Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 724975 times)

BooksAdmin · « **on:** January 27, 2009, 06:37:55 PM »

Welcome to our Poetry Page.

Join our 2016 Shakespeare Sonnet-a-Day discussion starting at
http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685

FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - In the past the poetry page was a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allowed our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing that tradition.

This month we will focus on the Sonnet.
Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts. Since Valentine's Day is in February a Love Sonnet would be a lovely gift for us.

Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.

Sonnet Central

About the Sonnet

Origins of the Sonnet

How to Write a Sonnet

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #1 on:** January 27, 2009, 06:55:04 PM »

We are so glad to be back sharing poetry again -

For the next few days we can become re-aquainted and share some of our favorites.

This Emily Bronte poem is not a favorite but oh so appropriate:

'Love is like the wild rose briar."

Love is like th eiwld rose briar,
Friendship, like the holly tree,
The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms,
But which will bloom more constantly?

The wild rose briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holy's sheen,
That when December blights the brow
He still my leave thy garland green -

After the Seniornet with all its sweet wild rose briar stopped us in mid-stream that here the friendships from Books & Lit like the Holly tree shines as a green garland.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2 on:** January 27, 2009, 06:55:23 PM »

This post was sent to us from Anna a few days ago-

Hi I am having cataract surgery in FEb in my left eye...twenty years ago I had the same in my right eye ...since I was and am nearsighted the lens then was for distance...which enabled me to see closeup with my left eye and distance with my new right eye..so no glasses for twenty years except sunglasses...it has become hard for me to read since I have to rely on the left eye and I get a headache when I try...I think the surgery will be the ninth I am seeing the surgeon on WED this week and we will set the date and time...I planned on being able to start in Feb with Thomas Hardy but of course I cant do that until the surgery is over and I can see how it will work. My surgeon says he is going to use a lens identical to my real nearsighted eye so hopefully I wont need glasses again...I will keep you informed as to the progress I havent talked to Barbara yet so she is not aware of this situation..it formed rather quickly which the right eye did as well.

I am including a poem from one of the poets we studied ...Ted Kooser the US poet laureate for two years at one time...this was written after he had suffered from cancer and spent two years in depression and not writing a single line..when he was better he began walking each morning in Nebraska in the country ...when he returned home that morning he wrote a poem ..this is not the one just one I happen to like...although I truly love all ..the book is called Winter Morning Walks and here is the one I chose...fairanna Right now this is about as long as I can read ...unless I can find something on the internet or among my own poems which or on discs any way I hope you like it and OH YES I WISH TO ANNOUNCE I SAW THE FIRST ROBIN FEEDING IN MY YARD ON SUNDAY WOW THAT IS THE EARLIEST ONE HAS ARRIVED SINCE WE MOVED HERE IN 1972

January 27

Thirty-four degrees and clear

Fifty or sixty small gray birds with crests
in a bare hackberry tree this morning early,
not one of them making a sound
or even the neat black silhouette of a sound
against the rising sun. They let me
walk up close ,then one by one
they leapt from their perches and dropped
and caught the air and swung away
into the north ,becoming a ribbon first,
and then , in the distance ,confetti,
as they sprinkled their breathtaking silence
into another bare tree.

Ted Kooser Winter Morning Walks

fairanna · « **Reply #3 on:** January 27, 2009, 07:48:49 PM »

Barbara isnt it great to be in POETRY ? I am so happy even if I have some eye problems now ..the surgeon assures me it will only take 10-15 mins which I find incredible since 20 years ago it was about six weeks before I was well and free to resume a normal life..HURRAH for science...later I have read too much this day and my eyes hurt . GOD BLESS ALL>..and WELCOME HOME TO POETRY>.fairanna

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #4 on:** January 27, 2009, 08:40:07 PM »

Yes, Welcome home to poetry - it is so good to know we have a place again - get well - we will be thinking about you -

I didn't catch the name of the poem read tonight on the Lehrer Newshour to honor Updike - if anyone remembers please share - I heard most of it and it was so moving with wonderful imagery. I would love to read it again.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #5 on:** January 27, 2009, 08:44:29 PM »

I found it - I found it!

"A Rescue"

"Today I wrote some words that will see print. Maybe they will last forever and that someone will read them there, ink making a light scratch on his mind or hers."

"I think back with greater satisfaction upon a yellow bird, a gold finch that had flown into the garden shed and could not get out, battering its wings on the deceptive light of the dusty, warped, shut window."

"Without much reflection for once, I stepped to where its panicked heart was making commotion, the flared wings drumming, and with clumsy, soft hands pinned it against a pane, held loosely cupped this agitated essence of the air, and through the open door released it like a self-flung ball to all that lovely, perishing outdoors."

PatH · « **Reply #6 on:** January 27, 2009, 10:59:08 PM »

Anna, the surgery only takes 15 minutes, and the recuperation is very quick, with few restrictions, but it's several weeks before your vision settles down and you know just where your new sight will end up. Until then, it shifts around a bit, and gets better, worse, better, etc. So a bit of patience is needed.

Babi · « **Reply #7 on:** January 28, 2009, 10:08:23 AM »

BARB, I loved the story about the panicked goldfinch. I am ready to love the man who rescued it! I would have tried to do the same.

I will try to join in on the sonnets, tho' I warn you my very favorites are still those of Shakespeare.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #8 on:** January 28, 2009, 10:21:04 AM »

Babi you are right on the button with Shakespeare's sonnets - so much time since they were written and yet, some of the best writing ever.

Babi the story is a John Updike poem that was read in his honor on the Jim Lehrer NewsHour on PBS - I think it is a lovely piece of work - the imagery is wonderful with just the right words bringing it to another level of art.

Pat sounds like you had the surgery yourself or know someone who had it - I understand Anna had a cataract removed some 20 years ago and that is her reference - she knows it has all improved but I am sure there are those memories that are worrisome. Thanks for peeking into the Poetry Page.

fairanna · « **Reply #9 on:** January 28, 2009, 12:27:53 PM »

Pat thanks so much for your comment ...I will remember that if my vision seems to misbehave...the poem by Updike was in our newspaper and I am so glad you posted it ...I have always fed birds and now have proper feeders ..but my favorite was the window sill in the breakfast room....I can still see the birds waiting in a tree for me to open the window and put seed on sill...especially when it snowed...I removed the snow on the sill and put the seed there and no sooner had I closed the window birds would fly down and eat...once there was a cardinal waiting ..he had fluffed his feathers so they looked like a red feather pouf to keep him warm....if they could see me in the window they never seemed to mine ...I liked to believe they knew a friend ....always, anna

PatH · « **Reply #10 on:** January 28, 2009, 03:55:54 PM »

Anna and Barb, yes, I had cataract surgery in September--both eyes, a week apart, and my husband had it 20 years ago, so I've seen it both ways. Anna, make your doctor tell you what symptoms are things you should call him about and what are harmless.

bellemere · « **Reply #11 on:** January 30, 2009, 09:31:05 PM »

So glad the poetry discussion is back. I certainly hope fairanna's cataract surgery goes well. I can relate a little, I am in the first year of macular degeneration in my left eye. I have to take super vitamins twice a day and have had one treatment, consisting of a dru g called Avastin injected into my eyeball. You better believe I swallowed a Valium before that little escapade! The Retina Guy says we are keeping it at bay.
I will love reading your choice of sonnets. I leave on Wednesday for Mexico for three weeks, but hope to make a contribution before I leave.
bellemere
p/s/
I am taking Derek Walcott along.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #12 on:** January 30, 2009, 11:00:13 PM »

ah a Noble poet - here is a link to his site http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1992/walcott-bio.html

I looked and I do not have in my collection a book of poetry by Walcott - need to see to that - thanks for the tip and have a grand time on your trip - 3 weeks in mid-winter - how lovely - by any chance is Michoacan, Mexico on your itinerary - I have always wanted to see the mass of Butterflies that jam themselves in that corner of the world during winter.

Here is a Butterfly poem by Victor Hugo

The Genesis of the Butterfly by Victor Hugo

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies

Ah in honor of our upcoming month with Sonnets I found this blog where the Shakespeare Sonnet 87 is included - the background music she uses is so lovely I think you would enjoy linking to her blog and getting the affect.
http://stageandcakes.blogspot.com/2009/01/sonnet-87-farewell-thou-art-too-dear.html

We are in for one more cold night and then it warms up - ahhh - all I want to do when it is cold is curl up and sleep - then I can't sleep at night so I end up reading turning my nights into days and days into night. I must say that it is so nice to read in bed with the lamps on - somehow when I read during the day I feel I have wasted the day

but it is OK to sleep during the day oh my...

Babi · « **Reply #13 on:** January 31, 2009, 08:53:54 AM »

Fortunately, BARB, we are now old enough that we cannot be required to be logical.

bellemere · « **Reply #14 on:** January 31, 2009, 10:10:07 AM »

Barb, I am not going to Michoacan this time, but i was there for Day of the Dead a few years ago, and itwas not butterfly time. But even well-traveled Mexicans admit that Michoacan is their most beautiful state. I talked about Dia de los Muertos on the old poetry site and sent a poem about it..
The capital of the state, Morelia, is lovely, and has a branch of the University of Mexico, and it has the air of a college town. There is a wonderful conservatory for classical music students with free recitals . I attended one for piano students and faculty- it was outstanding! I must not get started on Mexico, though.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #15 on:** January 31, 2009, 08:12:10 PM »

bellemere sounds like a lovely area - I am more familiar with the north east and north west - especially the northwest about 150 miles southwest of Creel - backcountry where I have done quite a bit of backpacking with someone who has a small adobe hut in a village of thatched roofed, dirt floor, single and two room adobe houses - a different look but so satisfying - we go by way of Chihuahua - on the northeast side it is the area around Monterrey and Saltillo which was easily reached from Laredo - I say was because the drug wars have changed all that. We do not drive through any longer.

Are you driving - where is your entry point? Oh yes, I have ordered a book of Derek Walcott's poetry thanks to your saying you were taking him along on your trip.

Babi - oh how we try to stay relevant don't we

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #16 on:** January 31, 2009, 08:15:49 PM »

Winter Dawn
by Kenneth Slessor

At five I wake, rise, rub on the smoking pane
A port to see—water breathing in the air,
Boughs broken. The sun comes up in a golden stain,
Floats like a glassy sea-fruit. There is mist everywhere,
White and humid, and the Harbour is like plated stone,
Dull flakes of ice. One light drips out alone,
One bead of winter-red, smouldering in the steam,
Quietly over the roof-tops—another window
Touched with a crystal fire in the sun’s gullies,
One lonely star of the morning, where no stars gleam.

Far away on the rim of this great misty cup,
The sun gilds the dead suburbs as he rises up,
Diamonds the wind-cocks, makes glitter the crusted spikes
On moss-drowned gables. Now the tiles drip scarlet-wet,
Swim like birds’ paving-stones, and sunlight strikes
Their watery mirrors with a moister rivulet,
Acid and cold. Here lie those mummied Kings,
Men sleeping in houses, embalmed in stony coffins,
Till the Last Trumpet calls their galleries up,
And the suburbs rise with distant murmurings.

O buried dolls, O men sleeping invisible there,
I stare above your mounds of stone, lean down,
Marooned and lonely in this bitter air,
And in one moment deny your frozen town,
Renounce your bodies—earth falls in clouds away,
Stones lose their meaning, substance is lost in clay,
Roofs fade, and that small smoking forgotten heap,
The city, dissolves to a shell of bricks and paper,
Empty, without purpose, a thing not comprehended,
A broken tomb, where ghosts unknown sleep.

And the least crystal weed, shaken with frost,
The furred herbs of silver, the daisies round-eyed and tart,
Painted in antic china, the smallest night-flower tossed
Like a bright penny on the lawn, stirs more my heart,
Strikes deeper this morning air, than mortal towers
Dried to a common blindness, fainter than flowers,
Fordone, extinguished, as the vapours break,
And dead in the dawn. O Sun that kills with life,
And brings to breath all silent things—O Dawn,
Waken me with old earth, keep me awake!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #17 on:** February 01, 2009, 02:01:03 AM »

Welcome
We have arrived - Our first focus on Senior Learn - February 1, 2009
This month we will focus on the Sonnet.

Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts. Since Valentine's Day is in February a Love Sonnet would be a lovely gift for us.

Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.
Sonnet Central
About the Sonnet
Origins of the Sonnet
How to Write a Sonnet

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #18 on:** February 01, 2009, 02:27:33 AM »

February
by Bill Christophersen

The cold grows colder, even as the days
grow longer, February's mercury vapor light
buffing but not defrosting the bone-white
ground, crusty and treacherous underfoot.
This is the time of year that's apt to put
a hammerlock on a healthy appetite,
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,
and buried ambitions rise up through the floor
and pin your wriggling shoulders to the wall;
and hope's a reptile waiting for the sun.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #19 on:** February 01, 2009, 02:35:50 AM »

Winter
by Anne Hunter

Behold the gloomy tyrant’s awful form
Binding the captive earth in icy chains;
His chilling breath sweeps o’er the watery plains,
Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm.

See from its centre bends the rifted tower,
Threat’ning the lowly vale with frowning pride,
O’er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side,
A fearful ruin o’er their heads to pour.

While to the cheerful hearth and social board
Content and ease repair, the sons of want
Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant;
And where some shed bleak covert may afford,
Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host
Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.

Babi · « **Reply #20 on:** February 01, 2009, 11:06:57 AM »

Quote

old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,

Ah, so true. Nothing like a night of insomnia to set the old tapes to playing in one's mind. "muttering recriminations at the door". I love that line.

Poems, or prose for that matter, which speak of ice, bitter cold and dreary skies, leave me feeling chilled. I remember then to be grateful that I live in a warmer climate, even tho' I sometimes forget in the heat of mid-summer.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #21 on:** February 01, 2009, 11:24:36 AM »

Oh yes, Babi that thought was so exact it made me feel better - now I know it is not just me but a common complaint - seems less daunting to take care of myself when it is nothing more than a seasonal sneeze.

fairanna · « **Reply #22 on:** February 01, 2009, 05:04:20 PM »

Just checked in and enjoyed the poems posted, and the thoughts which are as important ...every poem speaks to me...reminds me of something...perhaps age has something to do with that......so many memoires awake when I read a poem....reminders of things I have seen or imagined ...I am having trouble reading and have to limit my time doing so today was a day I woke to bewildering bright son and wrote a poem sorry not a sonnet but will try to find some to post this month ....I can only speak for me ...but a single word, or a single sunrise. a single cloud makes me write ..demands I write and this morning was one of those days and here is what I wrote

This am I wrote a poem because it seemed it was just a few days ago when my dogs would wake me to go out the sky was still dark..and night arrived in mid afternoon ...I dont know whether a poem I write is good or bad ...I dont think I have a choice either way All I know something in me says WRITE so for better or worse here is today's

Just a month ago
December quickly moved through
the shortest day of the year
when early morn held a deep dark sky
and night arrived before dinner time
now on February 1 the sun arrives
before I am ready to open my eyes
no leaves to shade its golden light
it blasts its way through the winter limbs
and shatters my sleep
with a detonation of bright blonde dye
it seems to scream WAKE UP
you sleepy head....
while I would prefer to stay in bed
I cant ignore the summons
of a new day ...
and reluctantly obey
one does'nt want to waste
a minute of this day...
a minute of this life

anna alexander February 1, 2009®

bellemere · « **Reply #23 on:** February 01, 2009, 05:07:54 PM »

Barb, this time of year my Mexico is the Yucatan, specifically isla Mujeres, off the coast of Cancun. for the first few years we went there, it was undiscovered, and very reasonable. Now, ten years later, it is becoming very well known with a lot of hotels and condos and more on the drawing board. Where I hope ;they will remain for a while.
do you speak Spanish? have you heard a poem called Volveran las oscuras golondrinas ? They will come back, the dark swallows. It is beautiful and I am trying to memorize it.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #24 on:** February 01, 2009, 06:04:20 PM »

I have very little Spanish - enough to get by considering where I live - it was something I kept putting off and still keep putting off - I will look and find the poem - often a poem spoken in either Spanish or French is music in itself.

Interesting that you say the Yucatan was undiscovered because I have several friends who have recently purchased land on the tip of the Yucatan. Not to develop but for themselves to enjoy and later build a home.

Anna glad to see you and your poem is always an addition that we love reading. As I shared on Seniors & Friends it was spot on with the sun waking us after a dark time that is coming to an end. I am ready for Spring even if the weather has not caught the Spring bug yet - Think I will pick up some flowers for the house - yellow, white and purples with a bit of pink and blue is the fresh colors I crave - I am off to the flower sales at our local HEB...

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #25 on:** February 01, 2009, 06:25:07 PM »

Volveran las oscuras golondrinas

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elJp7z3655k&feature=related

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,
y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales,
jugando llamarán;

pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban
tu hermosura y mi dicha al contemplar;
aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres,
esas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán las tupidas madreselvas
de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,
y otra vez a la tarde, aun mas hermosas,
sus flores abrirán;

pero aquellas cuajadas de rocío,
cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar
y caer, como lágrimas del día...
esas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán del amor en tus oídos
las palabras ardientes a sonar;
tu corazón, de su profundo sueño
tal vez despertará;

pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas
como se adora a Dios ante su altar,
como yo te he querido... desengáñate,
¡así no te querrán!

Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Using Babel Fish here is an English translation

They will return the dark wanderers in your balcony its nests to hang,
and again with the wing to his crystals,
playing they will call;

but those that the flight checked
your beauty and my happiness when contemplating;
those that learned our names,
those… they will not return!

They will return dense madreselvas
of your garden the mud walls to climb,
and again to afternoon, even more beautiful,
their flowers will abrirán;

but those curds of dew,
whose drops we watched to shake and to fall,
like tears of the day…
those… they will not return!

They will return from the love
in your ears the ardent words to sounding;
your heart, of its deep dream perhaps it will wake up;
but dumb and engrossed and of knees as it is adored to God before his altar, as I have wanted…
desengáñate to you, thus they will not want to you!

fairanna · « **Reply #26 on:** February 01, 2009, 08:41:15 PM »

I did take the trouble to look up sonnets and here is the one I found It is much easier to read on the computer ..in a book the letters are too small right now and gives me a pain in my eye ..oooh but this is by one of the first poets I studied and have loved her every since

Sonnet
Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolutions power,
I might be driven to sell you love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.

--EsVM Edna st Vincent Millay

Babi · « **Reply #27 on:** February 02, 2009, 09:47:30 AM »

I enjoyed your poem, FAIRANNA, but then, I enjoy all your poems.

Would this be a sonnet? It's fourteen rhyming lines, but the format is different from the norm. It's by W.H. Davies.

What is life, if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare,

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

hats · « **Reply #28 on:** February 02, 2009, 12:28:54 PM »

Hi Anna, Barbara and all poetry lovers,

I am so far behind. I haven't read any of the sonnets yet. I am looking forward to it. Will come back later.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #29 on:** February 02, 2009, 01:55:09 PM »

Thanks Anna for sharing a Sonnet with us and glad to see your post Hats - we have so many famous Sonnets and from the material explaining the Sonnet there seems to be more than one form

Babi I like the poem - the concept of no time is poignant - and yes, you are right, it is 14 lines - but from what I understand the makeup of a Sonnet is more than the number of lines - the format is sort of an argument - so that if the first 8 or 10 lines spoke of no time than the last 4 or 6 would be either showing the consequences of no time or the way to see we have time or something that is an argument to the no time thesis in the first part of the poem.

Maybe we should think about sharing the well known sonnets for a bit till we can get the hang of it and then go a field and find the work of other poets. I wasn't going to take that approach but now I think I will - by reading some of the well known sonnets I think it will be a way to better understand this form of poetry. I believe Shakespeare is the one with some 150 Sonnets - someplace here in this house I have a delightful little book with lovely illustrations for each of his sonnets - I am going to spend some time today and see if I can find it.

In the meantime here is one of his sonnets I found on-line

Sonnet 97
How like a winter hath my absence been

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

Reading the poem sounds like one of separation - although the poem refers to winter it is really during summer and autumn the separation takes place - and it only feels like winter or like a barren womb and then Shakespeare talks about hope using the idea of summer, or becoming pregnant without a legal father like unfather'd fruit, and that waiting in hope even the birds are mute -

This is not an easy poem is it to figure out how a Sonnet is constructed - we will get there - looks like I need to do some reading!

Looking at the endings though and we can see ABAB CDCD EFEF BB - and now I forget but when Timothy Steele joined us on the old site we learned of rhyming endings where the word is not spelled with the same group of letters however, the word sounds the same - and that had a identifying label that I forgot what it was.

Anna do you remember - I'll look to see if I have his book because I remember buying the one where he teaches poetry rather than a book of his poems. Later - today is Monday and bunches to do...

fairanna · « **Reply #30 on:** February 02, 2009, 08:57:06 PM »

Hats Welcome ...so glad you found us here ...you always wrote such unique and wonderful comments....you may not write it but you FEEL and UNDERSTAND it ...Barbara I have that book as well ...I did write a sonnet for the poetry class I took at a local university ...I will see if I can find it ..but I feel you are right there are different ways and still be called a sonnet but darn if I can remember them ....since my eye isn't good for reading small print I will allow you to do the research and share with us ,...I HOPE AT THE END OF THE MONTH I WILL UNDERSTAND IT BETTER MYSELF....
!!!!!!!

Babi · « **Reply #31 on:** February 03, 2009, 09:10:43 AM »

Thanks, Barb. I knew that Davies poem didn't look like any sonnet I had ever read, so I appreciate the further explanation of 'sonnet'. The one you posted, Sonnet #97, that is Shakespeare, isn't it?
I have a "Pocket Book of Modern Verse", but I'm not finding sonnets in it. The editor seems to prefer the longer works of the poets.

bellemere · « **Reply #32 on:** February 03, 2009, 10:44:34 AM »

Barb, you found it! I only have the copy in my language book. But the acccompanying tape is beautiful/
Last stanza is difficult to translate.
The ardent words of love will again sound in your ears,
your heart, too, perhaps from its profound sleep will awaken;
but silent, in ecstacy, and on his knees, as one adores God before his altar, as I have loved you,
Disillusion yourself; they will not love you like that.

bellemere · « **Reply #33 on:** February 03, 2009, 01:27:20 PM »

Reading over "Volveran" the rejected lover sounds pretty bitter, doesn't he?
I love the way the thought wanders in Shakespeare's sonnet. Eight lines that explore a thought. then 4 that find new meaning in it; then the kicker - a two-line summary of the whole thing. Is that typical of all sonnets?
It is in Edna St. vincent Millay (yes, I know she is out of favor now) when she wrote:
"I only know that summer sang in me
A little while that somehow sings no more."
But not in Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth. He splits it 8 and 6.
But that last line, "And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds" is so powerfulan expression of grief that lasts a lifetime. I see the parents of the dead soldier drawing their blinds at dusk and marking the passage of another long sorrowing day.
Gotta go weigh my loaded suitcase, but but Wilfred Own reminds me of Pat Barker's superb novel Regeneration where Siefgfried Sasa oon and Owen appear, sharing a convalescent ward for shell-shocked soldiers. they both return to the trenches. Sassoon lives; Owen dies right before the armistice. There is a scene where Sassoon, an established poet, gives advice to Owen who is trying to be one. Today more people have read Owen than Sassoon, i think.
Be well everyone. Back in three weeks. Will have loads of sonnets to read, right?

Babi · « **Reply #34 on:** February 03, 2009, 05:14:47 PM »

Thought I would contribute this one by Shakeseare; it's less well known than some of his others.

XXIX

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in those thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #35 on:** February 03, 2009, 05:28:09 PM »

ahh and thanks for the reminder that it was Shakepeare's poem that included the famous phrase "the lark at break of day arising"- words so lovely and image as glorious - from shame and dispare to faith in love that allows us the courage to hope - love it - thanks Babi.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #36 on:** February 03, 2009, 05:45:31 PM »

I always got a kick out of this John Keats Sonnet and it seems perfect for our winter evening.

On the Grasshopper and Cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

Interesting use of endings ABBA ABBA CDE CDE

I can see the turn though - with the line ending in a colon - and then the last two lines wraps it all together by brining back the Grasshopper.

So far with the links in the heading I have read about the Italian Sonnet and the Shakespeare Sonnet and the Spencer Sonnet - when I read the site about how to write a sonnet the author of the material on the site says, there is more freedom now in the twentyfirst century than ever with Sonnet endings not rhyming.

Babi · « **Reply #37 on:** February 04, 2009, 08:51:46 AM »

I liked the Keats sonnet, BARB. I've never read that one before, but I've always liked the idea of crickets on the hearth. Didn't know grasshoppers did a similar chirring 'song'.

fairanna · « **Reply #38 on:** February 04, 2009, 04:36:35 PM »

It seems a lot of poems are sonnets I just enjoy poetry and have never worried what kind it is called ...in any case I have found via the internet a lot of poems I loved but had no idea they were a sonnet I guess my feeling a poem is a poem is a poem below is one I found a poem whose verse is familiar and I have a book by Donne so shall look and see if any are determined to be sonnets .. I guess it also proves you are NEVER too old to learn!

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #39 on:** February 04, 2009, 06:10:37 PM »

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Wow - I have heard the saying Death be not proud but never have I read the poem - quite a message - thanks Anna - those last lines are really something to dwell on for a bit - sheesh but oh so true. I am still thinking on how upon death there are no more endings to endure - hmmm.

I wonder now the rational for various forms of poetry - we are so loose today with what we call a poem that I am getting lost in what is a poem and what is a thought and what is prose - with visual art there are elements to admire and evaluate - but I do not know of a simple list of elements that make a poem. Off to do some research - later - have my weekly dinner with a dear friend tonight - we get into all sorts of discussions - it is a joy in my life.

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