far different than mine...

Now those are influences! Some of the most exciting poets of the last half of the 20th century. I believe Tagore was a Buddhist poet. I wonder who wrote that introduction. Maybe I can work that out.

About Conrad Aiken--Wikipedia's must've been written by someone who was unfamiliar. A correct description is at Poets.org--the American Academy of Poetry. The Wikipedia posting omits, for example, that he was a U.S. poet laureate (then called Consultant to the Library of Congress), won the National Book Award, received numerous other honors, and influenced many other poets.

After a horrific childhood (amazing he'd move back to Savannah where he'd discovered his father had killed his mother and himself), psychoanalysis became an influence in his poetry The boy in Forsyth Park, I recall, was his grandson, not his son, so one of his children must've been living close to him. That's good, because he became deaf and lived into his eighties.

The few Aiken samples online pale next to the rich, colorful poetry of Al Young but are, of course, somewhat unfair to Aiken (who was also a novelist and playwright). Music was an important influence on his poetry, as it was on Young's. A natural relationship since, as Lizabeth mentions, poetry is an art that expresses feelings and ideas through sound. I think more people would enjoy poetry if they heard it.

Ruth Lilly (Eli Lilly family) has left the country an enormous money grant for poetry, a nice share of which is devoted to public reading aloud. The amount is so huge--I don't know, a hundred million?--I couldn't help wishing some of those dollars could go to those people Barbara says need it to live. Or to decrease the cost of their pharmaceuticals. But good poetry's a worthy cause.

During the late 1950s and early 60s Greenwich Village was filled with poets reading their poetry aloud in the coffee shops. There was a strong oral tradition in those days. I was fortunate to be part of that. Although only about 16 at the time, I used to read my poems aloud in the Cafe Wha? Sometimes Richie Havens would accompany me on guitar or drums. Leroi Jones was around then too. I met him once briefly but I didn't really know him. He became Amiri Baraka in later years and put the name Leroi Jones to rest. I remember seeing his play The Dutchman off Broadway some years later. I think he was a better playwright than a poet.Jazz was very popular then too. I recall going to the Village Gate fairly often to see live performances. I knew the manager so I got in free as long as I promised not to order drinks since I was underage.

In honor of your memory Lizabeth of being sixteen...

SWEET SIXTEEN LINES

You bet it would've made a tender movie!
If only someone had been flighty enough
to capture the shape of what turned out to be
our last days alone, the end of a rough
jouney that dulled every sense but touch.
Heroically juvenile, lighter than light,
we talked what we felt, but never thought much.
We were Romeo and Julet night after night
It was like we'd sailed from heaven in a jet,
copilots, cool but glorious, and landed
our sullen craft too artfully--poets yet;
runaways on life's slick runway of expanded
unconsciousness. Maybe. Who knows for sure!
But Ruby and the Romantics came out that year
with a sweet-nothing single; hot, airy and pure
enough to hold us aloft by heart and by ear.

And here are the words -- remember -- it was 1963 -- cannot find the music online - if anyone can find it please give us the link...to: Our Day Will Come
Ruby & The Romantics

Our day will come
And we'll have everything.
We'll share the joy
Falling in love can bring.

No one can tell me
That I'm too young to know (young to know)
I love you so (love you so)
And you love me.

Our day will come
If we just wait a while.
No tears for us -
Think love and wear a smile.

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way
Our day will come.
(Our day will come; our day will come.)

[break]

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way.
Our day will come.
Our day will come

Some interesting history there, Lizabeth. You probably have a strong sense of some of Young's influences. You may have posted some poetry at SeniorNet? If not, what's to lose? It's not as if we'd privately critique you. (Heh, heh) But. really, what do you care?

I can see a sixteen year old (precocious) girl reading poetry in the coolest place in the center of the world (Greenwich Village). Richie Havens playing drums? So you must've been one a' them anarchists, huh?-- "But we will rise up and reclaim this green earth from the Machine" type of thing? Cool.

The nearest I got to the jazz scene was a night at Eddie Condon's in 1957--no karaoke, thank goodness. Nobody really famous played. I did date a young man at school who wanted to be a musician's rep and knew a lot of people in the business. He lived in a small town not far from Chicago. He chose to serve his military time as a Navy jet pilot and stayed with it for life--now lives just off base across from Manhattan, close to all that jazz he loves.

Barbara's post spoke to me at twenty, but it was June Christy, Ella, Armstong, Neil Hefty, early jazz, and the like.

The poem reminds me of the movie A Summer Place in 1959 with Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue.

I love the line "It was like we'd sailed from heaven in a jet," it was as if we were two - and a part of us had a life of its own that we could not control - oh my lots of angst and sweetness and just plain foolish craziness - when even a look could send our hearts into overtime.

Hehehe

come on you two - its the poetry - memory lane is fun but its the poetry folks...

Just saw A Summer Place again last year--pretty audacious for its day--probably expurgated in Indianapolis. It brought back those times--late fifties, early sixties. Except that, unlike Dee's character, I was prudent. About the jet--I did in fact take one little plane ride (another pilot) with the pre-Navy pilot. I thought those highs would never end, but parenthood is okay too.

BarbaraStA Who posted the Sweet Sixteen couplet poem? You, Barbara, you! Very evocative.

This may change six times before I am satisfied - but here is where my head is today... Al Young writing in the now prompted me to write about a slice of life.

And The Rain Came.

He is a young man,
Barely thirty-
His family cannot maintain his caravan-
Maintain him at age 30? Why?

Their love like an old pieced quilt was real;
The green and silver of their dream was slim.
He left their warm light for a job; ideal
For a brother of eight whose prospects were dim.

Pans over fire sizzling hot, he cuts and dice
In kitchens until the ache in his spine
Needed a Doctor’s advice.
The C word echoed and slithered a colubrine

Down his leg where it gradually grew
Separating and rotting,
His body, his savings, his house, his pew,
In 44 days of rain found him squatting.

We wrapped him in a Kirman;
Cursing inequity-
At the edge of his dark terrain
Quilt bits float past gated revery.

07/07/07

Barbara--

Is that sweet sixteen poem yours?

No it is one of Al's - from his book "Heaven" - then I found the song which I think I remember the tune - could not find the music anywhere on the Interent... thought of you with your story of reading poetry at age 16...

Wheee found one for you Barb...

CAROLINA MOON

There is no greater moon to contemplate
than you, June in January moon, refusing
to be identified or associated with endings
or beginnings or middle-aged psyches on fire
with time. Your southern extremities
burn down to San Diego, Oxnard, Taft, Mexico
and the showbiz center of it all--El Lay.

You're nothing like the Carolina moon,
Monk's dreampiece; you're no Charlotte,
no Raleigh; there ain't no tar
on your fleet heels, but you are the only
one around, the only moon I feel
we've got, and still cooling; a clumpy star.
The power that hours still need to rotate
pinwheel-style from the center to the aisle
of love: isolation from the stage we dance
and do our magic upon. I don't know why
juggling should be so tough in this spring,
in this world of firewood ventriloquists.

A bit racey but hay... it is Al Young...

"you're no Charlotte,
no Raleigh; there ain't no tar
on your fleet heels, but you are the only
one around, the only moon I feel
we've got, and still cooling; a clumpy star

Is this supposed to be a love poem? Is the "you" in the poem a woman? If so, I wouldn't want to be told that I'm no Charlotte etc but I am the only one around. That means to me that I am loved because there is no one else around. Am I misinterpreting? And also to be called a "clumpy" star? Hmmmm "clumpy". I hope I am so wrong here because otherwise this poem is kind of strange.

And what are "firewood ventriloquists"? I still get the feeling that Young has his own private symbolism going that I am just not privy to. There is something about that that annoys me. I mean the phrase sounds so interesting, but what is it?

The first stanza seems to be more complimentary, loving, than some of the second, so maybe, just maybe, I am reading it wrong. I almost hope so.

I believe he is talking to and about the moon explaining his view of the moon to the view in Carolina and then he compares the Carolina moon to the one that shines elsewhere - but more he mentions Monk and so that must refer to the Thelonious Monk's rendition of Carolina Moon which I am not familiar with - the only information I can find is that is it referred to as a "puckish" rendition.

After talking to the moon as it is in Southern California and environs - he says how it makes him feel - and it sounds like he is talking about having a go at it alone - but like you, I can not figure out the last line.

Thelonious Monk played the piano and so maybe it has to do with attempting to play the piano which could be firewood since he cannot do it as well as Monk and while trying to imitate Monk he would be a ventriloquist

I do not have time I need to get going here - Open House today on one of my listings - but here is a link where you can download the album Thelonious Monk plays Carolina Moon Monk's Mood.

What a beautiful day. And also yesterday for LiveEarth. Of course, they saved Sting for the end, so we just talked a lot while waiting.

Someone is picking up "Heaven" at our local library for me tomorrow, but the "Coastal" poems won't arrive until next week. There's so much--two novels and fifty poems--in "Heaven" that I was afraid the print would be very small. So I'm taking a look at it from the library. It's important because it excerpts work from most of Young's career. I'm curious about any change in outlook or style in his more mature work.

A book was just reviewed in the NYTimes describing how an author became a better writer learning music. (Sorry, I didn't note the author's name--Japanese.) Interesting to see that book.

Barbara's poem is an affecting kind of eulogy for a young man who's been lost.

caravan--the English word for van? or something else?

colunbrine--couldn't find it. I guess it's a sort of tracery or streak.

Do the tattered quilt pieces at the end suggest the brokenness of his parents' love which you'd referred to as a quilt?

This sounds like someone you might actually have known, Barbara Your poem reminds me of our daughter's friend, an orphan of no means who received a scholarship to UNC-Chapel Hill and died of leukemia in his first year there. Inequity for sure. We've also experienced unspeakable tragedy for a younger person--our daughter-in-law--in the last two years. It changes things.

Carolina Moon-- As Lizabeth suggests, it's kind of back-handed, almost angry. It even rougher than non-love songs like "It's All Right with Me," etc.

I don't understand a lot of the poem. Especially the "firewood ventriloquists," which suggests something insufficient, not real. And a moon is a satellite, secondary to a planet, sort of a tagalong. So what else is new for a woman?

Okay--it's just the moon, which it felt like in the second stanza. Duh.

Poem with Orange by Al Young

Finally you sit
at some table and put
your little life back
together again by
slicing a new orange

How closely the wet
glistening flesh of
this bright cut fruit
reassembles all galaxies

How comfortably its
sweet pattern fits yours
as you watch each matching
diamond-juiced wedge
reaching, edging toward
essence, the center, home

At first, this poem just made me want to go and get an orange or tangerine and taste that juiciness. I know that's a little shallow. I will go and do more concentrating.

Study the tangerine or orange as you dissect it. How cool that would be to witness these patterns as each segment meets in the middle, one essence!

I have read Carolina Moon over and over. I don't think it's about women. I think it is a love song about the moon. I don't think it's racy either IMHO.

The power that hours still need to rotate
pinwheel-style from the center to the aisle
of love: isolation from the stage we dance
and do our magic upon. I don't know why
juggling should be so tough in this spring,
in this world of firewood ventriloquists.

The "aisle of love," I think, is Venus. We are far from Venus, almost isolated from her power upon us. The distance doesn't matter. Venus still works her magic on us. We dance and fall in love. Then, I believe the "firewood ventriloquists" are all the stars and planets and the moon. Aren't they still burning? My Astronomy facts are probably way off. Anyway, the moon, the stars and planets are working magic on us, mankind, they are the masters of our destiny, pulling our strings.

This is my far out guess about the poem.

I think Young's poem about the orange is a meditation or a way to meditate. While we peel an orange or tangerine there is time to get everything back into perspective. The intricate beauty of an orange or tangerine makes our life and problems look like what they are, small. Funny, an orange can release us from thinking we carry the world on our shoulders.

Juicy galaxies. Young seems to be able to see a very big picture, in time as well as space. He speaks of the development of species; and here in the Orange poem, it's as if he imagines the galaxies semi-liquid and in flux. I wonder if that is a personal idiosyncracy or if he studied physics or astronomy.

I read that Thomas Wolfe, the Asheville one, liked to imagine the immensity of the universe in time and space and that it gave him a high. Of course, he had that brain TB. (Whenever I've had that cosmic vision experience in the early hours with low blood sugar, it's been unnerving. Charles Schultz, who suffered from serious depression, disussed this in a "Peanuts", and one of the characters--Lucy the psykiatrist 5 cents?--said these bleak early morning moments are common.) Al Young loves to talk about the cosmos and his apprehensions are quite positive, mystical or something close.

I recommend the new Tropicana Tangerine Orange Juice--very mellow.

Barbara65b,

I love your post. I see a connection between the orange poem and the Carolina moon poem. You might have put my thoughts into words. Thank you.

Good to see you back, hats. I'd imagined you hunkered down somewhere with "The Boating Party" or off on a search for Renoir books. I'd typed a sentence about you yesterday but it didn't print out--a No Access glitch.

Hats, you've led me back to reinterpret Carolina Moon in light (note pun) of what you've written.

How nice! Each time I read Carolina Moon I fall more in love with it.

"center to the aisle of love" Venus--what an insight. Could be. And stars are the "firewood ventriloquists". Of course, it's brilliant poetry and holds up astronomically! You're really cooking today hats. Amazing explication!

It may not be racy, but he does toss in a few phrases suggesting sensuality. And the universe did create life. I'm wondering if it's January or spring. The seasons seem to change in the course of the poem.

Barbara65b, yes, I see the seasonal change too. I am so glad Barbara posted this poem. It's a lot in the poem to chew on and think about. You are right about the sensuality too. Thanks for helping me to see it.

I am going to quickly read it again before dinnertime.

"Carolina Moon" still perplexes me. I enjoyed reading the alternative explanations. I am not sure I am "right" on this one anyhow if there is ever such a thing as "right" when analyzing poetry. I think it slips aways from me. But the poem about oranges. That one I liked. The language is simple but profound.And I think it does make the reader want to taste an orange or cut one up in segments and look at it in a new and different way.

I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Sunday to wander around and cool myself down because my computer had crashed and I came acroos a painting by Jacob Lawrence called "Pool Players" which reminded me so much of Al Young's poetry. I tried to find a copy of it online and couldn't. It is worth seeing. And especially take note of the jazzy way Lawrence paints the smoke from the cigarettes.

I would love to see that painting.

Well, I tried again and went into the Metropolitan Museum of Art online and I found it! So, Hats, this one is for you.

http://www.metmuseum.org/Works_of_Art/viewOnezoom.asp?dep=21&zoomFlag=1&viewmode=0&item=42%2E167

You can also zoom in on any section you want to study, like the cigarette smoke.

Lizabeth, I am glad you have found it. Thanks!

Of course, Tagore's not a Buddhist. From the name alone, it's logical he's a Hindu. I've even known a few lapsed Hindus pretty well and worked with a couple, and we also have a few practicing that religion in our town. A couple of years ago, I'd spent a few weeks reading Hindu writings, followed by a few weeks of Buddhist writings. I guess I didn't learn much. While I was reading "Heaven's" introduction, the lightbulb came on.

The early poems are mostly very accessible. Just a little something for a second thought now and then. He explains in his alter ego introduction that he doesn't want to be one of those obscure poets who include lots of literary allusions. He really dislikes the lady and gentleman writers who overindulge in such obfuscations and considers them to be showoffs. That's good for us! Perhaps he began working in some of his own priivate language and images later.

I just love the "orange" the color is so exhilarating and as y'all have shared it makes you want to cut into one and taste the sweet juices. The analogy is wonderful and of course you can go on and on with how the membrane connects each segment. Just love it - great find hats - thanks for sharing it.

And wow - I would never have thought of Venus - the last two lines still do not speak to me - but hay that is the way it is with poetry - the Orange more than made up for not being able to picture what juggling in the Spring is all about.

hehehe Barb - very mellow Tropicana Tangerine Orange Juice

Ah - Lizabeth so glad you found a link to "Pool Players" I love how the pool sticks frame parts of the painting and give your eye direction and how the lamps are rounded which picks up the roundness of the balls. and then those two white jackets - what interesting shapes - the jacket on the guy with the yellow pants goes up and his pool stick points to the light and with the gently curving edge of the bottom of the light brings your eye over to the stick held straight up which allows your eye to jump to the next white jacket since it is the opposite of the black face and opposites attract your eye - and then his extended arm allows you to go to the ball and start the trip down till it gets lost in that middle table with the red shirt guy keeping your eye on that middle table with the assortment of balls. - Just love the juxtaposition of straight sticks and round balls - Juggling shapes and extreme values at its best - wonderful... whew out of breath - hehehe that was like a stream of consciousness explanation of what I see

How wonderful Barb that you have a copy of "Heaven" to read - so many references - I started to look up some of the jazz greats that he wrote poems to honor and got lost in the research - wonderful wonderful - I am loving this month because where I thought I new something about Jazz I am learning I really do not know that much about Jazz.

This man is so accomplished - writing and traveling and music and teaching and living in various parts of the US - what a great dinner companion he would be - one of those dinners parties where you can invite 3 or 4 people in the world you would like to spend time with.

PS. colunbrine is a sea serpent - and I was using it as an metaphor - that poem needs lots of work - I have never been good at protest poetry and of course like all poetry once it leaves your pen it is only 50% yours the other 50% is the readers interpretation that is colored by the readers experience - and yes, the young man was one of those we picked up off the street to die at Marian house - from a loving family like a pieced quilt - we only know a pieced quilt as hand made - from saved scrapes - old and loved as pieced quilts are - from a family that had bigger dreams than the reality of their ability to accumulate the green and silver we call money - the caravan is more than a place to sleep and again a metaphor for all you own and have in one place and so an English mobile home would work - to me it was more than the physical - again lots of work to sort out the metaphors so there is a line of realization. Wanted more ambiguity if he lives or dies and revery is more a being alive word - the Kirman disigns have vases of flowers in fields or repeated shapes that would be like an exotic and out of his ordinary but handmade in defined shapes similar to a pieced quilt - its a start... in time I will get it...

I love this - boy can he say it - and in poetry - wow... a gift...it works on so many levels - from the personal to the universal.

TO BE THE PERFECT FOOL

To be the perfect fool ain't all that bad.
You mess yourself up mostly, no one else
cares really what you do. Why should you add
more worry to their night? Go work your spells
elsewhere, someplace where pride and making sense
don't count. Jump to your conclusion. Run.
Where Fools and money part, you can dispense
with chance. All foolishness can be no fun.
You bet against yourself: the perfect fool.
Divine intelligence, the muse, the gods--
whatever works, or doesn't. What's uncool?
To put it plainly: just what are the odds
of you, the lover, coming out ahead,
when bombs this sad world drops come down with bread?

Barbara, I love that one. I bought 'Heaven' too.

Oh cool we now have three of us with a copy of "Heaven" terrifffffic - I do not remember another poet that so many of us broke down and picked up the poets book - don't have time now but the musician I was fascinated with that has a poem dedicated to is Dexter Gordon - such a great site with music that goes on and on - for I think 15 or maybe it is 18 minutes - I love the sounds - sounds to me like the musical version of Al Young's voice. Dexter Gordon if you get the poem up before I do that is great but otherwise it will be either late tonight or in the morning -

Wow! very mellow, I like it. Thanks.

I think this from "Poetry Out Loud" is fascinating and a guide for what poetry can be for us...

Poetry Out Loud is a collaborative project of the Michigan Humanities Council, Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs, and the Library of Michigan, with support form the National Endowment for the Arts and The Poetry Foundation.

Students evaluate their experience in four steps for each skill area.

Public Speaking:

4 I am far more confident in public speaking because reciting poetry has given me tools, such as expression, projection, and gesture.

3 I am somewhat more confident in public speaking because reciting poetry has given me tools, such as expression, projection, and gesture.

2 I am a little more confident in public speaking because of my experiences in reciting poetry.

1 I’m not any more confident in public speaking because of experiences in reciting poetry.

Acceptance of poetry:

4 I understand how poetry can be a powerful tool for expressing one’s personal feelings and view of the world. I understand why many people have chosen to write and read poetry.

3 I partially understand that poetry is a powerful tool for expression and see why people write and read it.

2 I am beginning to understand the ways in which poetry can be expressive and why people write and read it.

1 I don’t find poetry particularly expressive or relevant.

Connections to my culture:

4 I see numerous strong connections between poetry and rap, slam, popular music, and other parts of everyday culture.

3 I see some connections between poetry and rap, slam, and popular music.

2 I am beginning to see connections between poetry and rap, slam, and popular music.

1 I can’t see much connection between poetry and rap, slam, or popular music.

Understanding the elements of poetry:

4 I can explain the difference between open and closed form in poetry, discuss the various poetic elements such as meter and rhyme, and explain the reasons for using them in a poem.

3 I am beginning to be able to identify and talk about various poetic elements such as meter and rhyme and why they are important.

2 I’m interested in learning more about poetic elements such as meter and rhyme but don’t really know much about them yet.

1 I don’t really know about the elements of poetry.

Openness to new forms of poetry:

4 I understand that various poetic forms support different modes of artistic expression. I am strongly led to explore poems whose form and structure are unfamiliar and challenging through reading and/or writing them.

3 I am aware that poems are structured to meet different purposes. I have begun to explore poems whose form and structure are unfamiliar and challenging.

2 I realize that poems take a variety of forms and I am generally interested in finding out about new and unfamiliar forms.

1 I did not know there were different structures to poems.

Interpretation of poetry:

4 I understand that reading poetry is like acting. I can get inside a poem and develop my own individual interpretation of it. I try to convey the feelings of the poem through personal expression.

3 I can generally develop an individual interpretation of most poems, with a little help from others. I feel that most of the time or at least part of the time I can figure out the meaning behind a poem and convey that through recitation.

2 I can sometimes develop an interpretation of a poem with a lot of guidance.

1 I’m generally not able to interpret a poem.

"We wrapped him in a KIrman" and "dark terrain" certainly sound as if the young man's dead in your poem, B.

There are no novels in "Heaven," so the print size is fine. Where did I read that? Maybe "two unpublished novels" was one of Al's jokes.

TAGORE: I like Tagore. Here is a link to a poem that is a favorite of mine. I think of it when I play with my grandchildren:

COLORED TOYS

JoanK, that is sooo beautiful and true too.

Joan what a sweet poem - I especially like I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the
listening earth

I will be back way later - full day and evening - still need to type out the poem dedicated to Dexter Gordon

Not sure Barb if you are saying you were thinking there were Novels included in "Heaven" or if you cannot find the novels written by Al Young.

Till Later...

JMO--The Michigan Outloud evaluation sheet has some excellent goals to shoot for, but in its present form it's a little condescending for mature adults. I'm wondering what would be a better presentation or format. I'm just saying . . .

Perhaps it was on amazon, but I'd read somewhere that "Heaven" contained two unpublished novels. Thank goodness it didn't. The print would've been miniscule.

In spite of the disclaimer in his introduction, there are some opaque passages in Young's poetry but not enough to discourage the reader. He also does a bit of complaining, but he tends to do it in an amusing, self-deprecating way

Barbara65b, I have read that somewhere too. My 'Heaven' only includes poems.

Maybe I am still thinking of JoanK's poem about grandchildren. This is about our adult sons and daughters, when they were small and starting off to school, a new beginning.

Foggy Morning by Al Young

Disappearing around the corner
in his nylon red jacket with
the hood slipping from his hair
just brushed, my son trailing
gladness through clouds on the ground
waving to me that he can see the
yellow bus waiting fo him up
ahead. Clutching his book, waving,
waving, with nothing but life.
I stand on the porch waving back,
a lump in my throat from moving
through the fog of my years that
sunshine is destined to dissolve.

At that young age, there is "nothing but life" before our children and grandchildren. At one time, we were there too. All of life ahead of us. Now, so much life is behind us. That's not a worry. There is so much life to live at this very moment. I guess "life" is like a magic glass. It fills up, overflows and fills up again. We've just got to learn to sip a little faster.

I think 'Heaven' is a wonderful poetry book. It's well worth buying or getting at the library. This is not a commercial.

Hats writes: " I guess "life" is like a magic glass. It fills up, overflows and fills up again. We've just got to learn to sip a little faster"

I think I like what you wrote, Hats, better than the poem.

I am spending four weeks with my grand-children, trying for one-on-one days with each child. This poem has moved me to tears. I feel this poem profoundly!
What I like best however is your own thoughts:

I guess "life" is like a magic glass. It fills up, overflows and fills up again. We've just got to learn to sip a little faster.

hats thanks for the reminder - "That's not a worry. There is so much life to live at this very moment."

The catch for me is in the poem - "sunshine is destined to dissolve." At times I do not see the sunshine dissolving the fog but the rain - and that is when I think of the orange - The orange, because of that poem, has become such a powerful image for me -

I figured it out there are 52 weeks in the year and to purchase a couple of oranges a week will cost annually less than $100 - and so that is my new "alter" to remind me that I can look at life and see the orange rather than the rain or fog, that I sometimes still feel surrounds me, and see the connection I have with others who are all part of the orange.

The orange for me is better than a prayer - the joy I feel seeing the color and tasting the juicy sweetness and then contemplating its structure brings a smile to my face.

Alf - it sounds like your life over-floweth awash in grands - yes, you remind us to sip and drink and gulp-in the special gifts our children bring us when they bring grands into the world and take time to visit us with them -

Lizabeth - you sure have hit on it how often our comments about the poems we read are so much more and hats has a way of bringing us face to face with the gentle side of our lives.

Barbara - sounds like you have completely read the intro to "Heaven" - I still have pages to go - was there any group of poems that you liked more than the others -

Did you notice that in "heaven" there are a group of poems about the birth of his child - when you read his bio there is no mention of his family - he must keep the professional and family aspects of his life separate.

Al's bios I've read haven't mentioned a wife or child. I've read through page eighty-two of "Heaven." He mentions having been in the arms of a number of women after graduate school. (I'll bet!--few women could resist all that intellectual excitement and romantic outlook.) An interesting discrepancy. Perhaps he believed in the adage "He travels fastest who travels alone." Young does travel a lot. Did he mirror a common black male standard in that regard? It does seem he uses the word "wife" in a poem, and there are clearly some long term relationships. Not sure.

On biographical surprises--I just listened to comic actor Robert Wuhl's latest "U.S. history lesson" on premium TV, and he says the "Beautiful Mind" mathematician was a deadbeat dad and quite privately experimental. If they'd put that in the movie, how many would've seen it?

"Heaven" so far-- lots of sunshine, oranges, music, Mississippi, travel, his biological family, the poor. Very cheering overall, happy experiences with only brief nods to sadness and death. There are just a few subtle melancholy poems from his youth but they are profound for his age. The poems are mostly a real pickup to read; he seems to have great chemistry for happiness. I like that.

hats, the poem you posted touched me--I wanted to go back to those young parent days--but just for a short sentimental moment. And your comment was indeed almost like a poem. Am I beginning to think in meter, or is it just my imagination?

Barbara, I love your thoughts about the "orange."

"The orange for me is better than a prayer - the joy I feel seeing the color and tasting the juicy sweetness and then contemplating its structure brings a smile to my face."(Barbara)

Alf, enjoy your days with the grands. I had fun with a couple of my grandchildren over the weekend and Monday.

Barbara65b, I agree with your statement.

"I wanted to go back to those young parent days--but just for a short sentimental moment."

JMO -- Ignore this overview if you wish. Al's "Coastal Nights and Inland Afternoons" just arrived. It's short--64 pages--with thick, semi-gloss heavy paper and good-size but soft print. The titles are in a nostalgic, twenties-style type that's in vogue lately. A pleasant book to hold. I was surprised that though it says "poems 2001-2006" it contains one older poem--To Be the Perfect Fool. There are some love poems and at least a couple of political protest poems. But they seem to be of a general nature--he says he'd been on one Attorney General's side until he became disappointed in him.

Anyone who wants to read Al Young's latest work--probably not at the library--would have to have "Coastal Nights." Otherwise, the "Heaven" paperback is a better buy. Some poems Barbara's posted are in this book.

Just sampling through, I get a feeling that Young's become somewhat disappointed with things happening in society and government in the U.S. today. Didn't we all used to think things were going to get better--not worse? What poet could not express some impatience with the increased violence, selfishness, etc.? But only certain poems have that tone, so I'd hesitate to describe the book as a whole. It'll be interesting to hear from any of you who read the book what changes you might (or might not) detect from his earlier poems.

The bio says his son Michael was born at Stanford where Young lived and wrote for three decades. What is the term for single sex reproduction? Why is his son's mother not mentioned even in this 2006 publication? Maybe the story's deep in the google listings.

The mystery is solved - "Young married Arline Belck, a freelance artist, on 8 October 1963. They have one son, Michael James." This is a really nice link to Al Young's Bio

With his wife an artist, color is really part of his life isn't it - I can find links on the Internet to a Nancy Belck but not to an Arline Belck - I would have liked to see some of her work - but it is Al Young we are learning about and so onward...

I thought this was interesting from the site -- "Young's ear for language and music contributes to the success of his books and makes them especially enjoyable when he reads passages aloud in public. His characters' use of dialects grants them a great range of expression. In their mouths, the vernacular discourse provides a more versatile form of expression, much in the same way jazz music offers the musician a personal voice above and beyond the tradition."

Thanks, Barbara. I'd just found a reference to his wife in Heaven's "Sunday Illuminations," p. 82. Other women are named in his poems, haven't checked for Arline. I was hoping the bio you found would tell what happened with her, which could explain why she's not mentioned in either collection. Color is a major thing in his early poems, at least, and I'm really enjoying that.

for Arlin J.

My beautiful wife
of the flower nights
as we sail together
the dawns of consciousness
into days of the sun
from warmed over moons
of our darknesses,

keep in starry memory
how heaven has loaned us
one to the other
long enough only
that each might surrender
nothing that was not once
everything to either
in the lazy waste of self indulgence

(& just what could we share
that wouldn't just serve
to reward one's self
or no one?).

Merging like months
to form these years,
light that once blinded
now dazzles us.

You so clearly serve me
in all that you give
that I am ashamed
when I only flash back
thru clouds
my emerging love.

Now I understand your previous discussion of lines and stanzas! Oh, well.

Fixed it for you Barbara - all you have to remember is at the end of every line between <> located above the comma and period on your keyboard put the letters BR either large or small case - it does not matter - without the space - If I eliminate the space it will simply make the break without you seeing what it looks like.

example with space before and after the letters so you can see the process in action -

Merging like months 
to form these years, 
light that once blinded 
now dazzles us. 
 
You so clearly serve me 
in all that you give 
And so forth...

With the breaks the poem reads differently since we automatically take a small breath at the end of each line - written without breaks we miss some of the rhythm.

Thanks for your effort - it will be exciting to see you post more poetry - learned back in my years as a trainer that adults learn best when we need to apply what we learn - earlier you were not yet ready to post a poem -

The poem you chose to share -- what a profound thought -
how heaven has loaned us
one to the other
Sounds like a man whose love is as great as the Universe and then some...

Barbara65b, "For Arlin J" is a beautiful love poem. There are several stanzas I love. The last stanza made me wonder whether Al was apologizing for infidelity or for a lack of time with his wife because of a busy schedule.

Thank you for sharing this poem.

Barbara, thank you for your link.

hats & all--It does sound like some moderate guilt. wondered what "the light that once blinded us" was? Did they think they weren't worthy of the other or that the other was too egotistical?

Barbara, thank you!

What a surprise. Now I recall the break instructions.

For some reason, suddenly after roughly page 120, there are many poems I like. Though I've enjoyed the earlier poems, the later ones seem more finished somehow. On the other hand, a few are almost prose, but those are still interesting. Young's no big fan of Hollywood, but what writer ever was?

His wife's name is spelled without an 'e' on the end above te poem. I wonder if that means the bio had it wrong or it's just an idiosyncracy or preference of Al's.

Lizabeth must be hitting the galleries. What happened to the other posters? This is some really interesting poetry.

Young calls his father a fisherman and writes of humble parents, but in fact his father was a musician who worked in the auto industry when he couldn't play music.

It sounds as if he stayed in the country with his grandmother just some of the time. I'm trying to recall what he writes about his mother.

My take is the light that once blinded is the flush of early love - the words to me that say there was a blimp along the way - that is not explained and we can all speculate -
"from warmed over moons
of our darknesses"

I think it has to do with whatever the darkness.

The phrase "warmed over moons" before they met contrasts with "dazzled." Once again, he turns to the heavens to describe his experiences and state of mind. And he called hs book "Heaven." I'm gong to start looking for other metaphors he uses.

Interesting that in one poem "loquat" is an orange-like African fruit. (It looks like a pear-shaped lemon.) He loves those sun-like oranges.

Barbara65b, this is really interesting.

"Interesting that in one poem "loquat" is an orange-like African fruit. (It looks like a pear-shaped lemon.) He loves those sun-like oranges." (Barbara65b)

from warmed over moons
of our darknesses,

I think of second chances. Mistakes made and now they are trying to do it over again. The "darknesses" are their mistakes. The "warmed over moons" make me think of trying to regain the days of innocence, the beauty and purity of the white moon. Now, innocence is gone and they are trying recapture it. This is the "warmed over" stage. That's my guess.

Barbara65b, I get the same understanding.

The phrase "warmed over moons" before they met contrasts with "dazzled." (Barbara65b)

You so clearly serve me
in all that you give
that I am ashamed
when I only flash back
thru clouds
my emerging love.

He regrets not fully appreciating her. "Emerging love," Is he still becoming more acquainted with her? Is he saying that love continues to grow after many years?

Please explain "emerging love."

to me Love is not only a verb but purposeful - where as they may have shared passion that to me is an emotional attraction that is heated - I do not see passion as having the many nuances and expressions of love and I think practicing love is a growing thing - an emerging thing - the more we practice it the more it grows - and that was why I saw this as a love as great as the universe - growing like the universe keeps growing - also like the universe as we say to children 'things go bump in the night'.

Barbara, now I understand. I like the way you relate love to the growing universe.

Hi. I apologize for my "disappearance". I am in another book club outside SeniorNet and we are currently involved in a rapid fire discussion of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian.

There is a wonderful poem I read today in The Paris Review. I hope it is okay to share it. I just thought it was so clever.

Deadpan Elegy by Vern Rutsala

He used to know
much--had mastered
dead languages, could
sail anywhere by dead

reckoning, at billiards
he made dead shot
after dead shot, was
always dead center

at darts, could tell you
why your dead letters
went wrong, but he never
beat dead horses or wound

up in dead ends or was
kept out by dead bolts.
But for him dead is no
longer an adjective, of that

we are, sadly, dead certain.

Thanks for the touching elegy, Lizabeth. That made the Paris Review? I've got to start writing poetry.

The yellowish, elongated variation on an orange mentioned in an early poem by Young is Asian, not African. It came to me on awakening. a gift of Po Li, one of my spirit guides. Lest you begin to think I'm error-prone, I was just checking to see if everyone is alert. And that's the truth---pththth.

Speaking of elegies--

For Claudia

You told the truth as best you could
declined to say your spouse was good

You were indeed our Texas Queen
who went the mile to make us green.

Is Blood Meridian anything like The Road, by McCarthy, that we will be discussing in September?

Yes, in that they are both stylistically amazing and intense and violent. But Blood Meridian is a kind of historical fiction (based on real events), whereas The Road takes place in the future (near future?). . Also the writing style in Blood Meridian is different in some significant aspects from The Road. Both are brilliant.

A touch of George Carlin in that elegy from The Paris Review.

I found this poem online and thought it interesting for discussion:

With Rhyme and Reason by Al Young

Your John Wayne days and ways are on the wane.
Who needs another gangster, when this world
is jammed with gangsters, brilliant, slick, insane?
You whose thing is you’ve been boyed and girled
and worked and played, then turned and stretched and squashed.
What’s with it with you anyway? Ideas
you spew about your innocence have washed
up on the shores of all the bottled fears
you’ve sailed with notes inside: as tunes, as film,
as yarn, as poems; some hero swaggering
through or to some hell, some mythic realm
(or not so mythic realm). How staggering!
You talked your sleepy stuff, you swindled time;
you sold moon rocks, you set up all your own
brain-children, Humpty Dumptys. In the slime
and slow romance of infamy, you all alone
did all the dragging, drugging like John Bull
did way back when he ruled. Your Uncle Sam
just couldn’t bring it off, didn’t have the smarts.
Where Sam freaked for the buck, a quilt, some jam,
old John, your master, ushered in the arts.

John Bull:

John Bull is a national personification of the Kingdom of Great Britain created by Dr. John Arbuthnot in 1712, and popularised first by British print makers and then overseas by illustrators and writers such as American cartoonist Thomas Nast and Irish writer George Bernard Shaw, author of John Bull's Other Island.

As a literary figure, John Bull is well-intentioned, frustrated, full of common sense, and entirely of native country stock. Unlike Uncle Sam later, he is not a figure of authority but rather a yeoman who prefers his small beer and domestic peace

Billie Holiday

Billie

by Al Young (Heaven)

Music: a pattern etched into time

I suck on my lemon, I squeeze my lime
into a bright but heady drink, soft
to the tongue, cold to touch, and wait

She who is singing enters my mouth,
a portion at a time: an arm, a leg,
a nipple, an eye, strings of hair--
There! Her song goes down and spins
around the way a toy pinwheel does, as
rosy blue blur, as rainbow, whirling
me through her throaty world and higher
Chug-a-lug enchantress, show me your
etchings. Warm me again now with
the red of your Cleopatric breath

Billie Holiday

I think the poem's speaker is relaxing with a delicious drink while enjoying the classic art of a Jazzy Blues singer.

I suck on my lemon, I squeeze my lime
into a bright but heady drink, soft
to the tongue, cold to touch, and wait

After listening to Billie Holiday. You must listen to Duke Ellington. My favorite is "Sophisticated Lady."

Duke Ellington

It's delightful mixing music with poetry. Music and poetry are very closely related, right? I think we read poems out loud to catch the beat and rhythm of the poet's words.

Hi, fellow poetry students--

Thanks, hats, for the link. I only have a lttle Ellington but way too much of other jazz. I'm trying to ease off purchasing cd's a bit. It's possible our chldren won't have exactly the same musical interests in future years.

I think the John Wayne poem's a warning to the U.S. that it should stop playing sheriff to the world and exploiting other countries for profit. He advises the cultural route of England and the mellow attitude of its John Bull symbol?

The Billie Holiday poem is a tribute; but there's a touch of danger, maybe from drugs or drink. As Cleo did Marc Antony, she can lead him to his doom if he falls into her drug-dominated world.

Al Young mentions drug addiction and alcoholism in in other poems. He shares his sadness for those who've become addicted or died and his pride that he hasn't. He also tells of his fear that, as a musician, he could fall prey if he isn't cautious. I believe there's a hint in a few places that at some point he did overcome some kind of (moderate?) over-indulgence.

I know I've missed a lot in these poems, so bring it on! And thank you.

Apropos the Paris Review poem--Last night on a PBS repeat, Ansel Adams quoted Alfred Stieglitz (sp?), "Life is for better or worse, but dead is for good." But not according to Al Young. Deepak Chopra says he knows there's an afterlife. Sounds good to me, depending.

Pertinent to new age, a number of groups have designated tomorrow, Tuesday morning (7-17-07) at 7:11 am (What!!?) as a time we should each choose our own contemplative method (prayer, intentional meditation, etc.) to think on bringing peace and environmental health to the earth. (Preferably meditate for an hour.) Shelley has an interesting story on her website fireupthegrid.org. I think it's .org. She and her son were trapped under water for several minutes and against odds survived. Now she feel that creatures of light visit her with messages for the health of our planet. Yates' story recalls the Schama discussion on St. Teresa's divine experiences after a bout of malaria.

Barbara65b,

I had no idea what the Cleopatra line meant. Thank you. I think you are right on target. I am aware of Billie Holiday's sad life. Unfortunately, some of the greatest writers and musicians have succumbed to alcohol and/or drugs.

hats, I added a thank you for the link. I read somewhere yesterday that a book just came out about the impact (title?) of music on us, how we can recall words and music decades later. And how it affects us. After 9-11, a variety of my favorite music calmed me and reassured me in a way nothing else could. Very therapeutic. Since then, I appreciate music in a more profound way than ever before. Mental health care people should use it more with patients.

Sorry I need another day - a headache for two days that still won't quit - Ala barbiturates - I do not think though my pill popping is the emotional bandage of a Billy Holiday or any of those who do try to patch their lives with alcohol or drugs - I never can tell which is sadder - the addiction or the life experience that they are trying to cover. Oh can't stay - gotta get back to my pillow...now where is John Wayne when you need him - he could fix my headache if nothing else he would tell me to ride it off...

This 1992 book combines four earlier books: "Dancing" (1969); "The Song Turning Back into Itself" (1971); "Geography of the Near Past (1976); and "The Blues Don't Change" (1982). Then it adds chronological groupings of published poems 1956-1990 uncollected until now: "By Heart" (1982-86); "22 Moon Poems" (1984-85); and "Sea Level" (1986-1990). Then his uncollected poems 1956-1990. Adds an index of titles and of first lines, a bibliography, photo of Young in India, and a mini-bio.

Obviously, this is THE Al Young book to have. It is not, however, in print. Mine is a public library loan from across state of Missouri.

I like all these collections for their different reasons. Could discuss details...for years. Where to start? What to pare?

1. This short one reminds me of another short one I'd remembered from my many years ago.

Are You The Lover Or Loved?

Well, are you the lover or loved?
the caresser or caressed?
the undresser the undressed?

They say the lover loves
& the beloved is loved
but I say neither is either,
for only either you are neither.

-- Al Young, 1963

And here's that long-ago ditty his reminds me of:

  i am i
  and u are u
  and we are both
  each other two.

-- Anonymous.

OK, maybe only Jim sees similarities in these two unrelated sweet-thoughts poems.

2. Here's one I think is a good example of his earthiness, senuousness...reminiscent of those Pablo Neruda poems we studied awhile back. The poems's first two verses hopefully show what I'm trying to say:

Dancing Naked

I honor you,
I point to Genesis in the Bible
& affirm that I'm as much Adam
as you are Eve.
Our inner worlds
not only eclipse one another
but shine as proof
that text is text
& sex is sex.

Love
on the other hand
has endless angles.
To say that God loves us
is still to me
the whole beautiful point
more factual than any other truth.
To say that I love you
can be merely a gesture
or in grander instances
a pocket-sized version
of the real thing.

-- Al Young, 1968.

A following 23-line verse further develops this theme in similar smoldering fashion. His choice of title helped launch me properly into the poem's mood.

I was wondering why jazz fan Al Young's tributes to various jazz and blues musicians didn't include Lester Young, his surname namesake and one of classic jazz era's greatest tenor sax players. Lester was great. Had a smoother "voice" that even my tin-ears could identify in a blindtest of saxophonists.

But happily, I was earlier wrong. Al DID write one about Lester. It's in his 1982 collection, "The Blues Don't Change."

Lester Leaps In

Nobody but Lester let Leser leap
into a spotlight that got too hot
for him to handle, much less keep
under control like thirst in a drought.

He had his sensitive side, he had his hat, that glamorous porkpie whose
sweatband soaked up all that bad
leftover energy.

How did he choose
those winning titles he'd lay on favorites
-- Sweets Edison, Sir Charles, Lady Day?
O000 and his sound! Once you savor its
flaming smooth aftertaste, what do you say?

Here lived a man so hard and softspoken
he had to be cool enough to hold his horn
at angles as sharp as he was heartbroken
in order to blow what it's like being born.

At first for me, this poem seemed to short-shrift a great jazzman and surname-sake. But it does, in a nutshell, capture Lester Young's unique style and persona. Lester also slapped nicknames on contemporaries that have "stuck." Lady Day is, of course, the incomparable Billie Holiday. He did that Lady Day dub just after Holiday had dubbed him "Prez." Jazz already had its Duke (Ellington), King (of swing, Benny Goodman) and Count (Basie).

Anyways, I'm today glad to find that Al Young included Lester Young among his several poems honoring classic-jazz greats.

Barbara St A, please somehow do conquer those pains. This likely won't help thee all that much. But re your "Where's John Wayne when I need him," surely you recall "Quiet Man," wherein he drags lovely lass Mareen O'Hara over the heather to hearth and home. Somewhat akin to the Bard's classic "Taming of the Shrew," I timidly postulate. Anyways, those cave-man techniques surely create a serious headache...to any lovely lass being towed homeward by her locks. Even when the tow-er is John Wayne.

Jim-- I believe he mentions Lester Young in more than one poem, referring to him by the first name only. Too busy to hunt them down tonight.

PBS art show on French rebel Jean Louis David--10:00 pm (Monday) here.

I really liked the poem I posted "With Rhyme or Reason" or else I would not have posted it. (smile) Not that I dislike his jazz poems but I know from experience that it is hard to write political poems that are also good poetry. You tend to get into the politics too heavily and then it becomes more like a diatribe.

I know from experience. I wrote poetry from about 1959-1968 and then totally stopped because I was involved with "politics." I tried to write political poetry and it did not work. I didn't begin writing again until around 2002.

I heard a recording of Leonard Cohen today doing "I'm Your Man" and was blown away completely...and absolutely....

Lester Leaps In by Al Young. We should say Jim in Jeff leaps in. It's always a pleasure to see you post. I know. I am repeating myself. Sorry, the compliment deserves repeating. I love the last lines of "Lester Leaps In." Thank you for posting it.

Here lived a man so hard and softspoken
he had to be cool enough to hold his horn
at angles as sharp as he was heartbroken
in order to blow what it's like being born.

That multi-disciplinary post of mine should have read Jacques Louis-David, not Jean. Pretty wild French Revolution story discussed over there on the PBS book website.

I'm enjoying the poems posted too. Barbara, we're doing okay, wish you were!

Though I'd read it before, The Lester Young poem has made me curious about his life. I've got it on my list. The biographies of several of the jazz greats are alarming, though their music is heaven-sent.

Since Billie Holiday has been mentioned, these are lyrics of one of the most powerful songs she ever recorded:

Strange Fruit
Billie Holiday

Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves
Blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
The scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
for the rain to gather
for the wind to suck
for the sun to rot for the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop

Composed by Abel Meeropol (aka Lewis Allan) Originally sung by: Billie Holiday

By the way, Abel Meeropol and his wife Anne adopted Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's two sons, Michael and Robert, after their parents' execution. This song clearly is a reflection of his politics.

Thanks for posting "Strange Fruit", Lizabeth. In teaching civil rights--one of his fields--my husband has sometimes used that poem.

I'd never heard that it was written by the man who, with his wife, adopted the Rosenbergs' children. Our execution of the that couple is another scandal of American history. A long, tragic story. Do you know what Meeropol did for a living?

To Jim - half.com has the collection you mentioned in your post

http://product.half.ebay.com/Heaven_W0QQtgZinfoQQprZ336227

MarjV: Thanks for your link to an online "Heavens' book-offer. I'm not sure it's a trusted website, but I'll check it out further.

Lizabeth: I first became a Leonard Cohen fan just after his 1988 "I'm Your Man" album. His many songs/poems until and after then have been covered by many singers. "I'm Your Man" was maybe his first "singing my own songs" album...and his voice on it works for me.

Yes, your 1959-1968 poetry sojourn...would easily segue into political thoughts in those nation-dividing times.

"Strange Fruit" is a jarring, dark poem. I've savored Billie Holiday's poignant rendering a long time. Abel Meeropol penned this poem's poignant lyrics.

Barbara65b: No need to go out and buy a book on Lester Young. I-net has nutshell info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_Young

- Jim in Jeff.

I buy from half.com all the time for years, Jim.

Thanks for reassurance. I'm still puzzled why my tried-and-true credit card info to them was today rejected as "exceeding limits."

Here's an Al Young SONNET! (a poetic form oft discussed here earlier):

A Sunday Sonnet for my Mother's Mother (for Mrs Lillian Campbell)

Consider her now, glowing, light-worn,
arthritic, crippled in a city backroom
far from the farm where she was born
when King Cotton was still in bloom.

She is as Southern as meat brown pecans,
or fried green tomato, or moon pies.

Gathering now for eight decades, aeons
of volunteered slavery soften her sighs.

Talk about somebody who's been there,
This grand lady has seen, remembers it all
and can tell you about anyone anywhere
in voices as musical as any bird's call.

Loving her, it hurts to hear her say,
"My grandchildren, they just threw me away."

This I post in honor of my own beloved Grandmother who raised me. I didn't forget, I'll never forget.

I thought the sonnet to his grandmother was very powerful. I wonder if his writing the poem was in response to her remark in the last line?

I heard that half.com was purchased by amazon. In any case, it's a huge operation--no fly-by-night.

I'm not sure how the Leonard Cohen topic got into this discussion, but then I've been in a hurry lately.

Jim-- Thanks--I'll get to your link. I had no plans to buy a book on Lester Young. As a matter of fact, we have about a half dozen or more books that probably have at least some of his bio. One (Reading Jazz, Gottlieb) has long essays but none on Lester. I'd picked that book up one night and couldn't put it down--some wild stories and exciting criticism. From Al's references, it sounds as if a short bio might be preferable. But I'm sure your link is a good one, so it'll be first. Then I'll impress my family and others with my knowledge, which, after all, is what really matters, right?

A Sunday Sonnet for my Mother's Mother (for Mrs Lillian Campbell) is such a moving poem. It is unforgettable. I have read it more than once in my Al Young book of poems.

Al Young's books are not carried by my library except for Mingus Mingus which is not poetry but biography.

So Is There Life On You, Moon? by Al Young

So is there life on you, moon?
Some mystics say yes & most
scientists say no. What do
you say, moon of moons?

How about inside those rocks
of yours? Are you sure
there isn't some microscopic
form of mini-seeded life-
in-embryo embedded or pillowed
in the dandruff you harbor
by all your dead & tranquil seas?

It's fun to talk about, all this,
but academic, you must admit.
I look at you & know you're partly me.
For now, that's life enough.

I read Al Young's poems. I admire the poet's ability to sit down and think, really think instead of taking life so for granted. I love the line "I look at you & know you're partly me." My mind can not even comment on that line. It is too weighty for my little brain.

I suppose we are all intertwined, related in some way, the moon, the stars, the corn in the field, the orphan in Iraq. There is a oneness in the universe, a meeting or coming together to make one gigantic whole.

Hats: Yes, we are all one. SOme of us believe that and act on that belief. Some do not; they have various filters to apply and only those who can pass through all the filters are admitted to their company. I'm glad to be in your company and have you in mine.

Young's 22 "Moon Poems" were from 1984-85 in an "up" time for him. No politics, no hidden societal analogies here. Hats' choice, "So Is There Life On You, Moon?" is my fave Moon poem too. Oddly, he wrote these 15 years after USA made the Moon better known.

Oneness appears at root of most religious tenets, I think. Even our wonderful "America" poet Walt Whitman promoted Oneness in his wonderful 19th century "Song of Myself":

I celebrate myself, and sing myself
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Whitman then went on a loooong while expounding his "Oneness" theme. Do revisit Whitman's entire "Song of Myself" if you wish. It's a wonderful read.

This Al Young poem spoke to me. It's also the title poem in his collection titled "SEA LEVEL":

Sea Level

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

Much food for thought for me in that one from Al.

What a word master he is: Shy horizon Sand that doesn't know it's sand all by itself sea level/see on the level He is sublime.

Jim's link to Lester Young brought back memories. I was startled at how familiar he looked. I'm sure I've at least listened to some of those records, and I remember a friend describing some of the performances at the Newport Jazz Festival of 1957. I'm lucky to have been alive in those days. Though later we embraced the California jazz of Dave Brubeck, Stan Getz, etc. I'm waitig to see if Young mentions any of them. I may have seen a reference to Getz. The CA artists got short shrift in the Ken Burns series. I think we have Lester in that series.

I did see "Round Midnight" starring Dexter Gordon. An engrossing, then tragic story. The character died shortly after the beginning of a late comeback. Lester Young had a number of "comebacks."

I'll be busy polishing up for the visit of our son and only grandchild Saturday. A surprising treat for us since at summer's end we're all joining our daughter for four days at the beach. It's our son's first vacation since his forty-three year old wife went into a nursing home after an accident two years ago. He and eight year old Annie have visited her nearly every day since. We're planning a blast.

Love some of those moon poems.

Barbara65b, that California jazz movement was also called "West Coast Jazz"; also, "Cool Jazz" in some circles (cool meaning smooth). It wasn't NYC-style bebop (Dizzy, Miles, T Monk, Mingus, etc. And probably not Lester Young, altho he did have a smoother Sax sound. West Coast Jazz DID include Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Dave Brubeck etc. Did you see the Chet Baker bio movie, "Lets Get Lost" starring him in his later years?

Obvious to all maybe, I'm a longtime jazz fan. Almost ALL its dozen or two "styles." West Coast Jazz was my first love tho...about 1985.

Here's Al Young again. This one I'm not sure I understand fully...but I sure like the way he says it. (How he turns a phrase; originally.) The man's his own Man.

Green Is A Feeling, Not A Color

In the branches of your nerves
a draft passes, as is sleep
in a storm, as the tree bends
in nights no Columbus could sail

In summer an apple shines hollow
> with many suns inside it, dreaming
women swimming slowly sandy shores
in green & yellow, bikinis that smile

There's nothing new here, just
an ancient new world: a picture of
stones & flesh slipping into an ocean
into chilled kisses, caresses, as a
child would a boor or carousel spinning
with flashing pink tongues, warm teeth

Leaves of your body are flying away,
original birds, flat without mouths,
out to backyards away from the sea
across dream sand the color of burnt snow

In the branches of your nerves
leaves must only be extensions of
all our trembling treeflesh, starflesh,
the body with arms held out, a star,
five-pointed, perfect to hang space
around or light for leaf or galaxy

Love, I feel you leafless, a field
the greenness of my own invention

-- Al Young, 1976

Forum friends, I'm quite taken with his above poem. As Jackie put it well, sometimes Al Young is sublime.

Jim, thank you SO MUCH for the green poem. I have not been overwhelmed by Al Young's poetry overall although I have enjoyed some of them, but this one blows me away.

I am going to read it a few times more but just the line: "Love, I feel you leafless..." leaves me breathless.

"across dream sand the color of burnt snow"

This line is drippingly delicious. What a powerful and original image.

And this:

"leaves must only be extensions of
all our trembling treeflesh

The writing here is so descriptive and so refreshing. It creates a symbolic painting and then repaints it and I am dazzled.

I am not sure any of his poems have hit me like this one.

Jim, I agree with Lizabeth. "Green" is a beautiful poem. I have to pick my favorite line or lines. I am going to read it again. I overlooked it in my book until you posted it.

How are Barbara and Anna? If you are reading this, I think of both of you.

By Heart by Al Young

The leaves on the trees,
the smell of the ocean,
the feel of the earth --
we sit embalmed in lonely clubs
at night, remembering this,
feeling sorry for ourselves
when all the time God is
whispering and zinging
along the telephone wires
of our secret hearts,
telling us, "I love you,"
showing us how. And yet
we shut that soft voice out
like the wind in a leaky cabin.
We know all this by heart
but we forget until the singer
makes the inside of us tremble
like the leaves on the trees
then suddenly we smell the ocean
and feel the earth whirling
around and around the worlds
of lazy space between our thoughts.(Heaven)

Earlier someone mentioned that music is good for the illnesses of the mind. Al Young calls the empty space in our hearts and minds the "lazy space." In the "lazy space" there is no appreciation for the beauty of motion or anything else. Self pity masks our eyes. There is hope according to Al Young. God or whomever is worshipped gives us music, a singer to make

the insides of us tremble
like the leaves on the trees,

Mrs. Sherlock, thank you for your post. The filter idea is philosophical and simplistic all at the same time. Your thoughts will remain with me.

"Composed spontaneously between September of 1984 and February of 1985, while I was adrift in Italy, Yugoslavia, New York and California, these moon-inspired poems, moans and soliloquies continue to amuse me. They are largely culled from a notebook I kept during that wistful period, when the moon--sometimes visible, sometimes not--became my confessor, companion and comforter."

(Part of an essay in "Heaven" by Al Young)

"My abiding affection for the moon, its beauty, its presence and magic is still as wondrous to me as it was when I used to sit on the back porch steps summers in the rural Mississippi night and marvel at how moonlight could soften and brighten my attitudes toward those very corn and cotton fields we kids would have to be working in once the sun began making its rounds. In those nights, I'd have secret little boy chats with the man in the moon...."

We must have somewhere, somehow-- been kindred spirits.
Today I returned from the beach (New Jersey) and sat for long hours thinking while smelling and feeling the pull of the ocean.
I was with my children and my husband and yet I knew that I was being summoned --- ??? somewhere else-- to someone else?
how strange that thought- somewhere that eons and ages have called-
I feel that I should write my own poem, my own experience and the only time that I have ever felt that is by the water.> Shall I believe that it is because I am a Scorpio and ruled by the water or that God was telling me thru his own wires that I am loved?????????????????????

Alf,

I am a Scorpio as well as a lover of the ocean. When I was growing up, we spent time every summer in Atlantic City. This is when I began to love the ocean. This is waaaaay before the casinos moved to the boardwalk. I remember Steel Pier. Anyway, when I had my babies and while they were growing up, we travelled to different places with our church. We chose places by the sea: Pensacola beach, St. Pete, Myrtle Beach, Biloxi and Virginia Beach. I can smell the ocean even when I am not near it.

Alf, you are a Dear Heart; Thank you for being my friend and most of all my kindred spirit.

As usual, I have taken along time to say my main thought. I do believe we are kindred spirits. That's a very good thing.

Dreams of Paradise by Al Young(Heaven)

Ive had dreams of Paradise where all you do is open your heart
& let the endlessness ooze out. It is quite something to go thru.
One night in Detroit--the death of my stepfather--weary &
hopeful of everything, I lay in bed grieving & wondering,
whereupon, 4 in the morn, the whole room began to expand &
I with it, giddy with silent affirmation-that is to say: It was
the feeling I feel each of us is rightfully entitled to & it doesnt
happen out in the world of gold & crashings but is a perfect
withinness, a peacefulness & surprise that is unkillable. (1965)

Thank you, Hats, for sharing that poem. It is raining in NYC this morning. That poem was a wonderful way to open up my morning. Perfect to change the mood and focus on things beautiful. Oh what incredible medicine art is...

Lizabeth, what a beautiful way to put it.

STRUCK FROM LIGHTNING

My grand-kids scuff the rug for pinprick bolts

of lightning they can finger-zap on skin —

then giggle when I’m jolted by their volts.

These quanta, of non-local origin,

convey a metaphysical “within,”

illumine mirth in everything absurd —

electrify the heart of this old bird.

This is my own poem (therefore taken without concern about copyright issues) from my book, 21st Century Bread: Poems. See more like it at http:www.lulu.com/lelandjamieson

Here is where you should post the above message about your own book. post here

authors Corner

leland--

What a wonderful poem. Great sustained imagery that paints a picture with deeper meaning. Well done. My only problem--I don't know you at all but it bothered me that you refer to yourself as an "old bird" (even though it rhymes so well with "absurd.")

And the alternative?

Has anyone heard from Barbara? Is she helping with the flooding in her area? She does good work. Or just taking some down time, maybe. Ive enjoyed reading and sharing her posts in various discussions for four years. Hope she's all right.

What poet are we doing next in August?

Eternity by Al Young(Heaven)

I love the quiet, hard
to reach hours where
space & time yawn at you
from one galaxy to the next;
those seemingly desolate hours
where there's room to stretch
& no car horn bleating or
anybody needing you on the horn.
---------------------------------------------
And then there's the rolling sea of time
whose every bubble is less than
an instant in the longest minute
God ever held anything in mind.

This is not the whole poem. I just wrote the first and third stanza. There is a second stanza. The rest is in Al Young's book, 'Summer.'

I have never read the poems by Dylan Thomas. In 'Summer,' Al Young writes a poem to and about him.

A Poem For Dylan Thomas
by
Al Young

When night moved through the air
of that almighty sleep, you stumbled.

I dove fast to catch you falling there,
undreamed, the drowsing king of consonance.
And in that mirrored state, the whole
of Wales ignored, you dragged me down at once
into your deep, bright, ringing countryside.

There are no names for lines as yet unsung,
that hang, that dangle scantly from
the heart's tight, high-wired rope.
Hope is what your songs stirred up in me.
They left me with no choice; I went right on
voicing all I'd heard and seen and breathed
down there inside your dream, and mixed it well
with wishes and bewitchments of my own.

We probed all nights together separately.
And daylight was never so gentle as it was
the medicinal afternoon you woke and slipped away
to smell the sweet, brisk air; to swallow
the sea--all small-craft warnings be damned.

(1990)

If I am not mistaken, did Barbara act as DL for Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas? I might very well have my information wrong. If so, forgive me.

DylanThomas

You might want to turn your speakers on to hear the link.

Do Not Go Gentle is one of my all time favorite poems. When I was about nineteen, I fell deeply in love with a musician/composer. I wrote poetry and loved reading poems too. I showed him that poem which he had never read and the year he won some big grant (Ford Foundation?), he set the "lyrics" to music and it was performed. I will never forget that Ah, memories!

Lizabeth, is it possible you could post one of your poems here?

I have celebrated the life of Dylan Thomas because of the poem written by Al Young. Al Young's poem is the last one in the book, Summer.

I'm getting emails from other discussion groups asking about Barbara. I hope she's all right. I miss those long, informative posts. But the participants have really kept things up. I wish I had time to post more poems.

Whew! Over halfway through "Heaven," I'm getting bogged down. I've never read so many poems--there are a few hundred--by one poet. I'm going to begin choosing some and then move on to the second book. I want to get into "Coastal Poems" to compare differences in style, viewpoint, and so on in his later years. The forms seem about the same.

I'm taking the "Coastal" book to the beach to discuss it with our adult children. Young's a great poet for men because of his writing about jazz, his life, politics, etc. In recent years, it's been the kids teaching us things, so now we can share something with them for a change..

I asked earlier about Barbara. I have my mind on the floods in Texas. I hope we hear from her soon. Then, her last post she talked about a headache I think. I hope we will hear from her soon too. She is greatly needed in the Poetry Corner.

I think ANNAFAIR is traveling. She usually keeps in touch, but said that she was going (I think) to Montreal to see Eloise. I forgot to ask her when she's coming back.

No idea where Barbara is. I hope she's alright.

New Autumn, New York by Al Young

Late in the day when light is sandwiched
softly between slices of daytime and night,
I stroll around Gramercy Park, locked as usual
and all keyed up again for the real autumn.

To the falling of leaves in time-lapse slow
motion, I follow my feet, each crackling step
nudging me into a vaster present than this
friendly seasonal chill can circumscribe.

There is no end to the inward adventure of
journeying October to the edge of November.

Autumn is my favorite season.

I liked these two lines:

Late in the day when light is sandwiched
softly between slices of daytime and night,

And unfortunately Young is right. Gramercy Park is always locked. It is a private park.

I like this autumn poem.

From the several references, I guess Young's also referring to his mortality. Still, reading it makes me wish I could move to New York. Marrying someone from the Jersey shore whose aunts (one an artist) lived in Brooklyn was the closest I've gotten, outside of five-day hotel stays. The rents are so high, my daughter moved to the Brooklyn house of a college friend.

And Hats, I did read your very sweet request for me to post one of my own poems here and thank you. But I am still a bit too self conscious here to do that. I am new here and not yet totally comfortable.It takes me a while. I was not ignoring you. If it seemed like that, I sincerely apologize.

Lizabeth, I didn't think you were ignoring me. Never worry about such happening. I know you have to feel comfortable first. Just do it when the time feels right.

Barbara65b, I loved your thought about the poem, Autumn. I will read it again with the thought of mortality in mind.

Have enjoyed the poems and MISS this place MUCH ...I am still recovering from my fall on May 5th...since I used my hands to break my fall they have given me trouble writing , holding the phone , driving , you name it they can really slow me down,, and in fact I fell in June when my dog carried a play toy upstairs and I didnt see it and skidded across the floor on its soft fabric, Of course I hit my left side, the shoulder and my head bounced off the door,., My knees are still bruised from the earlier fall and at 2AM there was no one to call so I had to wait until I could carefully use my right knee to get up,,nothing serious but my o my I am thinking I need to learn where to put my feet.

I have also been busy getting ready for my visit with Eloise in Aug I will take a train to NY on WED 15th ( I think) arrive at Penn Station at 1:30AM and wait for the train to Montreal which leaves at 8:30 Am Six days with Eloise and her family and then two more days to return home. With little responsibility for awhile I hope to recover and in September at least pop in and contribute ..

I am delighted to see we have new posters and poets themselves,....Since I have never been to Montreal I am hoping the muse will help me write something about my visit

Thanks so much for wondering where I am and what I am doing ,...HUGS TO EACH and a special hug to my fellow ocean lover and Scorpio HATS God Bless all ..anna

Anna-

I spent a few days in Montreal last summer and it was lovely. Don't miss the Cathedral of Notre Dame there. I was just given notes on how to format a link so bear with me if this doesn't work.

Notre Dame de Montreal.

It is so good to hear from you. What a nice surprise! I miss you. I feel happy about your trip away to see Eloise. You will come back rejuvenated. Have a wonderful, wonderful time.

Lizabeth, your link looks very pretty. Thank you for the link.

Anna--I remember your name--and little else--from a few years ago. (I didn't realize how challenging and fun the poetry and literature discussions could be. I was barb34 and somehow my online name changed.) The concern for you here has been such that it's a relief to finally hear your awful experience. Terrible but less ominous than it sounded at first. You're well and travelling--good!

Thanks, hats, for the mention of my comment. I'm not too sure I was right about the mortality theme.

I guess the other few posters--Jim, Alf, etc. are off fishing or recreating somewhere. (I used to think Alf was a male, like the little TV creature.) Seafood restaurant tonight! Best to all.

Each late-July, I can't help recalling that delicious oldie heard often at 1950s movie drive-in intermissions. What's stuck most for me is its phrase: "Romance runs high...the last two weeks in July."

Lazy Summer Night
Words & Music by Harold Spina
Recorded by The Four Preps, 1958

It's such a lazy summer night,
There's not a moving thing in sight
It's all so qui - et, no ri - ot,
Why, even in the thicket, Mister Cricket's
Slowin' down.

It's such a lazy summer night
That in-spi-ra-tion point is right
For fan - cy dream - in'
And seem - in'
To just relax and run away from town.

Hey take a look at all those other cars;
They're parked here just like ours,
To count the stars above;
It seems we're not alone.
I guess I should have known,
Romance runs high...
The last two weeks in July.

It's such a lazy summer night,
Tonight the fire flies will light
The way for lov - ers, for lovers like us
To love.

It's such a lazy summer night!

Isn't that...just beautiful? And here's an Al Young offering just as beautiful (wish I knew Al Young's motives here):

SEVENTH APRIL

How beautiful you are
given to me
to appreciate

I take excursions
up into my lonely self
& wait for you
rather than float out
to miss you
waiting

These sadnesses,
drynesses of our times
will give way
to light-new splendor

& finding you
I'll have returned
to my very self,
the dream solved,
mysteries shaken,
all absence removed,
each touch intact

How beautiful

-- Al Young, 1967.

I am so relieved to hear from you. Soak in a nice warm tub of Epsom Salts to help you heal.
Vaya con Dios when you leave for Montreal. Eloise is a wonderful hostess and there is no doubt in my mind that you will have a marvelous time with her and her delightful family.

Getting ready to visit Eloise was hectic since the second time I fell I had an appointment to apply for my passport ..it was several days later before I could do that and it did arrive..I have a few things to do but am already packed..well as near as possible ..

Lisabeth thanks for the link .Eloise promises she will see I see all there is to see :-)I really need this vacation ...and Eloise is the perfect person to enjoy it with...She spent some time with me when she came here to drive to Isle of Palms when 22 "bookies" met with Mary Alice Monroe...We have a great time so I am looking forward to this adventure.

Alf that is a good idea I have some epsom salts and will try one tomorrow it is after midnight right now and I would go to sleep in a warm tub!

Hats I have missed you ..you still write such lovely posts I have no idea where Barbara is but will try and call her tomorrow I have worried about all the bed weather in Texas and hope she is just busy...

Jim thanks for the lyrics they are wonderful and I am puzzling over Young's poem Does it sound like the seventh April was special perhaps there was a separation and this is an anniversary ? I have only read a few of the pomes posted and loved them but have not read anything about Young One thing about a poem you dont understand what the poet meant YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT IT COULD MEAN TO YOU ...For me it reminds me of the years my husband , a pilot in the Air Force was away..lots of months and a few years once..and even with him away the love we had was what saw me through and the joy of his returning lifted us both ...it may not be what Young was thinking but it sure reminds me of those special times in our life...Take care will check in just to give you all cyber hugs if nothing else. .God Bless--- anna

Anna,

I am glad to hear from you again. I hope you will have a chance to jot a poem or two about your journey to Montreal. I knew you would like Al Young too.

I am just hoping and hoping that you will have gotten all healed up when you return. I can imagine Eloise as the perfect hostess. I would love to hear about your trip when you return. Until we talk again, keep safe.

Jim, I love the first poem by Al. While reading it, I felt slowed down, ready to lie down, ready to take it easy. It does matter how we read a poem, doesn't it? It's not just imagery. It's the sound. Is that the way you would put it? The mood fits the words chosen. Writing poem correctly isn't easy. It's a study in itself. My way of reading poetry is very basic. I would like to move up another step with the help of everyone here.

I think I asked this question before. I am not sure it was answered. Which poet are we doing in August?

Thanks you for your concern - I will be back this evening to catch up - here is my tale of woe...

I have been a mess for over a week - had a very painful headache on the top of my head that would not quit - After 3 days I finally went to the Doctor - no fever so no infection - then he discovered a big knot on the back of my head behind my ear - can't spell but it was the mastoid area - I have bad allergies especially to mold and as you must have read by now it has rained every day for a month and a half - and so we thought maybe the knot and my headache were allergy related.

And so with a round of cortisone we thought we had it - but the next day the headache was as bad as ever and so we decided I should see a Dentist - Dentist had an opening that day and found a cavity in my upper molar - following day took care of it which included a crown - and still the headache - by now I am on serious pain medication trying to get through the day since I have two houses I was hired to try and sell -

There is a molar on the bottom of my mouth that broke off and it was decided I should see a surgeon to have it removed - Monday surgery - followed by enough uncomfort I did not know if my head or my jaw was the culprit and so a stronger pain medicine put me to bed - Finally this week on Wednesday all the dental work and all the allergy medicine was not making a difference - and so for the last four days I have been going to Dr. Lio at the Chinese Medical Academy. He has been giving my acupuncture that lasts well over 2 hours each day - Finally I am having some relief - he calls the problem 'Summer Water' which sounds to me like allergy related drainage that probably settled in the back of my head causing this headache on the top of my head.

Finally last two nights I slept through the night with just aspirin and yesterday I have had to catch up with my business - I will catch up sure later today - so glad you had a good month discussing Al Young - before all this I even purchased a book all about understanding Jazz -

I have not even read any of the posts since a week ago Wednesday. Each day I lasted for about 30 minutes and then I had to lay down with a pill and fall asleep for some relief with a heating pad or a vibrator then 3 or 4 hours later another 30 to 50 minutes - that is how I have been getting through the days. What a mess... sheesh. The sun is actually out today - hope this means I can relax and be me...!

The schedule for the year is back on one of the older Posts Lizabeth - August we cool off with Robert Service - most all his poetry is on-line so we do not need to run to the library or purchase a book this month - then it is New York Poet Laureate Billy Collins in September - oh I have to run - be back later this evening.

Barbara, I am sorry to hear about that painful, ongoing headache. I hope each day you become better and better. I have missed your profound thoughts. Get well soon.

Barbara--So you hadn't really decided we were hopeless interpreters. It also sounds as if you haven't quite gotten to the bottom of your mystery ailment. I've had a middling case of something with fatigue for years which my doctor thinks is RA, and after my cataract surgery, my eye swelled dangerously for months. I couldn't convince the eye doctor to give me anti-inflammatories in advance. For the second eye he did. My eyesight is 95% good now, but I detect hard-to-describe subtle differences during those unusual times I shop in a supermarket. But enough about me!

I'd just read an article on Tibetan medicine and have often thought of seeing an elderly Chinese practioner in the area. I'm sure you'll keep consulting until you're returned to health. This condition sounds like torture. A friend's headaches were so bad she couldn't lie down, and The Mayo diagnosed her with Ciari syndrome. She had surgery near the Clinic to correct the problem close to her brain stem and is enjoying her active life again.

When we took our young daughter to the Wake Forest Med Center years ago, the headache specialist said to take away all pain killers for a few days. We were shocked, and since she hadn't had that many aspirin or headaches we knew it was a cruel mistake. But it worked. Later, I read that the body can "request" relief from medication and when not given will sometimes heal itself. I wish there was such a simple answer for you.

My husband is very weather conscious and kept askng about Austin flooding even before you were taken away. When you went away, he thought someone at SeniorNet should phone you. Take all the time you need; you've established a tone and demonstrated or reminded us of several ways to answer any questions we have.

Some of Young's poems do seem to be private messages he's decided to share. A number he addresses directly to the person--famous or in his personal circle. This last poem is pretty opaque to me, but as has been said, we can read into it what we will.

Barbara--

I hope you are feeling better. That sounds positively awful. I am supposed to help out with Billy Collins since I live in New York. At least that is what I recall. I wanted to know now because I am usually quite busy with work in September so that gives me a chance to select some poetry in advance that I think will be fun to discuss. I adore Billy Collin by the way.

Way back there – two weeks ago tomorrow – Jim brought to our attention Al Young’s poem idea of love – the lines that say so much –
“To say that God loves us is still to me
the whole beautiful point
more factual than any other truth.
to say that I love you
can be merely a gesture
or in grander instances
a pocket-sized version
of the real thing.

Wow - “a pocket-sized version” –

Then as hats said, this is worth repeating
"hold his horn
at angles as sharp as he was heartbroken
in order to blow what it's like being born"

Great lines – while reading the book on Jazz today I learned something that I see rife in the poetry of Al Young – the rhythm of a four beat bar in Jazz is 1 2 3 4 Al uses that meter in his poetry – da dum da dum. I am seeing each line start with a non-accented syllable or short unaccented word.

Ouuuww I did not know that “Abel Meeropol and his wife Anne adopted Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's two sons” thanks Lizabeth for the heads-up.

MarjV – good to hear that half.com is a company to consider – I got my copy of “Heaven” used through Amazon – so far they have never failed me and if I have trouble, they take it upon themselves to refund the money actually owed by the bookseller that did not perform.

Beautiful line “in voices as musical as any bird's call” in “Sunday Sonnet for my Mother’s Mother” followed by the wrenching line "My grandchildren, they just threw me away." Ouch!

Ahhh Jackie – too bad your library doesn’t carry Al Young – I had not heard of him and I am so glad this peek into State Laureates brought him to our attention. His credentials say he is all over the place and yet, not really. For me his relationship with Jazz is bringing an added dimension that has me reading poetry with a new zest.

I laughed out loud when I read this line in So Is There Life On You, Moon?
"embryo embedded or pillowed
in the dandruff you harbor"

I just love these lines – they seem to me to be a prayer -
"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"

Jackie, I agree with you, he is sublime isn’t he…

Barbara sounds like tragedy in your life with a young daughter-in-law in a nursing home – oh, Barbara my heart goes out to you and your family. Hope your get-to-gather is or was a blast – y’all deserve it…

Aha and so West Coast is "cool" and East Coast or NYC is "bebop" – Jim sounds like you are up on your Jazz. Al Young having so many poems dedicated to Jazz artists must be a joy for you to read.

I love these lines -
"across dream sand the color of burnt snow

In the branches of your nerves
leaves must only be extensions of
all our trembling treeflesh, starflesh,
the body with arms held out, a star,"

The imagery is wonderful – as Jackie said back a few posts ago - "sublime" - "breathless" is right Lizabeth – takes awhile to get into Al Young doesn’t it – we want to judge his work with different standards – some of his work seems so simple with what appears to be no organization, as if the writings of a child and then he says something that just blows you away.

hats this interpretation of Al Young’s thought is so wonderful it bears repeating – "Al Young calls the empty space in our hearts and minds the "lazy space."
In the "lazy space", there is no appreciation for the beauty of motion or anything else. Self-pity masks our eyes. There is hope according to Al Young. God or whomever is worshipped gives us music, a singer to make"
How easy to take on the mantle of self-pity when things go array and people close to us disappoint us. Two short words that I must remember because they say oceans or at least hats you have let us see how they say oceans - the "lazy space" –thanks!

Alf you too a water person – I am an Aquarius and feel like I belong when I am in water – that pull has been written about by so many – I think it is St. Thomas Aquinas who writes about the natural pull in man towards god – even in Rawling's latest Harry Potter book she speaks of the rhythm of the water - the push/pull of the waves heard on the beach near the cottage where Harry is staying and plotting his next move. Sounds like you had an almost out of body experience where the call of the sea was greater than your family.

And HATS you are also a SCORPION – my word – but the biggie for me – I did not know Al Young wrote a poem for Dylan Thomas – thank you thank you thank you for sharing it – Dylan Thomas has got to be one of my all time favorite poets – what that man can do with words to me is nothing less than miraculous – I put him up there with Shakespeare.

Huuuuhhhhuuu... - translation - that is a huge intake of breath - and then you go and include the poetry of Dylan Thomas!!! – oh my – oh my – bless you – I love you forever – These lines from "Fern Hill" are nectar from the gods -
"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,"

This is one of my favorite Dylan sites.

OH my, so sorry you were all worried – I really was in a mess though - I just could not post – the headache only returned this afternoon for about an hour – hopefully we are on to something with the acupuncture – I did get a back message at Whole Foods yesterday and that loosened up all the tension in my shoulders and arms – at this point I do not even care what is causing this – I have had migraines since I was a kid but this is no migraine – if it was I could fix me by now – thank goodness it is only an hour of pain today rather than the other way around –

Sorry to gringe on like this – hate it when old folks can do nothing but talk about their current illnesses – but this one had me by the tail. My daughter is coming next week for what will probably be her last year to make a summer visit – Ty is a senior and next summer he will surely be working and preparing for college. I will be out of pocket on Wednesday and Thursday and then I will be here till Thanksgiving – Thank you all for continuing – really seems inappropriate to thank you since this is our discussion - and you do a bang up job of making each post so interesting I am blown away reading them as a long narrative.

Need to stop for a bit – have 20 more to go – or really only 16 since the last four are from earlier today… see you in a bit…

Barbara, what amazes me so much about your story is that it seems after seeing the doctor and the dentist, it was the acupuncturist that gave you the most relief. So much for advances in medicine...I go to a massage therapist once a week and his hands are worth more to me than any pills a doctor might prescribe. I don't understand why but that is okay too. I just need to surrender to his gift. Too bad you don't live in New York City or I would give you his name, etc.

Barbara, it is a pleasure to see you post again. I am glad you enjoyed the Dylan Thomas site. Thank you for the gift of another in return.

Just a quickie this morning - thanks hats - it is a joy to read posts on poetry again -

Yes, Lizabeth it is Billy Collins that we do in September and so what ever you can do to bring us some of his poems will be wonderful. Often, unless you buy a book which gets to be a bit much after awhile, our local library does not have a copy of many copies of current poets. Some of his work is on-line but not like the older poets whose complete work, or close to it, is available on-line And so have fun making some choices for us - there will be others among us who will be posting his poetry as well it is just your extra resource will enrich the month of September for us.

I'll be back later today - more acupuncture this morning - and yes, Lizabeth Dr. Lio has brought me the most relief - but then long ago I found faith in Eastern Medicine as compared to Western Medicine that is invasive in comparison. I have a funny story where I went for a physical to my long time regular Western Doctor who was put out with me for seeing a Chinese Doctor - he thought it ridiculous that treatment was subscribed by looking at my tongue, which for Chinese Medicine the tongue is thought to be sectioned into 6 areas - to me, what was the difference in the ridiculous habit of wrapping something around your arm so tightly that you can count how fast blood is moving through your body - ah so - bottom line after no Western Physical in 5 years when the report returned EVERYTHING was more improved - and so under his breath Dr. Alexander said, I guess you should continue whatever you are doing with those Chinese Doctors.

What is neat in my opinion is that the Chinese Doctors know their limit and if surgery is a solution they will tell you to go to your Western Doctor - what I find strange is few Western Doctors will suggest you see a Chinese Doctor but would rather prescribe all sorts of drugs that are really a derivative of the same barks and seeds etc. that make up a Chinese combo - the difference is that all the effects of the original herb or bark or whatever is no longer available since the western version has extracted the one ingredient from the whole. Yep, I am sold on Chinese Medical practices but then to me both East and West have something valuable to offer.

Which reminds me wasn't it Barbara who brought Li Po to our attention in one of her posts - to me his poetry is so beautiful - there are several Asian poets I like however, the imagery and the music of his words is soft and burrows into your heart and mind.

I will catch up with the last round of posts later today - need to get going...

I believe Li Po was in one of the links about Al, and I made some joke about it--a terrible habit I got from growing up with three young uncles.

The article I read from a several-year-old Mirabella that's too good to throw away reminded me that doctors of Tibetan medicine can diagnose specific problems and diseases by simply taking the pulse. The writer's experiment was uncannily accurate. Unfortunately, few people in the U.S. have access to such care.

Though I'm still a bit overwhelmed with the volume, Al Young is a poet I'll go back to and continue to discuss with anyone who might be interested.

I'd forgotten the song--"Lazy Afternoon"--Jim posted. It's a good one, slow and langorous. Sitting in a drive-in under the stars depressed me. I'm not sure why; the car seemed so unnatural, I guess. But I loved being out under the stars in a sleeping bag with the Girl Scouts or Campfire Girls.

I hear echoes of William Butler Yeats in Young's poetry from time to time. At least once a near quote about the dancer and the dance being one.

There was an earlier poet named William Collins (1721-1759), included in the regular Norton Anthology of Poetry. He's the one who wrote

How sleep the brave

Who sink to rest

By all their country's wishes blest!

(Forgot what to place between the <>)

Tra La - caught up on all the posts - how great to see Annafair had posted - not once but twice - how great a treat is that - she did call and I was in such the hurry trying to make up for lost time - hopefully we will get a chance to chat when she returns from her trip - Annafair sound wonderful - I have never been to Montreal but it sounds like an old world kind of city.

Jim the song and poem reminds me of that time when drive-in movies was not only great for young love but for young parents who wanted to get out but couldn't afford a baby sitter - great fun - we brought our own drinks and since we had a station wagon the back was set up so they could go to sleep after the first movie and then we could see the second movie while they were safe asleep. I remember best the quiet drive home when you could smell the fields and hear the night since we didn't have an air-conditioned car. And then the big transport of sleeping children carried into bed.

I guess there is all kinds of love and during those years love was all around. Funny how few movies I actually remember seeing on the outdoor screen but we sure saw a lot of them with that speaker box hanging on the window.

Well back to Al Young - have to print out ---

Body and Soul: 16 Minutes, 59 Seconds

In memory of Dexter Gordon

Back when time was thick and money scarce,
you got your shit together fast and sweet,
Now that you can stretch, love rubbernecks

her way through every nook and cranberry
you can finger, every cocktail your nighttime
can contain. At intervals, Ahhh, mmmmmm.

We love to do the curlicue, the poco loco
boraque on stuff like this: big passion-perfected
practices our world-wearying staleness styles.

Years wear thin. In thorns of joy we turn up
all crowned down the Body and Soul of time.
Why were they , whey were we, why were you born?

We lay off into what we've got down pat,
or all we know of love. But that's no fun
"Hey, Body," it says. "Hey, Soul three minutes

to go. Hey baby!" We Swallow it, wallowing
whole, wallowing wide. In this stupendously delayed
decay. Dexter broke and mended our hearts.

Wow, both broke and mended our hearts. whww.

I think it's too early in the morning for that last one. I come back to after my coffee...

I have enjoyed this month so much. I will remember Al Young along with other famous poets. I think Li Po's poems are beautiful. Barbara, thank you for the link. I have enjoyed the comments. Thanks to all until August 1st.

Barbara, the last poem is in memory of Dexter Gordon. I am going to add a link. Al Young might appreciate us adding Dexter Gordon's music with his poem.

Dexter Gordon

Now how can Robert Service follow that Dexter poem?

I gave up looking for the character to insert between brackets. But I've read nearly all of "Coastal Nights." I'm posting one of the poems, though it cold have been a number. In spite of his distress with developments in government and some in popular music, Young's kept his zest for life in the later--2000-06 poems. (I'm tickled that he admires disparate musicians I'd mentioned--Keith Jarrett and Little Richard.) In his sixties, in addition to continuing jazz tributes, he writes several poems about his pleasure in classical music.

Why Love Bach's Goldberg Variations?

---

Bank on beauty every time you feel the pull of knowing forces. Put it any way you wish, but keep that wish alive. Johann Sebastian Bach knew so intimately the ins and outs of how time worked its keys and silences at intervals that he could let the whole world go up in a sacred flame of sound. God, the beautiful changes!

In tender surrender, the soft sound of blues around you fools you good. Glenn Gould, Keith Jarrett--play the morning differently. The moment you fall in love you get it. Everything there is to know about love you grasp, understanding how it can go.

To go godlike, go like the wind, defies the theologian's guess. Afernoon and evening bloom and nurture you. Note by note you rise and fall, you speak and listen, whisper, moan and shout your momentary case, then move on, certain to return renewed.

The inspiration of Bach and Jarrett (classically trained jazz pianist) & Gould (deceased classical pianist) results in Young's abandoning traditional syntax placement. Not unusual but bringing a sense of freedom, bursting through limits ("like the wind") to this poem. Lot of sibilance--'s' sounds here. And sonorous 'm's' and 'n's' in the final stanza, giving weight to the importance of what he's sharing. The music takes him beyond the cosmic explanations of theologians to what--still--seems a mystical experience.

There'll be so much more to discover in these poems in subsequent readings. Al Young is in so many ways a Renaissance man of his time. Thanks, Barbara, for offering his "cool" warm poetry.

Robert Service. I grew up to my father reciting "The Cremation of Sam McGee." I have no idea why he loved that poem so much.

As you know I have gone to the coast for a few days where I am meeting my daughter from Saluda and my grandboys - I will be back late on Friday when I will pop in - but I wanted to welcome everyone to the new month with our focus this month on Robert Service.

I remember in High School laughing when I found and read The Cremation of Sam McGee. Reading his Biography I was surprised - here I thought all this time he was a rough and tough woodsman from the Yukon and instead he worked with dairy cows and in banks settling down in the South of France. I was a bit disappointed - my image of Robert Service was rudely changed.

I had not planned on purchasing a book of his poetry but lo and behold I was in Half Price books and found a used book of Robert Service poetry for $2.49 - couldn't pass that up. And so from the book here is a poem.

           JUST THINK!

Just think! some night the stars will gleam
     Upon a cold, grey stone,
And trace a name with silver beam,
     And lo! 'twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet
     Your epitaphic rhyme.
Your life is but a little beat
    Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain,
      A laugh, lest you may moan;
A little blame, a little fame,
     A star-gleam on a stone.

A fitting introduction to Robert Service. I love it:

a little gain, a little pain,
A laugh...
A little blame, a little fame...

Young's tribute to Bach is amazing!

I like the Service very much.

There must be some mistake--I thought my Uncle Jack wrote that last poem one night after he'd had a couple of beers. Oh well, to each his own, since that's one of the mottos here.

After reading some of the Service poems, my ears are popping from being brought down to earth from the cosmos so rapidly.

This is getting me in the mood for my Alaska cruise Sept 9. I couldn't find the html for indenting lines; every other line should be indented.

The Spell of the Yukon

(Fragment)

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy – I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it –
Came out with a fortune last fall, -
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
Its’ the cussedest land that I know,
From the biggest, screen mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valley below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe, but there’s some as would trade it
For no land on earth – and I’m one.

You come to get rich (dammed good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than worst.
It grips you like some kind of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plump-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and nameless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardship that nobody recons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s land – oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want go back – and I will.

They’re making my money diminish;
I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I’m skinned to a finish
I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
I’ll fight – and you bet it’s no shame-fight;
Its hell, but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite –
So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it’s not the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

Barbara65b,

"After reading some of the Service poems, my ears are popping from being brought down to earth from the cosmos so rapidly."(Barbara65b)

Your words about ears popping gave me my first laugh for the morning. What a fine way to put it!

I love "The Spell of the Yukon." Jackie, I hope you will continue and give us the rest of that poem. I get the feeling that he is not just bitten by gold fever. He wants more than gold. He is using the gold as a reason to travel and appreciate this world.

'Way up yonder, where is he talking about?

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it’s not the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

In Barbara's poem 'Just Think' by Robert service, there is a word I can't understand. It is "epitaphic rhyme."

Hats: The gold miners in the Alaska Gold Rush of 1898 had to hike, carrying all their gear and food, 25 miles over Chilkoot Pass (see picture: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chilkoot_Pass ) before they could reach the river where they had to build rafts for the 500 mile trip to the gold fields. Serivce's "way up yonder" is an understatement.

Mrs. Sherlock, thank you for the information and the link.

What a stupyefying photo that is - those are men, one by one, going up that pass!!!! First I thought it was a windrow of small trees!

Thanks, Mrs S

Ragetty Doll

Rosemary has of dolls a dozen,
Yet she disdains them all;
While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin
Has just an old rag doll.
But you should see her mother it,
And with her kisses smother it.

A twist of twill, a hank of hair,
Fit for the rubbish bin;
How Rosemary with scorn would stare
At its pathetic grin!
Yet Marie Rose can lover it,
And with her kisses cover it.

Rosemary is a pampered pet;
She sniffs a dainty nose
Of scorn at ragged dolls, and yet
My love's with Marie Rose,
In garret corner shy and sweet,
With rag doll Marguerite.

Though kin they are, a gulf will grow
Between them with the years;
For one a life of love will know,
The other toil and tears:
Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows
The rue of Marie Rose.

--- Robert Service

I remember one of my dolls. Her name was Sandra. I would always bathe with her. Since she was rubber, she soon became water logged. The rubber began to tear. Boy, it was painful. Sandra meant so much to me. My sister would crochet sweaters for her. Marie Rose's doll made me remember my favorite ragetty doll.

I have no idea when I began to read his poems but I was young and I loved them The humorous ones made me laugh but The Ballad of the Yukon enthralled me ...and longed to someday see Alaska ...something I never did but I have a secret longing ---it is to SEE ALASKA.

Hats I enjoyed the poem about the doll and I assume I had them but it was Teddy Bears I really loved. the older, and floppier the better! Enjoy the comments ...anna

Well, the magic of this place took hold of me again. I am not too crazy about Robert Service (at least what I know of his work) so I was just about to cancel out of here for August and then...

that amazing photo of the miners climbing the mountain and the poem about the two girls with their dolls----

so I guess I am back before I even left (if that makes any sense at all!)

Lizabeth, yep, it makes sense.

Anna, I love teddy bears too. I have a small collection of teddy bears. Maybe R. Service wrote a poem about teddy bears. He does spell raggedy differently than we do. Do you think it's more to think about in that doll poem?

Yes, the poem about the dolls is really appealing and so apart from Service's usual poetry about tough men in tough times.

There is sadness in the doll poem as we find Marie's life does not improve:
Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows
The rue of Marie Rose

I want to take Marie and help her.

Right, Marj, no happy ending there and that's what makes the poem so powerful for me.

Hats & All--The laugh was on me. One of the websites dedicated to Service quotes him as saying he [often? surely not always] wished to give the impression of a man hanging out with his "drunken" buddies in a saloon. My Uncle Jack couldn't write like that when he was sober (actually most of the time).

Service was the perfect poet for the movement encoouraging the manly, athletic outdoorsman that began at the end of the 1800's and continued through the fifties. Think Teddy R., hyper-athletic film stars of the forties and fifties. I recently read that handsome Robert Taylor was the most accomplished and admired outdoorsman. Also Ernest Hemingway, and many others. Today we seem to have mostly the separate cults of body-bulding and gun-worshipping.

New U.S.Poet Laureate: Charles Simic -- combines "dark views with ironic humor." NYTimes

We should do a month on Charles Simic somewhere down the line, don't you think?

I missed that NYT article. I didn't know about the new Poet Laureate. MarjV, have you read the article too?

I hope Barbara is feeling well.

Raggety Doll by Robert Service

I think the first stanza shows a total difference between the two girls.

Rosemary has of dolls a dozen,
Yet she disdains them all;
While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin
Has just an old rag doll.
But you should see her mother it,
And with her kisses smother it.

Marie Rose's doll was raggedy. It was also the only doll she owned. Marie Rose didn't care. She chose to give it all the love in the world. While Rosemary had a dozen dolls and disliked all of the dolls. Whether we have many possessions or few possessions doesn't matter. Love is a free entity. We make the choice whether to give it. Is that a little bit of the message? Or not the message at all?

Of the two girls whom would we rather have as a granddaughter or become ourselves? I think Marie Rose will have days of suffering because love given is not always returned. The most loving hearts suffer more in life because their love is not always returned. You can give love and lead a loveless life. Does that make sense?

I think Marie Rose will never rise to the first class from the third class. She will cry many days because of a material lack never stopping at counting out her tokens of love for others around her.

Though kin they are, a gulf will grow
Between them with the years;
For one a life of love will know,
The other toil and tears:
Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows
The rue of Marie Rose.

--- Robert Service

The names speak to me too. Rosemary is a herb. The rose is a flower with thorns. Each have a lovely odor. Each are useful. Rosemary is used for cooking. The rose is used for flower arrangements, anniversary gifts, gifts to congratulate, a consoling gift for someone in the hospital.

Turned backwards aren't their names the same?

Aurora Borealis

I have always wanted to see the Aurora Borealis. Is it a chance Mrs. Sherlock might see it on her cruise to Alaska? I bet it is so beautiful

It is sad because the child who is more appreciative and loving will end up living the harder life because of her class background. I guess Service is saying that life is not always fair. I think he also is commenting, although perhaps not intentionally, on the notion that class background fixes or determines one's future. I think perhaps this is less true for women today. I certainly hope so.

hats--Gosh, you're good! I considered those names and didn't realize that the floral names were reversed. Perhaps Rosemary, the more practical should've been the poor girl, but MarieRose was a more biblical name, especially in those days.

I think many of us are a little like the ungrateful girl Rosemary when we are young and grow more appreciative and compassionate with time.

Reading these poems reminds me of my grandmother's generation and her life. She lost all three sons and an adopted child they'd taken in (though not well off), but I never heard her utter a word of complaint or grief to anyone, at least when this granddaughter was around. You could only see her sadness. The generation born around the turn of the 20th century and before lived challenging lives in spite of the exciting technological advances. They needed simple poetry like Service's to lift them up and voice their struggles and aspirations.

I can imagine Service writing a "people's poem" about the collapse of the bridge in Minneapolis.

Barbara65b, to lose a child or children is unimaginable grief. I feel for your grandma. You put it so well. "You could only see her grief." I do believe grief is written in the eyes and on the face. Amazing that she never whined. She is one of those unsung heroes or heroines.

Oh boy, I bet Robert Service and many of our wonderful poets could put that tragedy into words.

I can only sympathize. I have never lost a child.

My mother must have been a depressive cause she liked to recite poems like this to us. I remember as a child crying my eyes out to the song "Little Sir Echo". Remember that one?

Eugene Field. 1850–1895

Little Boy Blue

THE little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
The little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
10 So, toddling off to his trundle bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue— Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

Back for a wonderful couple of days on the coast with my daughter and two grandboys - the sun is unbelievably wicked these days - only 20 minutes on a float with 30% sun protection and still I have a sunburned back - the sun went right through my grandson's Tshirt and his back is sunburned - wow - things sure have changed - it was not too long ago when we could be out for an hour before worrying about sunburn.

Here we are with Robert Service and I never felt we put Al Young to bed so to speak - his work will stay with me and I am so glad I have two books of his poetry. The poem about Green was my favorite.

Robert Service is another poet who I had pictured writing one limited kind of poetry much as I had a limited opinion of Walt Whitman, who after we read his work for a month surprised me - I was in awe at some of Whitman's poetry. Reading Service is like uncovering a patch in the back garden and finding all this green growth from seeds that had blown in unexpectedly - I only associated Robert Service with rough and ready northwoods kind of poetry - the rag dolls was wistful and thoughtful - a surprise read. The best thing about Rosemary is it is one plant the deer will not eat - smells wonderful when the hose is sprinkling the garden.

You are so right Jackie - I remember my mother, who was born in 1910 telling these sad tales - something about rain barrel and sliding down the cellar door and it ends with the child dying. It was my mother's mother, my grandmother, who had so many children who died - awful deaths - like a child tied to a chair since there was no high chair and falling out the window - and a baby born so small it was wrapped in cotton and placed in a box near the back of the stove and the stove got too hot - others died of the childhood illnesses that today we have shots to keep children from contracting - out of 12 births 3 lived.

And yet, she was a cheerful lady who took all the grandchildren for long walks so her daughters could get something done around the house - she laughed, always had a garden and danced at parties. She was strong and believed a house was not clean if the front stairs were not scrubbed down regularly with soap and a scrub brush. One of her comments stayed with me - I was winjing about something ready to start crying and she said to save my tears - there were too many really bad things that happen in life to cry over whatever it was that I thought was worthy of my tears at the time. I guess so when you tragically loose that many children.

Here is another of the poems of Robert Service that ends with a line about death.

               Unforgotten

I know the garden where the lilies gleam,
     And one who lingers in the sunshine there;
     She is than white-strolled lily far more fair,
And, oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know the garret, cold and dark and drear,
     And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,
     Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary – then
He seeks the stars pale, silent as a seer.

And, ah, it’s strange; for, desolate and dim,
     Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;
     Yet he is in the garden by her side
And she is in garret there with him.

Barter
Poem lyrics of Barter by Sarah Teasdale.

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Barbara,

I think Unforgotten by Robert Service is a beautiful poem. Is it about the eternal love between two people?

I miss Jim. I always think of him picking such beautiful poems and/or funny poems.

Hi Jim and All!

Good Morning hats - what a nice thought to read first thing - "Life has loveliness to sell,"

Yes, Jim really got into Al Young didn't he -

At first there was this jarring difference in the rhythm used by Robert Service as compared to Al Young. However, fun again we can see endings that matter and a beat that is not all over the page.

There are several Robert Service poems printed out and I need to take a few minutes to re-read them more closely - be back later today after I have had a chance to re-read and get my daughter and the grands organized. We have a ton of laundry that we brought back with us from the coast.

I thought everybody would enjoy the Aurora Borealis and Robert Service Poems. His voice is also on the post. It's an earlier post I posed.

Hi everyone!

After quite a long absence I thought I'd stop by and say 'Hello'.

It took me several trips through my old poetry pages where we were told that 'the new page starts here' and it gives you a link but I think this is the most current as above I see August 3.

Won't bore you with my summer ups and downs but do notice that a lot seems to be changed since I was last here and as some of the remarks are not clear to me I hope that everyone is still here or at least well and happy.

I don't know this poet so will, if none of you mind, coast along reading the poems and comments and just absorb it all for a bit.

Awfully good to see familiar faces when I finally found you!

Are the groups also going through the adjustments of the new web site?

Cordially, Alliemae

I have missed you. I am glad to see you here. What a fine surprise!

MrsSherlock, My stalwart grandmother recited a poem every Christmas some would call maudlin, and she wasn't depressive. "Little Joe" was about a toddler who died. We had to insist to get her to recite it. We knew she'd lost the four-year-old boy she'd adopted to diphtheria, but we couldn't imagine (when I was a child) that all three of her sons would die in young middle age just as her husband had--all in their forties except one at fifty-two of ALS. She had to soldier on to eighty-six with just my mom and two grands. When I have to deal with problems and the "turkeys" in life, I simply think of her.

Today, as a hospice woman mentioned to me a couple of years ago, we often don't really believe we're going to die. Hard to grasp how people coped before the discovery of anti-biotics. Service would've lived through the flu epidemic of 1916 where entire families disappeared. I think they needed his heartfelt poetry as a touchstone to the losses of others..

I looked at the Chilkoot Pass again. I can imagine the men climbing there. What a sight!

Good morning, all. Maybe that flu epidemic was in 1917. I've misstated before by relying on my memory.

Didn't get back to the poems yesterday. Although Service wasn't actually born in Scotland, a brief bit of his beautiful accent on a website reminds me of the prominent Presbyterian minister of the last century--Peter Marshall. No wonder Marshall became so renowned--in addition to being handsome, his voice could've charmed angels. A movie was made from the book "A Man Called Peter," I loved both.

In fact, my son's given names are the same as the Shakespearean actor who played Marshall. Richard Todd's natural British voice also was made for beautiful poetry. I looked him up on imdb about four weeks ago; and, amazingly, he'd just moved from a small village (where the neighbors would see him out walking quite briskly in his eighties) back to the city. A British poster said he was still handsome. Wonderful to hear.

I wonder how Scottish Robert Burns sounded reading his poetry?--"To see ourselves as others see us" and "Johnathan, my Jo, John, we clamb the hill togither" about old lovers. That happened to be my maternal grandfather's name--Robert Burns. Not kidding. (These quotes are off the cuff.) And my father had a very subtle English accent because his father was born in England. I didn't think much about it until I had a teacher who sounded the same.

Yesterday I browsed quickly through this site, and I'm sure it was herein that I came across a poem about which someone commented on the "bittersweet" content. Unfortunately I don't remember any specific line from it just that it mentioned travel through various far-off lands, but the gist of it was that even so someone was not forgotten. Sorry I know this is rather a vague description, but I am really anxious to find this particular piece again as I wish to send it on to someone. I've looked back through the items in this discussion, and with disbelief cannot find it. Can anyone help please?

I hope someone here can help you find that particular poem. Good luck!

Barbara65b,

Your post is so interesting. Your grandfather on your mother's side was named after Robert Burns, the poet. That is really something. You must have a love of poetry running through your blood.

Jean,

I did a search and found a poem posted by AnnaFair. The title is But Not Forgotten by Dorothy Parker. It is Post# 1. I think you could just put the title into the search to find this particular poem. I hope it is the one you want to find.

But Not Forgotten

I think, no matter where you stray,
That I shall go with you a way.
Though you may wander sweeter lands,
You will not soon forget my hands,
Nor yet the way I held my head,
Nor all the tremulous things I said.
You still will see me, small and white
And smiling, in the secret night,
And feel my arms about you when
The day comes fluttering back again.
I think, no matter where you be,
You'll hold me in your memory
And keep my image, there without me,
By telling later loves about me.

Dorothy Parker

Alliemae how wonderful to see your post - so glad you stopped in - yes, lots of poems since you were here last... Robert Service is our sort of summer break poet - much of his poetry is on-line - his poetry is a bit like the Australian poet we read last year - Henry Lawson.

Jean Welcome - oh how frustrating - I have done that as well - you read a post and then try to find it again - what I find maddening is when I first read the post something hits me and then I really do not remember the exact words of the writer - I only remember my reaction and when I come across the post I have a difficult time remembering that was the one that struck me.

Hats thanks for trying to help - We did start this discussion in April didn't we, with Dorathy Parker and Ogden Nash.

Off the discussion of poetry but valuable information - after we experienced being sunburned right through our Tshirts when we were at the coast I am more conscious of how easy it is to be sunburned just by being in the garden. I have avoided the problem since I have gardened after 5:30 when it is cooler but taking a walk can be a hazard it seems. Well, there is a product on the market that allows you to give your clothes an SPF 30% - it is put out by RIT clothing dyes. The boys are doing fine but my back is still causing me a lot of uncomfort -

I re-read The Spell of the Yukon and these lines stopped me for a minute.
I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plump-full of hush to the brim;
Reminds me of some of the Cowboy poetry - a backwoods kind of language that can bring a lovely picture to mind.

Jackie your September cruise - tell us - is it a large ship and where will you be stopping - have you been to Alaska or will this be a first...

I met a women in the Shuttle to the airport back a few years ago when I was still flying to visit my daughter - she just ups and goes on her own - no group - she just dresses in her jeans, carries a knapsack, buys her tickets, and goes all over the world - and yes, she was our age. Evidently she and her mom used to do this till her mom passed away a few years before but she keeps on and lives in a small apartment since she travels so much. Amazing and guttsy life...

I am having a difficult time with the rhyming in the Robert Service poems - sounds almost sing song after our month with Al Young - I think I need to read a few of his poems to get into the swing of things - I did have my grandsons read aloud The Cremation of Sam McGee and The Shooting of Dan McGrew - just the right poetry for a smile from two young teens.

Found this one that was a bit different -

Moon Song

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."

A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow --
The lad's a-winkin' at me now."

Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,
And drawing near her resting place."
Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"
Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.

A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,
And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again.

Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face be so serene?
And tranquil still you'll make your round,
Old Moon, when we are underground.

Hello again. I have not posted for a few days. I went away to a retreat on Friday afternoon and came back sick. I have to go to the doctor later today although I am feeling much better, still not well.

I loved the last poem, how each of us sees the same thing but differently. We all see through the lens of our own lives. I think of all the Service poems I have seen so far on this site, that says the most to me. "Moon Song" sang to me. Now back to rest before my doctor's appointment.

Wow! Two great poems. Hats, thanks for that Dorothy Parker; she can get right into my heart. And Barbara, Moon Song has a nice blend of whimsy and soul, fitting frame for its subject. How rich I am to be able to share all this glory with such nice people.

Ah just what we are all saying - here it is from Robert Service who seems to be focused on "things" as friends where for many of us our worthy friends are the gold in our lives.

I Have Some Friends

I have some friends, some worthy friends,
And worthy friends are rare:
These carpet slippers on my feet,
That padded leather chair;
This old and shabby dressing-gown,
So well the worse of wear.

I have some friends, some honest friends,
And honest friends are few;
My pipe of briar, my open fire,
A book that's not too new;
My bed so warm, the nights of storm
I love to listen to.

I have some friends, some good, good friends,
Who faithful are to me:
My wrestling partner when I rise,
The big and burly sea;
My little boat that's riding there
So saucy and so free.

I have some friends, some golden friends,
Whose worth will not decline:
A tawny Irish terrier, a purple shading pine,
A little red-roofed cottage that
So proudly I call mine.

All other friends may come and go,
All other friendships fail;
But these, the friends I've worked to win,
Oh, they will never stale;
And comfort me till Time shall write
The finish to my tale.

Hats, Thank you so much, yes it is what I was looking for, but obviously I didn't look far enough! Looking at the message heading, your day is just beginning whereas "The day thou gavest Lord is ending and darkness falls at Thy behest"----- where I am.

Thank you, hats, for responding. In an editorial I once wrote about chat and discussion participants, you would qualify as a "warm welcomer." I believe it was not uncommon to name people after poets in the 1800's and after. There were fewer celebrities to draw from after the biblical names. It's true that I was studying literature before I learned an aunt was teaching it. She had moved to a state (Nebraska) far away from my father's family. And he was in yet another city. So you could be right.

Pertinent to Charles Simic,our new poet laureate, and the second in a row from Vermont, he was announced by the Librarian of Congress, the brother of our next door neighbor! She (a dancer) completely freshened the small house she'd purchased (after losing her husband to Alzheimer's), and it is now full of light and color. Both she--in her fifties--and the house are lovely.

In the friends poem, I feel Service is healing hearts again when he says that all friendships fail. He seems to have been a kind of poetic priest (a male Oprah) to give people solace. Maybe he should've inserted the word "can" before "fail."

I hope all are holding up in the heat. A few years ago when I was still driving and about sixty-seven, I was very comfortable driving two miles on a 94 degree day. But when I reached my air-conditioned destination, I felt dizzy, and my knees grew weak. The transition from warm to cool caused a mild tsa (transitory (?) ischemic attack. I felt some effect of that for few months. It's a senior thing I'd only heard about.

Those two U.S laureates are from New Hampshire, not Vermont. Evidently, the little librarian who visits the stacks of my brain has been tippling again. Simic was born in Yugoslavia and teaches at a northeastern university. I'll want to look for his poetry online when I have time in a week or so.

Daughter arriving early before our trip. Ill be back in some days in a letdown state and in need of poetry.

Oh barbara where are you heading off to with your daughter? Sounds like a vacation at foot...

Are you experiencing some high temps? We are still only in the 90s - for us a very strange summer indeed - here we have the football teams practicing with a hint of the fall season showing up - the shops are filled with back to school items and we have never gone above 95 so far - we still have all of September and October though so who knows. In fact there had been so much rain and my bout with the mystery headaches that I still have not sorted out the shade garden - everything came up topsy turvey with long trails of mint that need to be cut back and Mexican sage that took over covering the St. John's Wart.

Jean I am so glad for you that hats found your bit of poetry - the line you referred to sounds like you may be in a bad spot in your life - "The day thou gavest Lord is ending and darkness falls at Thy behest" - I hope it is a dark ending that lifts and a light beginning replaces the loss.

I have a question: Has anyone figured out why "The Cremation of Sam McGee" was such a favorite for some many years?

Me, I always liked The Shooting of Dan McGrew better. Maybe it's a guy thing.

I think it is the rhythm and the images of Sam McGee that appeals. It keeps you moving along. And it is in a setting of ruggedness .

~Marj

I think it is the punchline.

I couldnt find poetry at first and it seems so different I feel odd ///by the time I return from Montreal I guess the new format will be THE FORMAT.....I am going on the premise "It is never too late or one is never too old to learn something new!" Will report when I return '

Hats you are and always have been a cheerful and positive poster....I miss everyone and hope when I return it will be cooler here and we will have enough rain to make the grass turn green before winter The heat index has been off the wall well at least off the top of the thermometer and when I have need to go outdoors I feel I cant breathe Service's poems are good to read when it is HOT positive thinking makes me think I am cool

Take care keep poetry going we all can use some love to all. annafair or my new name will be fairanna

post more than a few lines ! Is anyone else having that problem ? Sure will make it difficult to post a poem ....

Is the procedure for creating a link going to change too? Oh my and I just learned how to do it...I hope not.

I have to cram next week and get with it - my daughter has been visiting and this was not the time to learn all about the new system that is coming - seems to me there is a practice page...

As to ol' Sam McGee - I think the outrageousness of the poem along with the beat made it a winner - I remember my father being able to recite two poems with all the gusto of his good humor - Paul Revers' Ride and the Wreck of the Hesperus - and his broader interpretation was always with the Wreck - oh my that girl lashed to the mast and the ice storm and the dead eyes -

During my parents generation kids memorized large swaths of poetry in school and we know that the beat of a poem helps to make memory hold onto a poem - and then to have a story that you could scare or could smile because it was so outrageous would have made a kid want to sing out with gusto hopefully shocking the adults who would listen and I think the Cremation of Sam McGee fell right into that genre of shocking outragious story telling with a strong beat that helped imprint the poem on memory.

Barbara == I think that is right. It surely makes sense to me so it must be (smile). I remember memorizing and reciting poetry in school. Where does this come from? "Abou ben Adem may his tribe increase, awoke one night from a dream of peace..." That is all that remains. There was also a poem we did as a class, a choral reading, about ??? America? immigration? different groups coming to America? It was so long ago. I only have flashes of memory now.

We had to memorize "The Highwayman." I have forgotten the poet's name. I can still remember bits of it. I can clearly see the elderly male teacher standing by the classroom window listening to us. I see his face as clearly as if he were standing here at this moment. That was a long poem.

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 shuters, 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.

Mrs. Sherlock,

Thank you! Now, I remember the poet's name. Thank you so much. It brings back memories.

You should see the smile on my face. Thanks again.

I, of course, have heard of that poem before but never read it. It is very powerful.

he he I love it - the Highwayman - a real swashbuckler - like being in the 7th grade all over again -

Oh and Abdul Abulbul Amir hehehe another long one with lots of gusto - the lines I remember best that we said so strongly was -

"send your regrets to the Czar
For by this I imply, you are going to die,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar."

And then the blood spilled and the sack drops containing Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar - hehehe what fun all that was...

this hits home having been married to a man who smoked like a chimney stack.

The Smoking Frog

Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o'er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They'd jammed within its throttle.

A Pasha frog it must have been
So big it was and bloated;
And from its lips the nicotine
In graceful festoon floated.

And while the trio jeered and joked,
As if it quite enjoyed it,
Impassively it smoked and smoked,
(It could not well avoid it).

A ring of fire its lips were nigh
Yet it seemed all unwitting;
It could not spit, like you and I,
Who've learned the art of spitting.

It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted'
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted.

It squatted there with calm sublime,
Amid their cruel guying;
Grave as a god, and all the time
It knew that it was dying.

And somehow then it seemed to me
These men expectorating,
Were infinitely less than he,
The dumb thing they were baiting.

It seemed to say, despite their jokes:
"This is my hour of glory.
It isn't every frog that smokes:
My name will live in story."

Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire.

They turned it on its warty back,
From off its bloated belly;
It legs jerked out, then dangled slack;
It quivered like a jelly.

And then the fellows went away,
Contented with their joking;
But even as in death it lay,
The frog continued smoking.

Life's like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale; then after
Death turns our belly to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.

That last stanza sounds very cynical or am I misreading it? What do you think?

Yes it does Lizabeth and maybe that is why the poem appealed to me today. This ex is dying with emphasima and causing a lot of problems for my kids who need support and I am the one that helps them and so it often feels like I am still cleaning up after this toad/frog.

However, the last lines of the poem -- sounds like if life is like smoking up a cigarette we use up life till it becomes stale - and I guess for many their aging years are a bit stale as compared to the early years when they first lighted up - I get the impression that none of us are living a stale life and so the question is if the analogy works since I do not know how to keep a cigarette fresh for as many years as most of us are old.

my first post in poetry section - I had to find out who the poet was! now I am baffled, what is the connection with Khayam? are we going to discuss Service?

Hi Ellen and welcome. We are doing Service this month. Join us.

Barbara St. A writes: "However, the last lines of the poem -- sounds like if life is like smoking up a cigarette we use up life till it becomes stale - and I guess for many their aging years are a bit stale as compared to the early years when they first lighted up - I get the impression that none of us are living a stale life and so the question is if the analogy works since I do not know how to keep a cigarette fresh for as many years as most of us are old. "

I feel that my early years when I first "lighted up," I was doing so much coughing and choking and blowing smoke circles to amuse everyone that I did not appreciate anything as much as I do now. I also get the "impression that none of us is living a stale life.."

Now everything is fresh and new because I know better how to inhale and exhale slowly so I enjoy everything so much more. I guess that is why I saw the last stanza as cynical.

Belly up and Gods laughing? I am the one laughing because these years so far are the best years of my life. When did I have time before to luxuriate with art and poetry? Of course, I am still relatively young I guess at 63. I hope my future doesn't turn me belly up like a frog. One day at a time and today fortunately is sunny and lovely.

I am so grateful to be spending part of my Saturday morning discussing life and poetry.

Lizabeth,

What a beautiful post!

The happiest man I ever knew
Was scarcely clad at all;
He had no bath like me and you,
But owned a waterfall.
And every sunrise he would wade
The streamlet silver bright,
To stand beneath the clear cascade
with sheer delight.

This is only part of the poem.

Hats: Makes me envious, especially the last two lines. How rich that man was! Can you post the rest?

WELCOME ELLEN - for the past two years we are focusing on one poet a month - where as earlier we just uploaded poems that appealed to us - we do not have a formal way of discussing the poems - sometimes one of us brings to our attention the form of the poem - most often folks see something in the poem that relates to their life and sometimes there is a metaphor too good to pass up. What has been special is reading many poems from a poet whose work we think we know and we are often surprised when we post poems other than those most commonly associated with the poet. So please wade in - we are looking forward to your posts.

Wow Lizabeth - I love it how you could see the act of smoking in relationship to your lifestyle during the different stages of your life.

Hats can't you just feel the cascading water - reminds me of swimming at Krauses springs out near Spicewood which is about an hours drive from Austin.

On the Krause ranch below the house is the spring-fed swimming pool and below that is the creek, lined with towering cypress trees and a waterfall coming over a cliff covered with ferns. The water sparkles and there are deep pockets in the limestone rocks where the Springs create a river like lake. Those deep pockets are perfect to sit in and cool off in the 74 degree water that never slows down. Magical is to swim under the waterfalls surrounded by the ferns dripping off the cliff.

It is so quiet around here today - my daughter left Thursday after visiting for 2 weeks - how easy it is to get used to family in the house and then make the adjustment again - even the deer are not looking in the window to see who is here - I guess there was enough noise they could tell it was not usual.

Hats Nature Man would today be considered a lay about wouldn't he - or homeless living in a hut of palm-leaves in a forest glade getting drunk on beer every night made from wild honey. Since his hut is made from bamboo and palm-leaves this nature man must live in the South someplace and not in the Yukon. As Robert Service says nature man does not have to plot and plan his life in order to satisfy government or bill collectors. Maybe he is writing of the dream life that many of us think about when life becomes overwhelming.

Mrs. Sherlock, I can post the rest of the poem. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Barbara, I hadn't thought so fully on the rest of the poem. I will give more thought to it as I post. Like Mrs. Sherlock, I became lost with the idea of the beautiful waterfall.

The happiest man I ever knew
lived in a forest glade;
His hut of palm-leaf and bamboo
With his own hands he made.
And for his breakfast he would pick
A bread-fruit from the tree,
Or lobster he would gaily flick
from out the sea.

The happiest man I ever knew
Could barely read or write,
But beer from honey he could brew,
To get drunk every night.
He had no wife as I'm aware,
Nor any bastard brat,
But lived a life without a care,
With laughter fat.

The happiest man I ever knew
Was innocent of rent;
Low labour he would scorn to do
And never owned a cent.
But he would strum an old guitar
And sing a sultry song,
Insouciant as children are
Of right and wrong.

The happiest man I ever knew
Recked not of government;
His wants were simple and so few
His life was pure content.
And as I thole this rancid mart,
In which I plot and plan,
How lad I'd be, with all my heart,
That happy man.

Robert Service

This the end of the poem.

I am reminded, I think, of the book "Hawaii" by James Michener. Hawaii became a movie made from the book. The islanders, before Western change, lived lives free of care and issues leading to government systems and court systems.

I see Robert Service comparing his Westernized life, our life, with the freedom these people enjoyed before they ever had to think about disease, taxes, minimum wage, etc. These people lived lives of innocence like children. They weren't simpleminded. They just had time to enjoy the free beauties of the earth, the ocean, fishing, sincerely laughing, community friendships with family where there were potlucks around a open fire, etc.

All of us, I think, have wished to have the innocence of a child again. Children are delightful, no fear of being homeless, no thoughts about what food will become wrong to eat next time, no thoughts about heavy issues. Of course, our lives have become so complex or out of control children do worry about social issues. Children do suffer disease. So, Robert Service lived in that time when children were still free spirits like the Islanders before Westernization.

I remember reading Mutiny on the Bounty with Marni and JoanK as discussion leaders. Some men didn't want to go back to England because their lives were filled with duties such as work and family. They had become "drunk" with the freedom and happiness on the islands.

I know you, Barbara, led a discussion about Thoreau. In his own way, Thoreau tried to live apart from the laws of government. He built his own dwelling. He tried to live a simpler way of life. Society didn't understand Thoreau.

I don't think Thoreau drank. If I remember correctly, he had strict dietary rules he lived by during his experimentation with finding a simpler life not far from his everyday community. Of course, his neighbors didn't understand him.

Barbara, I missed the discussion with you. I had read Walden. I wanted to reread it with you as discussion leader. Unfortunately, I missed it.

By the way, will all the Archives go with us when we move? There are so many past discussions I would like to read.

This poem leads me to ask myself a question. What is happiness? Is freedom of all care truly happiness, the Utopia we search for?

Barbara, I remember you wanted to lead a discussion about "Utopia" by Thomas More. Now, I would like to read that book. So many men throughout history have tried to make Edenic communities on earth. I think Louisa May Alcott's father tried to create such a community. I have forgotten the name of the place. It did fail. I don't remember the reasons why.

I think I like the first stanza of "Nature Man" the best. It creates a beautiful visual image for me. I didn't think I would enjoy the Robert Service month as much as I am. I am so pleased I stayed here with all of you.

Oh, how I loved "The Highwayman" when I was a child. I memorized it, even though I didn't have to! When I read "Angela's Ashes", I was very touched to find that Frank McCourt had been turned on to reading when a young friend gave him "The Highwayman".

Welcome, ellen c!!! As you can see, we are reading Service, but we also post other poems when something moves us.

Yes, the frog poem is definitely bitter!! I don't remember that tone in Service -- we'll see if it appears again.

thank you all for your welcome - I have books on American lit. but could not find anything about Service (he may be in my English lit. books). I enjoyed reading about him in the posts and links and am enjoying his work. I had English friends who went to the Yukon to work for a mining company, they loved it there and used to send us photos of feeding grizzly bears at their back door (probably illegal now)

hot rolls in a summer basket
fried chicken piled on the platter
lemons squeezed for lemonade
blackberries sugared for pudding
corn on the cob is steaming in butter
green beans surrounding a ham hock
salt and pepper and hot sauce too
after all it's Sunday.

Hats! Are you deliberately trying to make me hungry??? I am watching my weight so I can read but not eat. That sounds so good. There is a restaurant that specializes in Southern cooking place two blocks from my apartment...NO NO NO.

Hats: Yum Yum Yum! Can we replace the green beans with greens? And maybe southern-style cornbread instead of hot rolls?

I don't think I can eat most of that food anymore. I had some grilled vegetables for dinner and my stomach is aching. My diet is becoming more and more limited. At least I can still fill myself with poetry, literature and art. That always satisfies me.

ohhhh I know what you mean about food choices Lizabeth - between no milk products and no corn products and no citrus and limited amount of chocolate - leaves me being so picky I am not much fun to plan a dinner around or to go out to eat in this land of corn everything.

Did have a wonderful meal with my two grandsons and my daughter last week at Fonda San Miguels - I chose Pescado Veracrusana - wonderfully prepared broiled fish covered in a tomato sauce with green olives, capers and onion bits. The Tomatoes were diced very small so that you could see them and so the sauce had a different texture than a cooked down sauce. Lovely without feeling so stuffed afterwards.

Jackie my days of green beans with ham hocks are gone along with cornbread - now greens I can manage and fried chicken, also red eye gravy and biscuits or biscuits and honey - even cole slaw - and my favorite is to mix a bit of mango Habinero sauce into some rice that was cooked in chicken stock with raisins, celery and onion added - yes, a lot of good eaten left - just not as varied.

I wonder how many still do Sunday Dinner - everyone I know seems to go for a late Sunday breakfast or brunch unless they are going out to the lake for the day or fishing and then it is a before sunrise cup of coffee. If they attend Church on Sunday they usually meet afterwards at a local restaurant for lunch.

The Sunday dinner in the poem hats reminds me of a Norman Rockwell painting depicting bits of history now.

ellen from what I hear about grizzlys you really have to chase them away or they break in if they smell food - I guess your friends must have kept them well fed so that they were satisfied eating at the backdoor.

Joan would you believe I have never wadded into "Angela's Ashes", I haven't even seen the movie version - I do not know what I was doing but I missed the whole thing along with his brother's book as well. Hopeful the achieves will be transferred over intact because I need to at least read the posts in that discussion.

Change of subject when I found this Robert Service, I had to print it out - oh so true - recently I trusted once more and loaned out another book - still, it has not been returned by someone who vowed and is a retired UT professor - you would think - right - wrong...

      Book Borrower

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
      But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
      Turn down their pages.

Or when a chap a book I lend,
      And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
      As if he owned it.

But worst of all I hate those crooks
      (May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
      And don't return them.

My books are tendrils of myself
      No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf
      Be damned forever.

by the way, to indent it is a repeat of this combo of six letters and symbols
& n b s p ;

Barbara, what a beautiful restaurant. I love 'The Book Borrower' by Robert Service. I really like the last two lines. Thank you again for the indentation rules.

"My books are tendrils of myself"

I have to show this to my hisband. I was just telling him this morning that I need more bookshelves. (smile)

Lizabeth, I know that feeling. My books are already double stacked in shelves.

...And in closets and drawers and purchased plastic drawers and shelves and shelves and more shelves... I try to cull but then kick myself afterwards because I half remember something that was in the book I sold - don't have this problem with video tapes or for that matter the few audio CDs that I was not impressed with but books... - it is like loosing a member of the family. It was nice to read that another more famous person had the same attachment to books.

Sigh. When I moved from Maryland to California and from a house to an apartment, I reee-ally culled my books. But I still had thirty boxes. Most of them are still unpacked, and in a storage bin -- there just isn't room for them here. But it drives me crazy, when I want a book I know I own, and just can't get to it.

If I was not a fan before, I am one now that I have read The Book Borrower, he has put my feelings into words

Oh this is great - I love it - another that hits home for me and I bet for y'all...

Book Lover

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

How I agree that "Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore" and Bacon - seems so daunting - keep promising to read all of Shakespeare - even have a book with all his plays and still a few I have read with the tome sitting on the shelf. I do not know Montaigne either...

He's hit all the biggies except for Bulwer-Lytton; I tried that one and didn't make it all the way through. So many books...

my goodness Jackie I had never heard of Bulwer Lytton so many significant authors and so little time - especially when you love to read and know what these authors had to say that probably changed the way we think today.

Great poem!! I'm still chuckling.

NO, No, No, Balzac is not a bore! and I enjoyed Montaigne. During the 1942 Blitz in London, a friend gave me the complete works of Shakespeare and I loved it, I completely forgot that Hitler was trying to bomb me into smithereens, Richard 111 was much more exciting. I had only ever read Midsummer Nights Dream in school.

I am an absolutely compulsive collector of books, so love the poem.

The discussions are on the new site now. Meanwhile, we can post here til Sept 1. But if any of you haven't, I urge you to get on the new site now. You'll need time before the old one disappears to make sure you can get on OK and can post. There are places here where you can ask for help, but once this site is gone, if you can't get on the new one, who you gonna call (I don't think Ghostbusters makes house calls).

Thanks Jackie - had a family death that is keeping me involved with helping my kids - and my son moved this week to Houston from Lubbock so there has been a double whammy as I race back and forth on the highway.

I still have to understand the new site and hopefully by Sunday I can start to put time on SeniorNet again. We may be the blind leading the blind...

I am just getting started learning how to use the new site - here is a link to instructions prepared by Jane helpful tips to navigate the new Seniornet site this old site will close down the end of the month -

Nothing like keeping us on our toes regardless our age and habits - some like the new format and others do not - doesn't matter if we like it or not SeniorNet has become so successful changes had to be made to accommodate the interest, and like anything unfamiliar it is hard to see it as comfortable and endearing till we have used it for awhile.

On the new site the heading is Books & Literature and then scroll down to Current Book Discussions - hit it and scroll to Poetry -

The main topics have a minus in front of the word - if you hit the minus sign it not only changes to a plus sign but collapsis that list so that you reduce the size of the full list of discussions to those topics that interest you.

here is a link to the discussion list

http://www.seniornet.org/jsnet/index.php?option=com_smf&Itemid=26&;

...except for the wife--and the prison cell...I look awful in orange! Hmmm...maybe I'll away to a garrett!!

Allie

Just read your above post. Sorry for your loss and all the attending responsibilities loss brings, especially when it affects one's children. Allie

Back from the beach--a few good days, a few not quite so good. Good weather though, if you consider 100 degrees good. We all probably concentrated too much on making things special for my grandaughter; guess we need to stop doing that one of these days. Definitely feeling stale myself. New people and new viewponts--who needs it. Kidding!

Jackie gave me a jolt with the Noyes poem. He was on the English faculty at my alma mater and died the year I was graduated. He was kind of a ghostly presence for me. I wouldn't have recogniized him. Though I'd read the poem,I'd forgotten its romantic love story. "The Highwayman" reminds me of a double bill movie I saw as a child. Everyone died in both movies. What a mean thing to do the Saturday crowd. One was "Colorado Territory," a western with Virginia Mayo. The lovers ended fighting on some rocky area together I believe.

The Thoreau era and would-be utopias are such a rich topic. There was the well-known arts community at Black Mt., NC, but there are so many misconceptions about it & my knowledge is so slight, I won't describe it further than to say it tempoarily attracted people like Buckminster Fuller and a number of literary lights, etc. But all of you probably know at least as much as I do. Utopias must be a little like religion--people embrace the idea, but when they get down to the details, they don't seem to be able to agree.

If so, how do I get there?

I also don't seem to know how to use the old BREAK code and the old PARAGRAPH code on the new sites so if any of you know, please post it here.

Thanks, L-Allie

The poems on books by Service are just great.

Here it is Allie Mae under General Book Discussions - just scroll down.

http://www.seniornet.org/jsnet/index.php?option=com_smf&Itemid=26&board=9.0

The new site takes a bit to get used to but there we are - what is really great is we can copy a poem and paste it in our post and it will come up exactly as we copied it with line breaks and indentations - no memorizing HTML tags.

After a bit we will all settle down in the new site and get back to poetry - there is an effort since yesterday to get back to poetry and Anna shared one of her wonders with us about wash on the line - she is visiting in Montreal and it is wonderful to hear from her.

And so use Marg's link and come on over if you have not already.

This is the link I use however I had already registered - by using this link I do not have to log on everytime I visit Seniornet.

http://www.seniornet.org/jsnet/index.php?option=com_smf&Itemid=26&;

I like his easy-to-read poems. They are mostly "common mankind" poems. No baroque-era frills or mysterious analogies to struggle to decipher. He was a world-traveller though, and had lots to say about lots of things. Says 'em plain-English and mighty well, IMHO.

Here's two I like a lot. First reminds me of ALL our "hot-to-trot" years. Second, ALL our group's aging-together thoughts. To me these two unrelated Robt Service poems have underlying themes in common.

VILLAGE VIRTUE

Jenny was my first sweetheart;
Poor lass! She was none too smart.
Though I swore she'd never rue it,
She would never let me do it.
When I tried she made a fuss,
So damn pure and virtuous.
Girls should cozen all they can,
Use their wiles to get their man.

June, my second, was no prude;
Too good-looking to be good;
Wanton and a giddy-gadder,
Never knew who might have had her;
Kept me mad and jumping jealous,
Tempting all the other fellows
Like a wayside flower to pluck her:
So at last I had to chuck her.

Now I'm settled down with Jill,
And we're safely married still.
She began to wait and worry,
So we wedded in a hurry.
Well, it's quite all right that way--
We're all made of common clay,
And the grey-haired folk that bore us
Just as wanton were before us.

June, I hear, now lives in London
Where, I fear, she's sadly undone,
Jenny, still as virtuous
Missed the matrimonial bus.
Where our "first" set gossips buzzin'
Jill and I now have a dozen,
Ready in their turn to prove
There's no chastity in love.

June, so fickle and so fair,
Common was as barber's chair;
Jill provides me with good grub,
Lets me go nights to the pub;
Though her silver hairs are many,
One eve I might call on Jenny . . .
She may not neeed too much urging:
Must be hell to die a virgin.

BIRTHDAY
(16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I my game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks, because I'm old
(I'm not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn't let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won't contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I'll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life,
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I'm alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup--
Here's health to
Seventy-and-five!

Placed together, these two Robert Service poems inspired me to recall a Sir John Falstaff line in Shakespeare's Henry the IVth, part II. "We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow." (As did Robert Service; and me; and maybe us all.)