Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 896784 times)

mrssherlock · « **Reply #280 on:** March 27, 2009, 05:21:15 PM »

Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - The poetry page is a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing this tradition.

Please, joins us this month as Fairanna helps us look closer at the work of: THOMAS HARDY

Born 1840 the son of a stonemason in Dorsetshire, England he left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections, including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Thomas Hardy died in 1928.

A few links about Hardy and his poems.

Thomas Hardy

Poems of Thomas Hardy

Thomas and Emma

Thomas Hardy and His Wessex

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

Looks like I'll have to get the original cast album if I want to hear Goulet's If Ever I would Leave You. See this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camelot_(musical)

MarjV · « **Reply #281 on:** March 28, 2009, 08:27:43 AM »

I like the magical feeling in the Lyonesse poem. With all the weather & economic tragedy in the USA currently going on it is a nice brain diversion.

~Marj

AND, on the Camelot talk - on Amazon you can buy the mp3 of each song to download to your computer for 99c. AND - it is the original cast recordings.

http://www.amazon.com/Camelot/dp/B001BHVSNO

fairanna · « **Reply #282 on:** March 28, 2009, 08:58:21 AM »

I am pleased everyone found in Lyonesse what I did .. I t just delighted me ...and Marj you are so right it is nice to have some brain diversion ..I found the following memory of Hardy's and found it charming in many ways...reminding us the Romans once invaded Britain and left behind some memories of another time in their history so let us walk with Hardy along ...........

The Roman Road

The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting -line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmed legionairies , who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother's form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road

Babi · « **Reply #283 on:** March 28, 2009, 10:27:49 AM »

I can 'hear' that song, too. It was, I think my favorite from Camelot. Isn't it nice that we can recall old songs and 'hear' them in our minds...especially those of us who can't really hear the music anymore. Except, maybe, a basso or rich baritone.

Quote

Visioning on the vacant air

Anna, this is something I always loved to do when visiting ancient sites. Simply sit and imagine the place as it would have been long ago. Everyday people doing their everyday things in that old setting.

mrssherlock · « **Reply #284 on:** March 28, 2009, 01:43:36 PM »

Driving up 280 from San Jose to San Francisco there is an area where the landscape must have been the same for hundreds of years. On the right is the big, big, big dish antenna. A few yards ahead the highway passes over the Stanford l
Linear Accelerator (SLAC). But to the left a vast swath of pale gold stretches to the edge of the blue hills. Here and there are ancient live oak trees with their contorted limbs black against the sky. In the shade of one of those trees rests a young teen. the son of the hidalgo whose ranch stretches from the bay to the coast. He is accompanied by his Indian companion, lhis Pancho Sanza. They are off on a quest, to climb the mountains and descend to the sea. This is the first time he's been allowed on his own to travel so far. Ahead are pumas, bears, coyotes, who knows what dangers. He can do it. He is nearly a man.

This has been a fantasy of mine for years. One day I looked out the window and it flashed into my mind, complete. Should make a great poem, shouldn't it? Maybe so put the words never came. So it lives only in my imagination, a fantasy of the way California was before the white man came and began his reordering of that world. It is almost an escape for me, that sleepy time of day, two friends stretched out under the tree, resting their horses, on the brink of . . .who knows?

bellemere · « **Reply #285 on:** March 28, 2009, 03:13:24 PM »

But it was Richard Burton, not Goulet, who sang that song. Actually, he spoke/sang it as I remember, in that unforgettable voice. He was trying to convince Guinivere to go along with the plan to marry her to King Arthur, and she didnt know it was he who had found her as she ran away in the forest.
Goulet sang "If Ever I Would Leave You" .
Two great shows are in revival on Broadway. "Guys and Dolls" and "West Side Story" I am trying todecide which one I should stretch my budget for. Both were wonderful movies, but I would love to see them live.

fairanna · « **Reply #286 on:** March 28, 2009, 08:30:06 PM »

Jackie your thoughts expressed are almost a prose poem...you made it so real I could see it too...and like you I have been many places where I see the place as it was once...even here where I live used to be forest and when it was developed the developer left the trees only taking down what was needed to build and in 72 when we moved here it was in the country and I mean in the country , we didn't have street lights, , two lane roads in not too good a condition led you to this area...and a town was ten miles away....oaks a hundred years old towered over us...on one of the roads nearby were farms with cows, horses , pigs etc and the area was so quiet at night or morning you could hear the roosters crow....but now the city moved out and the owners of the farms sold the land for malls etc and the city built highways to arrive here and street lights ..but to me it is still country where I would imagine how it used to be,,,Colonial Williamsburg is only 25 miles away and when we would go there time changed ...we were back in Colonial times and Indians still were seen....there are those who live in the here and now and others like you and the people who visit this discussion ...have the ability to "see" and "feel" other places and other times. It is a gift and I am SO GLAD the gift is mine...and I suspect each person who stops by are glad as well ,,,for their gift ...

fairanna · « **Reply #287 on:** March 28, 2009, 08:39:24 PM »

Bellemere I hope you get to see at least one and perhaps even both ..St Louis where I grew up had both The American Theater where mostly ( or at least all I saw) stage plays without music but in summer was the Muny Light Opera at an open air theater and .those were musicals ..funny it has been over 70 years since my parents took me with them to the plays etc it was so magical and even when I would see the same in the movie theater it just wasn't the same ..whatever you choose please share it with us wont you>???crossing my fingers and wishing you can enjoy both......

Babi · « **Reply #288 on:** March 29, 2009, 09:17:20 AM »

FAIRANNA, you brought back a memory for me as well. You remind me of the traveling actin troupes I knew as a child. A group called the 'Madcap Players' (I think that's right) would come thru' every summer, usually offering comedies in what was then a small town. They were my introduction to live stage productions, and I enjoyed them so much even when I couldn't understand the jokes. Then they stopped coming and I could only wonder what had happened to them.

mrssherlock · « **Reply #289 on:** March 29, 2009, 09:32:44 AM »

Little theater has been one of my loves. Not the same as Broadway travelling shows, but people who do it for love. Such a rush I get from the live performances. Nothing can compare. But the traveling shows are magic. When I saw Chorus Line I was hypnotized. When it ended I couldn't believe it was over. Guys and Dolls vs. West Side Story, what a choice. Toss a coin?

Babi · « **Reply #290 on:** March 29, 2009, 09:43:32 AM »

I saw both as movies, and both were great. Since "West Side Story" ends tragically, while "Guys and Dolls" was funny and had a happy ending, I think I am more in the mood for "Guys and Dolls". Purely personal viewpoint.

fairanna · « **Reply #291 on:** March 29, 2009, 02:10:31 PM »

Oh My------ memories seem to flow when I read what you have posted.. LIttle Theater my husband and I supported and our children acted in ..and I was backstage with younger children and made costumes wow now as I am remembering it seems like yesterday ...well it is Sunday and I woke to bluing skies and whipped cream puffs clouds COULD IT BE? SPRING HAS ARRIVED>>>crossing fingers and saying a prayer .. back later I am going to enjoy the sun and 77 degree temps Hooray...

MarjV · « **Reply #292 on:** March 29, 2009, 07:04:42 PM »

Here's The Bridge of Lodi.

Similar in essence to The Roman Road where Hardy talks about what happened back in history. In this case remembering a song he heard of the same name as the bridge brings back history memories.

I
When of tender mind and body
I was moved by minstrelsy,
And that strain "The Bridge of Lodi"
Brought a strange delight to me.

II

In the battle-breathing jingle
Of its forward-footing tune
I could see the armies mingle,
And the columns cleft and hewn

III

On that far-famed spot by Lodi
Where Napoleon clove his way
To his fame, when like a god he
Bent the nations to his sway.

IV

Hence the tune came capering to me
While I traced the Rhone and Po;
Nor could Milan's Marvel woo me
From the spot englamoured so.

V

And to-day, sunlit and smiling,
Here I stand upon the scene,
With its saffron walls, dun tiling,
And its meads of maiden green,

VI

Even as when the trackway thundered
With the charge of grenadiers,
And the blood of forty hundred
Splashed its parapets and piers . . .

VII

Any ancient crone I'd toady
Like a lass in young-eyed prime,
Could she tell some tale of Lodi
At that moving mighty time.

VIII

So, I ask the wives of Lodi
For traditions of that day;
But alas! not anybody
Seems to know of such a fray.

IX

And they heed but transitory
Marketings in cheese and meat,
Till I judge that Lodi's story
Is extinct in Lodi's street.

X

Yet while here and there they thrid them
In their zest to sell and buy,
Let me sit me down amid them
And behold those thousands die . . .

XI

- Not a creature cares in Lodi
How Napoleon swept each arch,
Or where up and downward trod he,
Or for his memorial March!

XII

So that wherefore should I be here,
Watching Adda lip the lea,
When the whole romance to see here
Is the dream I bring with me?

XIII

And why sing "The Bridge of Lodi"
As I sit thereon and swing,
When none shows by smile or nod he
Guesses why or what I sing? . . .

XIV

Since all Lodi, low and head ones,
Seem to pass that story by,
It may be the Lodi-bred ones
Rate it truly, and not I.

XV

Once engrossing Bridge of Lodi,
Is thy claim to glory gone?
Must I pipe a palinody,
Or be silent thereupon?

XVI

And if here, from strand to steeple,
Be no stone to fame the fight,
Must I say the Lodi people
Are but viewing crime aright?

Nay; I'll sing "The Bridge of Lodi" -
That long-loved, romantic thing,
Though none show by smile or nod he
Guesses why and what I sing!

Babi · « **Reply #293 on:** March 30, 2009, 09:01:12 AM »

It does seem that Hardy's boyish belief in the glory of war stuck with him. I also remember that reading that some of his poems were set to music, but I couldn't find any of them.
I must say, tho', that the "lip the lea" made me wince. I thought that was a bit much.

fairanna · « **Reply #294 on:** March 30, 2009, 10:47:40 AM »

I hope I have done this right but I read about the Lodi bridge for I have never heard of it and here is a link to the story ...

http://www.napoleon-series.org/military/virtual/c_lodi.html in my book the author has a list of the poems that were set to music but I must say when I read them they dont sound muscical to me...One thing I am learning a lot about places he has been and reminding me of the places my husband and I traveled...in Pompei many things amazed me but the ruts in the roads where the chariots ran ..I could almost see them coming in and on the Appian Way I imagined Caesars legions marching ..whatever it is I am glad I have "the gift" of imagnination, it has enriched by life and I am thankful

fairanna · « **Reply #295 on:** March 30, 2009, 04:44:47 PM »

Here is a poem I think can represent bias unfairly

Architecural Masks

There is a house with ivied walls ,
And mullioned windows worn and old ,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls ,
And daily dote on gold.

In blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a "villa" gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Live inner lives of dreams.

The philosophic passers say,
'See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they :
And O that Gaudy Box! Away,
You vulgar people there.'
What is that old saying ? "You cant judge a book by it's cover?" seems like that applies here or "Judge not that you may be judged"

JoanK · « **Reply #296 on:** March 30, 2009, 05:39:21 PM »

I haven't been here for awhile, and what a richness I found!

A new poster on Introductions mentioned haiku about insects. That was a mistake: it got me thinking about my favorite insect haiku (I've probably posted them here before, but bare with me. I posted:

You inspire me to look up some of my favorite insect haiku from Japanese poets:

How easily it lights up
How easily it goes out
The firefly.
Shuku (?)

The breeze
Lifts a hair
On the caterpillers back.
Buson

And of course Issa was THE poet of insects:

Don't worry, spider
I keep house
Casually.

In a large room:
One man
One fly.

But my favorite of his is about a mollusk:

The snail
gets up and goes to bed
with very little fuss.

Babi · « **Reply #297 on:** March 31, 2009, 08:26:01 AM »

Don't worry, spider
I keep house
Casually.

Ah, a soul mate. I generally maintain a 'live and let live' attitude toward most beings. However, I except mosquitoes, roaches, flies and ants. They have got to go; they are troublemakers.

In a large room:
One man
One fly.

And don't you know that one fly is driving that one man crazy!

mrssherlock · « **Reply #298 on:** March 31, 2009, 09:42:43 AM »

Speaking of insects I learned, from reading the latest "Doc" Ford mystery by Randy Wayne White, that mosquitos can't see yellow light. Doc is a marine biologist with a past who lives in a marina on Sanibel Island, Florida. Mosquito avoidance ranks high there, I gather.

fairanna · « **Reply #299 on:** March 31, 2009, 10:15:26 AM »

Joan thanks for the haiku's I love them all but like Babi spiders dont bother me and am sure they have found homes in my mess...the rest PHEW ,come spring and summer I tell them to GO and show them the door!

Oh I loved Sanibel . the seashells , I still have a huge jar full...perhaps using candles outside in summer do chase the mosquitoes away....I always thought it was the odor from the candle that did it ...another sunny day but rain is due again tomorrow and the next ...the plants are loving it but one patch of my daffies never bloomed I think they peaked too soon.. they were waving stems when we had some almost summer weather and then it turned COLD and now all I have is green stems and no flowers ...hope all is well wherever you are.,..smiles

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #300 on:** April 01, 2009, 12:49:31 AM »

Where does the time go - I was just getting the hang of Thomas Hardy and here we are ready for a new month with a new poet - thanks Anna for introducing us to Thomas Hardy - I am pleased to have read his poetry - this seems to be a unique time in the character of British poetry that is more somber - I have read that the prominent Victorian Novelists are the Bronte's, Dickens, George Eliot and Thomas Hardy -

Just as I did not know that Thomas Hardy wrote poetry how many of you knew that Charles Dickens wrote Poetry as did George Elliot [Mary Ann Evens] another female who used a masculine name just as Charlotte Bronte used Currer Bell and Emily uses Ellis Bell and Anne uses Action Bell.

Interesting that to this day we remember Mary Ann by her pseudonym George Elliot where as we remember the Bells by their real name the Bronte sisters.

Looks like all seven authors praised as prominent Victorian writers wrote poetry as well as novels.

For the month of April we will focus on Dylan Thomas - and what that man can do with sounds and words is amazing -

Looks like with y'alls interest in Haiku we will have to repeat a focus month of Haiku - maybe the way to make it different will be to find another Haiku poet or two since we have already focused on the big three, Issa, Basho, and Buson.

If you have any suggestion of a haiku poet we could feature for a month please let us know.

For April on with Dylan and his magical use of the English language.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #301 on:** April 01, 2009, 12:49:52 AM »

Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us this month of April as we explore the work of Dylan Thomas.

Dylan Marlais Thomas,
born 1914, in Swansea, Wales

J.M.William Turner - The Wreckers

The name Dylan comes from the Mabinogion, a collection of 11 medieval Welsh tales. The word means "sea". In the tale Math, the son of Mathonwy, challenges Aranrhod, his niece who claims to be a virgin, to step over his magic wand.

"Aranrhod stepped over the wand, and with that step she dropped a sturdy boy with thick yellow hair; the boy gave a loud cry, and with that cry she made her way for the door..."Well," said Math, "I will arrange for the baptism of this one...and I will call him Dylan."
The boy was baptized, whereupon he immediately made for the sea, and when he came to the sea he took on its nature and swam as well as the best fish. He was called Dylan (sea) son of Ton (wave), for no wave ever broke beneath him."

Marlais is the stream which runs from the hills near the birthplace of Dylan Thomas' great uncle Gwilym Marles Thomas. Marles is a variation of the name Marlais. Dylan's sister Nancy also bore a variation of the name Marles.

A few Links about Dylan Thomas and his poems:

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #302 on:** April 01, 2009, 12:52:14 AM »

Dylan Thomas - Holy Spring
O
Out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
The curless counted body,
And ruin and his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun.

No
Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
Out of the woebegone pyre
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
But blessed be hail and upheaval
That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing
Alone in the husk of man's home
And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,
If only for a last time.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #303 on:** April 01, 2009, 01:04:42 AM »

What I like most about Dylan Thomas' poems are - the poems are lyrical and powerful - the images are stark, yet compelling with a beauty that both attract and chill the reader

Babi · « **Reply #304 on:** April 01, 2009, 09:30:36 AM »

Oh, dear. I'm finding some of these phrases odd and difficult to understand. What, for instance, is a "curless counted body"? After a second reading, a few more things became a little clearer. Perhaps after I've read more of his poetry I'll begin to make more sense of it.

bellemere · « **Reply #305 on:** April 01, 2009, 09:47:24 AM »

Oh. boy! This is going to be a real effort. Maybe instead of making sense out of it, we have to just try to make some feeling out of it. As far as sense is concerned, Dylan seems to be marching to his own drummer.
I loved A Child's Christmas in Wales.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #306 on:** April 01, 2009, 02:25:33 PM »

What I am getting out of a 'curless counted body' is

A cur is a mixed breed mutt that is known to growl a lot and it is an insult to call someone a cur. I think he is referring to the fact that we treat these soldiers as mutts who are trained attack dogs of war and in the hospital it is evident they are not but there are many wounded soldiers as well as dead bodies and so they are treated as a number as if counting a pack of dogs rather then treating them with the dignity of an individual or even the dignity we think of when we consider a breed dog.

I think this will be a month where the sounds and rhyme of the words will be the message along with stretching our understanding of words rather than the exact definitions that are used by other poets.

Have any of you tackled Ezra Pound - he is another who stretches the mealing of words - the difference so far to me, although, I have NOT read that much Ezra Pound, is that Dylan Thomas's work is more lyrical and romanticized.

I am like you Bellemere - I just loved A Child's Christmas in Wales - we discussed it on SeniorNet some years ago and it was a delicious discussion - the most memorable was that Perman joined us and he was Jewish but loved anything written by Dylan Thomas - also, that was his last discussion before Perman, who lived in New Jersey died.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #307 on:** April 01, 2009, 02:29:33 PM »

This Side of the Truth

(for Llewelyn)

This side of the truth,
You may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth,
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
Is gathered and spilt
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.

Good and bad, two ways
Of moving about your death
By the grinding sea,
King of your heart in the blind days,
Blow away like breath,
Go crying through you and me
And the souls of all men
Into the innocent
Dark, and the guilty dark, and good
Death, and bad death, and then
In the last element
Fly like the stars' blood

Like the sun's tears,
Like the moon's seed, rubbish
And fire, the flying rant
Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish,
Down the beginning of plants
And animals and birds,
Water and Light, the earth and sky,
Is cast before you move,
And all your deeds and words,
Each truth, each lie,
Die in unjudging love.

Here is a link to the Obituary for Llewelyn - First son, Llewelyn Edouard Thomas born, in Cornelia Hospital, Poole, Dorsett in 1939.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2000/nov/28/guardianobituaries.geoffreygibbs

mrssherlock · « **Reply #308 on:** April 01, 2009, 03:27:55 PM »

This is going to be a painful stretching of my mind's muscles. Each word, each line, each fragment is a morsel worth chewing on but the whole is obscured by my preconceptions of the words' meanings. No pain, no gain, i guess.

Babi · « **Reply #309 on:** April 02, 2009, 09:03:46 AM »

You may be right, BARB, but it's hard to say. The poem has just referred to a
'bed of love', and apparently called it 'that immortal hospital'. I thought the
reference was to the healing powers of making love. From there, I tended to
take the references to war as symbolic rather than literal. Who knows?!

"This Side of Truth" I seem to grasp somewhat better. It seems to be about a child's innocence, before he grows to learn the harsh side of 'truth'.

I agree with you, JACKIE. This poet is going to give us work-out.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #310 on:** April 02, 2009, 11:11:50 AM »

here is one that can help us get the sound and meter down - the poem is read on You Tube by Dylan Thomas and so we can hear how the words are hitting the ear while we follow along reading the poem. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0f1txSI_D8&feature=related

Lament

When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw—
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!

mrssherlock · « **Reply #311 on:** April 02, 2009, 11:50:50 AM »

Yes, lyrical it is. Much more like the poetry I am used to reading. But sad, reading it in the light of Thomas' alcoholism and early death.

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #312 on:** April 02, 2009, 01:06:49 PM »

lyrical and raunchy as all get out but powerful is the message - He sure lived a roaring life and what appeared to be a painful reaction to his childhood - although he loved his Caitlin they could not make a success out of their marriage or could they nurture their children. To be so gifted

fairanna · « **Reply #313 on:** April 02, 2009, 02:39:17 PM »

Do you think he is regretting or sort of telling us as bad as he was he had no regret...I feel he is boasting , He was a rotter through and through it sounds like to me ...I need to read more ..the days are warm and things look like spring and there are trees everywhere in bloom, dainty blossoms as delicate as silken lace...when You look at them is seems they seem like clouds caught in the branches rather then flowers blooming there

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #314 on:** April 02, 2009, 06:55:30 PM »

I think he was a drunk - knew he was a drunk - had no tools like AA to turn to even if he had a mind to and like many drunks their bragging rights are often about how much they have abused - they are filled with loathsome feelings about their behavior but do not know how to change and still cover up the pain the drink provides - they truly love the ones they hurt but again they have no control till they have the help to find a way to get through an hour and then a day without covering their pain with drink.

I learned so much about the alcoholic and the drug addict when for years I attended ACOA meetings [Adult Children of Alcholics] and then later attended Al-anon to learn how to live with the drunks and addicts in my life. I still attend a meeting now and then where for at least 10 years I attended a meeting once or sometimes twice a day and then another 10 years of once a week. Now it is sporadic if something comes up and I am acting crazy or think I should be fixing someone.

I do know that it was only in the 1970s that AA was reaching Scotland and Ireland in a big way - I doubt if AA was even available in Wales during the lifetime of Dylan Thomas and his New York stays seemed to be centered in the local bars.

There are so many artists who are addicted to a substance - but write they do and with a gift and practiced talent that puts me in awe of their use of words. Dylan Thomas can use words like no other and reading his work knocks my sox off every time. Nothing soft and googly eyed but rough, sometimes harsh and always lyrical and powerful.

MarjV · « **Reply #315 on:** April 03, 2009, 07:49:41 AM »

Wow! On first reading "Lament" is randy and raunchy. But lyrical as you all say. Can you imagine that poem if it was straight thoughts set down as such say as a prose poem!!

Babi · « **Reply #316 on:** April 03, 2009, 08:57:33 AM »

I am finding I do not like Dylan Thomas' poetry, and 'lyrical' does not adequately rescue it for me. Starting the morning with one of his poems tends to spoil it fo rme. I really don't think I want to read any more of his work.
I'm going to pass on this one.
See you all later.

mrssherlock · « **Reply #317 on:** April 03, 2009, 12:07:06 PM »

Last night local PBS presented on its weekly Oregon Art Beat a segment about a poet, Clem Stark, whose day job is as a carpenter at OSU. Well, his poetry is everything Thomas' poems are not. Taking life's events, large and small, paints pictures with words, somewhat like Frost. http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/episodes/view/1024 Sadly his work is not online nor is it available in my library. Gasp! I might have to buy it!

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #318 on:** April 03, 2009, 01:11:46 PM »

Hmmm no books published and for sale at Amazon and so if his poetry is in print it must be for sale and published locally or maybe privately -

This is strange there is a You Tube about him that because of copywrite the voice has been silenced http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AWHE-cGWRY

The only information I can f ind on the internet is the one you shared Marj - says he is a carpenter at the University in Oregon. http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/episodes/view/1024

BarbStAubrey · « **Reply #319 on:** April 03, 2009, 01:18:14 PM »

On A Wedding Anniversary

The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.

Now their love lies a loss
And Love and his patients roar on a chain;
From every tune or crater
Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.

Too late in the wrong rain
They come together whom their love parted:
The windows pour into their heart
And the doors burn in their brain.

That to me is brillian to describe a painful life experience as the sky is torn - having experienced unexpected pain tht goes to your core that is a wonderful expression that describes it so well.

News:

Author Topic: Poetry Page (Read 896784 times)