Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 755517 times)

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2520 on:** April 05, 2011, 06:09:24 AM »

J.W. Waterhouse

Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry

A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

Babi · « **Reply #2521 on:** April 05, 2011, 09:03:42 AM »

Here's a poem for a thoughtful read...

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths
by Philip James Bailey

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest:
Lives in one hour more than in years do some
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.
Life's but a means unto an end; that end,
Beginning, mean, and end to all things—God.
The dead have all the glory of the world.

And here's another....

Another Song [Are they shadows that we see?]
by Samuel Daniel

Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be
Cast by bodies we conceive,
And are made the things we deem,
In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadows are exprest:
Pleasures are not, if they last,
In their passing, is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then greedy eyes
On the wonder you behold.
Take it sudden as it flies
Though you yake it not to hold:
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.

roshanarose · « **Reply #2522 on:** April 05, 2011, 10:09:03 AM »

Babi - We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest:
Lives in one hour more than in years do some
Poem interrupted, but still says what I need to hear. Let us hope that Barb's sister recovers well. We will all miss Barb - come back soon.

Babi · « **Reply #2523 on:** April 06, 2011, 08:10:00 AM »

'Amen' to that, ROSE.

Babi · « **Reply #2524 on:** April 08, 2011, 08:24:45 AM »

Here's one that seems most suitable for us...

"O Day after day we can't help growing older.
Year after year spring can't help seeming younger.
Come let's enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen."-
Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring

roshanarose · « **Reply #2525 on:** April 08, 2011, 09:50:19 AM »

Babi - What other choice do we have? All too true.

Babi · « **Reply #2526 on:** April 09, 2011, 08:48:18 AM »

You would think so, ROSHANA. But I have known individuals who can never enjoy 'today'.
They live in constant discontent or regrets for far-past yesterdays. By happy coincidence, I
found a poem this morning that fits perfectly.

Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---

and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.

If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,

every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray. from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver

Octavia · « **Reply #2527 on:** April 11, 2011, 04:28:22 AM »

I love the idea of a fresh world every day, the slate wiped clean.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2528 on:** April 14, 2011, 08:38:58 PM »

A clean slate it is - feels good to be back...

Away from Home are some and I
~ by Emily Dickinson

Away from Home are some and I --
An Emigrant to be
In a Metropolis of Homes
Is easy, possibly --

The Habit of a Foreign Sky
We -- difficult -- acquire
As Children, who remain in Face
The more their Feet retire.

A Home Song
~ by Henry Van Dyke

I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2529 on:** April 14, 2011, 08:44:13 PM »

Come Home!
~ by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

When wintry winds are no more heard,
And joy's in every bosom,
When summer sings in every bird,
And shines in every blossom,
When happy twilight hours are long,
Come home, my love, and think no wrong!

When berries gleam above the stream
And half the fields are yellow,
Come back to me, my joyous dream,
The world hath not thy fellow!
And I will make thee Queen among
The Queens of summer and of song.

The Old Home Calls
~ by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Come back to me, little dancing feet that roam the wide world o'er,
I long for the lilt of your flying steps in my silent rooms once more;
Come back to me, little voices gay with laughter and with song,
Come back, little hearts beating high with hopes, I have missed and mourned you long.

My roses bloom in my garden walks all sweet and wet with the dew,
My lights shine down on the long hill road the waning twilights through,
The swallows flutter about my eaves as in the years of old,
And close about me their steadfast arms the lisping pine trees fold.

But I weary for you at morn and eve, O, children of my love,
Come back to me from your pilgrim ways, from the seas and plains ye rove,
Come over the meadows and up the lane to my door set open wide,
And sit ye down where the red light shines from my welcoming fireside.

I keep for you all your childhood dreams, your gladness and delights,
The joy of days in the sun and rain, the sleep of carefree nights,
All the sweet faiths ye have lost and sought again shall be your own,
Darlings, come to my empty heartI am old and still and alone!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2530 on:** April 14, 2011, 08:45:53 PM »

Home
~ by Anne Bronte

How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within --
Oh, give me back my HOME!

roshanarose · « **Reply #2531 on:** April 14, 2011, 11:03:47 PM »

BARB!!!! So happy you are back Home! We missed you

and your beautiful poetry, of course. I love the Bronte.

I was IT in "Author, Author" and my chosen author was Thomas Hardy; the novel "Far From the Madding Crowd". Hardy was not always appreciated by his Victorian readership. I think he was a bit too earthy, honest in getting inside his characters' heads, and perhaps a little too risque. This poem, which I adore is Hardy at his most arch - I love it!

"The Ruined Maid"
Thomas Hardy c1901

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

I love Hardy's use of irony with this poem. He thumbs his nose at Victorian society who were outraged by his books and sums it all up in this wee masterpiece. I liked it all the more because my mother often used the word "ruined" as a euphemism for girls who had, well, you know.....

Babi · « **Reply #2532 on:** April 15, 2011, 08:38:29 AM »

BARB, I think I got the message. You're glad to be home!

I've read "The Ruined Maid" before, ROSHANA, and definitely got a grin out of it. It was fun to
see it again.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2533 on:** April 15, 2011, 11:48:27 AM »

OH yes, glad to be back - back to the comfort that those of you who visit this site love the words, the music and the message in poetry.

Hardy is doing his best isn't he but oh how sad that women most often with little to no control over the ruination that affected their entire life had to label themselves and believe they were ruined women. And it still goes on... but like Babi suggests, Hardy could make us smile and maybe that is our only defense. The thought of the day is - 'we can only be ruined if we feel ruined' - so maybe that is the late twentieth century pop psychology that give women some power...

This is an interesting poem - who is missing - George, John, Ringo and...?

Catching up, with the butterflies
~ by Arunansu

We used to scamper after them,
immersed in burnished gold of the Sun.

We used to jostle through
spanks of tall grasses
spattering our cackle
all over the verdant meadow.

One morning, George brought
some age-old nets, borrowed from his Uncle.
He told, "I know how
to catch those colorful wings,
first hold the loop high.
Then chase,
see how the nets gobble them up!"

John winked at me, quipped,
"What's new with that?
Ringo, get ready
. . . Steady!
. . . and here we Go! . . ."

Then started the mad rush
down the field, leaving
an archaic barn way behind
with George yelling "Hold
it high!", at times.

We scurried past
signposts of years
searching "colorful wings" of illusive dreams,
jostling against each other.

Nowadays, a daybreak gets tired
rather quickly.

Yesterday, daylight hours
flitted into my room
bringing along
a swarm of adorable butterflies.

They fluttered around me, a few
even landed on my stooping shoulders.

I glanced at our tarnished photograph
above the mantelpiece,
and said, Look George,
I don't have to run,
I need not "hold it high",
any more.

roshanarose · « **Reply #2534 on:** April 15, 2011, 08:28:30 PM »

Yes, Barb - So many well-meant euphemisms. And even more worrying (and insulting) was the word nymphomaniac when it was finally discovered that there was no such thing - a manufactured word and condition invented by hopeful men. Now we see the term "sex addict" more and more in the media. I haven't seen a woman labelled as that yet, but any number of men are pleased to label themselves thus. I think that they take the view that it pays to advertise.

On the word "ruined" - After I had asked my mother what it meant, and she had told me (with tongue in cheek) an aunt then told me and my mother that I was "ruined". I was so upset at this proclamation that I burst into tears. I was about 12, I guess. My aunt was shocked and said she hadn't meant to upset me. My aunt explained that when she said "ruined" it meant I was very spoilt. I was equally upset as I didn't think I was spoilt enough

The power of words! A silly little saying which is probably also sexist, but I will risk it:

Why don't men have hisnias and women herterectomies.

You probably already know about "hysterectomy" and also "hysterical". Hysterical is extremely sexist, if you check the original Greek word "hyster" which means womb. So that means you can only be hysterical if you have a womb. How often have you heard the word hysterical used to describe a man.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2535 on:** April 15, 2011, 09:39:26 PM »

had no clue the origination of Hysteria - soooo another put down... Eliot has a poem - let me see if I can find it - it was not exactly a complimentary look at laughter as I recall - but then Eliot was a poet I had issues with so that it affected my ability to enjoy his poetry - anyone who has his wife committed for acting in a displeasing way - as I recall she was gay and frivolous - however, he was able to control her life and actually had her committed - we talking 1920s - snake-pit kind of asylums - sheesh...beyond sheesh - scary...

Here it is:

Hysteria
~ by T. S. Eliot
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of
it, until her teeth
were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short
gasps, inhaled at
each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of
unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a
pink and white
checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman
wish to take their
tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden...” I
decided that if
the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the
afternoon might be
collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2536 on:** April 15, 2011, 09:52:26 PM »

Here is something that leaves us in better cheer

Ode to Gaiety
~ -James Broughton

Go gloom
Begone glum and grim
Off with drab, drear and grumble
It’s time
It’s pastime
To come undone and come out laughing
Time to wrap killjoys in wet blankets
And feed them to the sourpusses.
Come frisky pals
Come forth wily wags
Loosen your screws and get off your rocker
Untie the straight laces
Tie up the smartypants
Tickle the crosspatch with josh and guffaw
Share quips and pranks with every victim
Of grouch, pomposity or blah.

Woe to the bozo who says No to
Teehee, hoho and haha
Boo to the cleancut klutz who
Wipes the smile off of his face
Without gaiety
Freedom is a chastity belt
Without gaiety
Life is a wooden kimono
Come cheerful chums
Cut up and carry on
Crack your pots and split your sides

Boggle the bellyacher
Convulse the worrywart
Pratfall the prissy poos and the fuddy duds
Take drollery to heart or end up a deadhead
At the guillotine of the mindless.
Be wise and go merry round
Whatever you cherish
What you love to enjoy, what to live to exert
And when the high spirits
Call your number up
Count on merriment all the way to the countdown
Long live hilarity, euphoria and flumadiddle
Long live gaiety
For all the laity

JoanK · « **Reply #2537 on:** April 15, 2011, 10:12:37 PM »

Especially long live flumadiddle!

Gumtree · « **Reply #2538 on:** April 16, 2011, 06:36:35 AM »

Quote

but then Eliot was a poet I had issues with so that it affected my ability to enjoy his poetry - anyone who has his wife committed for acting in a displeasing way - as I recall she was gay and frivolous - however, he was able to control her life and actually had her committed

Eliot's wife Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot may have been 'gay and frivolous' and was indeed committed but I rather thought it was her brother Maurice who actually did the deed. Hers is a very sad story - she had suffered with mental instability for many years - even before she met Eliot - later she was diagnosed with 'hysteria' - but the underlying problem related to her menstrual cycle - pre menstrual tension and irregular and heavy periods which coupled with her instability made things considerably worse for her.

Eliot himself endured much on her behalf and sought the best of medical treatment for her as had her family before him but of course in her time there was little known about her real condition either in regard to the mentstrual problem or her mental condition - and little was able to be done to alleviate her suffering.

Roshanarose - thanks for 'hysteria' notes -I love the derivation of words.

Babi · « **Reply #2539 on:** April 16, 2011, 10:34:31 AM »

Quote

Time to wrap killjoys in wet blankets
And feed them to the sourpusses.

Oh, what a terrific idea! Don't you wish?

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2540 on:** April 16, 2011, 01:39:38 PM »

Gum

it is according to which book and which movie and which PBS special you read or see as to Eliot's involvement with his wife's incarceration and the nature of her acting out - but then many in the States think he abandoned his roots to pretend to be English so there is a mixed bag of attitudes towards the man... I just have this thing where I see too much "special" treatment afforded women throughout history by men just because they can and they want women to be controlled...by them! With too many women supporting the system...ah so

There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. ~ WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Boo

The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is “What does a woman want?” ~ SIGMUND FREUD, Ernest Jones' Sigmund Freud: Life and Work

A woman cannot be herself in the society of the present day, which is an exclusively masculine society, with laws framed by men and with a judicial system that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point of view. ~ HENRIK IBSEN, From Ibsen's Workshop

Everything about woman is a riddle, and everything about woman has a single solution: that is, pregnancy. ~ FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Thus Spake Zarathustra

I am so glad I live now when women can celebrate their womanhood - when they can freely go to college equal to the boys in the family - when they are no longer suspect for living above or below the mainstream - when they, in some parts of the world, are not blamed for all of men's bad behavior. That attitude of male superiority is the biggest crush that still remains...

Here she is in all her Glory; Maya Angelou...

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2541 on:** April 16, 2011, 01:49:59 PM »

In line with some good humor - I do get on my bandwagon when it comes to my opinion about women...

The Laughter of Women
~ By Mary-Sherman Willis Mary-Sherman Willis

From over the wall I could hear the laughter of women
in a foreign tongue, in the sun-rinsed air of the city.
They sat (so I thought) perfumed in their hats and their silks,

in chairs on the grass amid flowers glowing and swaying.
One spoke and the others rang like bells, oh so witty,
like bells till the sound filled up the garden and lifted

like bubbles spilling over the bricks that enclosed them,
their happiness holding them, even if just for the moment.
Although I did not understand a word they were saying,

their sound surrounded me, fell on my shoulders and hair,
and burst on my cheeks like kisses, and continued to fall,
holding me there where I stood on the sidewalk listening.

As I could not move, I had to hear them grow silent,
and adjust myself to the clouds and the cooling air.
The mumble of thunder rumbled out of the wall
and the smacking of drops as the rain fell everywhere.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2542 on:** April 16, 2011, 01:51:27 PM »

Butterfly Laughter
~ by Katherine Mansfield

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor
butterfly."
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother's lap

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2543 on:** April 16, 2011, 01:53:15 PM »

The Laughter Of Women
~ by Lisel Mueller

The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.

roshanarose · « **Reply #2544 on:** April 17, 2011, 12:56:38 AM »

Studying Linguistics I encountered one Otto Jesperson, a Danish Philologist of adequate fame. He often cited women as "empty vessels because they made the most noise". I really bit on this little piece of MCP. Evidently Plato said something similar, but he didn't nominate just women, he included anyone who blathered too much. Jesperson had taken Plato's words and deliberately changed them to advance his theory.

If you are interested in male/women speak read Dale Spender. I have met her, a feisty lovely lady who never wears any colour other than purple

Gumtree · « **Reply #2545 on:** April 17, 2011, 05:21:32 AM »

Barbara: I was just trying to make the point that we will never really know the situation between Tom and Viv Eliot . As you say, there are many conflicting stories - the one strand that runs through them all is Vivienne's lifelong mental instability whatever the cause may have been. Tom probably didn't handle it well and nor did her brother, Maurice but given the era they no doubt believed they were doing what was best for Vivienne given that her illness had rendered her incapable.

Whilst I admire Eliot's work, I too, have mixed feelings about Tom and his 'defection' to England to become an Englishman and also how that led him to convert his religion. However there are many others who did much the same - Henry James for instance. Australians are well acquainted with this phenomenon as so many of our writers, artists, musicians, performers have also abandoned their homeland to make a life and career
elsewhere and to escape what we call the cultural cringe. The best of them use their country and their Australian experience to feed their art and eventually return to their roots.

I noticed the Katherine Manfield poem - she too escaped her New Zealand roots to make a life in what she saw as the very hub of artistic endeavour - sadly, it cost her her life as she contracted tuberculosis soon after her 'defection'

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2546 on:** April 17, 2011, 01:17:25 PM »

Seems like there were a group of poets who headed for England during this time in history - I am guessing it is where they could mingle with one another just as there was the mingling of artists in France -

Having seen a PBS special a few years ago that showed her illness as more of a party girl personality rather than any sort of emotional or psychological illness and knowing how she visited him whenever he allowed her out it was hard to have much sympathy for the man - ah so - as I say - it is a conflicting story and according to how the story was told when we read or saw it on film does adjust our viewpoint - plus as I say - I know - it is a problem at times - I do have this knee jerk reaction when I see or even imagine any put down of women - what can I say... another poet, old Homer is doing me in on that score...

But then Gum, you have a different perspective about Eliot and I am so glad you brought it to our attention - that way folks can do their own research and make up their own minds - like so many in history whose morality we question they often have brought to us gifts of their various skills that have only enriched the world. Eliot certainly has brought to us some incomparable poetry.

Here is one we do not read as often:

RHAPSODY ON A WINDY NIGHT
~ by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

Babi · « **Reply #2547 on:** April 18, 2011, 08:26:46 AM »

Oh, my. I've read very little of T. S. Eliot. I'm beginning to be glad that is so.

With all the tornado news, I've been concerned about some of our friends in their path. I
have heard from Mahlia in North Carolina; she and her husband are safe. It's a wonder, isn't it,
how people I know only from our conversations here have become friends? I found a couple of
quotes I like.

Thomas Jefferson
But friendship is precious, not only in the shade, but in the sunshine of life, and thanks to a benevolent arrangement the greater part of life is sunshine.

C. S. Lewis
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.

Gumtree · « **Reply #2548 on:** April 18, 2011, 12:15:00 PM »

Quote

Oh, my. I've read very little of T. S. Eliot. I'm beginning to be glad that is so.

Babi: That sounds as though you don't care for Eliot. I must admit that he sometimes takes getting used to. I find that I like his work more and more as I grow older though I don't read him so very often.

Barbara: thanks for posting Rhapsody on a Windy Night - I haven't read that one in years - he was a master of imagery and this poem shows that to the nth degree...

The reminiscence comes
   Of sunless dry geraniums
   And dust in crevices,
   Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
   And female smells in shuttered rooms,
   And cigarettes in corridors
   And cocktail smells in bars."

I read those words and the smells are almost palpable - so it is with his images of sight, sound etc.

Although it is not the season to post it one of my favourite Eliot poems is the Journey of the Magi

The Journey of the Magi (T.S. ELIOT)

"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

I have this poem on an old tape read by Alec Guiness whose reading of it is just wonderful - I should find it out and transfer it to CD.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2549 on:** April 18, 2011, 12:43:22 PM »

By Alec Guiness Wow! And Kathryn Manfield died and was buried in France - she was a busy girl after she left New Zealand - Gum, you have prompted me to start looking at the bio's for some of the poets we love to quote.

Babi I found this lovely on friendship -

Love and Friendship
~ by Emily Bronte

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.

Babi · « **Reply #2550 on:** April 19, 2011, 08:34:28 AM »

Ah, yes, I haven's seen that one in a long time. I am reminded of a short story by Alcott on
a similar theme, that I particularly liked. "Mountain-Laurel and Maiden-Hair", that was the title,
from a volume of short stories..."A Garland for Girls". Lord, that was so long ago.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2551 on:** April 19, 2011, 02:45:50 PM »

MOUNTAIN--LAUREL
~ Louisa May Alcott

My bonnie flower, with truest joy
Thy welcome face I see,
The world grows brighter to my eyes,
And summer comes with thee.
My solitude now finds a friend,
And after each hard day,
I in my mountain garden walk,
To rest, or sing, or pray.

All down the rocky slope is spread
Thy veil of rosy snow,
And in the valley by the brook,
Thy deeper blossoms grow.
The barren wilderness grows fair,
Such beauty dost thou give;
And human eyes and Nature's heart
Rejoice that thou dost live.

Each year I wait thy coming, dear,
Each year I love thee more,
For life grows hard, and much I need
Thy honey for my store.
So, like a hungry bee, I sip
Sweet lessons from thy cup,
And sitting at a flower's feet,
My soul learns to look up.

No laurels shall I ever win,
No splendid blossoms bear,
But gratefully receive and use
God's blessed sun and air;
And, blooming where my lot is cast,
Grow happy and content,
Making some barren spot more fair,
For a humble life well spent.

And here is a link to the entire short story - a charming story as we would expect from Alcott

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/11335/

Babi · « **Reply #2552 on:** April 20, 2011, 08:57:06 AM »

Haha...trust you, BARB. You went right out and found me some mountain laurel! Maidenhair is,
I find, more useful than I thought. The maidenhair tree, opposed to the fern, is the ginkgo
biloba!
Above all things in nature, I love trees. Have you read this poet? He's new to me.

The Presence of Trees
by Michael S. Glaser

I have always felt the living presence
of trees
the forest that calls to me as deeply
as I breathe,
as though the woods were marrow of my bone
as though
I myself were tree, a breathing, reaching
arc of the larger canopy
beside a brook bubbling to foam
like the one
deep in these woods,
that calls
that whispers home

A Blessing for the Woods
by Michael S. Glaser

Before I leave, almost without noticing,
before I cross the road and head toward
what I have intentionally postponed—

Let me stop to say a blessing for these woods:
for crows barking and squirrels scampering,
for trees and fungus and multi-colored leaves,

for the way sunlight laces with shadows
through each branch and leaf of tree,
for these paths that take me in,
for these paths that lead me out.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2553 on:** April 20, 2011, 11:33:03 AM »

Babi I especially like The Presence of Trees lyrical with just the right amount of sentiment to see the metaphor - wonderful... thanks.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2554 on:** April 20, 2011, 11:36:48 AM »

Igor Severyanin, pen name of Igor Vasilyevich Lotaryov (1887-1941), Russian poet who presided over the circle of the so-called Ego-Futurists.

Spring Apple Tree
~ By Igor Severyanin

Aquarelle

An apple-tree in Spring shakes me,—to see it grow,
Its branches whitely weighted with unmelting snow.
So might a hunch-backed girl stand, beautiful and dumb,
As trembling, the tree stands, and strikes my genius
numb. . . .
It looks into the wide, pale shallows, mirror-clear,
Seeking to shed the dews that stain it like a tear;
And stilled with horror, groans like a rude, rusty cart,
Seeing the dismal hunch mocked by the pool’s bright art.
When steely sleep alights upon the silent lake
For the bent apple-tree, as for a sick girl’s sake,
I come to offer tenderness the boughs would miss,
I press upon the petal-perfumed tree a kiss.
Then trustingly, with tears, the tree confides her care
To me, and brushes with a touch my back-blown hair.
Her boughs encircle me, her little twigs enlace,
And I lift up my lips to kiss her flowering face.

hats · « **Reply #2555 on:** April 20, 2011, 02:48:33 PM »

Good afternoon,

A Season of Spring Poetry??? I would love to read along. Don't have much to say. Would luv to read along. Hi buddies.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2556 on:** April 20, 2011, 04:00:28 PM »

Oh for heaven's sake how are you hats - glad you are joining us - please read along but let's hear from you from time to time please - as I recall you had a natural way of phrasing things so that is was poetry without the formalities - but just knowing you are with us is wonderful. - the regulars are, Babi who is from Houston and Gumtree, from Perth, Australia - roshanarose from a town along the eastern coast of Australia and I forgot now the name of the Town and Octavia who is also from Australia - JoanK stops by every so often as does a few others - Anna had an accident a few weeks ago after a bad time last year so we seldom see her but she is in our hearts and minds - email is wonderful for keeping up with each other - come to think of it I need to find one of Anna's poems and post it here - her poetry was as good as it gets.

Gumtree · « **Reply #2557 on:** April 21, 2011, 04:47:11 AM »

HATS Hello again. I was hoping you'd find your way into the Poetry.
As you probably know Barbara puts up some wonderful pieces as do the other posters - I'm really flattered that Barbara has me shown as a 'regular' - I guess I am - but I'm really only a 'lurker' though I sometimes foist my opinions on others here....

Barbara: How surprising that Aussies are out in force in this discussion. I don't think there are any other Aussies in SL at present so you've got 100% of us!
Roshanarose is in Brisbane which is the capital city in Queensland and Octavia also a Queenslander, lives in the town of Rockhampton which is much further to the north.
I really am honoured to be classed as a 'regular' - I guess I'll have to contribute a little more...

Babi · « **Reply #2558 on:** April 21, 2011, 08:43:26 AM »

HATS! How wonderful to hear from you again. Please don't stay away so long; it's great
to have you here.

Foist away, GUM. I always enjoy reading your thoughts/opinions. Not to mention that I've
learned so much more about Australia, esp. the writers and poets, from you and the other
Aussies.

BARB, Sevaryanin's poem about the apple tree disturbs me. His reference to his genius, and
his images of being 'kind' to a sick, bent girl and...to my mind...taking advantage of her gratitude. My antenna are up, not to mention my hackles!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #2559 on:** April 21, 2011, 11:35:23 AM »

Oh Babi - I hear you and yet, looking at his life span we forget how common before the days of WWII know of many deformed young girls and boys - I think maybe they did not have a long life because you seldom saw a deformed adult - however, deformities were hidden away and deformed children were considered an outcaste - where as today we have children in regular public schools with all sorts of deformities that we now understand as an illness or birth defect - and so I am thinking it was a kindness to at least compare this young girl to an apple tree rather than the treatment she would typically receive during that time in history. That plus so much Russian literature and poetry includes a brutal look at life more than we are used to hearing. I think their existence was far more brutal than we experience in even the worst of times.

Thanks Gumtree for placing the hometowns for both Octavia and roshanarose - I remember a month or so ago having a great time with a virtual visit to all your hometowns by way of the Google map that shows a video as if driving down most of the streets all over the world. I get a kick out of it since it is like a travelogue.

Busy busy this morning and so I will be back later with a poem - .

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