# Reading > Poems, Poets, and Poetry >  Poem of the Week

## Scheherazade

*

* We will post a new poem every week to be discussed by our members.

* Please post a new poem only on a Monday (please wait till it is Monday in your corner of the world) and state the week the poem is posted for.

* The same person cannot post another poem within the same month.

* When you participate in this thread, please keep in mind that there will be opinions that are different from yours. We are not here to persuade others or to make them think like ourselves but simply to share our own interpretations and views with each other. 

* Any off topic posts are likely to be edited/deleted.

* PLEASE RESPECT COPYRIGHT LAWS: READ THIS BEFORE POSTING:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=17515*

Here is the first poem for June 9 - 16:


*An Apple Gathering* 

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.

Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.

Christina Rossetti

----------


## JBI

Is the purpose here to discuss the poem in depth?

----------


## Scheherazade

Yes. Discuss it, share your thoughts, feelings and so on.

----------


## Niamh

I'll have a read over it later!  :Biggrin:

----------


## dramasnot6

I think we can all,at some point in our lives,relate to this poem. 
She captures very well what one feels after one experiences a loss of love. You see happy couples with melancholy and envy, feeling like it was only just the other day that you were one of them. 
It should also be noted that she uses the motif of full and empty baskets, as if that powerful love that once filled your entire being can,tipped downward by a few words and painful moments, be spilled onto the earth and never be felt again. 
It's not a complicated poem but it serves the function it sets out to achieve simply, accessibly, and charmingly. I rather like the simple,charmingly melancholic voice of the poem, through it she constructs a realistic young lady persona,with whom I can identify with.

*has put in her two cents*  :Smile:

----------


## Nightshade

well yay!  :Banana: ...about time we had another thread like this I sued to really enjoy this  :Nod:  
Ok I like it ..... not sure what it means but I do like it :Nod:

----------


## dramasnot6

Seeing as the week is coming to the end, I thought I should do the poem justice by offering up some last-minute interpretation....

Upon re-reading this poem, one could also interpret An Apple Gathering as social commentary about the roles and expectations of women. This is particularly apparent in Stanza 2, when her neighbours are said to mock her.
The apples,in this interpretation, symbolise fertility-as women are carrying full baskets of apples,mocking her "barrenness" as represented by the empty basket(she has no 'fruit' or fertility). This is reinforced by the imagery of "plump Gertrude", hinting at pregnancy and health. This imagery can even be compared to the semiotics of pagan religions, in which the harvest time symbolised the fertility of both the women and the earth. 
I don't know if I should go so far as to interpret the poem as commenting on women's identities, in that women aren't complete unless accompanied by a man ("a stronger hand than hers").

----------


## JBI

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible.
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson

----------


## Il Penseroso

Well, in the first stanza I think the obvious striking element in it is the odd personification of Death as "kindly" stopping, gentlemanly like, to carry in carriage the speaker of the poem. The speaker's traits seem hinted at most strongly, IMO, as constrasted with Death's unhurried aspect and "civility." Her rashness (if you want to call it that) is directly stated in the first line and only indirectly apparent throughout the rest. The end of the poem seems to imply that the recognition of eternity was an early experience in her life, from which she is distanced temporally but linked to through recollection and a feeling that the human lifespan is miniscule in comparison with the full extent of time.

The odd mixture of a relationship pattern (an intimate carriage ride) with the ironic twist that Immortality is being carried also in the carriage (or perhaps is apparent from her position in the carriage) probably has the obvious religious valence, but also could be suggestive of a personal feeling she may have toward her own life. (I don't have enough of a detailed knowledge of her biography to go much further here).

Anyhow, just some initial (incomplete) thoughts to get the conversation rolling.

----------


## Nightshade

Emily Dickenson! I love this poem!

----------


## AuntShecky

RE: The Emily D. poem of the week. I remember a passage in David Foster Wallace's _Infinite Jest_
which states that every word of this particular poem can
be "sung" to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas."
Try it!

----------


## qimissung

I'm fond of Emily Dickinson and her amazing ability to put big ideas in small packages, like watching a hundred clowns jump out of the tiny car at the circus. I think my favorite thing about this poem is the idea of death "kindly" stopping, as though he is doing her a favor. I think in large part, most people still have a fear or horror of death, so the idea that death is doing us a favor remains a rather novel one, in my humble opinion.

----------


## dramasnot6

I too love this poem of hers. 
Her stanza on passing the children reminds me of It's A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong when he sings "I hear babies cry, and I watch 'em grow
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know".

----------


## V.Jayalakshmi

Dear Members,
Yes, I like this thread.The reviews/comments by dramasnot6 is very apt except for that about the poem by Christina Rosseetti where a reference to role by women is indicated.was that warraned?After all a simple intrepretation of lost love would be enough?Though I am asking for a discussion on a previous week's poem can someone discuss this.Thank you.

----------


## dramasnot6

> The reviews/comments by dramasnot6 is very apt except for that about the poem by Christina Rosseetti where a reference to role by women is indicated.was that warraned?After all a simple intrepretation of lost love would be enough?Though I am asking for a discussion on a previous week's poem can someone discuss this.Thank you.


Thank you...
Since when does the world of literary analysis have an 'enough'?
If you disagree with my interpretation, I am curious to hear your own 'discussion' on the matter.  :Smile:  The diversity of thought and feeling that accompanies poetry is a great reason why,to me, it is a beautiful literary genre.

----------


## Scheherazade

A reminder:


> *
> 
> * We will post a new poem every week to be discussed by our members.
> 
> * Please post a new poem only on a Monday (please wait till it is Monday in your corner of the world) and state the week the poem is posted for.
> 
> * The same person cannot post another poem within the same month.
> 
> * When you participate in this thread, just like others on the Forum, be prepared that there will be opinions which are different from yours. We are not here to persuade others or to make them think like ourselves but simply to share our own interpretations and views with each other. 
> ...

----------


## Scheherazade

*Please note that any work that has been published after 1923 cannot be posted here in its entirety.

You can read more about copyright issues here.*

----------


## Virgil

OK, how about this from Tennyson for poem of the week.




> *Crossing the Bar*
> byAlfred Lord Tennyson
> 
> Sunset and evening star,
> And one clear call for me!
> And may there be no moaning of the bar,
> When I put out to sea, 
> But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
> Too full for sound and foam,
> ...


The poem is about death, his oncoming death. This may have been Tennyson's last poem he wrote, and I've always felt he was playing with two cultural ideaas. Forst the Viking funeral of placing the body of a great warrior on a boat and letting the boat float out to sea. The other being the ancient Greek notion of crossing the river in the underworld, sor to f the way Dante has Dante the character being ferried across. Looking over the poem now, i'm a little confused as to what he means by "the bar". Any ideas?

----------


## JBI

Hmm, I do not like this poem as much as I like his earlier work. For some reason, he seems to have gone a little too simple here, and relies purely on the flow of the language, and less on the meaning than he seems to have done in his earlier work.

Perhaps that is just an idiosyncratic preference, as I am quite young still, and perhaps cannot relate/appreciate this poem.

----------


## kasie

Virgil = my sea-faring husband once explained to me that the 'bar' was the entrance to a harbour: you have to wait for a high tide to clear the shallower water at the entrance to the harbour, the sea floor being raised to allow deeper water to remain in the harbour, either naturally or man-made. Reading the poem brought a lump to my throat - it was one of his favourites, he wasn't a religious man but he had faith, as I think most people who have been to sea have. He used to joke that he wanted a Viking send-off, being sent out to sea in flames - that isn't legal in UK, so we scattered his ashes over the sea at high tide from his favourite beach and sent him 'over the bar' that way.

----------


## Scheherazade

Thank you for posting poem, Virgil.

A sad one... Makes me wonder if the persona in the poem is trying to come to terms with his imminent death and still have a little control over it maybe?

At the end of the poem, there is a little comforting thought though: "...I hope to see my Pilot face to face/When I have crossed the bar."

Kasie> Thanks for explaining what "bar" is... I was wondering that too. And I'm truly sorry about your loss.

----------


## Virgil

> Hmm, I do not like this poem as much as I like his earlier work. For some reason, he seems to have gone a little too simple here, and relies purely on the flow of the language, and less on the meaning than he seems to have done in his earlier work.
> 
> Perhaps that is just an idiosyncratic preference, as I am quite young still, and perhaps cannot relate/appreciate this poem.


 :FRlol:  Yes, you are quite young.  :Biggrin:  When you finish with school you'll realize that what's preferred in the academic world isn't the same as what poets themselves appreciate. This is a fine poem. Just appreciate the internal rhymes and alliterative connections.




> Virgil = my sea-faring husband once explained to me that the 'bar' was the entrance to a harbour: you have to wait for a high tide to clear the shallower water at the entrance to the harbour, the sea floor being raised to allow deeper water to remain in the harbour, either naturally or man-made. Reading the poem brought a lump to my throat - it was one of his favourites, he wasn't a religious man but he had faith, as I think most people who have been to sea have. He used to joke that he wanted a Viking send-off, being sent out to sea in flames - that isn't legal in UK, so we scattered his ashes over the sea at high tide from his favourite beach and sent him 'over the bar' that way.


Thank you Kasie. That explains it. Oh you speak of your husband in the past tense. Has he passed away?

----------


## kasie

Yes, he died four years ago, having been an increasingly disabled invalid for the last seven years of his life. I miss him but have good memories - he opened up a world of wonders to me that I never suspected existed.

----------


## kilted exile

In another of my Burn's moods currently. Picked up a complete copy of his works at the weekend, in my book this version does not contain the "O"s but the site version does. I think it is better without, they make it too songy and distract from the message:



> I.
> 
> My father was a farmer
> Upon the Carrick border, O,
> And carefully he bred me,
> In decency and order, O;
> He bade me act a manly part,
> Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
> For without an honest manly heart,
> ...

----------


## Scheherazade

Nice poem, Kilted. Thanks for posting it.

Interesting reference to Potosi (didn't know what/where it was; had to look it up). 

Also, what do you think he makes use of 'O'? What I find especially interesting is that it is a capital "O". Is it possible that it is short for a name? That the poem is addressed to someone in particular (someone whose initial is "O"). 

Just some random thoughts after initial reading.

----------


## kilted exile

> Also, what do you think he makes use of 'O'? What I find especially interesting is that it is a capital "O". Is it possible that it is short for a name? That the poem is addressed to someone in particular (someone whose initial is "O").


I think he is using the O, very much like in his ballad "Green grow the rushes, O" the majority of Burns verse is ballad like and this one is as well with the "O" addition. As I say I think it distracts from the message.

----------


## Scheherazade

Don't know much about Burns, I am afraid  :Tongue: 

I agree with you, though; the poem flows much nicely without the "O".

----------


## Scheherazade

Here is a new poem (since it is copyright protected, I will provide a link to a site which has got the permission):

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212

It is "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop.

----------


## kasie

How strange - this poem turned up last night in a film I was watching - In Her Shoes - I don't remember it being in the book but I didn't read the book too closely not being much of a reader of ChickLit, nor much of a watcher either but I was too tired to switch it off and just lolled and watched it instead of going to bed.

In the film, the professor character got the (not-so-dim-but-mightily-mixed-up) dim chick character to say she thought the 'loss' was of a friend rather than of a lover but I've always read it as a lost lover. What do you think?

----------


## Virgil

I always seem to like poems by Elizabeth Bishop. This one, while it does flare out with any remarkable lines, is another good poem. I believe that's a villanelle. I really like this stanza:




> Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
> of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
> The art of losing isn't hard to master.

----------


## Jozanny

I've heard this one read from The Library of America edition.

----------


## Scheherazade

> How strange - this poem turned up last night in a film I was watching - In Her Shoes - I don't remember it being in the book but I didn't read the book too closely not being much of a reader of ChickLit, nor much of a watcher either but I was too tired to switch it off and just lolled and watched it instead of going to bed.


I heard the poem in that movie too, Kasie!  :Biggrin: 


> In the film, the professor character got the (not-so-dim-but-mightily-mixed-up) dim chick character to say she thought the 'loss' was of a friend rather than of a lover but I've always read it as a lost lover. What do you think?


When someone is talking about losing someone, I think we naturally assume that it is a lover but the poem is so nicely written that it could be anyone really... anyone one cares for. I will take it as a friend.  :Smile: 


> I always seem to like poems by Elizabeth Bishop. This one, while it does flare out with any remarkable lines, is another good poem. I believe that's a villanelle. I really like this stanza:


I cannot say I am familiar with Bishop's poetry but I like this poem very much.

I think the line "The art of losing isn't hard to master." is rather memorable and remarkable because of its simplicity and straightforwardness.

My favorite stanza is the very last one:

_--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster._

----------


## Virgil

> I think the line "The art of losing isn't hard to master." is rather memorable and remarkable because of its simplicity and straightforwardness.


I agree, that is a great line. And it seems so simple.

----------


## Jozanny

I am not well studied in Bishop, which is why I haven't posted much, but when I do gain access to her work, I marvel at how crisp and fresh it is, and this piece is a good example of that. If it was your selection Sche, thanks, she wrote such a small selection of gems!

----------


## Scheherazade

When heard the poem in the movie, I fell in love with the line "The art of losing isn't hard to master." and decided to hunt the poem and read it myself (and share it with you guys too).

What do you think of the little entry "(Write it!)" in the very last line?

----------


## Jozanny

> When heard the poem in the movie, I fell in love with the line "The art of losing isn't hard to master." and decided to hunt the poem and read it myself (and share it with you guys too).
> 
> What do you think of the little entry "(Write it!)" in the very last line?


Okay, I'll bite, even though my analysis sells the piece short:

Purely as a technical matter (Write it!) saves the line from being weakened by repetition "like like", but I also think Bishop was... creating a closed loop back into the poem itself. Like disaster is a comparison, not the actual thing itself, so "writing it" is a way to protect oneself from disaster, because the poet has given it form. It is a great piece, and I hardly do it justice.

For some of my work you need a search engine on standby just to dig up my allusions and what I mean by it, but I suppose you can also blame my publishers :Wink:

----------


## Scheherazade

Thanks for your reply, Jozanny  :Smile: 

I will copy the last stanza here again:

_--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster._

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212

I am not sure double "like/like" is needed here: "It's evident/ the art of losing's not too hard to master / though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster." Do you mean she uses it to mean "disaster-like"?

I am wondering if losing this person is really a disaster... But trying to persuade herself that it is not? By forcing herself to write it?

----------


## Jozanny

> Thanks for your reply, Jozanny 
> 
> I will copy the last stanza here again:
> 
> _--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
> I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
> the art of losing's not too hard to master
> though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster._
> 
> ...


You are onto something, but I was focused on how the last line feeds the reader back into the poem again, and I am so lazy these days, but I will give it one last try. The first stanza ties losing to art and to disaster. The routine everyday things like losing a watch, then bigger and more expansive, losing a house and lands, even these do not amount to a cataclysmic event. Then losing you, (the reader?) may seem "like" disaster--and this is the first time she writes "like".

In the rest of poem disaster stands on its own as the thing not happening but maybe the reader is put on alert for it to happen, and that perhaps only art itself prevents it from happening, because art is a kind of stop-gap tool against loss itself. So the Write It invokes the poem, which encapsulates memory, becomes a thing itself which stands against loss, even if loss is what motivates the creation of the poem. It isn't disaster because we have the poetry.

Losing and writing are one art? Intricate stuff.  :Wink:

----------


## JBI

Has this thread died? Seems like no one is posting on it? I know it isn't monday yet, but if I am allowed, since no one seems to be posting here - 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry - Walt Whitman.

1
FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face;
Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious
to
me
than you suppose;
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my
meditations, than you might suppose.

2
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day;
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme—myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated, yet
part
of the scheme:
The similitudes of the past, and those of the future;
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings—on the walk in the
street, and
the passage over the river;
The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away;
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them;
The certainty of others—the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore;
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide;
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to
the
south
and east;
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high;
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of
the
ebb-tide.

3
It avails not, neither time or place—distance avails not;
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence;
I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is.

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt;
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd;
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was
refresh’d;
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was
hurried;

Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem’d pipes of
steamboats, I
look’d.

I too many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless
wings,
oscillating their bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong
shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit
water,
Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,
Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops—saw the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and
glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by
the
docks,

On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the
barges—the
hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly
into
the
night,
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops
of
houses,
and down into the clefts of streets.

4
These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return.

I loved well those cities;
I loved well the stately and rapid river;
The men and women I saw were all near to me;
Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look’d forward to them;
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

5
What is it, then, between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not.

6
I too lived—Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine;
I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it;
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me.

I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution;
I too had receiv’d identity by my Body;
That I was, I knew was of my body—and what I should be, I knew I should be of my body.

7
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw patches down upon me also;
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious;
My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? would not people
laugh
at
me?

It is not you alone who know what it is to be evil;
I am he who knew what it was to be evil;
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant;
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting.

8
But I was Manhattanese, friendly and proud!
I was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me
approaching or
passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me
as I
sat,

Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or public assembly, yet never told them a
word,

Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

9
Closer yet I approach you;
What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance;
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?

It is not you alone, nor I alone;
Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries;
It is that each came, or comes, or shall come, from its due emission,
From the general centre of all, and forming a part of all:
Everything indicates—the smallest does, and the largest does;
A necessary film envelopes all, and envelopes the Soul for a proper time.

10
Now I am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my
mast-hemm’d
Manhattan,
My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide,
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated
lighter;

Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call
me
promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach;
Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my
face,
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you.

We understand, then, do we not?
What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?
What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish, is accomplish’d,
is it
not?
What the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is it not?

11
Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves!
Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women
generations
after
me;
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!—stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!
Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house, or street, or public assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it!

Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you;
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting
current;
Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air;
Receive the summer sky, you water! and faithfully hold it, till all downcast eyes have
time to
take
it from you;
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the
sun-lit
water;

Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops,
lighters!
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset;
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and
yellow
light
over the tops of the houses;
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are;
You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul;
About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas;
Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers;
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual;
Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

12
We descend upon you and all things—we arrest you all;
We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids;
Through you color, form, location, sublimity, ideality;
Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and determinations of
ourselves.

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers! you novices!
We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward;
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us;
We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us;
We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also;
You furnish your parts toward eternity;
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

----------


## quasimodo1

4
"These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell youalso I return.

I loved well those cities;
I loved well the stately and rapid river;
The men and women I saw were all near to me;
Others the sameothers who look back on me, because I lookd forward to them;
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

5
What is it, then, between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

Whatever it is, it avails notdistance avails not, and place avails not." This is an excellent piece by Whitman. I happened to use that ferry although I don't think it was a steamship. Whitman, I'm sure you kinow, was a Camden, NJ resident, poet,and nurse during the Civvil War. He does get taken for granted and is one of the greater lights.

----------


## Jozanny

The Genesis of Butterflies

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.

----------


## Virgil

I've never read a Victor Hugo poem before. That was exceptional. Not much for me to say but that i enjoyed it.

----------


## Jozanny

> I've never read a Victor Hugo poem before. That was exceptional. Not much for me to say but that i enjoyed it.


I have not been able to find much of Hugo's corpus online, even though he is in the public domain. I am still looking, but luke was right about the strength of his work as a poet; I am beginning to understand his flaws in prose in this respect, because his strength is verse.

I cannot say much about it yet, I have to go brush off my notes about forms and couplets, but I can say that I hate rhyming couplets because most practitioners of A/B get stuck and cannot constrain the form, but Hugo is remarkable, absolutely.

PS: It is too long for a sonnet yes? I am really rusty on formalism.

----------


## Virgil

A sonnet is 14 lines. These are just couplets. Of course it's in translation, so we're never sure what form the original is in. Without looking at it of course.

----------


## JBI

Chances are it was in Alexandrine Couplets. Couplets are somewhat rare in English after the Enlightenment, so I doubt it was a translator's choice to use them.

----------


## Virgil

Note to Jozy: I replied to your PM to your regular email. My PM box is full.

----------


## Jozanny

> Note to Jozy: I replied to your PM to your regular email. My PM box is full.


I already read it Virgil, thank you. I need to find a good freelance writing community with members at my level for support--not that LN is not enriching on occasion; it is just not meeting all of my needs.

----------


## stlukesguild

I wasn't familiar with that Hugo poem, Jozy. The translation is by Andrew Lang... who is known for fairy-tales... and translations. I would recommend the recent E.H. and A.M. Blackmore translation of Hugo's _Selected Poems_. It offers a solid overview of Hugo's career in solid translation that avoid any Victorian mannerisms of many older translations. I also like Robert Lowell's version of _The Expiation_ from his _Imitations_. It is an admittedly free translation... but perhaps the best I've read as English poetry:

_Russia, 1812:_

The snow fell, and its power was multiplied.
For the first time the Eagle1 bowed its head--
dark days! Slowly the Emperor returned--
behind him Moscow! Its onion domes still burned.
The snow rained down in blizzards--rained and froze. 
Past each white waste a further white waste rose. 
None recognized the captains or the flags. 
Yesterday the Grand Army, today its dregs! 
No one could tell the vanguard from the flanks. 
The snow! The hurt men struggled from the ranks, 
hid in the bellies of dead horses, in stacks 
of shattered caissons. By the bivouacs, 
one saw the picket dying at his post, 
still standing in his saddle, white with frost, 
the stone lips frozen to the bugle's mouth! 
Bullets and grapeshot mingled with the snow,
that hailed...The guard, surprised at shivering, march
in a dream now; ice rimes the gray mustache.
The snow falls, always snow! The driving mire
submerges; men, trapped in that white empire,
have no more bread and march on barefoot--gaps!
They were no longer living men and troops,
but a dream drifting in a fog, a mystery...

the complete poem:

http://www.dl.ket.org/humanities/lit.../expiation.htm

----------


## Jozanny

> Thanks for your reply, Jozanny 
> 
> I will copy the last stanza here again:
> 
> _--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
> I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
> the art of losing's not too hard to master
> though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster._
> 
> ...


I do not know how many members might be able to access The New Republic homepage, but there is a great review of the Bishop/Lowell relationship, _Words In Air_.

Because I am a total doddering idiot, I did not realize that Bishop's "One Art" is a villanelle, which I should have known; it is one of the few traditional forms I'd one day like to try--and I also didn't know that Bishop's motive for writing "One Art" was fear of losing her companion, Alice Methfessel.

The TNR website is antsy in terms of allowing non-subscribers to view digital articles, but this is the kind of in-depth review for which I love them, and which is why publishing with them would by the greatest honor of my writing career.

----------


## symphony

May I?  :Smile: 


Edward Thomas's 

*Rain*

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
....

and here's the whole poem

----------


## Jozanny

> May I? 
> 
> 
> Edward Thomas's 
> 
> *Rain*
> 
> Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
> On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
> ...


Wow. This was really something to read symphony, right before I am off to the showers with my numbing spastic left side.... :Biggrin: 

I have been a poet all my life, and it is astonishing, humbling, to learn how much you don't know when you are deliberately shaking hands and becoming compatible with your own mortality. I've never heard of Edward Thomas, but in my estimation "Rain" strikes chords within that Yeats, in his tiresome perfection, cannot touch in me. Thank you. I'm an instant fan.

----------


## stlukesguild

Yes... quite moving... and I am immediately reminded of what was quite probably the last verses that Keat's... dying far too young of Tuberculosis... wrote:

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed- see, here it is-
I hold it towards you.

----------


## keyheld

> May I? 
> 
> 
> Edward Thomas's 
> 
> *Rain*
> 
> Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
> On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
> ...


The poem seems absent of feeling. You can definitely thank someone or something without mixing human feelings. I think this may be the type of tone he set. Throughout the poem you continually get this coldness in the imagery; whether it is from the still and stiff reeds in the cold water; from the rain pouring down on him as he ponders death (which indicates a literal loss of warmth from the body); from him praying that not the ones he loves, but the ones he loved do not feel what he feels about deathwhich is nothing; to the only type of love which the rain cant wash awaythe love of death. All of these images remove human feeling from the picture. Makes me believe the speaker wants to thank the rain because it will wash away all human feelings thats associated with life.

----------


## stlukesguild

Devoid of human feelings? This is a poem written by Thomas while in training in preparation for being shipped off to the trenches in France at the height of WWI. This is a poem of someone contemplating his own mortality not in some abstract sense, but with the knowledge that death is a very real possibility. As the rain washes him cleaner than he has ever been he has seemingly come a sort of resolution... a making peace with death... not unlike Hamlet's "Let be." He portrays the rain as a sort of benediction... blessing the dead lying in the fileds. Yet at the same time he prays that no one whom he has once loved is dying tonight... or lying alone listening to the same rain that falls on him.

----------


## Scheherazade

"If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda:


_"... 
If you think it long and mad, 
the wind of banners 
that passes through my life, 
and you decide 
to leave me at the shore 
of the heart where I have roots, 
remember 
that on that day, 
at that hour, 
I shall lift my arms 
and my roots will set off 
to seek another land. 

But 
if each day, 
each hour, 
you feel that you are destined for me 
with implacable sweetness, 
if each day a flower 
climbs up to your lips to seek me, 
ah my love, ah my own, 
in me all that fire is repeated, 
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 
my love feeds on your love, beloved, 
and as long as you live it will be in your arms 
without leaving mine. "_

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-you-forget-me/

----------


## Virgil

Very pretty Scher. Thanks!

----------


## prendrelemick

I've always thought that in the second line, the "wind" was meteorological.

But on reading it just now, It could mean wind (as in twisting)

The word "banners" has conotations to both wind (blowing) and wind (twisting around )

I suppose this is a translation, (was he Chilean?) so does anyone know which it was in the original?

----------


## ChinaRose

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
And loved your beauty with love false or true, 
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 

And bending down beside the glowing bars, 
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled 
And paced upon the mountains overhead 
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

----------


## Silas Thorne

Thanks China Rose. this is one of my favorites.

This poem touched me deeply the first time I read it, and has ever since. It's a beautiful poem. It seems to me to be about a woman remembering a past (and past loves) that she can never return to, except in her dreams as she stares into the fire. 
I got a little distracted 
by the second stanza at first, but I think that is the point, since it's about daydreaming and reminiscing, then brought back to the poem's present reality of the fire grate, with the 'And' which continues from the end of the description in the first stanza. 

The love of the man who loved the pilgrim soul in her seems to be the Moon, that 'hid his face among a crowd of stars'. 

Actually, when I look at the poem I get irritated by all the 'And' s, but when I read it, the 'And's seem quite natural.

That's my reaction to it anyway. I tend to get caught by the feeling and emotions of the words when I'm reading, so I probably miss a lot.

----------


## wsww

I have doubt this is to discuss about poems also post one by , right?
Also can't the poem be one written by me -something like that?

----------


## ChinaRose

> Thanks China Rose. this is one of my favorites.
> 
> This poem touched me deeply the first time I read it, and has ever since. It's a beautiful poem. It seems to me to be about a woman remembering a past (and past loves) that she can never return to, except in her dreams as she stares into the fire. 
> I got a little distracted 
> by the second stanza at first, but I think that is the point, since it's about daydreaming and reminiscing, then brought back to the poem's present reality of the fire grate, with the 'And' which continues from the end of the description in the first stanza. 
> 
> The love of the man who loved the pilgrim soul in her seems to be the Moon, that 'hid his face among a crowd of stars'. 
> 
> Actually, when I look at the poem I get irritated by all the 'And' s, but when I read it, the 'And's seem quite natural.
> ...


I had the same feeling like you when I read the first stanza. But later, it seems to me that it is like a piece of music composed by violin which states the love, sad and soft...

----------


## Silas Thorne

There is definitely regret in there as well...regret for what could have been but never was. It's more than just beautiful word-play on love.

----------


## dramasnot6

> When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 
> And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
> And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
> Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 
> 
> How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
> And loved your beauty with love false or true, 
> But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
> And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 
> ...


I wish I could remember the number of the Shakespeare sonnet this reminds me of...when he too discusses the appreciation of beauty despite aging. Great Choice,CR!

----------


## Cat_Brenners

Nice way of putting words. I enjoyed reading this and it flows good.
Thank you for sharing.
Cat

----------


## stlukesguild

I wish I could remember the number of the Shakespeare sonnet this reminds me of...when he too discusses the appreciation of beauty despite aging.

Actually it echoes any number of poets who wrote poems essentially attempting to seduce the woman by suggesting that she should enjoy love now while she is young... for soon she will be old and no one will want her. One of the most famous by Robert Herrick:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry. 

This actual poem by Yeats was specifically modeled on a poem by the French 
poet, Pierre Ronsard:

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que jétais belle.

Lors, vous naurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne saille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si men croyez, nattendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourdhui les roses de la vie.

 Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587

When you are very old...

When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.

Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my names cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name  immortalised by my desire.

Ill be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and youll be an old woman, nodding towards lifes close,

regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time wont come again.
Come, pluck now  today  lifes so quickly-fading rose.

tr. Anthony Weir

----------


## latimeri

I remain still, nice poets and nice interpretations. Knowing little or nothing about poets I will stay aside.

----------


## rimbaud

it's Monday so here is one of my fav poems

How Sweet I roam'd
How Sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his golden net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and play with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty. 

W.Blake

----------


## Scheherazade

*Funeral Blues*

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

~ WH Auden

----------


## Virgil

> *Funeral Blues*
> 
> Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
> Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
> Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
> Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 
> 
> Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
> Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. 
> ...


Wow, that's a great poem! I need to read more Auden. Thanks Scher.

----------


## Scheherazade

Love that poem and can neither read nor hear it without tearing up.

Auden wrote it when his boyfriend passed away.

Which part is your favorite? 

For me, as I finish reading each stanza, I think the last one is my favorite but the next one outdoes the previous one. 

Still:


> The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
> Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
> Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 
> For nothing now can ever come to any good.


*sighs*

----------


## Virgil

I would agree with you Scher. That is the best stanza in the poem.

----------


## Saladin

_Where Everything Is Music_ by Rumi

Don`t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn`t matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atomsphere,
and even if the whole world`s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge 
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can`t see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

----------


## pjjrfan1

> When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 
> And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
> And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
> Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 
> 
> How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
> And loved your beauty with love false or true, 
> But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
> And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 
> ...


my uncle gave me a book of english literature from his college days back in the mid 50's, that I still have, sometime in the 80's I opened it and found this poem, and I fell in love with it. I felt it was about a love that is true and pure and was lost amidst the chaos of living her life, but the love is still there and will always be there.

----------


## nievesalvarez

Hello,
I just read your comment.well nice comment,I am very glad with your idea for sharing this type of article or link.I am also hoping a healthy discussion and reviews for poems at the community.Thank you for sharing such a nice comment.

----------


## Scheherazade

*Of Many Worlds in This World*  

Just like as in a nest of boxes round,
Degrees of sizes in each box are found:
So, in this world, may many others be
Thinner and less, and less still by degree:
Although they are not subject to our sense,
A world may be no bigger than two-pence.
Nature is curious, and such works may shape,
Which our dull senses easily escape:
For creatures, small as atoms, may there be,
If every one a creatures figure bear.
If atoms four, a world can make, then see
What several worlds might in an ear-ring be:
For, millions of those atoms may be in
The head of one small, little, single pin.
And if thus small, then ladies may well wear
A world of worlds, as pendents in each ear. 

by Margaret Cavendish

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19742

----------


## Virgil

> *Of Many Worlds in This World*  
> 
> Just like as in a nest of boxes round,
> Degrees of sizes in each box are found:
> So, in this world, may many others be
> Thinner and less, and less still by degree:
> Although they are not subject to our sense,
> A world may be no bigger than two-pence.
> Nature is curious, and such works may shape,
> ...


Nice find Scher. I had never read her before. This poem seems way ahead of its time. Love that concluding couplet:



> And if thus small, then ladies may well wear
> A world of worlds, as pendents in each ear.

----------


## Scheherazade

I haven't read any other poems by her either and really liked the "sound" of this one but I am not sure if I grasp it all clearly.

Sentence structure is interesting, to say the least.

And the concluding couplet makes me wonder if the poem is about something else...

----------


## soundofmusic

:Wave:  Wonderful post! I would have loved to sit at the table of Duchess Cavendish and hear the conversations. This poem leaves off where another begins. It seems to consider man as somewhat egocentric, living in a relatively small space and judging everything by what we ourselves control. Meanwhile, smaller creatures and constellations continue life around us, totally unaware of our existence. :Confused:

----------


## Virgil

Not sure if I can post a new poem for the week, but I came across this today at lunchtime while i was surfing the net and thoroughly enjoyed it. 




> *As I Walked Out One Evening* 
> by W. H. Auden
> 
> 
> As I walked out one evening, 
> Walking down Bristol Street, 
> The crowds upon the pavement 
> Were fields of harvest wheat. 
> 
> ...

----------


## soundofmusic

> Not sure if I can post a new poem for the week, but I came across this today at lunchtime while i was surfing the net and thoroughly enjoyed it.


 :Angel: Thank you for posting. What a wonderful poem :Wave:

----------


## rimbaud

What Nina answered by Arthur Rimbaud



He: Just the two of us together,
Okay? We could go
Through the fresh and pleasant weather
In the cool glow

Of the blue morning, washed in
The wine of day…
When all the love-struck forest
Quivers, bleeds

From each branch; clear drops tremble,
Bright buds blow,
Everything opens and vibrates;
All things grow.

You rush about, and alfalfa
Stains your white gown,
As the shadows beneath your eyelids
Fade in the clear dawn.

Madly in love with the country,
You sprinkle about
Like shining champagne bubbles
Your crazy laugh:

Laughing at me, and I’d be brutal
And I’d grab your hair
Like this—how beautiful,
Oh!—In the air

Your strawberry-raspberry taste,
Your flowery flesh!
Laughing at the wind that kissed
You like a thief,

At the eglantine you stumble in
(It loves you, too!)
Laughing most of all, little dummy,
At me with you!

Just the two of us together,
Our voices joined,
Slowly we’d wander farther
Into the wood…

Then, like the girl in the fairy tale
You’d start to faint;
You’d tell me to carry you
With half a wink…

I’d carry you quivering
Beneath a tree;
A bird nearby is whistling:
“Who loves to lie with me…”

I’d whisper into your mouth,
Put you to bed,
Your body curled like a baby’s
Drunk on the blood

That flows, blue, beneath the softness
Of skin like snow;
Whispering about those shameless
Things… you know…

Our woods smell of springtime,
And the sun
Powders with gold their vision
Vermilion and green.

At night? We’ll return on the shining
White road that goes
Idly along, like a flock browsing;
Around us grows

The blue grass of lovely orchards,
Their bending trees;
For miles around as you wander
You smell their scent!

We’ll get back to the village
Just at duck,
And smell the odor of milking
On the evening air,

And the warm smell of stables
Full of manure,
Of a calm rhythm of breathing
And of broad backs

Pale in the light of a lantern;
And there below
A cow drops dung, dignified
And slow.

Grandmother’s eyeglasses sparkle
As she peers
In her prayerbook; a tin bucket
Of beer

Foams in the front of long pipes
That happily expel
Clouds of smoke; the flapping faces,
Smoking still,

Shove in ham by forkfuls:
Lots, then more;
The fire lights the cupboards
And beds on the floor.

The fat shiny bottom
Of a husky kid
Crawling to lick the dishes,
His tow head

Tousled by a huge hound dog
With a soft growl,
Who licks the round features
Of the dear child…

Dark, on the edge of her chair,
An arrogant profile—
An old woman spinning
By the fire.

What things we’ll see, my darling,
In those farms,
By those bright fires sparkling
In dark windowpanes!

Then, tiny, hidden under
A lilac bush, fresh
And shady: a little window
Just for us…

I love you! Come! Come for
A beautiful walk!
You will come, won’t your? What’s more…

She: And be late for work?

----------


## Virgil

Lovely Rimbaud. Thanks.  :Smile:

----------


## Maryd.

^^ Wow, Rimi, you've been busy... Lovely.

----------


## rimbaud

yeah, It's one of my fav by Rimbaud, I love his work!

----------


## Maryd.

> yeah, It's one of my fav by Rimbaud, I love his work!


I noticied... :Nod:  :Nod:  :Nod:

----------


## rimbaud

does my nick gives me out? 
 :FRlol: 

how did you guessed?  :FRlol:

----------


## Maryd.

Gee I don't know, Oh, that's it, your nick is a dead giveaway. :FRlol:  :FRlol:  :FRlol:

----------


## metamorphoser

*You Who Never Arrived* 
_Rainer Maria Rilke_

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. 
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, seperate, in the evening...

----------


## rimbaud

nice one metamorphoser
I found one last night, but will wait for monday to come, have to obey the rules  :Smile:

----------


## rimbaud

Ok, technically by my time, I'm an hour early, it's 11:01 pm Sunday here, but still, I hope you enjoy


Song: How sweet I roamed from field to field

HOW sweet I roam'd from field to field
And tasted all the summer's pride, 
Till I the Prince of Love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow; 
He led me thro' his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; 
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; 
Then stretches out my golden wing
And mocks my loss of liberty.

William Blake

----------


## Nick Capozzoli

_To A Dead Journalist_

Behind that white brow
now the mind simply sleeps--
the eyes, closed, the
lips, the mouth,

the chin, no longer useful,
the prow of the nose.
But rumors of he news,
unrealizable,

cling still among those
silent, butted features, a
sort of wonder at
this scoop

come now, to late:
beneath the lucid ripples
to have found so monstrous
an obscurity.


_WC Williams_

----------


## Daphne

I think dramasnot6 is right. Poetry is how each individual interprets it. There is no limit, no enough to it. To one the poem is about lost love, to another its about fertility. Its how each of us see beyond the lines in so many different ways that makes it so beautiful.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Has this thread been revived? Seem to be several poems posted above, so perhaps everyone's using it to simply post poems they like rather than as a poem of the week discussion? Seeing the title pop up made me think nostalgically of my first post to litnet, which was on an Elizabeth Bishop poem on the old Poem of the Week thread, a thread that provided some great discussions for some time.

----------


## mikebarns21

this is great!

----------

