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

## Scheherazade

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Let's try it again, shall we?

* Please post a new poem only on a Friday (please wait till it is Friday in your corner of the world).

* 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. 

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

*For May 19 - 25:*


*How Beastly the Bourgeois Is*

How beastly the bourgeois is 
especially the male of the species — 

Presentable, eminently presentable — 
shall I make you a present of him? 

Isn't he handsome? Isn't he healthy? Isn't he a fine specimen? 
Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside? 
Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day 
after partridges, or a little rubber ball? 
wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the thing? 

Oh, but wait! 
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another man's need, 
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life face him with a new demand on his understanding 
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue. 
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully. 
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new demand on his intelligence, 
a new life-demand. 

How beastly the bourgeois is 
especially the male of the species — 

Nicely groomed, like a mushroom 
standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable — 
and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life 
sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own. 

And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long. 
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside 
just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow 
under a smooth skin and an upright appearance. 

Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings 
rather nasty — 
How beastly the bourgeois is! 

Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp England 
what a pity they can't all be kicked over 
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly 
into the soil of England. 

-D.H. Lawrence

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## blp

Well, I had to go to Parson's Green in Fulham (South West London) yesterday and this is pretty much how I always feel about the people I see around there. I find this rather unpoetic however. The only thing that really seems to make it _like_ a poem, other than the line breaks, is the repeated phrase, 'How beastly the bourgeois is'. There are therefore zillions of poems I prefer as poems to this, but the sentiment's good. I'd like to have seen him turn this into a short prose rant.

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## Virgil

As someone who has studied Lawarence, I have always wondered why this poem gets so much distribution in anthologies. I agree with blp, it is not a great poem. When Lawrence gets preachy, which he has a tendency to do, it degenerates into stuff like this. Some day I'll post a good Lawrence poem to show he really is a good poet. From this poem, though, you can see the characteristic Lawrencian lines, which owe great debt to Walt Whitman. There are some things I like here, the fact that the narrator is analyzing a "specimen", which dove-tails with Lawrence's ideas of the modern world and the bourgeouis as the representative of the modern world. [BTW, he was not a Marxist, if you draw that conclusion. He was actually sympatheitc to the dictators of the early 20th century.] 

I do happen to like this passage though:



> Nicely groomed, like a mushroom 
> standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable  
> and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life 
> sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own. 
> 
> And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long. 
> Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside 
> just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow 
> under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.

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## Petrarch's Love

I agree with Virg., both that I don't think it's the best example of Lawrence's poetry, and that the last few stanzas are the best, especially the ones he quoted. I have to admit I've met a few specimans in my time who quite destinctly resemble this sort of fungus among us, which makes this piece pretty humorous. Lawrence has a good ear, and I like the sound and flow of his language, but I'll agree with the other remarks that it's one of those poems that's treading the fine line between poetry and really poetic prose.

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## Bandini

I like that fine line and I like Lawrence; well his work - he was pretty much an arse wasn't he? It is fairly poetic - effective imagery? Not his greatest poem though.

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## Xamonas Chegwe

As I mentioned elsewhere, my parents live close to Lawrence's birthplace. So I grew up with his poetry. This is not among his best, but it does have his voice. He was opinionated, often downright nasty, and that shows here. I much prefer his dialect poems though.

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## Bandini

> He was opinionated, often downright nasty, and that shows here.


I find it fascinating how he could portray his friends in stories so obviously and so negatively and really not feel any shame! I read a biography by Brenda Maddox a couple of years ago that was quite interesting. I like his nature poems - you can really see the influence on Hughes there too.

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## Xamonas Chegwe

I've always loved 'The Mosquito'. One of the few poems I studied at school that I actually liked (probably because the little bastits like my veins so much!  :Biggrin: )

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## Scheherazade

> I find it fascinating how he could portray his friends in stories so obviously and so negatively and really not feel any shame!


I found this while looking for this poem:


> The [characters in _Women in Love_ are probably partially based on Lawrence and his wife, and John Middleton Murray and his wife Katherine Mansfield. The friends shared a house in England in 1914-15. Lawrence used the English composer and songwriter Philip Heseltine as the basis for Julius Halliday, who never forgave it. When a manuscript of philosophical essays by Lawrence fell into Heseltine's hands - no other copies of the text existed - he used it as toilet tissue. According to an anecdote, Lawrence never trusted the opinions of Murray and when Murray told that he believed that there was no God, Lawrence replied, "Now I know there is."


http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/dhlawren.htm

I agree that as a poem, this is a not a good specimen, however, I like reading it because it has a tongue-in-cheek feel to it and it reflects Lawrence's personality nicely. I like the mushroom simile very much too... Reminded me of Plath's 'Mushrooms'... proves that imagery can be used to serve many different purposes, I guess!

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## jackyyyy

Its a GREAT poem... if you're an anarchist, a conservative-anarchist.

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## Virgil

> I find it fascinating how he could portray his friends in stories so obviously and so negatively and really not feel any shame! I read a biography by Brenda Maddox a couple of years ago that was quite interesting. I like his nature poems - you can really see the influence on Hughes there too.


The negative portraying of his friends is quite true, and unfortuantely Lawrence had a real nasty streak in him. But he was also extremely admired and loved by many people, ironically mostly women.




> I agree that as a poem, this is a not a good specimen, however, I like reading it because it has a tongue-in-cheek feel to it and it reflects Lawrence's personality nicely.


It does. But his personality seems to come through in everything he writes.

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## jackyyyy

Got to take your hat off to someone who just says it. How about this for personality:

*A Sane Revolution* 

If you make a revolution, make it for fun,
Don't make it in ghastly seriousness,
Don't do it in deadly earnest,
Do it for fun.

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## blp

> Got to take your hat off to someone who just says it. How about this for personality:
> 
> *A Sane Revolution* 
> 
> If you make a revolution, make it for fun,
> Don't make it in ghastly seriousness,
> Don't do it in deadly earnest,
> Do it for fun.


Could so easily be the credo of another conservative anarchist, Auberon Waugh. 

If everyone can forgive me drawing attention to my own work for a mo', I can't help being struck by the parallel between Lawrence's comparison of a bourgeois Englishman with funghi and my own lines, in the poem that annoyed Virgil so much a while back, comparing the English to mushrooms.

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## Virgil

> If everyone can forgive me drawing attention to my own work for a mo', I can't help being struck by the parallel between Lawrence's comparison of a bourgeois Englishman with funghi and my own lines, in the poem that annoyed Virgil so much a while back, comparing the English to mushrooms.


  :FRlol:  You're almost right. I was about to agree with you, but then the differences came to me. If I remember correctly about you're poem, and I'm going by memory here, you did two things in your poem that Lawrence doesn't do in his that led me to feel it smacked of racism.
(1) You provided a context where you described what you see as an odd shape to an English head. This contains genetic overtones.
(2) You generalized all english while Lawrence is specific about a cultural element. All english versuses the banker across the street, if you will, is different.

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## rachel

Well I like this poem. When I used to visit my adopted grandpapa in the deep south of the United States, every moment of life was according to protocol for he was of wealth and high standing. I couldn't even allow freckles to come on my face without being bathed in buttermilk and made to feel like a freak. And the ladies didn't get tanned because it smacked too m uch of the servants dark skin. So the lines:
Nicely groomed, like a mushroom 
standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable  
and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life 
sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own. 

These lines perfectly describe what I saw daily. I didn't feel at all like Lawrence about the people, I understood them and even as a child felt the need to protect the older ones who were decaying slowly and were honestly terrified if some alien thing touched their faerie place and their faerie minds. They all seemed so fragile like the honeysuckle that grew in abundance, soft like the snow white bread fresh from the ovens daily in their kitchens. They were exotic in a wet way like mint julip drinks and yet I loved them dearly.

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## blp

> You're almost right. I was about to agree with you, but then the differences came to me. If I remember correctly about you're poem, and I'm going by memory here, you did two things in your poem that Lawrence doesn't do in his that led me to feel it smacked of racism.
> (1) You provided a context where you described what you see as an odd shape to an English head. This contains genetic overtones.
> (2) You generalized all english while Lawrence is specific about a cultural element. All english versuses the banker across the street, if you will, is different.


Don't worry, I didn't mean to imply the Lawrence somehow justified my poem - if it needed justification. I was just struck by the parallel analogy, which, when I devised it, seemed much more free associative and even random and surrealistic. The Lawrence sort of shows me what I was on about, partially.

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## Nightshade

I didnt like it at first but the more I read it the more interesting I found it. I like the way he turnd presentable around to present.




> Presentable, eminently presentable  
> shall I make you a present of him?


And how hes looking at them all along like mushrooms or some other thing to be examined and how all these words sort of conote that.



> specimen 
> fresh clean 
> species

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## Scheherazade

> How beastly the bourgeois is 
> especially the male of the species 


Why is it that, according to Lawrence, this is a male 'phenomenon'? Or is it still? 'The female of the species' is not fallible in this way?  :Wink:

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## Xamonas Chegwe

Maybe not in Lawrence's day - but they are equally mushroomy now - just watch the apprentice!

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## Scheherazade

> Maybe not in Lawrence's day - but they are equally mushroomy now - just watch the apprentice!


Are you referring to that programme with Alan Sugar? I don't watch it, I am afraid, but I read that a female candidate won it this year.

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## Virgil

> Why is it that, according to Lawrence, this is a male 'phenomenon'? Or is it still? 'The female of the species' is not fallible in this way?


You know, that is a great question, Scher. Lawrence had very specific ideas of male/female roles and relationships. I don't know what to make of it here. Also, given Lawrence's religion of sex (whoa, is that going to get people worked up?) here's another set of interesting lines that again I can't figure out how they fit into this poem, but given Lawrence's ideas cannot be accidental:



> standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable

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## Nightshade

But isnt he just saying that the male bourgeois is worse than the female? 
I like that line virgil especially the extra and I suppose unnessarry*and* between "sleek" and "erect".

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## chmpman

> But isnt he just saying that the male bourgeois is worse than the female?


I don't think he is saying the male bourgeois (I always find that word hard to spell) is worse than the female. I think he is latching onto gender stereotypes, I hope only to make a point.

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## jackyyyy

*How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species * 

I think, while both men and women did constitute the bourgeoisie, Lawrence might have reflected the sentiments of women's rights at that time, maybe to compare. I think he is clear when he writes, 'especially the male'.

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## blp

Maybe he fancied the women more.

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## jackyyyy

> Maybe he fancied the women more.


Wouldn't discount that possibility.  :Biggrin:  I noticed how much he likes to use these words; beastly, nasty, ghastly. He criticizes them and then he assumes their language, and also in other poems. I think you are right, it is a rant, but I wonder what its really about.

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## Xamonas Chegwe

Lawrence grew up in the mining town of Eastwood, where he experienced the Bourgeoisie at first hand in the guise of the mine-owners. His father was a miner, but his mother was a schoolteacher (hence somewhat more bourgeois by some definitions). 

He won a county scholarship to Nottingham Boys High School, the first from Eastwood ever to do so, where he was looked down upon as a working-class upstart by many of the other boys - especially the rich ones that were in the school due to status rather than ability. This may shed some light on his singling out the _male_ bourgeois for particular scorn.

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## Virgil

Perhaps this was a personal pet peeve as Xam hypothesizes. But the reason we are even debatng this is because Lawrence was a strident anti-feminist.

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## jackyyyy

> Perhaps this was a personal pet peeve as Xam hypothesizes. But the reason we are even debatng this is because Lawrence was a strident anti-feminist.


I think it shaped him, and dramatically. Hardly a 'pet peeve'. There are disaffected people growing up, finding their way, right now, questioning the fairness. He could have been anti-feminist while still appreciating the separation of women to men. As I recall reading, feminists were considered radical, it was in debate, and Lady Chatterly's Lover is an example of the bourgeoisie, and sexual enlightenment.

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## blp

Another week, another poem: 

*The Portrait of Little JA in a Prospect of Flowers*

He was spoiled from childhood
by the future, which he mastered
rather early and apparently
without great difficulty.
_BORIS PASTERNAK_

I
Darkness falls like a wet sponge
And Dick gives Genevieve a swift punch 
In the pajamas. Aroint thee witch.
Her tongue, from previous ecstasy
Releases thoughts like little hats.

He clapd me first during the eclipse.
Afterwards I noted his manner
Much altered. But he sending 
At that time, certain handsome jewels
I durst not seem to take offense.

In a far recess of summer
Monks are playing soccer.

II
So far is goodness a mere memory
Or naming of recent scenes of badness
That even these lives, children, 
You may pass through to be blessed,
So fair does each invent his virtue.

And coming from a white world, music
Will sparkle at the lips of many who are
Beloved. Then these, as dirty handmaidens
To some transparent witch, will dream
Of a white heros subtle wooing,
And time shall force a gift on each. 

That beggar to whom you gave no cent
Striped the night with his strange descant.

III
But I cannot escape the picture 
Of my small self in that bank of flowers:
My head among the blazing phlox
Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.
I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,
As though the rolled up future might stink
As loud as stood the sick moment
The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,
Still, as the loveliest feelings

Must soon find words, and these, yes,
Displace them, so I am not wrong
In calling this comic version of myself
The true one. For as change is horror
Virtue is really stubbornness

And only in the light of lost words
Can we imagine our rewards.

- _John Ashbery_

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## Petrarch's Love

I'm going to start by saying I don't think I fully get this poem. I get parts of it, but I'm not entirely seeing how it all comes together yet. I just don't have a feeling for it. Maybe I just need to read it a few more times. I've never read any of Ashbery's works, though I believe I've heard his name mentioned by my twentieth century colleagues. 

What I do know is that his mind seems absolutely saturated with Renaissance verse, at least in this poem. The title is, I'm sure, inspired by the Marvell poem "The Picture of Little T.C. in a Prospect of Flowers." I sense that Ashbery is responding to that poem, and possibly others of the period as well. The themes of innocence and experience, troubled relationships, virtue, idealism and religion seem to be running through both poems in different and complex ways. I'll give the Marvell in full here for those who don't know it:




> The Picture of little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers.
> 
> SEE with what simplicity
> This Nimph begins her golden daies!
> In the green Grass she loves to lie,
> And there with her fair Aspect tames
> The Wilder flow'rs, and gives them names:
> But only with the Roses playes;
> And them does tell
> ...


Also, "aroint thee witch" is a quote from Macbeth in one of the scenes with the witches, and I believe it's used somewhere in Lear as well. 

I'll hold off further comment for now and see what others have to say.

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## blp

Thanks, PL. I've always liked this poem a lot, without really understanding it. I know the Marvell and was going to post it shortly - thanks for saving me the trouble - but other than that, I don't know the references. 

To start with a simple game of compare and contrast, Ashbery is, in section III anyway, talking about a photograph of himself as a child (comparing himself, by the by, to fungus) and describing this as the 'comic version of myself', while Marvell is apparently making the portrait himself rather than describing one and, in doing so, depicting an idealised little girl.

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## blp

It's quiet. Almost...too quiet.

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## jackyyyy

Should at least be some bats.

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## Petrarch's Love

> It's quiet. Almost...too quiet.


  :FRlol:  Just now it seems to be just you and me and Jackyyyy, who's just brought a lot of bats with him for some odd reason. 




> To start with a simple game of compare and contrast, Ashbery is, in section III anyway, talking about a photograph of himself as a child (comparing himself, by the by, to fungus) and describing this as the 'comic version of myself', while Marvell is apparently making the portrait himself rather than describing one and, in doing so, depicting an idealised little girl.


Just to push the comparison a little farther, I think you're on to something when you bring out the word "idealised." I think the Ashbery is reacting to notions of the ideal, both in poetry and in life. Not only does he replace the "idealised little girl" with the fungus-like description of himself, but he also replaces the Petrarchan portrait of the future woman who will taunt men with her cruel chastity, with the more cynical portrait of the abusive/ gold digging relationship described in stanza one. His use of the word "clap'd" has some interesting ambiguities. Its primary meaning would generally be to strike or to hit. It also has connotations of having had sex with someone (which I'm assuming derives from "clasped" in some way, but I'll have to look up the etymology to be sure). The fact that "clap" is a slang term for gonorhea would also give this a particularly nasty turn, and "clap'd" can also be used to refer to having infected someone with the disease. So there seems to be a whole variety of possible nastiness held under the umbrella of that word, which she is putting up with for the sake of "certain handsome jewels."

The question of the ideal also seems to be central to the second stanza with its seeming attempts to define virtue and goodness. I think this is probably the stanza I'm having the most trouble getting a handle on, though I think its opening lines, 



> So far is goodness a mere memory
> Or naming of recent scenes of badness


are central to the meaning of the poem as a whole. The questions of what we call good, what really was good, and whether good exists at all seem to prevade the work. We create an ideal world in the past in our memories, but that world wasn't ideal at all, we've just re-named "recent scenes of badness." Virtue is invented. Genevieve "durst not seem to take offence" for the sake of the jewels and so by not seeming offended her relationship with Dick seems good. The boy in the picture may not have been his "true self" but he's going to call him such in retrospect. We may pass through "even these lives," which I take to mean flawed, tainted lives, to be blessed because we can invent virtue in hindsight for ourselves. Anyway, I think they're key lines.

My favorite lines in the poem, however, are quickly becoming 



> In a far recess of summer
> Monks are playing soccer.


There's something delightfully absurd (in the best sort of way) about the monks playing soccer in some utopian "far recess of summer." I'm not sure I can yet fully articulate what it is that's drawing me to these lines though. They're a little like his whimsical, and yet slightly cynical (not the right word perhaps? --ironic?) use of archaic diction. Playful and complex.

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## blp

:Biggrin:  Nice reading. 

I love the lines about the monks too. Perhaps the word for them is wistful. Perhaps - though the absurdism is definitely there too. I sort of imagine them in miniature through the cloisters in some larger painting by a Flemish master. They're the lines that always stick with me - along with 'releases thoughts like little hats', which seems to be a bit of out and out surrealism, slotting itself in remarkably comfortably among the archaicisms. I started wondering today what the monks could be doing there and decided they were providing some much needed, peaceable and rather timeless counterpoint at the end of a section that seems full of sex, violence and commercial considerations. That said, Dick and Genevieve also seem as if they could be kids, probably brother and sister, having a spat. The pyjamas give particular weight to this idea and it fits the childhood theme that runs through the poem from the Pasternak quote to the photo. 

I agree about clap'd - gonorrhea's the first thing I thought of too, though I also thought it could mean simply 'saw' - as in 'clapped eyes'. 

We get two references to witches and it's not clear if they're the same ones. 'Witch' in Dick and Genevieve's tiff could just be a term of abuse. I'll come back to the second. The word 'virtue' also appears twice, both times treated rather sceptically, giving weight to your anti-idealisation reading: 'So far does each invent his virtue' and 'Virtue is really stubbornness'. Stubbornness against what? Reality in general? Anyway, the virtue having been invented, some beauty of a sort is allowed the inventors of it, music sparkling 'at the lips of many who are Beloved.' except that immediately, these same beloved become 'dirty handmaidens to some transparent witch' dreaming of a knight on a charger, which rather seems to belie their status as beloved. Still, another line I like a lot 'Time shall force a gift on each'? What could that be about? I'm stumped. 

After that, two more lines I love: 




> That beggar to whom you gave no cent
> Striped the night with his strange descant.


Another couplet coming at the end of a section and seeming to provide some counterpoint. The strange descant seems to contrast directly with music sparkling at the lips of the beloved and the 'no cent' comes directly after time forcing a gift on each of the beloved. I wondered, could this be a reference to Ashbery himself, especially since it comes just before the only obviously autobiographical section?

And there, I'm not sure the decision to see the comic version of himself as the true one is quite as arbitrary as you say. It might be an attempt to get beyond the kind of idealisation that seems to be happening in the second section, just as Dick and Genevieve's comic spat might be a foil to Marvell's idealised picture of childhood in little TC.

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## Xamonas Chegwe

blp,

You picked out my two favourite images. The 'soccer playing monks' and the 'thoughts like little hats'. But I am having difficulty getting anything from this other than a string of absurdities - which is not necessarily a bad thing - the 'bad thing' is that I am not getting any sense of something hidden _behind_ the absurd (or rather, not _enough_ of such a sense for my personal taste.) I am starting to think Ezra Pound here - beautiful evocative images with such tenuous links that they can only be understood with the aid of a 'director's commentary'.

You are quite welcome to call me old-fashioned, but I like poems to stand alone, without too much external knowledge being required (whether that is because the subject matter is fairly obvious, or whether because it is not required to appreciate the poem on its own merits, I am not too concerned about.) I am not convinced that either is the case here.

It is interesting in places but a little too intentionally(?) vague for my liking.

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## blp

*Xamonas*, I was waiting for the 'poems should stand alone' take on the Ashbery. I think it stands alone as much as any poem does. As I said, other than the Marvell, I don't know any of the references, but I love the poem. It's obvious to me that he's referring to earlier poetic language, but you don't need much more than a basic highschool education to know that, so, in that sense, it's not much more abstruse than a poem that uses a vaguely difficult word - like 'concupiscent' say. I assume you're not in the camp that would accuse Wallace Stevens of elitism for using that word in _The Emperor of Icecream_, so what's different about this? Aside from the fact that both PL and I knew the Marvell, which hasn't played that big a part in the discussion anyway, neither of us has really been calling on any great reserves of erudition to get to grips with this so far. 

Something hidden behind the absurd? I don't know. Have you read what we've had to say about it? There's the theme of childhood running throught it, the tension between idealisation and absurdity that PL pointed out. I know it's not easy, but I honestly think what's there to get is all there on the surface, not hidden behind anything. Maybe you're looking in the wrong place.

*Petrarch's Love*, I see I misread the end of your post. You weren't looking for a word for the monks, but for Ashbery's use of archaic language. Not sure I've got one, but I wonder if the final couplet 

But only in the light of lost words
Can we imagine our rewards.

might provide some clue to his motivation, as well as, almost, a manifesto for Postmodernism. There's undoubtedly irony in this use of old fashioned poetic language, but maybe a sort of yearning for it too, even a sense of it as essential even as it begins to seem impossible.

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## Virgil

I like the poem (the laguage especially) very much, although I too am struggling witht the meaning. I have not read much Ashberry, but (without doing an internet search yet) I seem to recall he struggled with depression and may have committed suicide. But I think he did live to be an elderly man. I just started on the poem today. I would think by the positioning of these words towards the end, he is arriving at some conclusion:



> so I am not wrong
> In calling this comic version of myself
> The true one. For as change is horror
> Virtue is really stubbornness
> 
> And only in the light of lost words
> Can we imagine our rewards.


I do happen to admire this particular stanza for it's beauty, especially alliteration:



> Everything, taking nothing,
> As though the rolled up future might stink
> As loud as stood the sick moment
> The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,
> Still, as the loveliest feelings


I do think I understand the third stanza (the disparity between his younger self with his current self and his reaction to it) but how the first two stanzas support this is vague to me.

Notice he starts the third stanza with "But", which indicates a contrast. (BTW, "but" in all forms of writing is a very powerful word.) Could it be that the first two stanzas are portraits of his current self with a turn at the third stanza?

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## Virgil

Actually the first stanza is a double entendre. It is like Petrarch suggests sexuality tinged witth gross connotation. But it's also a children's pajama party: "punch in the pyjamas," "witch," "thoughts like little hats", "clapped." Monks playing soccer has the feel of a summer camp.

The second stanza he even addresses the children (who is Dick and Genevieve?) in a blessing: "children / You may pass through to be blessed". I take that line as a completion of a right of passage. And what about this thing of "white". White as symbolic for innocence. 



> ...Then these, as dirty handmaidens
> To some transparent witch, will dream
> Of a white heros subtle wooing,
> And time shall force a gift on each.


Witch as symbolic of experience? Perhaps. So I take this poem as articulating a loss of innocence and reflecting back on it through the photograph, an instant of time frozen. A modern day picture on a Grecian Urn?

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## Petrarch's Love

Virg.--The lines you cite about the witch and the handmaidens are still the ones that puzzle me most. I think you're right that there's something there about experience and the association of the color white with purity that will come as a rescuer. 



> So I take this poem as articulating a loss of innocence and reflecting back on it through the photograph, an instant of time frozen. A modern day picture on a Grecian Urn?


I think you're partly on to something here. The Marvell poem that this poem was inspired by is pretty clearly a tribute to an ideal innocence and a reflection on its eventual loss. I feel that the Ashberry in some way complicates this. The picture itself is not an ideal one, as we would expect in a poem reflecting on childhood innocence. He looks like a mushroom, and the moment that the shutter clicks is discribed as a "sick" one. As you point out, Dick punching Genevieve in the pajamas could be describing a childhood spat at a pajama party, but it also blends into a description of an unhealthy adult relationship. This blurring between the actions of childhood and adulthood seems to suggest that childhood itself was not as perfect as we might remember, that "the child is father to the man," so to speak. Not that we weren't more innocent as children, but that we weren't perfect either. I think that's part of what's going on with his emphasis on virtue as something invented, almost something we choose to remember for ourselves. So I think that Ashberry is talking about reflecting back at a past moment, but I'm not sure it's quite so straightforward as Keats' Grecian Urn and other poems of that ilk.

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## Virgil

You may be right Petrarch, I'll give it some more thought tomorrow. I have yet to read the Marvell poem. I didn't want it to infleuence my initial reading of this yet. I'll do that tomorrow as well and come to some final understanding of this fine peom.

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## Virgil

> The Marvell poem that this poem was inspired by is pretty clearly a tribute to an ideal innocence and a reflection on its eventual loss. I feel that the Ashberry in some way complicates this. The picture itself is not an ideal one, as we would expect in a poem reflecting on childhood innocence. He looks like a mushroom, and the moment that the shutter clicks is discribed as a "sick" one.


I don't know. Mushrooms can be cute.  :Wink:  Sort of like a gangly innocence. I guess it could suggest something about the person he will become. I take your point, but I don't see anything else in the poem that would support that. "so I am not wrong / In calling this comic version of myself / The true one." When he says "invent his virtue", do you think he's referring to that of the children or the adult? I take it as after the children have "pass(ed) through" do they then invent their virtue. Virtue is an adult concept, is it not? I could be wrong, though.

I admit there is more to this poem that I just can't quite grasp. We haven't even touched upon the quote underneath the title.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I don't know. Mushrooms can be cute. Sort of like a gangly innocence. I guess it could suggest something about the person he will become. I take your point, but I don't see anything else in the poem that would support that. "so I am not wrong / In calling this comic version of myself / The true one." When he says "invent his virtue", do you think he's referring to that of the children or the adult? I take it as after the children have "pass(ed) through" do they then invent their virtue. Virtue is an adult concept, is it not? I could be wrong, though.
> 
> I admit there is more to this poem that I just can't quite grasp. We haven't even touched upon the quote underneath the title.


Mushrooms can be cute, but I wasn't so sure about a "pale gigantic fungus" there seemed to be something distinctly un-cute about that.  :FRlol:  Anyway, I agree that virtue is an adult concept. You may be right about this sense of not needing to invent virtue until adulthood. Still, though it may not be present quite so strongly as I suggested in my previous post, I don't feel that he's giving us an entirely ideal portrait. I still think there is much that I really don't grasp in this poem though, so I don't know if I can say with clarity what it is about it that seems so different to me than other poems that celebrate a past innocence. Maybe that's the point of the poem--that memory is faulty and it's impossible to recapture that childhood outlook "accepting/Everything, taking nothing." It's difficult to know even how much of what we idealize about the past was really there. The poem, like memory is elusive and muddled by subsequent knowledge. This is just the sense I'm getting about it at the moment anyway. 

As for the quote at the opening, I'm not really clear on how it connects with the poem. It makes me think of really precocious children who always seem to be ahead of things, but I don't quite see where he's going with that.

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## Virgil

No one has posted for this week. Here's one to do more justice to John Mlton. It's one of my favorites:




> *When I consider how my light is spent* by John Milton 
> 
> When I consider how my light is spent,
> Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
> And that one talent which is death to hide
> Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
> To serve therewith my Maker, and present
> My true account, lest He returning chide,
> "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
> ...

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## ktd222

This poem is a good poem. Shouldn't the beginning of this poem start as, _When I reconsider how my light is spent..._?

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## Petrarch's Love

> This poem is a good poem. Shouldn't the beginning of this poem start as, When I reconsider how my light is spent...?


Well, laying aside the fact that it would ruin the meter  :Wink:  , why do you think "reconsider" would be more appropriate, ktd? I thought "consider" was just the right word, especially given that the poem ends with him concluding that he does not need to change or reconsider his course. I'd be interested to hear what you were seeing here though. 

Anyway, it is indeed a good poem. The last line is deservedly famous, and one of those I've found has stuck with me. That opening play on "spent" (as both using the light of life/talent and the light being used up or extinguished by his blindness) always gets to me somehow. Anyway, more comments later when I'm not so tired.  :Yawnb:

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## Virgil

> *When I consider how my light is spent*  by John Milton 
> 
> When I consider how my light is spent,
> Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
> And that one talent which is death to hide
> Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
> To serve therewith my Maker, and present
> My true account, lest He returning chide,
> "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
> ...


For those who may not know, John Milton went blind in mid life and this poem is a reaction to it. "how my light is spent," "dark word," "light denied" are all references to his blindness.

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## ktd222

> Well, laying aside the fact that it would ruin the meter  , why do you think "reconsider" would be more appropriate, ktd? I thought "consider" was just the right word, especially given that the poem ends with him concluding that he does not need to change or reconsider his course. I'd be interested to hear what you were seeing here though.


Yup, this is a sonnet right? I was just thinking about the word 'consider' in the sense that one must consider how they will spend their light, and then, when the light is spent, is when one can 'reconsider' about how that light was spent. I'm not suggesting that there is a changed mind-set in the poem, but that there is a sense of reconsideration whether his 'light' was spent properly, according to himself.

P.S. This is the new me: more inclined to agreeing and less agruementative. Tell me if you guys like the new me?

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## Petrarch's Love

> Yup, this is a sonnet right? I was just thinking about the word 'consider' in the sense that one must consider how they will spend their light, and then, when the light is spent, is when one can 'reconsider' about how that light was spent. I'm not suggesting that there is a changed mind-set in the poem, but that there is a sense of reconsideration whether his 'light' was spent properly, according to himself.


Yup, that there's a sonnet.  :Nod:  I get where you were going now. He's considering how his light "is" spent, though, not how it "was" spent, so the consideration is for his circumstances in the present rather than strictly a review of what he did in the past. The spending he is doing is ongoing now. I do think he is playing a little with tense in this particular word, since if you take the meaning of "spent" as extinguished, referring to the "light" of his sight, then it is referring to something that is past. Yet even in this reading, he's still alluding to his current condition as one whose light "is spent." I think the poem is not so much about looking back over the past as it is about looking at where he is now, how he is spending his time and what his condition is, and wondering if he should modify his actions in the future. It's not that the past isn't there (certainly the urgency of having half a life spent is part of the poet's motivations), but I don't think he's trying to rehash what's gone before as much as he's trying to consider what to do now. That is, at least the way I have always read the poem. 




> P.S. This is the new me: more inclined to agreeing and less agruementative. Tell me if you guys like the new me?


Well, we look forward to getting to know the new you. Seems a good sort so far.  :Smile:

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## Virgil

> P.S. This is the new me: more inclined to agreeing and less agruementative. Tell me if you guys like the new me?


That's fine. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to be argumetative. However it can grow old if it's all the time. Plus the person you used to argue with the most is no longer on lit net.

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## ktd222

> Yup, that there's a sonnet.  I get where you were going now. He's considering how his light "is" spent, though, not how it "was" spent, so the consideration is for his circumstances in the present rather than strictly a review of what he did in the past. The spending he is doing is ongoing now. I do think he is playing a little with tense in this particular word, since if you take the meaning of "spent" as extinguished, referring to the "light" of his sight, then it is referring to something that is past. Yet even in this reading, he's still alluding to his current condition as one whose light "is spent." I think the poem is not so much about looking back over the past as it is about looking at where he is now, how he is spending his time and what his condition is, and wondering if he should modify his actions in the future. It's not that the past isn't there (certainly the urgency of having half a life spent is part of the poet's motivations), but I don't think he's trying to rehash what's gone before as much as he's trying to consider what to do now. That is, at least the way I have always read the poem.


Point taken. 
But by saying 'When I consider how my light is spent,' this makes me think that at this point in his life, 'ere half my days,' is the first time he considers how his light will be spent; The first time he is thinking that actions may determine the outcome of his afterlife. 
There is also something happening with the question and answer being displayed in the poem. Two entities, the I and the Soul, seem to be at odds as far as purpose in this world. Who is doing the asking and who is doing the answering? Is he talking to himself? I don't see any hinted evidence of God's existence in this poem except where Milton seems to convince himself that God must exist.

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## Petrarch's Love

> Point taken.
> But by saying 'When I consider how my light is spent,' this makes me think that at this point in his life, 'ere half my days,' is the first time he considers how his light will be spent; The first time he is thinking that actions may determine the outcome of his afterlife.


Well, there's actually no reason that "consider" has to mean it's the first time he's considering it. "When I consider" refers to when he reflects or meditates upon the state of his life without really specifying if this is a one time or a frequent occurence. 
That said, I understand your point, that it might give the effect of this being a new matter of consideration for him. I found it interesting that it was this question of time and tense that you focused in on first as a central part of the poem. Let us accept for a moment that, as you say, choosing to use the word "consider" alone--rather than something like "reconsider" or "consider once more"--gives a feeling of him coming to this question for the first time. That seems to me a fairly sensitive reading of the poem, which I think points to a large part of his concern here, that he is considering big questions about the way to live his life and his relationship to God for the first time in light of (so to speak) his recent blindness. He must now consider, for the first time perhaps, his life and actions in terms of his newly changed circumstances. In that first line, "When I consider how my light is spent," he conveys all of this. He is both describing the sorts of questions he's asking about how he is spending his life and, at the same time, describing the new circumstance of his blindness which has lead him to consider these things. That "spent" conveys both ongoing activity and the hoplessness of what is ended before even half his life is over. The line encapsulates a proccess of recognizing what has gone, realizing what has been thwarted in his future plans with that passing, taking inventory of his present situation, and beginning to consider plans for how to react to the whole mess of past (both literal past and hopes for the future that have passed) and present circumstances. I have always found the amount compacted into that single line simply amazing.

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## Petrarch's Love

> There is also something happening with the question and answer being displayed in the poem. Two entities, the I and the Soul, seem to be at odds as far as purpose in this world. Who is doing the asking and who is doing the answering? Is he talking to himself? I don't see any hinted evidence of God's existence in this poem except where Milton seems to convince himself that God must exist.


Since this is something of a seperate question, I figured I'd give it a seperate post. First off, I wasn't sure where you were seeing that "Milton seems to convince himself that God must exist." I thought the existence of God was pretty much taken for granted in this poem. I also wasn't sure if the two entities are exactly the "I" and the "soul." There are lots of poetic dialogues in this period describing a debate between a man and his soul, but I wasn't really picking up on that kind of conflict here (I'm willing to hear an elaboration in favor of such a reading though). I certainly do agree, however, that the question of voice--who is speaking and to whom--is probably worth looking at in this poem, as I think it often is in Milton's poetry. Maybe I'll outline how I read it and then you can respond with your take.

In the first quatrain the speaker seems to address the reader and/or is speaks to himself in the manner of a soliloquay. 

Line five contains the first direct reference to God as "my Maker." The speaker contemplates presenting his case before his "Maker." 

I think lines six through eight the most ambiguous in the poem in terms of voice. The original version does not contain the quotation marks around "Doth God exact day labour, light denied," that appear in the version presented here. I've heard that line attributed both to God--who is chiding the speaker of the poem by asking this rhetorical question as one to which the answer should be obvious--and to the speaker himself, who presumably asks the question in earnest. I've always favored the latter reading, but would be interested if there are any strong opinions on the subject among those here.

Line eight introduces the personified figure of "patience" who "replies" beginning in line nine by speaking on God's behalf to describe or remind the initial speaker of the poem about what God requires and does not require of him. I'm presuming it is the voice of patience which continues until the poem's conclusion. In a sense, since patience is obviously something within the initial speaker, I suppose you can say that he is speaking to himself. 

The final voice in the poem, which is of some importance as to what Milton is responding to and what he is basing the authority of "patience" in speaking for God, is the voice of biblical scripture. The gospel of Mathew in particular seems to have been on his mind in this poem. The first six lines allude to the parable of the talents from Matthew 25:14-30, and the "mild yoke" of line eleven is doubtless inspired from Matt. 11:30, "For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. Also, in line seven, he may be alluding to the parable of the vineyard workers in Matt. 20:1-16, in which all workers are paid the same wages whether they labour a whole or half day. I've also read glosses that point to John 9:4 in reference to that line, "I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work." I don't know if there are any biblical scholars out there that might be able to suggest something especially appropriate about Matthew that seems to be drawing him to allude to that book especially? It might be interesting to consider.

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## ktd222

> Since this is something of a seperate question, I figured I'd give it a seperate post. First off, I wasn't sure where you were seeing that "Milton seems to convince himself that God must exist." I thought the existence of God was pretty much taken for granted in this poem. I also wasn't sure if the two entities are exactly the "I" and the "soul." There are lots of poetic dialogues in this period describing a debate between a man and his soul, but I wasn't really picking up on that kind of conflict here (I'm willing to hear an elaboration in favor of such a reading though). I certainly do agree, however, that the question of voice--who is speaking and to whom--is probably worth looking at in this poem, as I think it often is in Milton's poetry. Maybe I'll outline how I read it and then you can respond with your take.


I can't take the stand that an actual God exist all along in Milton's view-even before this poem was written. Going back to Virgil's reference that Milton went blind halfway through his life, it's not hard to contemplate that traumatic events like this or nearing old age would cause Milton to search for a better reason for the reasons why he went blind, or will eventually die of old age. 
There is only one question asked in the poem and one answer given:
_ "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."_  
It doesn't seem right that God would refer to himself in the third person. So then who are we left with? Milton mentions the I, the soul, the Maker, patience, and if we exclude God, then we're only left with the first two. 





> I think lines six through eight the most ambiguous in the poem in terms of voice. The original version does not contain the quotation marks around "Doth God exact day labour, light denied," that appear in the version presented here. I've heard that line attributed both to God--who is chiding the speaker of the poem by asking this rhetorical question as one to which the answer should be obvious--and to the speaker himself, who presumably asks the question in earnest. I've always favored the latter reading, but would be interested if there are any strong opinions on the subject among those here.


There is no sense of the 'chiding' voice being directly from God because it is the speaker who is asking the question.




> Line eight introduces the personified figure of "patience" who "replies" beginning in line nine by speaking on God's behalf to describe or remind the initial speaker of the poem about what God requires and does not require of him. I'm presuming it is the voice of patience which continues until the poem's conclusion. In a sense, since patience is obviously something within the initial speaker, I suppose you can say that he is speaking to himself.


_though my soul more bent/To serve therewith my Maker,_  
Yes. And in these lines it is the soul that is 'bent to serve the "Maker,"' as 'patience' seems to be responding on behalf of God. We have a strong parallel here.




> The final voice in the poem, which is of some importance as to what Milton is responding to and what he is basing the authority of "patience" in speaking for God, is the voice of biblical scripture. The gospel of Mathew in particular seems to have been on his mind in this poem. The first six lines allude to the parable of the talents from Matthew 25:14-30, and the "mild yoke" of line eleven is doubtless inspired from Matt. 11:30, "For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. Also, in line seven, he may be alluding to the parable of the vineyard workers in Matt. 20:1-16, in which all workers are paid the same wages whether they labour a whole or half day. I've also read glosses that point to John 9:4 in reference to that line, "I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work." I don't know if there are any biblical scholars out there that might be able to suggest something especially appropriate about Matthew that seems to be drawing him to allude to that book especially? It might be interesting to consider.


This voice only seems activated when spoken.

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## Virgil

ktd

Are you questioning Milton's senserity in his religious belief? I am not a Milton scholar, but I have never heard anyone question it, and given his frequent religious subjects I would find it hard to believe that he does not believe in God.

I don't have the time right now to jump into the text (I'll do that later) for a close analysis, but I would summarize the poem in this way: The narrator asks God why has He allowed him to go blind when He has also given him such great talent to serve and now cannot be realized; and God responds, I don't care about your talent, that's not the service I require.

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## ktd222

> ktd
> 
> Are you questioning Milton's senserity in his religious belief? I am not a Milton scholar, but I have never heard anyone question it, and given his frequent religious subjects I would find it hard to believe that he does not believe in God.


No. It's just a question and had to pose as if I were reading a work by an miscellaneous author.




> I don't have the time right now to jump into the text (I'll do that later) for a close analysis, but I would summarize the poem in this way: The narrator asks God why has He allowed him to go blind when He has also given him such great talent to serve and now cannot be realized; and God responds, I don't care about your talent, that's not the service I require.


I'm not sure it is God answering at all. 
_But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."_  
Do you think God would answer in the form of third person; then switch over to such phrases as 'his mild yoke' and 'him best'? This just seems very odd to me.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I can't take the stand that an actual God exist all along in Milton's view-even before this poem was written. Going back to Virgil's reference that Milton went blind halfway through his life, it's not hard to contemplate that traumatic events like this or nearing old age would cause Milton to search for a better reason for the reasons why he went blind, or will eventually die of old age.


I'm afraid you're going to have to work long and hard to convince me that Milton is questioning God's existence in this poem. Of course it would make sense that Milton might have a period of doubt after going blind, but that simply isn't what's being described in this poem. You might look at the opening of his _Samson Agonistes_, which is pretty clearly a description of a struggle to maintain faith in God in the face of blindness. Laying aside the fact that, from my other readings of this poet I know that he's got a remarkably deep rooted faith in his religion, I simply don't see the evidence for doubt in the lines of this poem. 

The central question in the poem, I think we'll all agree, is "Does God exact day labour, light denied?" (which, incidently, I entirely agree with you is spoken by Milton). This question follows several lines making clear allusions to the parable of the talents in Matthew 25:14-30. The parable tells the story of a master who goes off on a trip and leaves a certain number of talents (money) with each of his servants for safe keeping. Two servants, who got four or five talents each, invest them and double their money, but another servant who only was given one talent hides it for fear of loosing everything. When the lord (master) comes back he praises the good investors and chides the servant who hid his talent for not having received interest on it by investing it with usury. The parable concludes with the order to "cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness," with obvious parallels to be drawn in the way mankind will someday be judged according to the use of their "talents" in life. 

Milton (who obviously puns on "talent" here to also mean his literary talent) is wary of being like the "unprofitable servant," since his blindness forces him to hide "that one talent which is death to hide" and makes it "lodged with [him] useless" (possibly a pun on the "usury" referred to in the parable), despite the fact that his soul is more "bent" (inclined) to serve his "Maker" with that talent. He is afraid that he will meet the fate of the servant in the parable when God, like the servant's master, returns to chide him. Thus the question about "day labour" he's building up to is coming out of a concern for whether he is serving God sufficiently, and how he is best able to serve Him. He wonders if God will expect "day labour" or a whole day's work equal to that of other men, when he has denied Milton the light of day in his blindness. I'll grant you that there may be some anger and resentment present in the question, in that he's upset at the thought that God might demand the same work out of him now that he's at a disadvantage and not sure he can perform that work. He's frustrated by inaction, and concerned about serving God's purpose sufficiently, but I hardly see how you can make the leap to him questioning God's existence from that. I really don't see how you can read this poem without Milton believing in God from the start. 

Why don't we address the last half of the poem and your concerns about who's doing the answering a little later, since I think the first portion is probably enough on the table for now? (Not to mention I've got a major presentation to prepare for this afternoon and have got to run  :Wink:  ).

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## ktd222

> I'm afraid you're going to have to work long and hard to convince me that Milton is questioning God's existence in this poem. Of course it would make sense that Milton might have a period of doubt after going blind, but that simply isn't what's being described in this poem. You might look at the opening of his _Samson Agonistes_, which is pretty clearly a description of a struggle to maintain faith in God in the face of blindness. Laying aside the fact that, from my other readings of this poet I know that he's got a remarkably deep rooted faith in his religion, I simply don't see the evidence for doubt in the lines of this poem.


I'm not in the business of trying to convince people.  :Biggrin:  Good, I don't think the poem's major conern is trying to search for whether God exist or not either. Getting back to what I think the poem is about, it seems to be a concern for Milton whether or not the way he lived, living, going to live is going to affect the God views him. 



> That "spent" conveys both ongoing activity and the hoplessness of what is ended before even half his life is over. The line encapsulates a proccess of recognizing what has gone, realizing what has been thwarted in his future plans with that passing, taking inventory of his present situation, and beginning to consider plans for how to react to the whole mess of past (both literal past and hopes for the future that have passed) and present circumstances. I have always found the amount compacted into that single line simply amazing.


-I agree with this by the way. 





> The central question in the poem, I think we'll all agree, is "Does God exact day labour, light denied?" (which, incidently, I entirely agree with you is spoken by Milton). This question follows several lines making clear allusions to the parable of the talents in Matthew 25:14-30. The parable tells the story of a master who goes off on a trip and leaves a certain number of talents (money) with each of his servants for safe keeping. Two servants, who got four or five talents each, invest them and double their money, but another servant who only was given one talent hides it for fear of loosing everything. When the lord (master) comes back he praises the good investors and chides the servant who hid his talent for not having received interest on it by investing it with usury. The parable concludes with the order to "cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness," with obvious parallels to be drawn in the way mankind will someday be judged according to the use of their "talents" in life. 
> 
> Milton (who obviously puns on "talent" here to also mean his literary talent) is wary of being like the "unprofitable servant," since his blindness forces him to hide "that one talent which is death to hide" and makes it "lodged with [him] useless" (possibly a pun on the "usury" referred to in the parable), despite the fact that his soul is more "bent" (inclined) to serve his "Maker" with that talent. He is afraid that he will meet the fate of the servant in the parable when God, like the servant's master, returns to chide him. Thus the question about "day labour" he's building up to is coming out of a concern for whether he is serving God sufficiently, and how he is best able to serve Him. He wonders if God will expect "day labour" or a whole day's work equal to that of other men, when he has denied Milton the light of day in his blindness. I'll grant you that there may be some anger and resentment present in the question, in that he's upset at the thought that God might demand the same work out of him now that he's at a disadvantage and not sure he can perform that work. He's frustrated by inaction, and concerned about serving God's purpose sufficiently, but I hardly see how you can make the leap to him questioning God's existence from that. I really don't see how you can read this poem without Milton believing in God from the start.


It was just an observation. He is convinced that God exist is he not? And I still DON'T see any evidence of God's existence in the poem because there is nowhere in the poem that God speaks to him. 



> I really don't see how you can read this poem without Milton believing in God from the start.


Who says I'm not?




> Why don't we address the last half of the poem and your concerns about who's doing the answering a little later, since I think the first portion is probably enough on the table for now? (Not to mention I've got a major presentation to prepare for this afternoon and have got to run  ).


What would you like to address?  :Confused:

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## Virgil

Just some observations on the form. It's a Petrarchan sonnet with rhyme scheme abba abba cdecde. What I always look for in a sonnet is to see how the poet breaks up his thought. Typical of Milton, and unlike Shakespeare, his thoughts overflow the barriers of the form. Normally a poet would have an element of thought for the first quatrain, a parallel or developing element of thought for the second quatrain, and for the sestet a contrasting element of thought that would conclude the poem. The two quatrains really make up one element of thought and Milton starts the contrasting thought in the last line of the second quatrain "But patience..." What is interesting to me about from that line to the 13th line is how frequent he spills over sentence fragments into the next line: "to prevent / That mummur", "Who best / Bear his", "His state / Is kingly." Of course almost every line is enjambed, but the ones I just listed seem like goes out of his way to purposely spill over. the are such short phrases that sure he could have worked the lines differently. It gives the sestet a different feel than the quatrain but it also sets up the concluding line's finality and gravity: "They also serve who only stand and wait."

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## RJbibliophil

Great poem Virgil... ( :Banana:  )

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## Petrarch's Love

> Good, I don't think the poem's major conern is trying to search for whether God exist or not either. Getting back to what I think the poem is about, it seems to be a concern for Milton whether or not the way he lived, living, going to live is going to affect the God views him.


Well, glad we're agreed on that. The concern is definately the way Milton thinks he'll be judged by God.





> Quote Petrarch's Love:
> I really don't see how you can read this poem without Milton believing in God from the start.
> 
> Who says I'm not?


I thought you did here:



> I can't take the stand that an actual God exist all along in Milton's view-even before this poem was written.


Isn't that saying that you can't be certain that Milton believed in God from the start?  :Confused:  




> It was just an observation. He is convinced that God exist is he not? And I still DON'T see any evidence of God's existence in the poem because there is nowhere in the poem that God speaks to him.


Yes, he is convinced that God exists. Why is it important for you that God speaks, or that there is "evidence" of His existence in the poem? It is not at all unusual for God not to speak in devotional poetry. In fact it's far more striking and unusual that Milton does have God the father speak so directly in PL. This poem takes the perspective of a man of faith going through this life, and the average Christian, even a very faithful one is probably not going to have direct personal chats with the voice of the Almighty the way Adam did in Eden. Usually the interaction with God is through prayer, through study of the scriptures, or through drawing inward on God-given virtues such as "patience." I think Milton is trying to present a realistic picture of how a person tries to understand God's purpose for him in the world. The poem doesn't describe God's voice because Milton isn't hearing God's voice. He's trying to understand what God's message is through scripture and through patience. I don't think that Milton would say that this means God doesn't exist in his poem, just that He makes Himself known in mysterious ways.




> What would you like to address?


Well if you don't know then I don't.  :FRlol:  I thought you were trying to make a point about the latter half of the poem, but I was in too much of a rush to look at it carefully, so I was just saying we could come to that later. Maybe you were just pointing out that God doesn't speak in the last half though, which is something we're already talking about. I'm sure the discussion generally will turn to the last half of the poem sometime this week.

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## Petrarch's Love

> What is interesting to me about from that line to the 13th line is how frequent he spills over sentence fragments into the next line: "to prevent / That mummur", "Who best / Bear his", "His state / Is kingly." Of course almost every line is enjambed, but the ones I just listed seem like goes out of his way to purposely spill over. the are such short phrases that sure he could have worked the lines differently. It gives the sestet a different feel than the quatrain but it also sets up the concluding line's finality and gravity: "They also serve who only stand and wait."


Milton does enjambment like no other poet I've ever encountered. I think it's this habit of running one line into the next that also accounts for his transgession of the usual compartments of the sonnet form, which you point out. Starting the major turn at the end of the second quatrain, for example, is a result of his desire to start the next thought mid line. It's this habit of his for splitting sentences, and (as you point out here) even sentence fragments, that often makes his verse so compelling. The effect is most evident in his lengthy work, like PL, when you find that, though it's a long poem, you simply can't put it down. He's incorporated what I think of as mini cliffhangers into each line. You can hardly ever stop reading on a certain line, because it starts a new thought midway through which you have to go to the next line to complete and so on until he decides what line to rest on, in this case the final line of the poem. As you say, this gives the final line an extra weight and _gravitas_. Unenjambed lines in Milton tend to be very powerful and memorable. They're often the ones we're invited to dwell on. I've often thought Milton uses a full line the way Shakespeare uses couplets, for finality and/or for emphasis.

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## Virgil

As to the question on who is speaking in the sestet, could it be that it's neither God or Milton.




> ...But patience, to prevent
> That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
> Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
> Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
> Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
> And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
> They also serve who only stand and wait."


I don't know if this has been discussed, but I read it (now for the first time in this way; I have always read it in the past as God's voice.) as "patience" speaking these words, patience personified acting like a diety or an angel. It's as if this angel, patience (unfortuantely it's not capitalized so I guess this reading could be suspect), is admonishing the narrator as to God's requirements.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I don't know if this has been discussed, but I read it (now for the first time in this way; I have always read it in the past as God's voice.) as "patience" speaking these words, patience personified acting like a diety or an angel. It's as if this angel, patience (unfortuantely it's not capitalized so I guess this reading could be suspect), is admonishing the narrator as to God's requirements.


As I think I said in my post on voice in response to ktd, I too have always read it as patience doing the speaking at the end of the poem. It is puzzling that "patience" isn't capitalized but possibly a printer's oversight or something. It appears that way in the original printing, but I've seen it capitalized by some modern editors.

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## ktd222

> I thought you did here:
> 
> 
> Isn't that saying that you can't be certain that Milton believed in God from the start?


I'm not certain either way.




> Yes, he is convinced that God exists. Why is it important for you that God speaks, or that there is "evidence" of His existence in the poem? It is not at all unusual for God not to speak in devotional poetry. In fact it's far more striking and unusual that Milton does have God the father speak so directly in PL. This poem takes the perspective of a man of faith going through this life, and the average Christian, even a very faithful one is probably not going to have direct personal chats with the voice of the Almighty the way Adam did in Eden. Usually the interaction with God is through prayer, through study of the scriptures, or through drawing inward on God-given virtues such as "patience." I think Milton is trying to present a realistic picture of how a person tries to understand God's purpose for him in the world. The poem doesn't describe God's voice because Milton isn't hearing God's voice. He's trying to understand what God's message is through scripture and through patience. I don't think that Milton would say that this means God doesn't exist in his poem, just that He makes Himself known in mysterious ways.


Because I want to know who is involved in the dialogue.

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## ktd222

> As to the question on who is speaking in the sestet, could it be that it's neither God or Milton.
> 
> 
> 
> I don't know if this has been discussed, but I read it (now for the first time in this way; I have always read it in the past as God's voice.) as "patience" speaking these words, patience personified acting like a diety or an angel. It's as if this angel, patience (unfortuantely it's not capitalized so I guess this reading could be suspect), is admonishing the narrator as to God's requirements.


Petrarch said these are all references to biblical scriptures; so is it going to far to say it is the learn'd part of Milton himself that is reciting these scriptures?

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## Virgil

> Petrarch said these are all references to biblical scriptures; so is it going to far to say it is the learn'd part of Milton himself that is reciting these scriptures?


No it's not too far; it's certainly a possibility. The poem would then be a sort of monlogue with internal conflict. But Milton puts quotation marks around the voices, so I would just have to accept it as two separate voices.

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## Virgil

> As I think I said in my post on voice in response to ktd, I too have always read it as patience doing the speaking at the end of the poem. It is puzzling that "patience" isn't capitalized but possibly a printer's oversight or something. It appears that way in the original printing, but I've seen it capitalized by some modern editors.


I'm sorry for repeating you Petrarch. I seem to sometimes have trouble concentrating on words on a screen.  :Nod:  I did not grow up with computers and I absorb so much more from a printed page.

Another observation I would like to make in this poem is the metaphor in the opening line and how I think Milton develops it in two other places in the poem.

"When I consider how my light is spent"

Light isn't a commodity that gets used up. Light is really referring to his eye sight, and even eye sight doesn't get used up; it just is or isn't. The image I leap to here, and perhaps this is just me, is of a candle. So then we have a complicated metaphor, where his eye sight is like a candle burning and being used up.

Now I also see this candle imagery developed.

"though my soul more bent / To serve therewith my maker"

Soul more bent is like a candle flame bending toward something.

"They also serve who only stand and wait"

Isn't that essentially how a candle serves, by standing and waiting?

The significance of the candle imagery/metaphor is that it dramatizes Milton's theme, that we are souls serving God simply by our homage to him, a candle being a religious item that is used for adoration.

Make sense?

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## Petrarch's Love

> I'm sorry for repeating you Petrarch. I seem to sometimes have trouble concentrating on words on a screen. I did not grow up with computers and I absorb so much more from a printed page.


No worries.  :Smile:  The comment was at the end of a rather lengthy post, so I'm sure it wasn't hard to miss. I also find the printed page easier to read over.



> Petrarch said these are all references to biblical scriptures; so is it going to far to say it is the learn'd part of Milton himself that is reciting these scriptures?





> No it's not too far; it's certainly a possibility. The poem would then be a sort of monlogue with internal conflict. But Milton puts quotation marks around the voices, so I would just have to accept it as two separate voices.


I think the poem is essentially an internal dialogue. The quotation marks wouldn't really complicate this. It's not at all unusual in this period to have devotional poetry in which a person debates with himself, or two personified internal aspects of himself. The most common and obvious ones are things like debate between Body and Soul, Virtue and Temptation, Faith and Doubt etc. The different "voices" in such dialogues would include quotation marks. I think Milton's is a much more subtle and nuanced version of such an internal dialogue. The one thing I would add is that, for someone with a Christian faith like Milton, I think there is always the sense of the external God, being present in the internal. Milton might say that he is not trying to listen to himself as much as to the words presented to him by God in the scripture, and to the promptings of the Holy Spirit through "patience" within him (with patience possibly being, as Virg. suggested earlier, in some sense a sort of divine angel or intermediary). I don't think Milton would draw a line between an internal dialogue and one where God is present, since the idea is that God is always present in some way or another. The poem is a lot about the way that a person can tap into God's presence and how to interpret God's will.

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## Petrarch's Love

> "When I consider how my light is spent"
> 
> Light isn't a commodity that gets used up. Light is really referring to his eye sight, and even eye sight doesn't get used up; it just is or isn't. The image I leap to here, and perhaps this is just me, is of a candle. So then we have a complicated metaphor, where his eye sight is like a candle burning and being used up.
> 
> Now I also see this candle imagery developed.
> 
> "though my soul more bent / To serve therewith my maker"
> 
> Soul more bent is like a candle flame bending toward something.
> ...


Yes, the light imagery is very rich here. I think the image of a candle is an apt way to think about it and, as you say, fits in well with the idea of "stand and wait." I hadn't really thought about the "soul more bent" being like a candle, and that may be a bit of a stretch, but generally speaking I think a candle is one good way of thinking about light in this poem. Both light and candles have also long been associated with life ("out, out, brief candle"), which is the obvious secondary meaning for "light" here. There's also the question of the light of the world (described as a "dark world and wide" early on), the light of day in relation to labour, and the idea of light as something "denied," which I think not only relates to his blindness, but ties in to a concern with being denied the light of eternal bliss in the future.

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## ktd222

_But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait." _  

Is the they and the who in the first highlighted line the same they and who in the second highlighted line? I'm not sure if it is because the two lines would be redundant if this was the case. Why I'm asking this is because if the one 'who only stand and wait' is referring to Milton in his blind state, and the they is the same in both lines, then there seems to be a sense of 'order of importance' created by the end of this poem. The ones who 'serve Him(God) best/best bear His mild yoke,' will in a sense be the same ones who also serve 'who only stand and wait(Milton).' 
If this is the case, then the question of 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied' becomes answerable: No. The importance of 'serving God' in the blind state becomes more 'important' than serving God while not blind. The consideration is done.
But I must admit, the vagueness of who is who is what leaves me unsure.

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## Virgil

Wow, I never realized that "who-they" formulation echoes. Actually "they" in the first occurence is redundant. Sentence could have stood as "who best serve His mild yoke serve him best." Why the added "they"? I guess syllables and rhythm, but also the echo. This also adds to the power of the concluding line.

Also noticing the repetitions. "Light" of course throughout the poem, but "best" within the very same sentence, "who-they" as I describe above, and "serve".

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## ktd222

I thought about it some more.



> Actually "they" in the first occurence is redundant. Sentence could have stood as "who best serve His mild yoke serve him best." Why the added "they"? I guess syllables and rhythm, but also the echo. This also adds to the power of the concluding line.


Yes, but don't forget the word 'bear.' _'Who best bear His mild yoke serve Him best'._ 
The ones who best serve Him are the ones who best bear His mild yoke. Who are these 'they'? The image is of an oxen yoked by a wooden frame would have to lead me to think that the they is referring to the day labourers. How else could an oxen work if it did not have light? 

'_They also serve who only stand and wait_'.

But then who are the they here? It has to be the same they as above because of the phrase 'also serve,' which indicates 'in addition to'. But who is the who referring to here? If it's God, then you have this weird comparison where just like God, Milton(blinded) is standing still while the ones who can see are like oxens labouring(spending their light) to serve God, and in a weird sense, Milton.

But I think the importance of this work(day-labour) towards serving God is undercut by Patience saying,' God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear His *mild* yoke, they serve Him best'. Which is to say, at best, this type of serving God, even though are the ones who serve Him best, is at best "bearing his mild(almost least laborious demands) yoke'". 

So in a way, as Virgil pointed out, it doesn't seem like the importance of serving God requires the sense of seeing. But then that last line makes me imagine Milton as this person who 'stands still and waits,' and I get a sense that he's elevated himself as far as the proper way to serve God-which seems to be just whole-heartedly believing-and has very little to do with considering how one's light is spent.

edit: I just thought of something about the poem relating to the word 'consider' and the overall theme of this poem. What if 'consider' was in terms of considered importance? Then what I get out of this poem is that what we consider important, as far as serving God to have a place in the 'light' when we pass from this world, is considered not worthy at all from the scriptures portrayal. Maybe _that_ something considered of worth 'in God's eyes' is not something laborious(in the physical sense) at all.

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## Virgil

> I thought about it some more.
> 
> 
> Yes, but don't forget the word 'bear.' _'Who best bear His mild yoke serve Him best'._ 
> The ones who best serve Him are the ones who best bear His mild yoke. Who are these 'they'? The image is of an oxen yoked by a wooden frame would have to lead me to think that the they is referring to the day labourers. How else could an oxen work if it did not have light?


Yes, that's the image but I think God's yoke applies to everyone; it's universal.




> edit: I just thought of something about the poem relating to the word 'consider' and the overall theme of this poem. What if 'consider' was in terms of considered importance? Then what I get out of this poem is that what we consider important, as far as serving God to have a place in the 'light' when we pass from this world, is considered not worthy at all from the scriptures portrayal. Maybe _that_ something considered of worth 'in God's eyes' is not something laborious(in the physical sense) at all


That works for me.

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## Jay

This week's poem:

*And Death Shall Have No Dominion*
by Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
------------------------------------------------------------

I like this poem for its 'rebellious' nature. It says that even though death's final, there's still hope left, as the line "And death shall have no dominion" suggests.

I was wondering whom is the poem about. My first impression is that it is about sailors of a wrecked ship, there's a lot of references to sailing. Does anybody else have different idea(s)?

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## Virgil

My first reaction to this poem is how the repetition of "And death shall have no dominion" makes the poem song-like. To state the obvious, it opens and closes each stanza, like a refrain, so that we hear the actual line six times out of the 27 total lines. If it were read aloud, like Thomas was famous for, there would be no doubt as to what the audience would come away with. No only is it song-like, it is hymn-like; the line feels like a church refrain.

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## Petrarch's Love

No one can do death and repetition like Dylan Thomas! What amazes me about this poem is that the repetition does not feel repetitive, as it so easily could, but powerful instead. I'll post more when I've had more than five hours sleep in a 48 hour period.  :Yawnb:

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## ktd222

For me this poem goes on two stanzas too long. I can see the contrast created in the first stanza with the phrases 'death having no dominion' and 'we shall'. It's not necessary to repeat lines here unless he's trying to create some bigger effect, which seems to be absent in my initial reading. What he conveys is pretty straightforward: that death shall have no dominion over dead(physically) men. But this statement seems to stagnate as the image is created in stanza 1, and is reiterated.

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## Petrarch's Love

I'm going to have to disagree with ktd. I think the thing that makes the sound of this poem powerful is the repetition, and I think the stanzas each speak to a different purpose. One stanza alone wouldn't have any kind of punch to it. I wouldn't think of this as a memorable poem from just one stanza. I think part of the reason for the repetion is that he wants to create the feeling of something or someone constantly beating against the one eternal constant, death. 

In case anyone's interested, the line "And death shall have no dominion" is paraphrased from Romans 6:9, "Knowing that Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion over him." (KJV) I'll get to the content of the stanzas a little later but, apropos of powerful repetition, Beethoven's 5th just came on the radio, and that's one of those you have to take time out for  :Nod:  ...ciao.

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## Virgil

> I'm going to have to disagree with ktd. I think the thing that makes the sound of this poem powerful is the repetition, and I think the stanzas each speak to a different purpose. One stanza alone wouldn't have any kind of punch to it. I wouldn't think of this as a memorable poem from just one stanza. I think part of the reason for the repetion is that he wants to create the feeling of something or someone constantly beating against the one eternal constant, death.


I'll be curious to see how you distiguish the stanzas. My first response is to agree with ktd. The poem is very static; all three stanzas seem like support of the repeated line, and that's not a bad thing except as I explored the contents of the stanzas, they looked pretty superficial, if not meaningless. I was going to wait to say this until I fully absorbed the poem, but your post prompted me. 





> In case anyone's interested, the line "And death shall have no dominion" is paraphrased from Romans 6:9, "Knowing that Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion over him." (KJV) I'll get to the content of the stanzas a little later but, apropos of powerful repetition, Beethoven's 5th just came on the radio, and that's one of those you have to take time out for  ...ciao


Thanks for the source of the allusion. It helps. And yes beethoven's 5th is worth stopping for.

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## Petrarch's Love

To start I'll say two things. One is that I think this is a fairly early poem for Dylan Thomas (someone can correct me if I'm wrong about this). It anticipates in very interesting ways the later "Do Not Go Gente into That Good Night," but is less developed in terms of both form and content than later poems such as that one. The second thing is that I still sense there are some lines and allusions that either I'm not getting, or Thomas isn't making very clear. For both these reasons I can understand why both of you are finding the poem somewhat "static." 

That said, however, I think there's a lot more going on in this poem than first meets the eye. I divided the stanzas roughly into the categories of descriptions of heaven, hell, and earth in relation to death. 

1. Stanza one is concerned with those who, "though they sink through the sea they shall rise again." All mankind becoming one in a sort of universal love, and what has been broken repaired. The first 

2. The second stanza focuses on those who remain "under the windings of the sea" (in contrast to those who rose from the sea in the first stanza). They "shall not die windily" in the way of those in the first stanza, who "shall be one/ With the man in the wind," and they suffer unending torments which will never cease, without promise of either death or salvation. Their punishments are reminiscent either of the inquisition or of the sufferings of Christian martyrs, but this time without the promise of death and reward. Their bodies, endure torture without even the hope of being broken. One assumes that those described in this stanza find it agony that "death shall have no dominion."

3. The third stanza, is I think the hardest. It seems to describe the earth itself in the face of an apocalyptic end of all days. The first five or so lines describe the things of the earth--the sea, the flower the rain--which will be no more. In the final lines, I'm still not too certain about his choice of the word "characters" I don't know if he is alluding to something or has certain characters in mind or if he is referring generally to all people as characters in the play of life. In any case, I find a wonderful lot going on in these lines: 



> Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
> Break in the sun till the sun breaks down.


These lines seem to bridge the gap between the way death works in the world today and the way it will work come the end of days. Now the decomposed bodies of the dead "hammer through" the earth to life again in the form of daisies, which "break in the sun" both in the sense of breaking open and in terms of breaking down again in death themselves. This can also transfer to a sense of literal heads hammering up through daisies when the sun itself breaks down and the people are raised from their graves at the end of days. It reminds me of the way people are depicted rising from the earth in many paintings of the last judgement, including Michelangelo's. 

I think throughout the poem there are resonances of other places in both scripture and poetry. The poetic allusions that stand out to me are what I think is an allusion to Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" in the third line of stanza one. This would make sense since Shelley is discussiong rebirth and the notion of becoming "one" with something greater (though in Shelley's case, I think in more a Platonic than a Christian sense). I also hear resonances of _Lycidas_ in all the imagery of the sea in relation to death. Given the notion of resurrection from the sea and the religious ideas this is associated with at the end of Milton's poem, I think it was very likely in Thomas' mind as he penned this. 

On a final note, I love these lines: 



> Where blew a flower may a flower no more
> Lift its head to the blows of the rain.


It reminds me, for some reason of lines from a Simon and Garfunkle song: 



> So I'll continue to continue to pretend
> My life will never end
> And flowers never bend
> With the rainfall.


I doubt there's any real connection between the two, but I wonder if there's some common source, a biblical passage perhaps, about flowers bending in the rain that both poet and songwriters are playing into here. 

Anyway, I guess I've said enough for now. I'll let others jump in for their say.

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## Virgil

Is there esoteric meaning to some of the lines? I can't understand what these lines in the first stanza mean:




> Dead men naked they shall be one
> With the man in the wind and the west moon;


and



> When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
> They shall have stars at elbow and foot;


This is why I feel the guts of the stanzas are superficial. They are nice sounding lines, but frankly, unless there is some esoteric meaning that I'm missing, I find these lines hollow.

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## Jay

I was having problems understanding some single lines as well, mostly those Virgil quoted. I was thinking about the line 


> Dead men naked they shall be one


For me, the 'lead' word was "naked". I was wondering why he used the word. If the poem was about people/mankind in general, people don't get buried naked. I can only think of one occassion when people get buried naked and that's mass graves (if that's how it's called) and they're buried in one big hole in the ground - they shall be as one? If that's the case, it might be an allusion to war, maybe holocaust? If not, my other way of reading "naked" was 'stripped of status', therefore equal. In death, all men are equal and 'as one'.

Another line Virgil mentined is 


> When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,


I don't think it's a difficult one, unless I'm missing something. I think that in short it means passing of time. Once buried, the flesh is first to rot away, leaving 'clean' bones. With enough time, even the bones will be gone.

Lines I don't understand:



> With the man in the wind and the west moon;


 


> They shall have stars at elbow and foot;


 


> Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
> Break in the sun till the sun breaks down

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## Petrarch's Love

I'm not certain that every detail is crystal clear to me either, but I'll do what I can to shed a bit of light on some of the lines people brought up. 




> Dead men naked they shall be one
> With the man in the wind and the west moon;


In the first line, I think the "naked" simply refers to all men being equal in death. Also, in art it is traditional to depict the bodies being raised from the grave as being naked (see, for example, the detail from Michelangelo's LJ below), so I don't think this would be at all an unusual or remarkable description for someone familiar with that artistic tradition. Since the poem was published in 1936, it wouldn't be making references to the holocaust. 


The second line is trickier. As I said before, I think the reference to the wind may be partly inspired by Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" in which the wind is symbolic of rebirth and becoming one with the world and with others. I sense that there is some other allusion in this line as well, though that I'm not picking up on. I haven't had a chance to look up any crit. on this poem to see if it's explained somewhere. On a general level I think it just refers to a transcendent state in which the resurected dead become one, not just with one another but with the world and with nature. 

On a technical level, I love the false endstop between these lines. If you just read the first of the pair, "Dead men naked they shall be one" then it reads that Dead men shall be one, implying they are one with each other, but when you come to the next line you find that they are "one/ with the man in the wind...." Both Milton and Ben Jonson, among others, use this technique a lot to fold multiple meanings into lines.

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## Petrarch's Love

> When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
> They shall have stars at elbow and foot;


I think Jay glossed the first line the way I would. After death the flesh decays from the bones (or is picked off by scavangers), and in time even those bones turn to dust. I took the second line as a reference to them being turned into constellations, or otherwise placed in the heavens among the stars. I love the way the body is eradicated in the first of these lines, but then the second line refers to the "elbow and foot" of the body restored in resurrection. 




> Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
> Break in the sun till the sun breaks down


As I said above, I don't know about his choice of the word "characters" here. I think there's a sense, both of the heads of the resurected bodies hammering through daisies as they break out of the ground, and of the way the dead material of decomposing bodies hammers up through the ground through (by means of) being transformed into dasies. In the second line I think there's both the sense of the flowers both breaking forth out into the sun and breaking down in death and decay until the time when the sun itself shall break down in the end of days.

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## ktd222

> I'm going to have to disagree with ktd. I think the thing that makes the sound of this poem powerful is the repetition, and I think the stanzas each speak to a different purpose. One stanza alone wouldn't have any kind of punch to it. I wouldn't think of this as a memorable poem from just one stanza.


I don't know what the power or function of these repeated lines are.  :Confused:  It does give the poem a sing-song sound(not in a serious way); but I don't know if that's his aim for such a serious topic. There are multitudes of poems in which one stanza, one line, can carry with it enough weight to create its purpose, and even become more memorable-not for memory's sake. One that pops in my mind is _Mending Walls_(a poem we discussed in the original Poem of the Week) by Robert Frost. The line 'Good fences make good neighbors' appears in a couple places in the poem and its appearences does creates a more meaningful effect. That is to say the phrase shows, in one sense, the farmer's stubborness to go outside his own viewpoint, and in the same manner, listen to other viewpoints.




> I think part of the reason for the repetion is that he wants to create the feeling of something or someone constantly beating against the one eternal constant, death.


I'm not clear here. I think death is described in finite terms here. 'Evil,' well...that may be something else.

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## ktd222

> That said, however, I think there's a lot more going on in this poem than first meets the eye. I divided the stanzas roughly into the categories of descriptions of heaven, hell, and earth in relation to death. 
> 
> 1. Stanza one is concerned with those who, "though they sink through the sea they shall rise again." All mankind becoming one in a sort of universal love, and what has been broken repaired. The first 
> 
> 2. The second stanza focuses on those who remain "under the windings of the sea" (in contrast to those who rose from the sea in the first stanza). They "shall not die windily" in the way of those in the first stanza, who "shall be one/ With the man in the wind," and they suffer unending torments which will never cease, without promise of either death or salvation. Their punishments are reminiscent either of the inquisition or of the sufferings of Christian martyrs, but this time without the promise of death and reward. Their bodies, endure torture without even the hope of being broken. One assumes that those described in this stanza find it agony that "death shall have no dominion."
> 
> 3. The third stanza, is I think the hardest. It seems to describe the earth itself in the face of an apocalyptic end of all days. The first five or so lines describe the things of the earth--the sea, the flower the rain--which will be no more. In the final lines, I'm still not too certain about his choice of the word "characters" I don't know if he is alluding to something or has certain characters in mind or if he is referring generally to all people as characters in the play of life. In any case, I find a wonderful lot going on in these lines: 
> 
> These lines seem to bridge the gap between the way death works in the world today and the way it will work come the end of days. Now the decomposed bodies of the dead "hammer through" the earth to life again in the form of daisies, which "break in the sun" both in the sense of breaking open and in terms of breaking down again in death themselves. This can also transfer to a sense of literal heads hammering up through daisies when the sun itself breaks down and the people are raised from their graves at the end of days. It reminds me of the way people are depicted rising from the earth in many paintings of the last judgement, including Michelangelo's.


I don't know how you got all this from those lines. It's good that you derived meaning from the stanzas, though. But the lines are too general for me to deduce anything other than the obvious.





> I think throughout the poem there are resonances of other places in both scripture and poetry. The poetic allusions that stand out to me are what I think is an allusion to Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" in the third line of stanza one. This would make sense since Shelley is discussiong rebirth and the notion of becoming "one" with something greater (though in Shelley's case, I think in more a Platonic than a Christian sense). I also hear resonances of _Lycidas_ in all the imagery of the sea in relation to death. Given the notion of resurrection from the sea and the religious ideas this is associated with at the end of Milton's poem, I think it was very likely in Thomas' mind as he penned this.


Even if this is the case, it is a poor attempt to do so by Dylan Thomas.

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## Virgil

> I don't know what the power or function of these repeated lines are.  It does give the poem a sing-song sound(not in a serious way); but I don't know if that's his aim for such a serious topic.


The repeated line is one of the few things I like about this poem. I wouldn't call it sing-song effect, that's a term for rhythmic effect. Here it's a refrain and now that I've absorbed the poem more I think it's a striving for a liturgical effect more than song. 

The other thing I like about this poem is the way Thomas weaves the sea imagery/motif throughout the three stanzas. It does pull the poem into a unified wholeness, where otherwise it is dangerously close to being three independent stanzas linked by a common refrain.

In my previous post I only pointed out a few lines that sounded hollow. And in those lines there was a sense that there was an esoteric meaning behind them. Unpack that meaning and you might find the lines worthy. But here are a couple of lines that just sound empty, plain and simple:




> Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
> And the unicorn evils run them through;


and 



> Split all ends up they shan't crack;


That last one sounds like it could be a shampoo comercial.  :Biggrin:  

Sorry, that's unfair, but I couldn't resist.  :Wink:

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## ktd222

> The repeated line is one of the few things I like about this poem. I wouldn't call it sing-song effect, that's a term for rhythmic effect. Here it's a refrain and now that I've absorbed the poem more I think it's a striving for a liturgical effect more than song.


The repeated lines do nothing for me. It lacks any type of emotion or purpose after the first stanza. 
Don't try and come up with something that's not there  :FRlol:  I bet you if I look at these lines close enough I may start rising. Nope, it didn't happen.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I don't know what the power or function of these repeated lines are. It does give the poem a sing-song sound(not in a serious way); but I don't know if that's his aim for such a serious topic. There are multitudes of poems in which one stanza, one line, can carry with it enough weight to create its purpose, and even become more memorable-not for memory's sake. One that pops in my mind is Mending Walls(a poem we discussed in the original Poem of the Week) by Robert Frost. The line 'Good fences make good neighbors' appears in a couple places in the poem and its appearences does creates a more meaningful effect. That is to say the phrase shows, in one sense, the farmer's stubborness to go outside his own viewpoint, and in the same manner, listen to other viewpoints.


It's always interesting to read how another person hears somthing completely different in a poem. When I first read this poem the thing I was struck with most was the way Thomas employed such a lot of repetition without it coming across as "sing-song." I think Virg. is on to something with describing it as a "liturgical" effect. 

I agree with you that other poems can and do come across powerfully using just one stanza (though I'm not sure how "Mending Walls" supports your point, since it's definately more than one stanza in length). However, I don't think that the poem we're discussing acheives what its setting out to do in just one stanza. It's a matter of the approach and style that fit this poem, not what is possible. It is possible for Hemingway to write powerfully using short, spare sentences. Does that mean that Dickens is wrong to go on at length? 




> I'm not clear here. I think death is described in finite terms here. 'Evil,' well...that may be something else.


You're right that I was insufficiently precise in my wording. It sounded like I was referring to death as truly eternal. What I meant to say was that the line was beating against death which is, or rather seems to be, eternal in the sense of being the constant for us now and for all time, until the ending of time in the Last Judgement.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I don't know how you got all this from those lines. It's good that you derived meaning from the stanzas, though. But the lines are too general for me to deduce anything other than the obvious.


I provided quotes from the poem in my summary to indicate how I got what I did from the lines. What is the obvious that you do deduce from these lines, since what I thought was obvious you don't agree with?




> The repeated lines do nothing for me. It lacks any type of emotion or purpose after the first stanza.
> Don't try and come up with something that's not there I bet you if I look at these lines close enough I may start rising. Nope, it didn't happen.


Just saw this. I think we're simply hearing these lines differently. As I said earlier, I find the effect of the repetition similar too and anticipating Thomas' later "Do not go gentle into that good night" (though the latter is undoubtably a better, more clearly and elegantly written poem). I'll have to analyse some more to see if I can pinpoint why they seem to build in intensity for me (and I think for Virgil too) while they diminish in intensity for you. By the way, I don't think Virg. was trying to suggest they had an actual liturgical effect, just that the effect was like that of liturgical repetition, with a similar gravitas (though I suppose we could all get together and try chanting the lines until one of us got set up in the heavens with stars at hand and foot  :Biggrin:  ).

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## ktd222

> I agree with you that other poems can and do come across powerfully using just one stanza (though I'm not sure how "Mending Walls" supports your point, since it's definately more than one stanza in length). However, I don't think that the poem we're discussing acheives what its setting out to do in just one stanza. It's a matter of the approach and style that fit this poem, not what is possible. It is possible for Hemingway to write powerfully using short, spare sentences. Does that mean that Dickens is wrong to go on at length?


He could write a hundred stanzas like this and it would still be lacking of power and purpose. It's not a good poem. So style is used for the sake of style?

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## Virgil

> He could write a hundred stanzas like this and it would still be lacking of power and purpose. It's not a good poem. So style is used for the sake of style?


My major problem with the poem is that the guts of it ring empty. I don't mind the style at all. If someone were to show how the guts of the poem actually work to say something coherent I could be pursuaded to flip my opinion. As it stands for me, it's all style.

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## Asa Adams

> The repeated lines do nothing for me. It lacks any type of emotion or purpose after the first stanza. 
> Don't try and come up with something that's not there  I bet you if I look at these lines close enough I may start rising. Nope, it didn't happen.


I really don't Understand this, the repeatative lines offer pleanty of emotion...  :Nod:

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## ktd222

> I really don't Understand this, the repeatative lines offer pleanty of emotion...


Not in this case, sorry.

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## Asa Adams

apologize not...it shows weakness.  :FRlol:

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## ktd222

> apologize not...it shows weakness.


Ok...tell me why you think the repeats in this poem show emotion.

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## Petrarch's Love

> As it stands for me, it's all style.


To a certain extent I agree with this stance. I think he's a young poet here who's partly using this as an opportunity to exercise his rhetoric. I find it an interesting poem because the style is fairly strong, beginning to sound like the kind of thing that will give his later poems such punch, but the content doesn't quite fill the form as fully as it ought to. All the same, I wouldn't call it completely empty or irrelevant. I think part of the confusion in this poem is that he seems to be shifting between Christian and secular stances on death throughout the poem. He structures the poem around a biblical quote describing the end of days, and yet he often seems to slide into more ambiguous philosophical ideas about nature and myth. I'm beginning to think that this religious/philosophical uncertainty is part of what is undermining the clarity of the content here. I'll have to think that through a bit more though.

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## ktd222

> I provided quotes from the poem in my summary to indicate how I got what I did from the lines. What is the obvious that you do deduce from these lines, since what I thought was obvious you don't agree with?





> For me this poem goes on two stanzas too long. I can see the contrast created in the first stanza with the phrases 'death having no dominion' and 'we shall'. It's not necessary to repeat lines here unless he's trying to create some bigger effect, which seems to be absent in my initial reading. What he conveys is pretty straightforward: that death shall have no dominion over dead(physically) men. But this statement seems to stagnate as the image is created in stanza 1, and is reiterated.


This is part of it. And in general terms I agree with your explanation of the stanzas. 



> 1. Stanza one is concerned with those who, "though they sink through the sea they shall rise again."





> The second stanza focuses on those who remain "under the windings of the sea" (in contrast to those who rose from the sea in the first stanza).


They don't rise, yet, for some reason. I don't know why.
The third stanza I'm  :Confused:   :Confused:   :Confused:  .

I can't go beyond this without being unsure what he's referring to.




> Just saw this. I think we're simply hearing these lines differently. As I said earlier, I find the effect of the repetition similar too and anticipating Thomas' later "Do not go gentle into that good night" (though the latter is undoubtably a better, more clearly and elegantly written poem). I'll have to analyse some more to see if I can pinpoint why they seem to build in intensity for me (and I think for Virgil too) while they diminish in intensity for you. By the way, I don't think Virg. was trying to suggest they had an actual liturgical effect, just that the effect was like that of liturgical repetition, with a similar gravitas (though I suppose we could all get together and try chanting the lines until one of us got set up in the heavens with stars at hand and foot  ).


This would be nice.  :Nod:

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## Asa Adams

its all in the way you percieve things. I Majored in Lit, not Poetry.  :Brow:

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## ktd222

> its all in the way you percieve things. I Majored in Lit, not Poetry.


Umm...ok. Tell us whenever you would like to become part of the discussion in this thread. I've learned from the pass that scrutinizing someone doesn't belong in a discussion  :Biggrin: . That sounds more like an age old philosophical statement.

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## Petrarch's Love

> I Majored in Lit, not Poetry.


Poetry having absolutely nothing whatever to do with Lit. of course.  :Biggrin:

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## Jay

> Ok...tell me why you think the repeats in this poem show emotion.


Even though this wasn't meant for me, I thought I'd reply.

To me, it seems as if he was saying that even though death is inevitable, people (ok, that might be a bit farfetched  :Wink: ) or at least the dead of the poem, can still see dying as winning (and I'm using that verb loosely), as something positive (even though there's nothing more negative than dying, I know, but if you think about it...). The repetition of that line sounds like making a point, rubbing it in, as if showing death the finger.

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## ShoutGrace

> The repetition of that line sounds like making a point, rubbing it in, as if showing death the finger.


Thats how I read it. That obviously has to do with my worldview, but it is a Biblical passage, and the idea is the same.

Death no longer has dominion. It isn't the most negative thing anymore.

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## ktd222

> To me, it seems as if he was saying that even though death is inevitable, people (ok, that might be a bit farfetched ) or at least the dead of the poem, can still see dying as winning (and I'm using that verb loosely), as something positive (even though there's nothing more negative than dying, I know, but if you think about it...). The repetition of that line sounds like making a point, rubbing it in, as if showing death the finger.


A valiant attempt but I still do not feel it. What is the point of 'rubbing it in' if in one stanza he talks about the ones that will rise, and in the next stanza he talks about the ones that do not rise? It would be a very, very, very bad decision, to find out you have not 'risen.'  :FRlol:

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## ktd222

> Thats how I read it. That obviously has to do with my worldview, but it is a Biblical passage, and the idea is the same.
> 
> Death no longer has dominion. It isn't the most negative thing anymore.


mmm...worldview?

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## Virgil

> I really don't Understand this, the repeatative lines offer pleanty of emotion...


I don't know if emotion is the right term for the repetative line. I happen to like the repetative line. Like I sad it has a liturgical effect. So I ought to say what that means. I'll give it a shot, but I'm thinking through this for the first time, so don't pin this to me forever if I later alter my thinking. The liturgical effect in a Catholic service (and it may be the same in others, I don't know) is a repetition of a phrase by the congregation where it unites the cogregation in a religious/philosophic thought. "Lord have mercy," comes to mind. In between the repeated ine is usually some prayer which culminate to the repeated line. "And death shall have no dominion" is exactly such a thought. I guess it has emotion, but I don't feel an icreasing or decreasing level of emotion with each repetition. Of course that could be me. The litugical effect binds the congregation together. It's a communal building exercise, I think. I think the correct term is litany, and here's the definition from M-W:



> litany
> Main Entry: lit·a·ny 
> Pronunciation: 'li-t&n-E, 'lit-nE
> Function: noun
> Inflected Form(s): plural -nies
> Etymology: Middle English letanie, from Old French & Late Latin; Old French, from Late Latin litania, from Late Greek litaneia, from Greek, entreaty, from litanos suppliant
> 1 : a prayer consisting of a series of invocations and supplications by the leader with alternate responses by the congregation
> 2 a : a resonant or repetitive chant <a litany of cheering phrases -- Herman Wouk> b : a usually lengthy recitation or enumeration <a familiar litany of complaints>


In summary, it's a prayer that is repeated around a recitation. That's what Thomas is exactly after. I think he fails (for me) in hs recitation sections. I think he's just after cool sounding lines without any coordinated thought. I could be wrong.

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## Petrarch's Love

> A valiant attempt but I still do not feel it. What is the point of 'rubbing it in' if in one stanza he talks about the ones that will rise, and in the next stanza he talks about the ones that do not rise? It would be a very, very, very bad decision, to find out you have not 'risen.'


But I think this is part of the point. Part of the reason for having the second stanza is to show that death will have no dominion, will not rule, either those who do have the fortune to rise from the sea and become as one, or those who do not rise but remain below in torment. Regardless of your position death will not have the power either to remove bliss or to remove pain. 

I think the poem is tackling the notion of a world without death and the strangeness of such a vision. The repetition of the line "Death shall have no dominion" I think is partly an assertion defying the one thing we generally regard as constant in life (if only someone would pen something similar about taxes  :Wink: ), and partly repetition countering the sheer instinctive disbelief that such a statement almost instinctively generates. I agree with Virg. about it being like the litany of a repeated prayer. One reason for repetition in religious service or prayer is that the repeated phrase is one containing a truth or idea which requires thinking and rethinking, and is sometimes a mystery which must be repeated to be understood. I think there's something of that going on here.

The more I read this poem the more the descriptions in it remind me of the sort of thing that comes out of certain passages in the book of Revelations (and I'm sure there must be some references to it here that I'm just not catching...maybe Shout Grace, or someone else who's studied the scriptures more can point to some parallels). I should actually say it's like Revelations meets Platonic Philosophy via the romantics with a dash of classical mythology for good measure.

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## Petrarch's Love

On another tangent, I'm repeatedly drawn back to the way the sea functions in this poem as symbolic of a sort of underworld. As I said earlier, I think he must have had Lycidas on his mind in which the sea is such a prominent symbol of death, and rising from the sea a description of salvation and ascendence to heaven. I've been trying to think of other places where the sea functions as a kind of boundry between transcendence into heavenly bliss and remaining below. I can think of certain places where the ocean is associated with death ("full fathom five...") and it seems the sea is often proverbially, almost casually associated with the eternal ("I will love thee still my dear/ 'Til all the seas gang dry"). I find it fascinating though, the way he uses the sea here as the locus for meditating on an eternity without death. The sea seems symbolic of death and the underworld here. I found these lines at the beginning of the third stanza incredibly arresting:



> No more may gulls cry at their ears
> Or waves break loud on the seashores;


For anyone who's ever spent time by the sea, the idea of the silence described in these lines when the waves cease to bit, is strange and awesomely disturbing. I think this describes beautifully, and in a way the reader can relate to, something of how strange it would be for death to suddenly cease breaking upon our mortal shores.

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## ktd222

> But I think this is part of the point. Part of the reason for having the second stanza is to show that death will have no dominion, will not rule, either those who do have the fortune to rise from the sea and become as one, or those who do not rise but remain below in torment. Regardless of your position death will not have the power either to remove bliss or to remove pain.


My response was to Jay concerning the creation of emotion in the poem by Thomas. The repeated lines have no more/less emotion effect from the start of the poem as it does at its conclusion.

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## Virgil

> I should actually say it's like Revelations meets Platonic Philosophy via the romantics with a dash of classical mythology for good measure.


  :FRlol:   :FRlol:   :FRlol:  
That is a quote for the ages!

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## ShoutGrace

> I should actually say it's like Revelations meets Platonic Philosophy via the romantics with a dash of classical mythology for good measure.


Quite a mouthful, yes.  :Biggrin:

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## Petrarch's Love

> That is a quote for the ages!


Well, as you can no doubt tell, it was my aim to by pithy and brief.  :Wink:

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## ShoutGrace

> (and I'm sure there must be some references to it here that I'm just not catching...maybe Shout Grace, or someone else who's studied the scriptures more can point to some parallels).


I'd like to preface this post by saying that I think there is good reasoning behind looking for Biblical ideas, simply because of the fact that the title and oft repeated line is a direct Biblical quote.

I think that there are quite a few literal parallels here . . .

'"When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,"

I think that this line could possibly refer to the whole of Ezekiel 37, where Ezekiel is tripping out and God takes him into a valley full of all kinds of bones. God then begins to relate to him how he will resurrect Israel. Ezekiel 37 is really short chapter of the Bible and I think anybody could get a lot to relate to this poem out of it (though please read from a more accurate translation than the King James, like the NIV, NASB, or ESV. You can do that here.

Similarly, I think that the 'sea' references have to do with Revelation 20:13 - 'And the sea gave up the dead that were in it, and both death and Hades gave up the dead that were in them, and each person was judged according to what he had done'. 




> For anyone who's ever spent time by the sea, the idea of the silence described in these lines when the waves cease to bit, is strange and awesomely disturbing. I think this describes beautifully, and in a way the reader can relate to, something of how strange it would be for death to suddenly cease breaking upon our mortal shores.


I just can't help but read this poem and find Christian metaphors. Paul, the author of Romans, when writing about Jesus' resurrection, was relating a very incredible idea (whether it be true or not). According to the Christian faith, Jesus dying, and then rising again, symbolically or literally conquered the power of death over all persons past, present and future. Jesus says that 'Because *I* live, *you* shall live also.' That is the predominant theme throughout the New Testament and Paul expounds it in different ways. I think that if true it would be strange and unimaginable, but I also think it is wonderful.

Here are two more places this idea occurs in Romans, Chapter 5 Verse 14 "... death exercised dominion from Adam to Moses ..." and also verse 21 "...so that, just as sin exercised dominion in death, so grace might also exercise dominion through righteousness". 

'Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,'

I probably took this part in a completely different way than everybody else. I just think that it's funny that he uses the words 'blows', 'hammers', 'nails', and 'sun'. Though I don't know how the word 'characters' was picked. To me it reads like a Passion narrative, rain dead as nails pounding the flower, breaking the sun until the sun breaks down. Because of the fact that Jesus did 'break down' and die, 'death shall have no dominion' (according to the Christian faith).

Though, did Dylan have any particular faith? Does anyone know? For some reason I thought that he didn't.




> mmm...worldview?


This is what I was talking about  :Biggrin:  .

I apologize if I offended anyone.

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## ktd222

Overall, I feel a real emotional disconnect with this Dylan Thomas poem. With so many of the lines lifted from other sources I feel Thomas forgot to incorporate himself, on an emotional level, into his poem. And I think we can sense this disconnect. When I relate this poem back to Miltons poem we discussed last week, I can sense the difference. Even though Milton also takes lines from scripture, you can really relate, on a personal level, with what is disturbing him because he incorporates it into the poem, too. 
On the other hand this weeks poem, at best, shows only the style in which Thomas likes to write with(reference to Virgil)and at best, this chanting-like repetition is in its amateurish state because its void of the emotional investment thats required in such an exercise. Or is this hollowness what he set out to create in the first place?

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## Petrarch's Love

ShoutGrace--Thanks for the scriptural references. I think Revelations 20:13 was the verse that had been kind of nagging me in the back of my mind with all the references to the sea in the poem, but I just couldn't remember where exactly it was. 



> Though, did Dylan have any particular faith? Does anyone know? For some reason I thought that he didn't.


I don't think he did. If anything I think his faith was something akin to that ponderous sentence of mine that everyone was laughing about, though I'm no Dylan Thomas expert, and I could be wrong about this. My sense is that he was raised culturally as a Christian and is thus using Christian scripture and ideology as the rhetorical framework for this poem, but I sense that his faith here, though it may include a certain respect for Christian beliefs, ultimately takes a more general direction into philosophy etc.

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## Petrarch's Love

> Overall, I feel a real emotional disconnect with this Dylan Thomas poem. With so many of the lines lifted from other sources I feel Thomas forgot to incorporate himself, on an emotional level, into his poem. And I think we can sense this disconnect. When I relate this poem back to Miltons poem we discussed last week, I can sense the difference. Even though Milton also takes lines from scripture, you can really relate, on a personal level, with what is disturbing him because he incorporates it into the poem, too.
> On the other hand this weeks poem, at best, shows only the style in which Thomas likes to write with(reference to Virgil)and at best, this chanting-like repetition is in its amateurish state because its void of the emotional investment thats required in such an exercise. Or is this hollowness what he set out to create in the first place?


Well, I know what you mean about it not being a deeply emotional poem. I agree that I don't think it's coming from as personal a place as Milton's "When I consider..." I also agree that it's not as good a poem as the Milton. It's not a great poem that stands up against the real giants of poetry, but I still think it's a good poem (and pretty good indeed, for someone who was only nineteen when he wrote it).

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## Scheherazade

A new poem for the new week. I haven't read Atwood's poems before so thought it would be interesting to have a look at one of them with you:


*You Begin* 

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only 
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

by Margaret Atwood

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## bodica

Extracts from DH Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider
by John Worthen

My sentiments exactly
One issue which we curiously neglect is Lawrence's religious formation. Lawrence was not just 'nonconformist', he was a Congregationalist, and thus the heir of a socially vital but theologically terrifying tradition which argues for the damnation of the entire human race apart from a minute band of perfected 'saints'. Lawrence repudiated the doctrine, but kept the spiritual arrogance, What is left, now the dust has settled? A handful of wonderful poems, some outstanding travel writing, and a collection of novels which now seem strangely hard to read. One illuminating fact which Worthen brings out is the speed at which Lawrence composed: 2,000-3,000 words a day. It is unsurprising that some of his writing now seems under-edited. 
It is hard to take Lawrence's preachings about 'phallic tenderness' seriously, other than as a reflection of the deep-rooted fears evoked by the first phase of the sexual and economic emancipation of women. He is the ultimate spokesman for a particular type of male personality, so defended against a devouring mother that he is crippled by fear of commitment.

He would have done well to heed the words of Robert Burns;

O would some Power the gift to give us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait would leave us,
And even devotion!

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## Virgil

> Extracts from DH Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider
> by John Worthen
> 
> My sentiments exactly...


bodica - This thread is for analysis of the poem of the week. Your post seems to belong in the Review A Book thread or as a new thread in the D.H. Lawrence section.

----------


## Virgil

> A new poem for the new week. I haven't read Atwood's poems before so thought it would be interesting to have a look at one of them with you:
> 
> 
> *You Begin* 
> 
> You begin this way:
> this is your hand,
> this is your eye,
> that is a fish, blue and flat
> ...


I'm intrigued with this poem. I don't know Magaret Atwood and I've certainly never seen this poem before. It seems like someone talking to a young child. Teaching the shapes in the world, words of the world, aesthetics perhaps? Teaching of life and death ("It begins, it has an end") perhaps.

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

I agree with you Virgil that this is a poem of aesthetics. I also think that this poem underlines the fact that all meaning/significance is arbitrary.

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.[/QUOTE] 

The speaker first teaches the student about parts of themself (hand, eye), then leads them to associations with elements of the outside world (fish) that resemble parts of self (eye) and uses aesthetics (blue, flat) to create difference between the self and the other (world). The student next learns about the mouth (speech), the written word (O), and the world outside of self (moon). The lines "This is your mouth, this is an O/or a moon, whichever/you like. . . " seems to hint at the arbitrariness of language and meaning (sign/signified/signifier) while also subtly teaching metaphor.

Note: must go home now, will continue tomorrow

----------


## Scheherazade

My only Atwood experience is _The Handmaid's Tale_ and I am very intrigued by this poem as well.

I am not sure if the first stanza is as complicated as Hyacinth makes out; I don't hear the conscious efforts of a teacher to teach about aesthetics, metaphors, language and so on. To me, it is the very natural act of a parent talking to his/her child as they spend time together drawing and the fact that the child is not able to conceive depth yet also tells me that s/he is too young to be at school.

I think the persona in the poem is talking to a very young child (even a toddler) because the first stanza echoes a conversation with a child as they draw. His/her first impression of the world is rather simple: hand, eye, a fish which looks like an eye and flat (which emphasises the fact that the child has not yet developed a sense of depth yet and drawing things two dimensionally - the same idea is later repeated again: 'this is the world/which is round but not flat'). 

From a child's perspective, everything in the world is two dimensional and the nine colours in his/her crayon set are enough to colour/ draw everything. However, later on, as s/he grows up, the child will realise that there is a third dimension (depth) and that there are more colours in the world; things are not as simple as they once seemed.

Really liked the lines 'You are right to smudge it that way/with the red and then/the orange: the world burns'. The adult view interjects. And I also like the fact that the poem ends with a hopeful tone: 'this is what you will/come back to, this is your hand.'


I cannot say I am comfortable with these lines and would like to hear your views:

_The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words._

----------


## Psycheinaboat

> I cannot say I am comfortable with these lines and would like to hear your views:
> 
> _The word hand floats above your hand
> like a small cloud over a lake.
> The word hand anchors
> your hand to this table,
> your hand is a warm stone
> I hold between two words._


I have read a couple books of Atwood's, but had no idea she wrote poetry. After sifting through some of her poetry online, I am impressed.

I did not understand the portion Scheherazade picked out, but I found this poem and felt that it shed some light on the significance of words for Ms. Atwood. 

*Spelling*

My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.

I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.

I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.

At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word. 

*Margaret Atwood*

----------


## Petrarch's Love

A very interesting poem. I love the sound of it. I've never read anything by Atwood, though I have _The Handmaid's Tale_ on my ever increasing list of things to read. Apart from the actual sound of the poem, I like the way it transitions between multiple levels of understanding. I think Scher's right about the way it can be understood on the purely intuitive level of a parent explaining things to a child. Actually, one of the first things that popped into my head when reading this was the image of the child's hand drawing with crayons in the opening credits of the film To Kill a Mockingbird. I think aesthetically the poem has something of the quality of that opening sequence which begins with the simple act of a child drawing but leads into the larger project of a film dealing with complex adult issues and growing up and understanding the world. 

I also think that Hyacinth's remarks very concisely hone in on the complex way the poem is contemplating the "arbitrariness of language and meaning." I don't know if that arbitrary aspect of language is something that the person speaking to the child is necessarily supposed to be consciously teaching, but I think it's certainly something the poet is consciously teaching the reader, and something central to the poem itself. I think perspective seems like a key word in talking about this poem. Not only the perspective of drawing, which makes a flat world seem round, but the perspective of child, of adult, of the Almighty, etc. Perspectives are constantly shifting in this poem.

And thanks for providing the second poem, Psycheinaboat. I don't know that I like it as well as the one we're discussing this week, but it's interesting in its own way.

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> I also think that Hyacinth's remarks very concisely hone in on the complex way the poem is contemplating the "arbitrariness of language and meaning." I don't know if that arbitrary aspect of language is something that the person speaking to the child is necessarily supposed to be consciously teaching, but I think it's certainly something the poet is consciously teaching the reader, and something central to the poem itself.


Thank you, PL, for clarifying the thought that the person speaking to the child is not necessarily consciously teaching the _child_ such concepts as aesthetics and arbitrariness of meaning and language, but the reader. That was what I was trying to point out - I think you're right Scher, in that the person speaking to the child is not trying to teach them such abstract concepts. That's why I like this poem. . . the speaker is not directly addressing the reader, nor ruminating upon the abstract themself. Instead the author creates a tableaux of learning in which the speaker, while teaching a child (whose presence is implicit as opposed to the daughter in "Spellings") something simple, "teaches" the reader/viewer as well on a more complex scale if they choose to identify themself with the "you" in the poem.




> The word hand floats above your hand
> like a small cloud over a lake.
> The word hand anchors
> your hand to this table,
> your hand is a warm stone
> I hold between two words.


Scher, I think this part can be read on two levels (surprise, surprise!) :Biggrin: 
I read "The word hand floats above your hand/like a small cloud over a lake" as the speaker imagining the word "hand" spoken by her earlier in the poem hovering over the written word "hand" and the drawing of a hand on a sheet of paper on the table. The speaker also takes this opportunity to make a lovely simile for the child/reader. The next lines "The word hand anchors your hand to this table" I read as the word "hand" written on that piece of paper next to an outline of a hand that the child has done. The speaker then moves into imagining the physical hand of the child as a stone, held between words instead of hands (the speaker is probably sandwiching the child's hand between hers). The "hand" is a "stone" simply by naming it such, and in doing so the speaker seems to be moving into the second layering of the poem - the arbitrariness of language/meaning as directed to the reader. On a more simplistic level, this is probably understood as a joke or flight of imagination by the child, similar to that of the first stanza in which the mouth can be an O or a moon as well.
I think this same preoccupation with language, meaning, and self permeates the poem "Spelling" that Psycheinaboat posted as well. (Thanks!  :Banana:  ) The same theme also recurs in The Handmaid's Tale if I remember correctly - there is no more "reading" of words, but symbols in the Handmaid's world, leading to a forgetting of self. (Or I could be really delusional and am remembering an entirely different book by an entirely different author)  :FRlol:

----------


## Virgil

Very good analysis Hyacinth. Yes, I think the power this poem genrates is due to the various levels that one can read the little, innocuous drama. The speaker keeps returning to hands, as Hyacinth points out, and so I'm wondering if there is a symbolic meaning to them. I'm speculating here: hands are what separates us from other animals, their dexterity. They are the means of artistic creation, an almost direct link to our brains. I say that as my hands are clicking away at this keyboard.  :Wink:  Hands are how a child learns of the world and then the means of representing the world. I can't quite articulate it, but there is something profound here.

----------


## Taliesin

Well, it is Friday here. 
[Whine]Mind you, we dislike it how the forum changes many spaces into one. It ruins some things - for example, in the following poem, originally there were just more than one spaces in where we put the /-signs, but since we couldn't put them here, we put those marks, since at least then the rhytm of the poem remains.[/whine]







and only one question remains 

by fs





when sun is burning white cars/ when sun is burning red cars
when sun is burning black cars/ with which death is transported
over a metal bridge / over an abyss
and the trains and railroads / and oily seawaves
and the smoking factory chimneys / and stunted grey grass
grey surface of asphalt / grey face of city
and its clodded creases /where tortured cats skulk
and homeless children fight / and some of them arent sick yet
then only one question remains

when all around there is just dampness and decay/ and numbness and disease and death
when behind you is just emptiness / emptiness and treachery
when fingers are frozen round the gun/ and there is nothing certain
when between high dim houses / amid hostility and garbage
is a little useless murderer / and it is you 
then only one question remains


when on all the roads of Europe / black cars drive
columns like viscera / iron doors clanging
silencing the screams / when from many places at the same time
evil suddenly arises / from Kosovo and Buchenwald 
from Berlin, Madrid and Moscow / from Tallinn, Räpina andTartu 
Jõgeva Märjamaa Kohtla-Järve /and Karksi-Nuia from Polli
rises over Europe / unites in the dark sky
rolls over defenseless land / falls as rain
disembogues everywhere / flows in the gutters
soaks inside your clothes / slquelches in your shoes
entrences your skin / stalks behind your door
stares lecherously through / the window of your bedroom
grey-haired and toothless / with the face of an old woman
with black spectacle frames / with the face of a copywriter
then only one question remains



when morning smashes your face in/ and targets light into your eyes
when dry cascade falls / and you are standing under it
and you are suffocating in it/ when everything is so bloody clear
right and merciless / dusts is clogging up your nose
blades are scratching your throat / something is pressing on your lungs
heart is beating and beating / there is no more air
ears have stopped hearing /but eyes are all too clear indeed
your guilt is standing before you/ your guilt falls onto you
the guilt of you and of everyone else/ are all gathered together in you for one moment
but that moment is long / there is no escape from it
then only one question remains / simpler than anything else
simple as babys need to shi* / cruel as a joke of a child
demanding as womans labour pains / old as the circulation of excreta
that we call life / honest like death

there is nothing but that question / higher than all your thoughts
everything else is meaningless trash / eveything else is circus and sport
only that question remains / of which answer it depends
whether you were born or not / whether your life has any value at all

and just only one question remains 


can i keep her
whom i love?

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Good heavens, is it another week gone by already?! Well, after a couple quick readings I found this poem intersting but it's not really grabbing me. It's got a few moments, but I'm not caught by the sound of it. Maybe it's just too dark for my present mood and that's clouding my judgment. I'll revisit a little later and see what others have to say.

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

I'm afraid I have to agree with Petrarch's Love in that this is a rather dark poem for me. I find it a little more personally relevant, as an ex of mine grew up in Poland. This poem reminds me of his descriptions of his life before coming to study in the US.

The best part of the whole poem for me is the build up to the one question - an expectation is raised that the questions will be something along the lines of "does this have any meaning", but that expectation is denied and the question ponders the endurance of love instead.

----------


## Scheherazade

> hands are what separates us from other animals, their dexterity. They are the means of artistic creation, an almost direct link to our brains. I say that as my hands are clicking away at this keyboard.  Hands are how a child learns of the world and then the means of representing the world. I can't quite articulate it, but there is something profound here.


I agree that hands are symbolic in this poem. However, my take is a little different: This is a world that 'burns' and it is in our hand to make a change. The individual _does_ matter and _can_  make a change, which is why I believe, the poem ends with these lines: 'this is what you will/come back to, this is your hand.'


Moving onto this week's poem, 'and only one question remains'... I will repeat the sentiments of the others that it is dark... reminds me of Bukowski a little in some ways, which, I am afraid, means that it is not my cup of tea. However, its forcefulness is attention grabbing.

----------


## Pensive

Oh, this is a very good poem. I like it, probably because I find dark poems more attractive. The selection of words is really good but I don't think so that the word "disembogues" really exists as I checked in Oxford Dictionary and there was no such word in there as well. Otherwise this is really a very well-written poem.

Especially, I liked the first three paragrapgh:

when sun is burning white cars/ when sun is burning red cars
when sun is burning black cars/ with which death is transported
over a metal bridge / over an abyss
and the trains and railroads / and oily seawaves
and the smoking factory chimneys / and stunted grey grass
grey surface of asphalt / grey face of city
and its clodded creases /where tortured cats skulk
and homeless children fight / and some of them arent sick yet
then only one question remains

when all around there is just dampness and decay/ and numbness and disease and death
when behind you is just emptiness / emptiness and treachery
when fingers are frozen round the gun/ and there is nothing certain
when between high dim houses / amid hostility and garbage
is a little useless murderer / and it is you 
then only one question remains


when on all the roads of Europe / black cars drive
columns like viscera / iron doors clanging
silencing the screams / when from many places at the same time
evil suddenly arises / from Kosovo and Buchenwald 
from Berlin, Madrid and Moscow / from Tallinn, Räpina andTartu 
Jõgeva Märjamaa Kohtla-Järve /and Karksi-Nuia from Polli
rises over Europe / unites in the dark sky
rolls over defenseless land / falls as rain
disembogues everywhere / flows in the gutters
soaks inside your clothes / slquelches in your shoes
entrences your skin / stalks behind your door
stares lecherously through / the window of your bedroom
grey-haired and toothless / with the face of an old woman
with black spectacle frames / with the face of a copywriter
then only one question remains

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> I don't think so that the word "disembogues" really exists as I checked in Oxford Dictionary and there was no such word in there as well.


I checked in the online OED and "disembogue" evidently is a word. It is a verb meaning either "to come out of the mouth of a river, strait etc. into the open sea," or for "a river, lake etc. to flow out at the mouth; to discharge or empty itself; to flow into." It can also be used as a noun meaning "the place where a river disembogues; the mouth." Related words are "disemboguement," "disemboguing," and "disembogure." Learn something new everyday.  :FRlol:

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## Virgil

I have to absorb this a little more. There are things I like but there are aspects which I'm so-so on. It certainly is different in layout. Who is the author? fs?

----------


## Pensive

> I have to absorb this a little more. There are things I like but there are aspects which I'm so-so on. It certainly is different in layout. Who is the author? fs?


Oh yeah, I was also wondering the same thing. Who is fs?

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> Oh yeah, I was also wondering the same thing. Who is fs?


It wouldn't happen to be Frantisek Svantner would it? 
(Hyacinth takes a wild stab in the dark)

----------


## Pensive

> It wouldn't happen to be Frantisek Svantner would it? 
> (Hyacinth takes a wild stab in the dark)


Or it can be Frank Sinitra? If not, then Frank Stewart? What about French Superman or Fanny Strange?  :Rolleyes:

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## Hyacinth Girl

Could be.  :Smile: 
I guess we will have to wait with bated breath until Taliesin deigns to gift us with the definitive answer.

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## Pensive

> Could be. 
> I guess we will have to wait with bated breath until Taliesin deigns to gift us with the definitive answer.


  :Nod:   :Nod:   :Nod:  (huh stupid ten characters message that I had to node three times)

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

Taliesin. . . . Taliesin. . . .Buhler. . . . Anyone???

(I MUST know the identity of the mysterious fs!)  :FRlol:

----------


## Pensive

> Taliesin. . . . Taliesin. . . .Buhler. . . . Anyone???
> 
> (I MUST know the identity of the mysterious fs!)


I searched at google and came up with this This FS Flint might be the one we are looking for, but still I doubt it...

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> I searched at google and came up with this This FS Flint might be the one we are looking for, but still I doubt it...


I looked up Flint's poetry, and it doesn't seem to be him. Frantisek Svantner appears to be more a playwright than poet, but he may have some fragments out there somewhere- it's hard to find considering most of the websites are in Slovak  :FRlol:

----------


## Pensive

> I looked up Flint's poetry, and it doesn't seem to be him. Frantisek Svantner appears to be more a playwright than poet, but he may have some fragments out there somewhere- it's hard to find considering most of the websites are in Slovak


Then who can he be???? Pensive is getting impatient.  :Mad:

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## Petrarch's Love

I'm a bit at a loss about the mysterious fs as well. If Taliesan continues to refuse to answer I say we assume "fs" is his nome de plume (more than one name would explain his referring to himself in the third person wouldn't it?) and tease him mercilessly.  :Wink:  

Seriously though, I've had a chance to look it over again in a slightly better frame of mind, and I think there's some things to be said for it. What I like best is what Hyacinth has already pointed to about the unexpected answer to the repeated question. I also think those opening lines are real grabbers. They're rhythmic and strange, in the best sense. The descriptions, especially of the grimy streets, are hideously compelling and stark in places. All the same I still don't feel that it builds with the kind of intensity needed to really carry off the full import of that last answer. It's not something I can put a finger on, it's just the way I feel about the poem.

----------


## Virgil

Well first, the answer to the question is a little anti climatic. I wonder if he left it unanswered if it would have maintained it's power. I also feel the poet loses intensity after the first two stanzas. The first two seem interesting, but the langage goes mundane afterward. Here see what I mean:




> when on all the roads of Europe / black cars drive
> columns like viscera / iron doors clanging
> silencing the screams / when from many places at the same time
> evil suddenly arises / from Kosovo and Buchenwald 
> from Berlin, Madrid and Moscow / from Tallinn, Räpina andTartu 
> Jõgeva Märjamaa Kohtla-Järve /and Karksi-Nuia from Polli
> rises over Europe / unites in the dark sky
> rolls over defenseless land / falls as rain
> disembogues everywhere / flows in the gutters
> ...


Where is the poetry here? None of these lines grab me.

----------


## Taliesin

> Taliesin. . . . Taliesin. . . .Buhler. . . . Anyone???
> 
> (I MUST know the identity of the mysterious fs!)



fs is an estonian poet. He used to write under the pseudonym of francois serpent at first but he used just the first letters of his pen-name resulting in fs.


We are also afraid that some of the lines might have lost something in translation.

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## Hyacinth Girl

> fs is an estonian poet. He used to write under the pseudonym of francois serpent at first but he used just the first letters of his pen-name resulting in fs.


Thank you for clearing up the mystery!  :Smile:

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## Petrarch's Love

> fs is an estonian poet. He used to write under the pseudonym of francois serpent at first but he used just the first letters of his pen-name resulting in fs.


Thanks Taliesin. We were all highly curious. 



> We are also afraid that some of the lines might have lost something in translation.


That explains what it is about this poem I couldn't put my finger on. It seemed like it should be so good, but the language just didn't always flow the way I thought it would being written by someone with that kind of control of imagery etc. It's a shame we can't all read Estonian and get the full impact. Still an interesting choice though.

----------


## Taliesin

> Where is the poetry here? None of these lines grab me.


Hah. You remind us another fraction of another poem oh him.



> perhaps he is walking now
> in the winter night under the unlit windows
> glove doesn't fit to the hand
> that is swollen from burns
> and green pus oozes
> this thing is life
> this is not poetry
> there is no metaphor here
> it is stupid and banal
> one can even feel the stink


Well, we seemed to have forgotten what we think about this poem earlier so we'll do it now.

We find these lines interesting:



> when fingers are frozen round the gun/ and there is nothing certain
> when between high dim houses / amid hostility and garbage
> is a little useless murderer / and it is you


It seems to us that here is a clue to an idea that one is the murderer of oneself, killing oneself slowly through one's life.


The end of stanza three reminds us a nightmare (the whole poem actually has a nightmarish quality IOO) with syrreal horror (we like it how it is depicted how evil entrences ones life from everywhere and there is no escape from the evil. The fourth stanza seems to say that there is no escape from guilt)

And so, finally, after depicting the horrors and syrreality of life, showing the hopelessness, evil and guilt that are unescapable, there is actually an answer. An answer in the form of that question. And we find it beautiful.




NB:By the way, if somebody wants to, they can post the next poem of the week. This week that just went past had no poem for it.

----------


## Virgil

Thanks Tal. I appreciate the poem more now. When you told us it was a translation from another language, I understood why the lines were not as poetic as I thought they should be. Translations of poetry almost always fall short.

----------


## Pensive

*Trees By Joyce Kilmer*

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Thanks Pensive. I feel like you almost read my mind by posting this poem. I was just thinking about trees as it happens because I recently joined the National Arbor Day Foundation, and since my donation sponsored the planting of two trees in the National Parks and Forests, they sent me two cards to send to people to say the trees were planted in their honor. I was just sending off one of those cards before I came on and read this.

This is one of the early poems that all children read in school in the United States (or at least I'm pretty sure most do), so it also brought back happy memories of how much I liked reading this poem in school when I was younger.  :Smile:

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## Virgil

Cute poem. But I'm afrad that the too perfect rhythm and rime make it simple sounding and doesn't allow it to be a great or even above average poem. "leafy arms to pray?" There is a bit of triteness too. It's a child's poem, and it's good for that.

----------


## Pensive

I agree with you Virgil that the standard of this poem is not very good but I posted it because I found it cute too. I think that it's style is different from those poems I have read before.

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## caesar

Hmm.. I don't quite agree with the poet, because a poet's discription of creation enhances it's beauty.

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## Asa Adams

> Cute poem. But I'm afrad that the too perfect rhythm and rime make it simple sounding and doesn't allow it to be a great or even above average poem. "leafy arms to pray?" There is a bit of triteness too. It's a child's poem, and it's good for that.


Agreed, I have no use for these poems, but my son would probably love it some day.

----------


## genoveva

whoops, meant to post this in poem of the day...

----------


## ktd222

You all seem to be finished discussing Joyce Kilmer's _Trees_, so I thought I would post another poem for discussion until Friday. 
This is a rather short poem as well so it wouldn't last through a weeks worth of discussion.

Gray Room

Although you sit in a room that is gray, 
Except for the silver 
Of the straw-paper, 
And pick 
At your pale white gown; 
Or lift one of the green beads 
Of your necklace, 
To let it fall; 
Or gaze at your green fan 
Printed with the red branches of a red willow; 
Or, with one finger, 
Move the leaf in the bowl-- 
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia 
Beside you... 
What is all this? 
I know how furiously your heart is beating. 

Wallace Stevens

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## Virgil

Oh I love Wallace Stevens. But I have such trouble sometimes with his poetry. "What is all this?" I guess that is the question.

Nice to see you back, ktd.

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## ktd222

Thanks Virgil, I'd been doing the school thing.

That question 'What is all this?' caught my attention as well and I'm not sure of its meaning yet, but what did stand out to me was the last line, and specifically the last word of the last line 'beating.' This word denotes a breathing, living thing; so I wonder if he's trying to make a connection between his own life and the 'life' or lack thereof of things being mentioned in the poem.

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## Virgil

Stevens sets up this contrast between the grey room and the colors of the objects he mentions. We need to understand this significance, and then the last line will probably fall into place.

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## ktd222

I think you can sort of see the signifcance of color in the poem if you look at how he describes the objects. Pale white gown/green beads/green fan printed with red branches and red willows/straw-paper without the silver--these are all inanimate things. It's weird that he describes the straw-paper in the room as being without silver now; and he endows the green fan with an imitation of real life--printed with red branches and red willows. 
I also sense very little movement in this poem by the 'you' and that may be worth considering with the other elements we recognize in this poem. 

I've got to leave for work now.

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## Hyacinth Girl

I love this poem.
I see Stevens as setting up a tableau of calmness and tranquility:



> Although you sit in a room that is gray,
> Except for the silver
> Of the straw-paper,


The room is done in cool tones - there is nothing brilliant or jarring about it.



> And pick
> At your pale white gown;
> Or lift one of the green beads
> Of your necklace,
> To let it fall;
> Or gaze at your green fan
> Printed with the red branches of a red willow;


This series appears to set up the end line by contrasting movement and inertia, color/drabity. The woman picks at a colorless gown - the color white again suggesting calm as opposed to the very slight action of picking at it. She lifts a colored bead - a hint of action, only "to let it fall" - the action is not sustained in any way. She holds a fan emblazoned with color, red and green, only to gaze at it rather than put it to use.



> Or, with one finger,
> Move the leaf in the bowl--
> The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
> Beside you...


She moves something, but that something is dead and inert.
All this sets up the contrast of the final lines:



> What is all this?
> I know how furiously your heart is beating.


The speaker reads the subtle signs: the use of color, the activity however slight, and draws his conclusion about the woman: appearances are deceiving, and however cool she may appear, he knows the truth or her agaition.

Yay Stevens  :Banana:

----------


## Petrarch's Love

For some reason the descriptions in this poem remind me of a painting--specifically one in the style of turn of the century (19th to 20th c. that is) American Impressionists. I could somehow imagine it being written, almost like our poetry contest here, about the portrait of a woman in white sitting quietly, or rather listlessly with her fan and beads and the bowl with the leaf beside her. At any rate, I think that part of the point is that she's affecting this rather blase ennui, attempting to create the kind of quiet, composed scene one might find in an impressionist painting, but that she is not in reality so composed at all. 
What, then, is all "this"--the external items, the feigned composure--about? I can hear the question asked in a couple of different ways. It could be said derisevely, as in "what is this all this about?" or, "who do you think you're trying to fool?" I think there's also a more subtle way to appreciate it as an almost contemplative statement: "what is really the worth of all these things, this manner, this pretension, when it has nothing to do with real feeling?"

----------


## Virgil

One thing I can't help but feel from having read a bit of Stevens' poetry is that he has some internal color symbolism that he adheres to. I have never been able to penetrate it.

Check out this exerpt from his "The Man With the Blue Guitar":



> The man bent over his guitar,
> A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
> 
> They said, "You have a blue guitar,
> You do not play things as they are."
> 
> The man replied, "Things as they are
> Are changed upon the blue guitar."
> 
> ...


What does "The day was green" in line two mean?

----------


## ktd222

What I also noticed just right now is that the poem begins with an 'although'--which is another way of saying 'but'--but we aren't given what _that_ 'but' is. From the beginning of the poem to its end the poem seems to remain in a paused or delayed state, with very little movement to it.

----------


## genoveva

> Gray Room
> 
> Although you sit in a room that is gray, 
> Except for the silver 
> Of the straw-paper, 
> And pick 
> At your pale white gown; 
> Or lift one of the green beads 
> Of your necklace, 
> ...


To me, the author is emphasizing the simplicity and almost nothingness that the woman is doing. These are all benign and subtle movements inside a dull or unnotable room. But, it is important to note that the author notices all these tiny details. He knows her heart is beating furiously! Could this be a man and a woman inside a room. They are attracted to each other and there is some sexual tension in the air?? The woman is nervous and her subtle gestures stand out to the man who is watching her intently? "What is all this?" could suggest "Why all the supressed energy? Let's get it on!" Just some thoughts...  :Brow:

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> One thing I can't help but feel from having read a bit of Stevens' poetry is that he has some internal color symbolism that he adheres to. I have never been able to penetrate it.


Virgil, I'm not a Stevens scholar by any means, but it appears that color, especially primary colors, denote life or passion for Stevens, as opposed to white, grey, etc. I think of "Disillusionment of Ten o'Clock" in which no one wears colored nightgowns - just white - hence the "disillusionment". 




> The houses are haunted
> By white night-gowns.
> None are green,
> Or purple with green rings,
> Or green with yellow rings,
> Or yellow with blue rings.
> None of them are strange,
> With socks of lace
> And beaded ceintures.
> ...


Only the sailor mentioned in the poem, dreams of "tigers in red weather" - he dreams a dream of
adventure that those in white nightgowns never could.

As far as "The Man With the Blue Guitar" - I think once again, Stevens uses color to denote passion or life. The day being "green" - productive, verdant perhaps. The man with the blue guitar seems to sum up the use of blue



> The man replied, "Things as they are
> Are changed upon the blue guitar"


The guitar is different because it is blue - the color changes things just as emotion/passion changes perception of reality.

This is, of course, a wild stab in the dark, so feel free to disregard the crazy lady.  :FRlol:

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> \ They are attracted to each other and there is some sexual tension in the air?? The woman is nervous and her subtle gestures stand out to the man who is watching her intently? "What is all this?" could suggest "Why all the supressed energy? Let's get it on!" Just some thoughts...


Actually, I've always thought it was something along these lines - a woman and a man caught in a state of desire. The man asking, "What is all this?" seems to wish to break the tension by destroying the illusion of calm and getting to the heart of the matter (pun intended)  :Biggrin:  




> For some reason the descriptions in this poem remind me of a painting--specifically one in the style of turn of the century (19th to 20th c. that is) American Impressionists. I could somehow imagine it being written, almost like our poetry contest here, about the portrait of a woman in white sitting quietly, or rather listlessly with her fan and beads and the bowl with the leaf beside her. At any rate, I think that part of the point is that she's affecting this rather blase ennui, attempting to create the kind of quiet, composed scene one might find in an impressionist painting, but that she is not in reality so composed at all.


I definitely agree with you that the scene does resemble a painting - artfully composed to create a certain perception.




> What, then, is all "this"--the external items, the feigned composure--about? I can hear the question asked in a couple of different ways. It could be said derisevely, as in "what is this all this about?" or, "who do you think you're trying to fool?" I think there's also a more subtle way to appreciate it as an almost contemplative statement: "what is really the worth of all these things, this manner, this pretension, when it has nothing to do with real feeling?"


I had also considered the possibility of a more derisive tone from the speaker, but I really like your idea of the speaker asking the true worth of all the artifice in the face of real emotion. Wonderful.  :Thumbs Up:

----------


## Petrarch's Love

It's not technically the poem we're discussing, but since both Virgil and Hyacinth have brought up the first stanza of "The Man with the Blue Guitar," I thought I'd put in my two cents. I've always thought the "blue guitar" in this poem symbolized art and its relation to the "real" world. The poem was evidently written after Stevens saw Picasso's "The Old Guitarist" painted during the artist's Blue Period when his paintings were done almost entirely in blue (blue people, blue plants, blue everything). I thought the point is that the day is "green," which is the real life color (and, as Hyacinth says, symbolic of vitality and life), but it is rendered blue by art. Picasso paints things both as they are (i.e. the old guitarist is recognizably a man) and not as they are (he's a blue man). In some ways one might say painting the man in blues goes beyond verisimilitude, and penetrates more deeply into who/what he is by revealing something about his interior state ("a tune beyond us, yet ourselves"). In any case, I think blue stands for art and imagination, while green is reality and nature. 

There's only one funny thing about this poem. I know the Picasso well because it's in the Chicago Art Institute where I go all the time, and the only thing in it that's not blue is the guitar. I've noticed that most people I talk to who have seen it remember the guitar as being blue though, so I'm assuming that Stevens also remembered it that way, or perhaps is using a little artistic license (he makes direct reference to the painting in the poem, so it was certainly on his mind). Even if he did remember the guitar wasn't blue, I still think there's no doubt that he is playing on the coloring of reality in the Blue Period works.

----------


## Lycosparks

I love Wallace Stevens (particularly The Emperor of Ice Cream and Anecdote of the Jar), but I've never read this one before! I like how he uses the bright colors to contrast with the drab room, and the still/motion images in describing the mood.

Why do you suppose he uses only red and green:
green beads, green fan, and the "leaf" makes us think green without saying it...
red branches, red willow, and the "heart" makes us think red without saying it...

This poem intrigues me, but I want to make more sense of it. In what season does it take place? Do you think that is important to the theme?

So I know for next time (I'm knew to the site), who posts the original poem of the week, and on what day? Thanks everyone. I look forward to discussing more poetry with you!

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Lycosparks--Welcome aboard. Anyone can post the poem for the week, and generally the new poem's been posted on Friday apropos of the rules in the initial post. This week's been a little confusing because we've had two poems, but it seems like most people have had their say about this one (I'm sure they'll loudly correct me if I'm wrong  :Wink: ), so if you have one in mind why don't you go for it.  :Smile:

----------


## ktd222

> Lycosparks--Welcome aboard. Anyone can post the poem for the week, and generally the new poem's been posted on Friday apropos of the rules in the initial post. This week's been a little confusing because we've had two poems, but it seems like most people have had their say about this one (I'm sure they'll loudly correct me if I'm wrong ), so if you have one in mind why don't you go for it.


Hey! No one remarked on the first poem posted for five days. 
I would like a chance to post a poem to be discussed the entire week. It seems that Steven's poetry requires more than two days to discuss properly, so I'd like to post another poem by him. You can disagree and ignore this post but here it is:

*Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock*


The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather. 

*Wallace Stevens*  

(1)There are a lot of references to color so we could discuss his possible purpose(s) for using color; (2)As well he makes use of the reality state and imaginative state in this poem, so we can discuss this too. 




> One thing I can't help but feel from having read a bit of Stevens' poetry is that he has some internal color symbolism that he adheres to. I have never been able to penetrate it.


I think if you look at this poem and look at how he relates certain colors with the reality state and other colors with the imaginative state, you can distinguish some of Steven's rules when it comes to color and symbolic meaning.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> Hey! No one remarked on the first poem posted for five days.
> I would like a chance to post a poem to be discussed the entire week. It seems that Steven's poetry requires more than two days to discuss properly, so I'd like to post another poem by him. You can disagree and ignore this post but here it is:


Sorry if I jumped the gun, ktd. You had said when you posted "Gray Room" that you only intended it for discussion until Friday, so I figured if someone wanted to post the next poem it was O.K. I'm sure we'll all enjoy discussing "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock," especially since we've been prepped in our Stevens discussion the last few days.  :Smile: 

I like the imagery and language of this poem, but I can't say I have more than a vague feeling for what he's getting at. I'll read it over a few more times and see if I can't articulate something about it later.

----------


## ktd222

I guess I'll start the discussion by making note of the title Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock. Disillusionment means: to free from illusion; so the title should then read To Free From Illusion of Ten O' Clock. It's strange that the title doesn't read "...at 10 O' Clock" but "...of 10 O' Clock," which makes me look at 10 O' Clock not as a time when the speaker is to be free from illusions but 10 O' Clock is now a term, created by us--which I think is part of the illusion (imagination), because the term is used to arbitrarily denote a specific part of the day; and the things that are associated with it, by the speaker, which we find out is almost all false, is what's giving him the distorted view of reality(imagination or illusion) and hindering him from seeing reality in its truthful state.

----------


## Lycosparks

I like this week's poem a lot, if I understand it correctly.

The old sailor, whomever he may be, represents someone who has traveled the world. He knows all about reality. And he is sort of escaping that, whether drunk on liquor or drunk on his thoughts, he enters into the world of imagination.

The white night-gowns perhaps represent everyone else in their homes. Drab, dull lives in reality, where they go to bed by 10 and don't appreciate the journeys on which the imagination can take you.

----------


## Lycosparks

Thanks for the welcome, Petrarch's Love!!

And I agree with you ktd. He doesn't say "at 10" but rather "of 10." He is describing the disillusion of what happens around the world at 10pm. Not the time itself, but rather, what the world becomes at that time.

I don't know if that made any sense, but you said it better...  :Nod:

----------


## Virgil

> I guess I'll start the discussion by making note of the title Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock. Disillusionment means: to free from illusion; so the title should then read To Free From Illusion of Ten O' Clock. It's strange that the title doesn't read "...at 10 O' Clock" but "...of 10 O' Clock," which makes me look at 10 O' Clock not as a time when the speaker is to be free from illusions but 10 O' Clock is now a term, created by us--which I think is part of the illusion (imagination), because the term is used to arbitrarily denote a specific part of the day; and the things that are associated with it, by the speaker, which we find out is almost all false, is what's giving him the distorted view of reality(imagination or illusion) and hindering him from seeing reality in its truthful state.


Good point. I like your reading of this poem. I admit to having read this poem a few times over the course of years and never picked up the preposition, "of". It does seem to now fall into place.

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## ktd222

_The houses are haunted
By white-night gowns._

Is this a statement of truthful reality? Where is the speaker in this image? Where are the people in this image? Even the white-night gowns are absent of any figure wearing it. And its the houses that are haunted, not the speaker. The image seems detached from any human embellishment. Compare the above lines with these lines:

_People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles._

Is this a statement of truthful reality, too? It seems matter-of-fact. Does anyone else think that there may be a connection between the words haunted and dream? Dream seems like a word used to describe how wed envisioned(imagine) somethingthat something, we have control of. Haunted gets more at that something(reality) thats uncontrollable by usand that something reappears because of its own habitual nature. 

So the color white seems to symbolize truthful reality in that there is no humans, no human form(in the way we believe it to be), no human emotionjust houses haunted by white-night gowns.

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## Petrarch's Love

_The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns._

I had read these lines rather differently than ktd. I thought rather than creating a divorce from people and reality, that they emphasized the tangible and corporeal world. The word "haunted" builds expectations of ghosts and spirits--the fanciful, intangible and incorporeal world. Rather than the image of a spectoral ghost, however, the reader is presented with the fairly quotidian objects of nightgowns. It's like revealing that the mysterious white figures flitting about in the fog of a halloween night are really just the neighbor kids wearing white sheets. It takes all the potential mystery and imagination out of the haunting. There's nothing there more interesting than rather plain, ordinary white night-gowns.

----------


## Virgil

> So the color white seems to symbolize truthful reality in that there is no humans, no human form(in the way we believe it to be), no human emotionjust houses haunted by white-night gowns.


Yes I buy into this reading. 




> Does anyone else think that there may be a connection between the words haunted and dream? Dream seems like a word used to describe how wed envisioned(imagine) somethingthat something, we have control of. Haunted gets more at that something(reality) thats uncontrollable by usand that something reappears because of its own habitual nature.


I agree. What makes me think you're correct is the drunk asleep further down in the poem. 

Compare his famous "Snowman" where the mind of the inanimate snowman is empty of imagery and filled with the "nothing that is".

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## ryan24

Hi im new to this forum and even newer to poetry but im going to give this one a shot. 


_The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns._

When I read this i thought that the author is trying to say that people living in the houses of organized society will experience, even in an event that is supposed to be supernatural, nothing more than a plain white night-gown. Also that their minds cant even dream up some of the excitement that the sailor has lived through in his life. 


P.S. I really want to get into poetry but its proving difficult, could anyone reccomend any books on how to read poetry and get the most out of it?

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## ktd222

> _The houses are haunted
> By white night-gowns._
> 
> I had read these lines rather differently than ktd. I thought rather than creating a divorce from people and reality, that they emphasized the tangible and corporeal world. The word "haunted" builds expectations of ghosts and spirits--the fanciful, intangible and incorporeal world. Rather than the image of a spectoral ghost, however, the reader is presented with the fairly quotidian objects of nightgowns. It's like revealing that the mysterious white figures flitting about in the fog of a halloween night are really just the neighbor kids wearing white sheets. It takes all the potential mystery and imagination out of the haunting. There's nothing there more interesting than rather plain, ordinary white night-gowns.


These lines are a description of the truthful reality--without the imagination. I think the whole poem moves in this fashion from reality to imagination(not in this order). I think to witness reality, there has to be a divorce between imagination and reality. The title of the poem alludes to this, as I mentioned in a previous post, and the poem itself is filled with discernments, by the speaker, whether 'something' is because of our imagination or because it's reality. The word 'haunted' is exactly what keeps white night-gowns apart from our reality(Imagination), because 'haunted' does refer to the supernatural(Reality), intangable. What is so 'haunting' about the white night-gowns is its image described in the absence of humans, human forms, or human emotions.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> These lines are a description of the truthful reality--without the imagination. I think the whole poem moves in this fashion from reality to imagination(not in this order). I think to witness reality, there has to be a divorce between imagination and reality. The title of the poem alludes to this, as I mentioned in a previous post, and the poem itself is filled with discernments, by the speaker, whether 'something' is because of our imagination or because it's reality. The word 'haunted' is exactly what keeps white night-gowns apart from our reality(Imagination), because 'haunted' does refer to the supernatural(Reality), intangable. What is so 'haunting' about the white night-gowns is its image described in the absence of humans, human forms, or human emotions.


ktd--I don't think I'm entirely disagreeing with your reading of the poem. I'm with you that there's a dichotomy in this poem between reality and imagination, and that Stevens is playing with the lines between the two. I like what you've brought out about the use of "disillusion" in the title. I also think you're right about it being important that the nightgowns are "described in the absence of humans." I wasn't trying to differ with you on this point so much as add a different reading into the mix. 

As I read it, at the beginning of the poem he's setting up the description of houses where imagination is lacking, in contrast to the final description of the old sailor as the exception to the rule. By suggesting a word like "haunted" Stevens is conjuring up expectations of the strange and supernatural, and I think that following that up with everyday "white nightgowns" is intentionally a bit of a let down to those expectations. Any romance and imagination one attempts to see in these houses is revealed to have a logical, realistic, and identifiable source. The thought of material objects like nightgowns doing the haunting drains away some of the mystery conjured up in the word "haunted." In another context the line could even be humorous. At the same time I think there's also something deeper at play in what you're bringing out about the disembodied quality of the nightgowns. Representing the people by the nightgowns they wear, emphasizes their lack of imagination and presence as thinking beings. They are not minds or hearts. They are objects. Just as the nightgowns are drained of color, they are also drained of the people they contain and thus drained of human thought and emotion (just as you say). Tangible objects take the place of spirits, both supernatural and human.




> The word 'haunted' is exactly what keeps white night-gowns apart from our reality(Imagination), because 'haunted' does refer to the supernatural(Reality), intangable.


I've just quoted this line from your response, because I was a bit confused by your use of the words in parentheses. Are you suggesting by the antonyms in the parentheses after "reality" and "supernatural" that Stevens is using these concepts in a antithetical and/or paradoxical manner (that the supernatural is somehow more real to us than reality and that reality is in some way unreal)? I thought perhaps that was what you were getting at, but I wasn't sure.  :Confused:

----------


## ktd222

Yes, imagination is absent in these lines. Stevens seems to be trying to distinguish between whats part of Reality and what's part of Imagination, so I dont get it when you say hes trying to emphasize the tangible and corporeal world. 




> I've just quoted this line from your response, because I was a bit confused by your use of the words in parentheses. Are you suggesting by the antonyms in the parentheses after "reality" and "supernatural" that Stevens is using these concepts in a antithetical and/or paradoxical manner (that the supernatural is somehow more real to us than reality and that reality is in some way unreal)? I thought perhaps that was what you were getting at, but I wasn't sure.


Sort ofdoesnt the title allude to this setting aside anything thats imagined in order to witness reality? That maybe what we consider the supernatural(the night gowns) is whats real. That even we are part of the illusion! As mentioned by the image, in the absence of imagination, of the houses haunted by white night-gowns where there is no mention of any humanly form. Even the speaker is absent from this image. The word haunted used in this way to represent the supernatural, impalpable, is in a statement representing truthful reality without imagination. So in a way isnt Stevens representing the supernatural as the real.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> Yes, imagination is absent in these lines. Stevens seems to be trying to distinguish between whats part of Reality and what's part of Imagination, so I dont get it when you say hes trying to emphasize the tangible and corporeal world.


Wouldn't emphasizing the tangible and corporeal world make sense if you are conveying the sense of dis-illusionment, of seperation from imagination? All I was saying is that nightgowns are things you can touch, and things associated with the body, and the physical. In that sense they are real rather than illusions. 




> That maybe what we consider the supernatural(the night gowns) is whats real.


I don't consider the night-gowns "supernatural" in this poem, as much as they are what takes the place of the supernatural. 



> The word haunted used in this way to represent the supernatural, impalpable, is in a statement representing truthful reality without imagination. So in a way isnt Stevens representing the supernatural as the real.


I think what you're getting at here is similar to what I'm saying about the word "haunted" building expectations of the supernatural, which the night-gowns disappoint. You say Stevens represents "the supernatural as the real." I initially read it as him undermining, in fact almost discounting or laughing at, the supernatural with the real. I think it's a clever enough poem that it works both ways.

----------


## ktd222

> I think what you're getting at here is similar to what I'm saying about the word "haunted" building expectations of the supernatural, which the night-gowns disappoint. You say Stevens represents "the supernatural as the real." I initially read it as him undermining, in fact almost discounting or laughing at, the supernatural with the real. I think it's a clever enough poem that it works both ways.


I just have to say this right now--that their is no 'laughing at' anything in this poem at all. One variation of the word disillusionment is disillusion which means the condition of being disenchanted or representing a sort of sadness, so I can't imagine there is any laughing or joking in the poem at all.

----------


## ktd222

> Wouldn't emphasizing the tangible and corporeal world make sense if you are conveying the sense of dis-illusionment, of seperation from imagination? All I was saying is that nightgowns are things you can touch, and things associated with the body, and the physical. In that sense they are real rather than illusions.


Then your not taking into account the word 'haunted' which keeps the white night-gowns out of the realm of human control and human palpability. 




> I don't consider the night-gowns "supernatural" in this poem


Neither do I.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
> I don't consider the night-gowns "supernatural" in this poem
> 
> 
> Neither do I.


I thought when you said this,




> That maybe what we consider the supernatural(the night gowns) is whats real.


you were saying that as readers what we consider supernatural are the nightgowns. The parantheses make it look like you're glossing the supernatural as being equated with the night-gowns. I guess I got confused?  :Confused:  




> Then your not taking into account the word 'haunted' which keeps the white night-gowns out of the realm of human control and human palpability.


I am taking into account the word "haunted." I'm saying that "haunted" does not necessarily take the night-gowns out of the realm of palpability. My point was based on the idea that he is using the word "haunted" to suggest the potential for the supernatural. The expectation is that such a word will be followed by the suggestion of something intangible, like a ghost. Instead he presents us with tangible objects: the night-gowns. 




> I just have to say this right now--that their is no 'laughing at' anything in this poem at all. One variation of the word disillusionment is disillusion which means the condition of being disenchanted or representing a sort of sadness, so I can't imagine there is any laughing or joking in the poem at all.


I didn't mean to imply there was broad humor or "ha ha" type of laughter. I think it's possible to find a tad of the absurdly or ironically humorous. The poem certainly seems to be commenting on those people who live dreamlessly in houses haunted by white night-gowns. I sense some disdain for these illusionless types (possibly bourgeouis types--at least that's how I imagine them), and perhaps even a wry bit of, not too kind, laughter at their expense. I don't think it's an essential part of the poem though, and I think what I'm identifying as a type of uncomfortable humor could also come off as a sort of bitterness or disapproval with a twist of the absurd.

----------


## ktd222

> you were saying that as readers what we consider supernatural are the nightgowns. The parantheses make it look like you're glossing the supernatural as being equated with the night-gowns. I guess I got confused?


I guess I left in the we when I should have said the speaker.




> I am taking into account the word "haunted." I'm saying that "haunted" does not necessarily take the night-gowns out of the realm of palpability. My point was based on the idea that he is using the word "haunted" to suggest the potential for the supernatural. The expectation is that such a word will be followed by the suggestion of something intangible, like a ghost. Instead he presents us with tangible objects: the night-gowns.


I don't get this but maybe there is another definition of 'haunted' I haven't seen. To whom are the gowns palpable to if we are not part of the image? 


It seems we are just going in circles right now so we can just leave it at this.

----------


## Virgil

Petrarch, ktd,

I enjoyed your back and forth above!  :Wink:  

If I may introduce a biographical note on Stevens, he, I have read, did have a happy marriage. Except for his very early poems, you tend to find these "unhappy home" allusions scattered throughout his work. The poems themselves aren't usually biographical or should I say confessional, but he does use elements of his biography as working material.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> It seems we are just going in circles right now so we can just leave it at this.


OK. I suppose we don't want to make ourselves too dizzy (at least we managed to entertain Virgil).  :Smile:

----------


## Scheherazade

I don't consider myself a Bukowski fan as such but I liked this one and wondered what you guys would think of it.

*so you want to be a writer?*  

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

- Charles Bukowski

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Good advice.  :Biggrin:

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

I love it. . . I'm going to show it to Ed, who keeps harping on me to finish the novel-that-never-shall-be!  :Biggrin:

----------


## Virgil

> Good advice.


Some of it is and some of it isn't. For instance, take the following:




> if you have to sit there and
> rewrite it again and again,
> don't do it.


Lot's of great writers did lots of re-writing. All good writing is re-writing. And this seems silly:




> if you first have to read it to your wife
> or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
> or your parents or to anybody at all,
> you're not ready.


What's wrong with reading it to somebody? And this is just down-right dumb:



> when it is truly time,
> and if you have been chosen,
> it will do it by
> itself and it will keep on doing it
> until you die or it dies in you.


I have never liked Bukowski's work. There's hardly any poetry in this supposed poem. It's prose.

----------


## Scheherazade

> Lot's of great writers did lots of re-writing. All good writing is re-writing. *And this seems silly:*
> 
> 
> What's wrong with reading it to somebody? *And this is just down-right dumb:*
> 
> 
> I have never liked Bukowski's work. *There's hardly any poetry in this supposed poem.* It's prose.


Is there anyone else out there who is wondering whether Virgil is having a bad day or not?  :Tongue: 

As I said in my initial post, I am not a fan of Bukowski; however, I like this one. I don't think this is prose. Guess this takes us back at 'what is poetry?' Why is it not poetry? Because it doesn't rhyme in the traditional sense? When read aloud, to me, it flows nicely and it has a rhythm.

----------


## Virgil

> Is there anyone else out there who is wondering whether Virgil is having a bad day or not? 
> 
> As I said in my initial post, I am not a fan of Bukowski; however, I like this one. I don't think this is prose. Guess this takes us back at 'what is poetry?' Why is it not poetry? Because it doesn't rhyme in the traditional sense? When read aloud, to me, it flows nicely and it has a rhythm.


  :Wink:  I'm not having a bad day. I don't like Bukowski either, but every one seems to maker a big deal of him. As to what is poetry, I have always defined it as charged language, which is I admit somewhat vague and subjective. But do you consider this poetry:




> As I said in my initial post, 
> I am not a fan of Bukowski; 
> however, I like this one. 
> I don't think this is prose. 
> Guess this takes us back at 
> 'what is poetry?' 
> Why is it not poetry? 
> Because it doesn't rhyme 
> in the traditional sense? 
> ...


The above quote flows nicely and has a rhythm. But to me, even though i've shaped it like a poem, it's still prose. There is no charged language here, just a communication of statements. Charged language, and it doesn't have to be in the shape of a poem (the openning chapter of Melville's Moby Dick is charged language), requires a straining of the language through the use of conceits or imagery. The Bukowski I've read is pretty much flat prose with the only straining of language by the means of profanity.

----------


## Virgil

Here's a poem by Sylvia Plath that those that like Bukowski would probably like. I consider this poetry unlike what Bukowski mostly writes. And it doesn't rhyme.




> *Fever 103*
> 
> Pure? What does it mean?
> The tongues of hell
> Are dull, dull as the triple 
> 
> Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
> Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
> Of licking clean 
> ...

----------


## Petrarch's Love

I must say that I agree with Virgil in as much as I've always wanted to give Bukowski the very piece of advice offered by the refrain of this poem.  :FRlol:  It's not great poetry, but it did give me a good laugh, since I think we've all known our fair share of people who consider themselves destined to be the next great writer. I feel a bit guilty about it, but there is a certain type I would love to recite these lines to some time when they're going on at length to me over a pint at the pub about their tortured failed writing career (usually due to the inability of others to recognize their "genius"):



> don't be like so many writers,
> don't be like so many thousands of
> people who call themselves writers,
> don't be dull and boring and
> pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
> love.
> the libraries of the world have
> yawned themselves to
> sleep
> over your kind.


I do agree with the premise of the poem, that you won't be a great writer unless you're someone who A) is compelled to write and does lots of it and B) has _it_, by which I mean some sort of inborn inspiration and/or talent to build on. People who try to make themselves writers without having this sort of inner impulse and inspiration, who try to beat a story or a poem into submission hoping to be paid or praised aren't going to be good writers. What I think Virg. is right about, and what's missing from Bukowski's poem is that it does not necessarily follow that someone who is inspired will be great either, and that writing does take work, even for those who have this sort of gift. Of course great writers revise and re-write, but that only really works if you've got at least a spark of the right stuff to begin with. In my opinion it takes both talent (over which a person has no control) and hard work (over which they have plenty of control) to be a successful writer. 

This poem has had me thinking about a lecture I went to when I was a freshman in highschool (and, incidently, was still a bit delusional and insufferable about the extent of my own literary talents  :FRlol:  ) . It was Ray Bradbury talking, and he answered some audience questions afterward. A young woman asked him if he had ever had doubts about his writing, had to force himself to sit down and write or had difficulties being uncertain that it's what he really wanted to do. I remember being a little surprised that his first response was a flat "no." I think he realized that sounded a little harsh and explained that, while he did go through a lot to perfect his art, the impulse to write was always there. He seemed to think that his writing only came into its own when he stopped trying to force a story into some idea of what it should be and instead just "let it live" and do what it needs to do. I've heard similar things since form a lot of writers and I think it's true.

----------


## ShoutGrace

> Charged language, and it doesn't have to be in the shape of a poem (the openning chapter of Melville's Moby Dick is charged language), requires a straining of the language through the use of conceits or imagery.



Can you explain conceits Virgil? Just for my own edification; I havent learnt as much about poetry so far as I would have liked. 





> As to what is poetry, I have always defined it as charged language, which is I admit somewhat vague and subjective.



Most contemporary poets agree with Ezra Pounds definition of poetry as intense language. Brian Brett, another well-known Canadian poet, says he has gone through many definitions of what constitutes poetry over the years, but none ever equalled Pounds in its impact and sneakiness. I always add the caveat that poetry is where the language is as important as the story (which means that Finnegan's Wake could also be called poetry), but in prose you only note the story and not the language (song). This allows us to differentiate between the broken prose lines that pretend they are poetry, and the lines that should break and float where they float because they shine.


Norton Introduction to Literature  (Poetry) is an experience of words, and those who know how to read poetry can easily extend their experience of life, their sense of what other people are like, and especially their awareness of personal feelings. Poetry can be the mouthpiece of our feelings when our minds are speechless with grief or joy.


Canadian Broadcasting Corporation - As to your question, well, there is no dividing line between prose and poetry unless you dwell on line as a difference, the line ending before it gets to the edge of the page, which isn't enough to command an absolute difference given 'prose poetry,'" wrote Patrick Lane. Poetry is merely highly charged language in a compassed space where repetition, rhyme, rhythm, and cadenced speech command attention through the use of sound alone.

----------


## ShoutGrace

> I've heard similar things since form a lot of writers and I think it's true.


I think it's just a conspiracy by the writers to keep the common people from learning all their secrets.  :Biggrin:

----------


## Virgil

From Poetry glossary:



> conceit 
> A fanciful poetic image or metaphor that likens one thing to something else that is seemingly very different. An example of a conceit can be found in Shakespeare's sonnet Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? and in Emily Dickinson's poem There is no frigate like a book.


http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0903237.html

Intense language or charged language, both Pound and I mean the same thing. I prefer charged.

----------


## fitzgolden

I'm with Virgil on Bukowski - and I remember why I don't much like Sylvia Plath  :FRlol:

----------


## ktd222

My initial impression of this poem is that theres movement from want in the title, to dont do it in the first stanza, to be patient in stanzas 2 and 3, to what happens when words are forced, to when its time for the words to be written. 

Bukowski seems to be stressing right from the title that to be in want or need to become a writer is not the way of approaching becoming a writer. Rather, the words, or it, which is what I think the words are referred to as in this poem, has to be allowed to have its own life  separate from the writer. Look at stanza 5 where Bukowski writes:

_when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it 
until you die or it dies in you._  

The person has in a sense almost become like a vessel for it - and thats it. The words seem to be instilled with their own life with the phrase or it dies in you, which denotes the words must have been living at one point in time. I think something else in the poem that supports the previous sentence is the repetitive use of the phrase dont do it. To me there is weird syntax in these three words, as if hes telling the reader to not do its(the words) job for it, that only it knows when and the proper way to express itself. The phrase dont do it also seems kind of vulgar to me when you think about it literally. Please dont make me do it! Explain it, that is.

Also, in stanza 4, there seems to be this play on the title writer as being the thing that is unoriginal, debased(I dont think this is the right word), and it is the it that is the original in this poem, even though it is mentioned so many times throughout(Im too tired to expand on this, does anyone else care to?)

I think theres a lot to be said about writing in this mannerI do this myself. Its all about penning down on paper what strikes you at the moment  that is part of creating something original, and when given time for careful thought, I think there is a tendency for others works that have influenced you to creep into your own work.

----------


## Virgil

ktd may have found a positive spot or two in the poem, but it hardly changes my reaction to it. Actually isn't this all cliche, especially the openning:




> if it doesn't come bursting out of you
> in spite of everything,
> don't do it.
> unless it comes unasked out of your
> heart and your mind and your mouth
> and your gut,
> don't do it.
> if you have to sit for hours
> staring at your computer screen
> ...


I've heard this before and it's said in reference to people who want to go to Holywood and become actors or actresses. Not only don't I see great poetry, I also don't see anything profound or original. 

Sorry for the negativity.

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> Not only don't I see great poetry, I also don't see anything profound or original.


Not having read much Bukowski, I can't comment on his collection, but I do agree with you, Virgil, that this is not necessarily great, profound, or original.

This poem appeals to me as a "surface" poem . . a light airy bit of fluff similar to a merangue. Basically, I appreciate the humor in it - as PL pointed out:




> It's not great poetry, but it did give me a good laugh, since I think we've all known our fair share of people who consider themselves destined to be the next great writer. I feel a bit guilty about it, but there is a certain type I would love to recite these lines to some time when they're going on at length to me over a pint at the pub about their tortured failed writing career (usually due to the inability of others to recognize their "genius"):
> Quote:
> don't be like so many writers,
> don't be like so many thousands of
> people who call themselves writers,
> don't be dull and boring and
> pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
> love.
> the libraries of the world have
> ...


Also, the lines



> if you're doing it because you want
> women in your bed,
> don't do it.


crack me up. I don't know many women that seek out writers to bed.  :FRlol:  
I think that taking this poem seriously creates a problem. When doing so, Bukowski becomes that dull, boring, filled with self-love author he despises. By letting the poem be something humorous and almost self-deprecating, it becomes a bit of chocolate - a brief moment of pleasure that melts away.

----------


## ktd222

I dont find this poem that horrible, Virgil. I think a lot of whats said in this poem is direct, forward, and relatable to me. Weve all done some of the things hes mentioned during the writing process. I think hes aware of whats in the poem; so for him to write down words that had been reiterated before doesnt bother me. There seems to be a greater purpose for these reiterationsmaybe as a way to help us move away from the cliché and into the individuality? I think there is a lot of Bukowskis style that comes out of this poem as well: with the abrupt line breaks, stanza breaks, use of lower case.

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## ktd222

Does anyone else, other than the usual people, want to post a poem to be discussed this week? Come on, lets get this thread rejuvenated with some poetry discussion.

----------


## Flint

This poem has quite the history. It harkens back to the original Horacian poem which contains the title in it's opening lines:





> Exegi monumentum aere perennius,
> regalique situ pyramidum altius,
> quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens
> possit diruere aut innumerabilis
> annorum series et fuga temporum.
> Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei
> vitabit Libitinam. Usque ego postera
> crescam laude recens. Dum Capitolium
> scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
> ...


The above poem has a distinct place in Russian historical literature, having been translated by 3 well known talents: Derzhavin, Lomonosov, and Pushkin.


The Pushkin poem is seemingly concerned with the vitality and fortitude of artistic production over the course of time, the passing of which naturally entails certain things - "slander, praise, ridicule, decay." There is imagery with the "overgrown path."

This poem always seems arrogant and pretentious to me, especially in the opening lines. Though later in stanza 4, I see the poet giving real reasons for his predictions concerning his future "reign":




> And long I will be dear to people in my kingdom,
> Because kind feelings with my lyre I have installed;
> Because in my hard age, I have belauded freedom,
> And mercy on the fallen called.





> To Gods command, O Muse, pay heed; be full of reverence;
> Not calling for a wreath, not fearing ridicule 
> The slander and the praise accept with firm indifference,
> And do not argue with the fool.



The Muse in the last stanza is the speaker himself, correct?

----------


## holograph

pushkin rocks my socks. but in russian, it sounds much better. translationally, its ok.

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## Petrarch's Love

Oh, I just realized we had a new poem for this week. Thanks for posting Jersey Bird, and thanks for the background info., Flint. For some reason I hadn't automatically thought of Horace's ode, but it makes sense that it was an influence on this poem. It's hard to judge a poem fairly when only coming to it in translation, but, translation or not, I like the final line: "do not argue with the fool." It has an almost Shakespearean feel to it. Incidently the Horatian influence and the claims to a poetry that will outlive (to quote Shakespeare's sonnet 55) "marble or the gilded monuments," reminds me of the poetry of the English Renaissance when they were trying to set ground for a new poetry in their vernacular. I'm ashamed to say I know almost nothing about the history of Russian literature. I know Pushkin's very famous. Does Flint, or anyone else know if he played a similar founding role in Russian lit. as say Shakespeare and the Elizabethans in English lit., or is the similarity simply incidently?

----------


## holograph

To russians (such as myself) Pushkin is the father of poetry. He is to Russians what Walt Whitman to the one-hundredth power is to Americans. Does that answer your question?

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## ShoutGrace

Okay, so it has been 2 weeks now that I haven't been able to silently watch people talk about poetry. I'm going to post a poem that I have read a couple of times in the past few days; though we can start a new poem if someone wants a different one.  :Biggrin:  


She drew back; he was calm:
"It is this that had the power."
And he lashed his open palm
With the tender-headed flower.
He smiled for her to smile,
But she was either blind
Or willfully unkind.
He eyed her for a while
For a woman and a puzzle.
He flicked and flung the flower,
And another sort of smile
Caught up like fingertips
The corners of his lips
And cracked his ragged muzzle.
She was standing to the waist
In golden rod and brake,
Her shining hair displaced.
He stretched her either arm
As if she made it ache
To clasp her - not to harm;
As if he could not spare
To touch her neck and hair.
"If this has come to us
And not to me alone -"
So she thought she heard him say;
Though with every word he spoke
His lips were sucked and blown
And the effort made him choke
Like a tiger at a bone.
She had to lean away.
She dared not stir a foot,
Lest movement should provoke
The demon of pursuit
That slumbers in a brute.
It was then her mothers call
From inside the garden wall
Made her steal a look of fear
To see if he could hear
And would pounce to end it all
Before her mother came.
She looked and saw the shame:
A hand hung like a paw,
An arm worked like a saw
As if to be persuasive,
An ingratiating laugh
That cut the snout in half,
And eye become evasive.
A girl could only see
That a flower had marred a man,
But what she could not see
Was that the flower might be
Other than base and fetid:
That the flower had done but part,
And what the flower began
Her own too meager heart
Had terribly completed.
She looked and saw the worst.
And the dog or what it was,
Obeying bestial laws,
A coward save at night,
Turned from the place and ran.
She heard him stumble first
And use his hands in flight.
She heard him bark outright.
And oh, for one so young
The bitter words she spit
Like some tenacious bit
That will not leave the tongue.
She plucked her lips for it,
And still the horror clung.
Her mother wiped the foam
From her chin, picked up her comb,
And drew her backward home.


-Robert Frost (1874-1963)

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

Storm
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Robert Pack

----------


## Virgil

In general, Hyacinth, I like the poem, but I do have some questions. First, who is the you he is addressing, "your ghostly form"? What does he mean by "my white consciousness"? I don't think he's making a racial statement, or is he? Why does he repeat the line, "Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines"? The repeatition doesn't seem to add anything.

----------


## Jean-Baptiste

This poem seems to be a documentation of a storm's communication with the poet. Perhaps the poet is guilt ridden at playing some part in turning a human into a ghost, but the storm knows that he is innocent, hence the "white consciousness". The repetition of the first line may be an attempt to regather his thoughts, or perhaps go back to the start of the train of thoughts and take a different course, which doesn't seem to be any less harsh, as it turns out. Is the poet seeking the help of the storm, seeking solace in an uncontrollable threat? I don't know, but I really like this poem. Thank you, Hyacinth Girl.

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> First, who is the you he is addressing, "your ghostly form"?


That is part of the ambiguity of the poem. Jean-Baptiste has offered one theory. Personally, I read it as a lost lover. Interpreting the "you" as an absent muse or the actual reader themself are two options that lend to interesting readings as well.




> What does he mean by "my white consciousness"? I don't think he's making a racial statement, or is he?


No, I wouldn't say the speaker is making a racial statement, as there is nothing else to really indicate that in the text. I think "white consciousness" works on several levels:
1) the woods are aware of the speaker watching the snowstorm
2) the speaker's loss of the person who is now perceived only as a ghost 
3) the perception of death and nothingness
Robert Pack is a Stevens/Frost scholar who works within a Romantic tradition, combining it with Stevens' view of nothingness and being and the search for some sort of transcendence. In this respect, I think the "white" functions as a destruction of commonplace metaphor for the reader - loss, death, loneliness are usually referred to as dark, black etc., but in this case I think the juxtaposition of snow(cold), winter(death), storm(trauma) create a "darker" meaning for "white" - I think Pack is drawing especially on Stevens' "mind of winter" explicated in "The Snow Man" and Frost's contemplation of death and loss in "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". In fact, I think that positing Stevens' Snow Man as the speaker would lend to another interesting reading of this poem, and would work with Pack's predeliction for creating dramatic monologues.



> Why does he repeat the line, "Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines"? The repeatition doesn't seem to add anything.


I think it is functioning as a repetitive device in order to create a charm/spell/invocation when read aloud. There is a lot of repetition of thought or idea within the text, mostly with slight variation. For instance, the first two lines are actually reversed later in the poem. Also, white becomes "whiteness", swirling becomes whirled, etc. In fact, I think it's supposed to recreate the experience of watching a snowstorm through a window - it's never exactly the same, but the effect is that of a hypnotic whole.

And thank you, Virgil and Jean-Baptiste, for your compliments on the poem. I thought it would be fun to go with a poet I knew personally for a change.  :Smile:

----------


## Virgil

After reading it again, I think the "you" the narrator is addressing is the woods upon which the snow falls. "Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form" and "Calling me to you with wild gesturings/Homeward into the howling woods". Or perhaps he means the spirit of the woods. Is there possibly a subtle allusion to Frost's, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"?

Here's that poem:




> *Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening* by Robert Frost
> 
> Whose woods these are I think I know. 
> His house is in the village though;
> He will not see me stopping here
> To watch his woods fill up with snow.
> 
> My little horse must think it queer
> To stop without a farmhouse near
> ...

----------


## Hyacinth Girl

> I think Pack is drawing especially on Stevens' "mind of winter" explicated in "The Snow Man" and Frost's contemplation of death and loss in "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".


Spot on Virgil :Biggrin:

----------


## Virgil

> Spot on Virgil


I'm sorry Hyacinth. I didn't see that you had already mentioned Frost, and you're right it echoes Stevens as well.

----------


## jon1jt

> After reading it again, I think the "you" the narrator is addressing is the woods upon which the snow falls. "Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form" and "Calling me to you with wild gesturings/Homeward into the howling woods". Or perhaps he means the spirit of the woods. Is there possibly a subtle allusion to Frost's, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"?
> 
> Here's that poem:


I think you're not the only one who feels that way. I heard a lecture once on Frost and the professor figured that Frost was taking a stab at how silly the notion of property is---to watch "his" woods fill up with snow and the separateness of society (village) and nature. It may have also been about suicide, given Frost had apparently become very distraught when his wife rejected his proposal for marriage early in life (she later agreed to marry him, I read) He apparently ran off into the woods for days and contemplated suicide---"the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep..." The latter half you can see the contrast along with the last line he repeats, as an affirmation of life. Just one prof's interpretation. Hope that helps.

----------


## Petrarch's Love

> Storm
> Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
> Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
> The surge of swirling wind defines
> As if your human shape were what the storm
> Sought to contrive, intending to express
> Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
> Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
> Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
> ...


Thanks for this poem, Hyacinth. I found it quite beautiful and evocative. The ambiguity as to who and/or what exactly the author has lost in the "white" of this poem really adds to the feeling of loss and confusion in the poem. The see-saw between a form so specific and well known that he imagines it before him in the falling snow and the threat of the obliterating white is powerfully evocative of loss. It's the way you try to remember the face of someone who has died. You are at once comforted that there is some ghostly image of the person in your mind, and disturbed that it is an image so shadowy and blurry, almost whited out.

I was particularly struck by the phrase, "white consciousness." It's one of those perfectly self-defining phrases, in that I know exactly what he means by it without feeling able to clearly define or express that meaning in other words (not half so well as these do, anyway). The poem as a whole has that sort of self-defining quality. It sketches a distinct emotional state as it draws its parallels between the outward storm and an inward "white consiousness," but has that quality pertaining to a certain kind of very good poetry, of being sufficient unto itself and almost defying translation.

----------


## Scheherazade

Here's a poem for the coming week:


*O Captain! My Captain!* 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for
you the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

- Walt Whitman

----------


## Regit

What's happened here??

----------


## jerrybreathfire

This poem is based on a paradox, that the dead shall still be living. Notice the line "And death shall have no dominion" in the fisrt and last stanza of each paragraph. Any significance?

----------


## jerrybreathfire

This poem is based on a paradox, that the dead shall still be living. The line "And death shall have no dominion" appears in the first and last stanza of each paragraph. There is something in that presentation.

----------


## Pensive

The poem which I will like to share is written by our national poet, Allama Iqbal. It was Iqbal Day here yesterday so here it is in the memory of a really good poet. This is one of my favourite poems from his collection, _Bag-e-Dara,_ which was the book of poetry mainly for children.  :Smile:  

ايک مکڑا اور مکھي

ماخوذ - بچوں کے ليے


اک دن کسي مکھي سے يہ کہنے لگا مکڑا 
اس راہ سے ہوتا ہے گزر روز تمھارا 
ليکن مري کٹيا کي نہ جاگي کبھي قسمت 
بھولے سے کبھي تم نے يہاں پائوں نہ رکھا 
غيروں سے نہ مليے تو کوئي بات نہيں ہے 
اپنوں سے مگر چاہيے يوں کھنچ کے نہ رہنا 
آئو جو مرے گھر ميں تو عزت ہے يہ ميري 
وہ سامنے سيڑھي ہے جو منظور ہو آنا 
مکھي نے سني بات جو مکڑے کي تو بولي 
حضرت! کسي نادان کو ديجے گا يہ دھوکا 
اس جال ميں مکھي کبھي آنے کي نہيں ہے 
جو آپ کي سيڑھي پہ چڑھا ، پھر نہيں اترا 
مکڑے نے کہا واہ! فريبي مجھے سمجھے 
تم سا کوئي نادان زمانے ميں نہ ہو گا 
منظور تمھاري مجھے خاطر تھي وگرنہ 
کچھ فائدہ اپنا تو مرا اس ميں نہيں تھا 
اڑتي ہوئي آئي ہو خدا جانے کہاں سے 
ٹھہرو جو مرے گھر ميں تو ہے اس ميں برا کيا! 
اس گھر ميں کئي تم کو دکھانے کي ہيں چيزيں 
باہر سے نظر آتا ہے چھوٹي سي يہ کٹيا 
لٹکے ہوئے دروازوں پہ باريک ہيں پردے 
ديواروں کو آئينوں سے ہے ميں نے سجايا 
مہمانوں کے آرام کو حاضر ہيں بچھونے 
ہر شخص کو ساماں يہ ميسر نہيں ہوتا 
مکھي نے کہا خير ، يہ سب ٹھيک ہے ليکن 
ميں آپ کے گھر آئوں ، يہ اميد نہ رکھنا 
ان نرم بچھونوں سے خدا مجھ کو بچائے 
سو جائے کوئي ان پہ تو پھر اٹھ نہيں سکتا 
مکڑے نے کہا دل ميں سني بات جو اس کي 
پھانسوں اسے کس طرح يہ کم بخت ہے دانا 
سو کام خوشامد سے نکلتے ہيں جہاں ميں 
ديکھو جسے دنيا ميں خوشامد کا ہے بندا 
يہ سوچ کے مکھي سے کہا اس نے بڑي بي ! 
اللہ نے بخشا ہے بڑا آپ کو رتبا 
ہوتي ہے اسے آپ کي صورت سے محبت 
ہو جس نے کبھي ايک نظر آپ کو ديکھا 
آنکھيں ہيں کہ ہيرے کي چمکتي ہوئي کنياں 
سر آپ کا اللہ نے کلغي سے سجايا 
يہ حسن ، يہ پوشاک ، يہ خوبي ، يہ صفائي 
پھر اس پہ قيامت ہے يہ اڑتے ہوئے گانا 
مکھي نے سني جب يہ خوشامد تو پسيجي 
بولي کہ نہيں آپ سے مجھ کو کوئي کھٹکا 
انکار کي عادت کو سمجھتي ہوں برا ميں 
سچ يہ ہے کہ دل توڑنا اچھا نہيں ہوتا 
يہ بات کہي اور اڑي اپني جگہ سے 
پاس آئي تو مکڑے نے اچھل کر اسے پکڑا 
بھوکا تھا کئي روز سے اب ہاتھ جو آئي 
آرام سے گھر بيٹھ کے مکھي کو اڑايا 

Now, very losely translated:

Translation
One day a spider said to a fly
"Though you pass this way daily

My hut has never been honored by you
By making a chance visit it inside

Though depriving strangers of a visit does not matter
Evading the near and dear ones does not look good

My house will be honored by a visit by you
A ladder is before you if you decide to step in 

Hearing this the fly said to the spider,
"Sir, you should entice some simpleton thus 

This fly would never be pulled into your net
Whoever climbed your net could never step down"

The spider said, "How strange, you consider me a cheat
I have never seen a simpleton like you in the world

I only wanted to entertain you
I had no personal gain in view

You have come flying from some unknown distant place 
Resting for a while in my house would not harm you

Many things in this house are worth your seeing
Though apparently a humble hut you are seeing

Dainty drapes are hanging from the doors 
And I have decorated the walls with mirrors

Beddings are available for guests comforts
Not to everyones lot do fall these comforts".

The fly said, "All this may very well be
But do not expect me to enter your house

"May God protect me from these soft beds
Once asleep in them getting up again is impossible"


The spider spoke to itself on hearing this talk
"How to trap it? This wretched fellow is clever

Many desires are fulfilled with flattery in the world
All in the world are enslaved with flattery"

Thinking this the spider spoke to the fly thus! 
"Madam, God has bestowed great honors on you!

Everyone loves your beautiful face
Even if someone sees you for the first time

Your eyes look like clusters of glittering diamonds
God has adorned your beautiful head with a plume

This beauty, this dress, this elegance, this neatness! 
And all this is very much enhanced by singing in flight".

The fly was touched by this flattery
And spoke, "I do not fear you any more

I hate the habit of declining requests
Disappointing somebody is bad indeed"

Saying this it flew from its place
When it got close the spider snapped it

The spider had been starving for many days 
The fly provided a good leisurely meal

----------


## Scheherazade

*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

----------


## Scheherazade

> *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.


I have never been to an apple gathering but to me, this poem expresses a deep longing, a regret for missed opportunities and very sad. Its melancholic tone keeps echoing all the way through... and in my head.

----------


## ghideon

Lawrence's poem is not great but it is blunt and still works decently in it's aesthetics'. It reminds me of the classic French film The Discreet Charms Of The Bouregoise. Anyone seen it?

----------


## OZEED

I really love this one by Poe. I try and read it at the very least once a week.
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 


Take this kiss upon the brow! 
And, in parting from you now, 
Thus much let me avow- 
You are not wrong, who deem 
That my days have been a dream; 
Yet if hope has flown away 
In a night, or in a day, 
In a vision, or in none, 
Is it therefore the less gone? 
All that we see or seem 
Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar 
Of a surf-tormented shore, 
And I hold within my hand 
Grains of the golden sand- 
How few! yet how they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep, 
While I weep- while I weep! 
O God! can I not grasp 
Them with a tighter clasp? 
O God! can I not save 
One from the pitiless wave? 
Is all that we see or seem 
But a dream within a dream? 

by Edgar Allan Poe 

My favorite lines are...

I stand amid the roar 
Of a surf-tormented shore, 
And I hold within my hand 
Grains of the golden sand- 
How few! yet how they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep,

----------


## Scheherazade

*The Ballad of East and West*

_OH, EAST is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at Gods great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho they come from the ends of the earth!_ 

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonels mare that is the Colonels pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonels son that led a troop of the Guides:
Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazaiat dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamals men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.
The Colonels son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonels son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
Hes up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his fathers mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his fathers mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
Ye shoot like a soldier, Kamal said. Show now if ye can ride.
Its up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-coursein a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his handsmall room was there to strive,
Twas only by favour of mine, quoth he, ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.
Lightly answered the Colonels son: Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackals meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair,thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my fathers mare again, and Ill fight my own way back!
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
No talk shall be of dogs, said he, when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?
Lightly answered the Colonels son: I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my fathers giftby God, she has carried a man!
The red mare ran to the Colonels son, and nuzzled against his breast;
We be two strong men, said Kamal then, but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifters dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.
The Colonels son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
Ye have taken the one from a foe, said he; will ye take the mate from a friend?
A gift for a gift, said Kamal straight; a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, Ill send my son to him!
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
Now here is thy master, Kamal said, who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is histhy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queens meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy fathers hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur. 

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonels son he rides the mare and Kamals boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
Ha done! ha done! said the Colonels son. Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thiefto-night Tis a man of the Guides! 

_Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at Gods great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho they come from the ends of the earth!_ 

Rudyard Kipling

----------


## Whifflingpin

The Arsenal at Springfield


This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

----------


## bluevictim

> The Arsenal at Springfield
> ...


What a powerful poem.



> Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
> With such accursed instruments as these,
> Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
> And jarrest the celestial harmonies?


I can't help recalling the similes that Homer uses comparing war with nature. Quite a reversal.




> The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!


Again, in direct opposition to classical heroic ethics.

----------


## macg1

Friday, January 19th.

I know that there is an hour and half left before I can post this, but I'll be
asleep by then, and won't get to post one all through Friday. The poem of thes week this week happens to fall on my b-day. I decided to share a poem
that has always been clear as crystal in my memory; because of the way it
was written.

I knew that it was written with a lot of heart and mind; and it tells a story in
poem form:

The Talking Leaves
- Written by John R. Cash

Sequoia's winters were sixteen
Silent tongue spirit clean
He walked at his father's side
Across the smoking battleground 
Where red and white men lay all around
So many here had died

The wind had scattered around 
Snow-white leaves upon the ground
Not leaves like leaves from trees
Sequoia said "What can this be? 
What's this strange thing here I see?
From where come leaves like these?"

Sequoia turned to his father's eyes, 
And he said: "Father you are wise,
From where come such snow-white leaves?
With such strange marks upon these squares 
Not even the wise owl could put them there.
So strange these snow-white leaves."

His father shielding his concern 
Resenting the knowledge Sequoia yearned
Crumbled the snow-white leaves
He said "When I explain then it's done. 
These are talking leaves my son;
The white man's talking leaves.

"The white man takes a berry of black and red 
And an eagle's feather from the eaglett's bed
And he makes bird track marks
And the marks on the leaves they say 
Carry messages to his brother far away
And his brother knows what's in his heart.

"They see these marks and they understand 
The truth and the heart of the far-off man.
The enemies can't hear them."
Said Sequoia's father "Son they weave bad medicine on these talking leaves.
Leave such things to them."

Then Sequoia walking lightly 
Followed his father quietly
But so amazed was he
If the white man talks on leaves 
Why not the Cherokee

Banished from his father's face 
Sequoia went from place to place
But he could not forget
Year after year he worked on and on
Til finally he cut into stone 
The Cherokee alphabet

Sequoia's hair by know was white 
His eyes begin to lose their light
But he taught all who would believe
That the Indian's thoughts could be written down 
Just as the white man's there on the ground
And he left us these talking leaves 

This is a poem (not a song), which Johnny Cash wrote and recited 
on his 1964 album:
"Bitter Tears: Ballads Of The American Indian."
(Fact about the author: Johnny Cash was partly of Cherokee ancestry.)

----------


## Jean-Baptiste

I know I'm a day late, but I forgot to do this yesterday.




> LIGHTHEARTED WILLIAM
> 
> Lighthearted William twirled
> his November moustaches
> and, half dressed, looked
> from the bedroom window
> upon the spring weather.
> 
> Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily
> ...


Isn't that great stuff? Who else can you depend upon to write a poem like that? I've been laughing to myself about it for weeks. I love the idea of WCW gaily sighing Heigh-ya!  :FRlol:  He's very good at conveying the intensely personal moment. What do you think?

----------


## ktd222

I forgot all about this thread. We should definitely try to revive it.

----------


## Jean-Baptiste

> I know I'm a day late, but I forgot to do this yesterday.
> 
> 
> 
> Isn't that great stuff? Who else can you depend upon to write a poem like that? I've been laughing to myself about it for weeks. I love the idea of WCW gaily sighing Heigh-ya!  He's very good at conveying the intensely personal moment. What do you think?


Ta-daaa! Revived!  :FRlol:

----------


## blp

I've done some research and, rather to my surprise, the term 'Heigh-ya' occurs in no less than 546 poems from the 18th C on, including Blake's 'To a Snail', Keats' 'In a Deathless Corridor', Baudelaire's 'The Shaded Promenade', Rimbaud's 'Dank Scoundrel Song', Yeats' 'Returning from Samothrace', Eliot's 'Snapshot in the Chapel' and the Morrissey song 'Nothing Will Drag me away from this Place'. 

No, alright, I'm lying.

----------


## Jean-Baptiste

> I've done some research and, rather to my surprise, the term 'Heigh-ya' occurs in no less than 546 poems from the 18th C on, including Blake's 'To a Snail', Keats' 'In a Deathless Corridor', Baudelaire's 'The Shaded Promenade', Rimbaud's 'Dank Scoundrel Song', Yeats' 'Returning from Samothrace', Eliot's 'Snapshot in the Chapel' and the Morrissey song 'Nothing Will Drag me away from this Place'. 
> 
> No, alright, I'm lying.


 :FRlol:  I knew I recognized that sigh from somewhere.  :FRlol:  I suppose too, he was harkening back to Pope's green moustaches alluded to in "The Rape of the Lock," eh?

----------


## Jennylc

I love this. It's smooth to read, it's funny, it's true! His fungus metaphor is especially apt. I've read worse anti-bourgois poems!

----------


## Il Penseroso

Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni

Percy Shelley

I
The everlasting universe of things 
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom--
Now lending splendour, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters--with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume,
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
II

Thus thou, Ravine of Arve--dark, deep Ravine--
Thou many-colour'd, many-voiced vale,
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail
Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,
Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame
Of lightning through the tempest;--thou dost lie,
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and ever came
To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging
To hear--an old and solemn harmony;
Thine earthly rainbows stretch'd across the sweep
Of the aethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptur'd image; the strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity;
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion,
A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound--
Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind, which passively
Now renders and receives fast influencings,
Holding an unremitting interchange
With the clear universe of things around;
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,
In the still cave of the witch Poesy,
Seeking among the shadows that pass by
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,
Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast
From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!
III

Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live.--I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears--still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone,
And the wolf tracks her there--how hideously
Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven.--Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply--all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
IV

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell
Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain,
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane,
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep
Holds every future leaf and flower; the bound
With which from that detested trance they leap;
The works and ways of man, their death and birth,
And that of him and all that his may be;
All things that move and breathe with toil and sound
Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell.
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this, the naked countenance of earth,
On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,
Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing
Its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil
Branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves
Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves,
Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.
V


Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:--the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds, and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods
Over the snow. The secret Strength of things
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,
If to the human mind's imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?

----------


## Il Penseroso

Any takers for an analysis?

----------


## blp

> Any takers for an analysis?


You kidder!

Well, OK then. I think the key lines are: 

Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.

You imagine Shelley might have felt the same about poetry, which makes this a quintessential romantic statement. The contemplation of nature instills truth. Even, humankind is nature and the same currents of truth run through both.

----------


## brucehopson2000

I must say I haven't studied much of Lawrence's poem as I have short stories and such, but this is a bad poem. It has no flow and is inconsistent.

----------


## quasimodo1

Adopt a Poet | Add to Notebook | E-mail to Friend | Print 
The Snowfall Is So Silent 
by Miguel de Unamuno 
Translated by Robert Bly 


The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless; 
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls, 
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off 
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness 
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.

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## quasimodo1

On a Proposed Trip South

THEY tell me on the morrow I must leave 
This winter eyrie for a southern flight 
And truth to tell I tremble with delight 
At thought of such unheralded reprieve.

E'er have I known December in a weave 
Of blanched crystal, when, thrice one short night 
Packed full with magic, and O blissful sight! 
N'er May so warmly doth for April grieve.

To in a breath's space wish the winter through 
And lo, to see it fading! Where, oh, where 
Is caract could endow this princely boon?

Yet I have found it and shall shortly view 
The lush high grasses, shortly see in air 
Gay birds and hear the bees make heavy droon. 

William Carlos Williams
Medical Doctor turned poet circa1909,East Rutherford, NJ

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## AuntShecky

When the rule states posting only one poem a week on 
Fridays, do you mean a favorite poem by an established poet, or do you mean our little original ditties?
Is there a separate thread for original poems? If so, what is it?
I like Literature Network Forum very much but today I had to log in four times before I could post a reply.
And how does one start a "thread?"
Please send me an email.
Thanks.

----------


## blp

> Friday, January 19th.
> 
> I know that there is an hour and half left before I can post this, but I'll be
> asleep by then, and won't get to post one all through Friday. The poem of thes week this week happens to fall on my b-day. I decided to share a poem
> that has always been clear as crystal in my memory; because of the way it
> was written.
> 
> I knew that it was written with a lot of heart and mind; and it tells a story in
> poem form:
> ...


Coincidentally, my neighbour is playing Johnny Cash right now.

----------


## genoveva

Okay, it's Friday, and it seems like this thread needs to be revived. I'm in an Opal Whiteley kind of mood:

*The Clan Of The Lichens*

We will be gray
For the dumbness of old things,
And we will be
Without form that can be measured
As are old longings.
And we will be like petals
As are new yearnings.
And we will be
Gray with a little green
As are old hopes
That live on with a fore-seeing
And a dream.

And we will cling
That no wind may part us 
As old friends.

We will be a symbol 
Of things grown old
And the beauty that yet is
When youth glory sleeps.

_-Opal Whiteley
_

----------


## quasimodo1

Sojourns in the Parallel World 
by Denise Levertov 


We live our lives of human passions,
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension--though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal--then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we've been, when we're caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
--but we have changed, a little.

----------


## quasimodo1

(I'm A Fool To Love You by Cornelius Eady)
Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don't want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That's how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it's the only leverage
You've got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man's kisses
A healing.

----------


## quasimodo1

"Bards of Passion and of Mirth, written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn'" by JOHN KEATS
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Doubled-lived in regions new? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rous; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth; 
Philosophic numbers smooth; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; 
Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new!

----------


## quasimodo1

THE SURFACE
It has a hole in it. Not only where I

concentrate.

The river still ribboning, twisting up, 

into its re-

arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

quickenings

and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving

the messengers--

the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

glassy

forgettings under the river of

my attention--

and the river of my attention laying itself down--

bending,

reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy

obstacles--

and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

permanences

of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried. 

{Jorie Graham does not fall into any neat category; educated at the Sorbonne, lived in France, went on to other universities, won the Pulitzer, influenced by Milton, Wallace Stevens, T.S.Eliot and others}

----------


## quasimodo1

CONSOLATION

MIST clogs the sunshine. 
Smoky dwarf houses 
Hem me round everywhere; 
A vague dejection 
Weighs down my soul. 

Yet, while I languish, 
Everywhere countless 
Prospects unroll themselves, 
And countless beings 
Pass countless moods. 

Far hence, in Asia, 
On the smooth convent-roofs, 
On the gilt terraces, 
Of holy Lassa, 
Bright shines the sun. 

Grey time-worn marbles 
Hold the pure Muses; 
In their cool gallery, 
By yellow Tiber, 
They still look fair. 

Strange unloved uproar 
Shrills round their portal; 
Yet not on Helicon 
Kept they more cloudless 
Their noble calm. 

Through sun-proof alleys 
In a lone, sand-hemm'd 
City of Africa, 
A blind, led beggar, 
Age-bow'd, asks alms. 

No bolder robber 
Erst abode ambush'd 
Deep in the sandy waste; 
No clearer eyesight 
Spied prey afar. 

Saharan sand-winds 
Sear'd his keen eyeballs; 
Spent is the spoil he won. 
For him the present 
Holds only pain. 

Two young, fair lovers, 
Where the warm June-wind, 
Fresh from the summer fields 
Plays fondly round them, 
Stand, tranced in joy. 

With sweet, join'd voices, 
And with eyes brimming: 
"Ah," they cry, "Destiny, 
Prolong the present! 
Time, stand still here!" 

The prompt stern Goddess 
Shakes her head, frowning; 
Time gives his hour-glass 
Its due reversal; 
Their hour is gone. 

With weak indulgence 
Did the just Goddess 
Lengthen their happiness, 
She lengthen'd also 
Distress elsewhere. 

The hour, whose happy 
Unalloy'd moments 
I would eternalise, 
Ten thousand mourners 
Well pleased see end. 

The bleak, stern hour, 
Whose severe moments 
I would annihilate, 
Is pass'd by others 
In warmth, light, joy. 

Time, so complain'd of, 
Who to no one man 
Shows partiality, 
Brings round to all men 
Some undimm'd hours. 

Matthew Arnold

----------


## quasimodo1

EARLIEST SPRING
TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, 
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, 
Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and 
angles 
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. 

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow 
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift 
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, 
Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift. 

Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire 
(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes-- 
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect--as if in the brier, 
Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose. 
.................................................. ........by William Dean Howells

----------


## Virgil

Not sure if today is the start of the new poem of the week, but here is one:




> *Journey Into The Interior* 
> by Theodore Roethke
> 
> In the long journey out of the self,
> There are many detours, washed-out interrupted raw places
> Where the shale slides dangerously
> And the back wheels hang almost over the edge
> At the sudden veering, the moment of turning.
> Better to hug close, wary of rubble and falling stones.
> ...

----------


## Petrarch's Love

Haven't looked at this thread in dragon's years. Looks like Quasi's been holding down the fort solo up until now. Maybe we can get some discussion going again with this one Virg. has just posted. 

Roethke isn't a poet I know very well, but he certainly wrote some interesting stuff from what little I've seen of it. One thing that struck me about this poem is the way he devotes the first line to stating that he is talking about a journey "out of the self" and then spends the rest of the poem developing this lush natural imagery. There are a lot of poems that describe something, like the path in this poem, and then reveal at the end that it is a metaphor for the self. There are also a lot of poems that would continue to refer to the self throughout the poem and clearly show how the metaphor and the subject of the metaphor correlate at each point. Roethke only refers to the subject of his metaphor at the beginning and, especially because his imagery is so vivid and detailed, the reader could almost forget that this poem is a metaphor and not just the description of an actual road. It's almost as though there's a metamorphosis from the metaphorical into the real, and the "self" no longer exists as strongly as the images describing it. You get to those ugly ravines at the end and then you think back and realise that this has something to do with a journey out of the self, and suddenly there's the question, why is this journey ending in such a bleak landscape? The way this poem is written makes it the kind that compels you to go back and look at it again to answer such questions. 

Incidently, my first thought after reading this was that it reminded me of a self portrait by Ansel Adams that I used for the picture poetry contest thread awhile back (Virg. may remember this image since I think he won that round). I think the photograph somehow mirrors the conceit of self as landscape that runs through the poem as well. I've pasted the image below:

----------


## quasimodo1

EROS TURANNOS



She fears him, and will always ask 
What fated her to choose him; 
She meets in his engaging mask 
All reasons to refuse him; 
But what she meets and what she fears 
Are less than are the downward years, 
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs 
Of age, were she to lose him. 


Between a blurred sagacity 
That once had power to sound him, 
And Love, that will not let him be 
The seeker that she found him, 
Her pride assuages her, almost, 
As if it were alone the cost. 
He sees that he will not be lost, 
And waits, and looks around him. 


A sense of ocean and old trees 
Envelops and allures him; 
Tradition, touching all he sees 
Beguiles and reassures him; 
And all her doubts of what he says 
Are dimmed with what she knows of days, 
Till even prejudice delays, 
And fadesand she secures him. 


The falling leaf inaugurates 
The reign of her confusion; 
The pounding wave reverberates 
The crash of her illusion; 
And home, where passion lived and died, 
Becomes a place where she can hide, 
While all the town and harbor side 
Vibrate with her seclusion. 



{excerpt from this poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson, who has been referred to as the poet laureate of unhappiness}

----------


## quasimodo1

from "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower" 
................................................. 


Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
We lived long together
a life filled,
if you will,
with flowers. So that 
I was cheered
when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
that we both loved,
even to this poor
colorless thing-
I saw it
when I was a child-
little prized among the living
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
What do I remember
that was shaped
as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
with tears.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible.
There is something
something urgent
I have to say to you
and you alone
but it must wait
while I drink in
the joy of your approach,
perhaps for the last time.
And so
with fear in my heart
I drag it out
and keep on talking
for I dare not stop.


{excerpt from this poem by William Carlos Williams}

----------


## symphony

*The Poet’s Death*

He lay. His high-propped face could only peer
in pale rejection at the silent cover,
now that the world and all this knowledge of her,
torn from the senses of her lover,
had fallen back to the unfeeling year.

Those who had seen him living saw no trace
of his deep unity with all that passes;
for these, these valleys here, these meadow-grasses,
these streams of running water, were his face.

Oh yes, his face was this remotest distance,
that seeks him still and woos him in despair;
and his mere mask, timidly dying there,
tender and open, has no more consistence
than broken fruit corrupting in the air.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

----------


## Virgil

Very nice Symphony. "broken fruit corrupting the air" -outstanding!

----------


## symphony

Too bad i couldnt find the name of the translator.

----------


## Beverly S

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

----------


## quasimodo1

The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill
by: Robert W. Service 

I took a contract to bury the body
Of blasphemous Bill MacKie,
Whenever, wherever or whatsoever
The manner of death he die --
Whether he die in the light o' day
Or under the peak-faced moon;
In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive,
Mucklucks or patent shoon;
On velvet tundra or virgin peak,
By glacier, drift or draw;
In muskeg hollow or canyon gloom,
By avalanche, fang or claw;
By battle, murder or sudden wealth,
By pestilence, hooch or lead --
I swore on the Book I would follow and look
Till I found my tombless dead.

For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss,
And his mind was mighty sot
On a dinky patch with flowers and grass
In a civilized bone-yard lot.
And where he died or how he died,
It didn't matter a damn
So long as he had a grave with frills
And a tombstone "epigram".
So I promised him, and he paid the price
In good cheechako coin
(Which the same I blowed in that very night
Down in the Tenderloin).
Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine:
"Here lies poor Bill MacKie",
And I hung it up on my cabin wall
And I waited for Bill to die.

Years passed away, and at last one day
Came a squaw with a story strange,
Of a long-deserted line of traps
'Way back of the Bighorn range;
Of a little hut by the great divide,
And a white man stiff and still,
Lying there by his lonesome self,
And I figured it must be Bill.
So I thought of the contract I'd made with him,
And I took down from the shelf
The swell black box with the silver plate
He'd picked out for hisself;
And I packed it full of grub and "hooch",
And I slung it on the sleigh;
Then I harnessed up my team of dogs
And was off at dawn of day.

You know what it's like in the Yukon wild
When it's sixty-nine below;
When the ice-worms wriggle their purple heads
Through the crust of the pale blue snow;
When the pine-trees crack like little guns
In the silence of the wood,
And the icicles hang down like tusks
Under the parka hood;
When the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off,
And the sky is weirdly lit,
And the careless feel of a bit of steel
Burns like a red-hot spit;
When the mercury is a frozen ball,
And the frost-fiend stalks to kill --
Well, it was just like that that day when I
Set out to look for Bill.

Oh, the awful hush that seemed to crush
Me down on every hand,
As I blundered blind with a trail to find
Through that blank and bitter land;
Half dazed, half crazed in the winter wild,
With its grim heart-breaking woes,
And the ruthless strife for a grip on life
That only the sourdough knows!
North by the compass, North I pressed;
River and peak and plain
Passed like a dream I slept to lose
And I waked to dream again.

River and plain and mighty peak --
And who could stand unawed?
As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed
At the foot of the throne of God.
North, aye, North, through a land accurst,
Shunned by the scouring brutes,
And all I heard was my own harsh word
And the whine of the malamutes,
Till at last I came to a cabin squat,
Built in the side of a hill,
And I burst in the door, and there on the floor,
Frozen to death, lay Bill.

Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet,
Sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;
Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed,
Ice gleaming over all;
Sparkling ice on the dead man's chest,
Glittering ice in his hair,
Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart,
Ice in his glassy stare;
Hard as a log and trussed like a frog,
With his arms and legs outspread.
I gazed at the coffin I'd brought for him,
And I gazed at the gruesome dead,
And at last I spoke: "Bill liked his joke;
But still, goldarn his eyes,
A man had ought to consider his mates
In the way he goes and dies."

Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut
In the shadow of the Pole,
With a little coffin six by three
And a grief you can't control?
Have you ever sat by a frozen corpse
That looks at you with a grin,
And that seems to say: "You may try all day,
But you'll never jam me in"?
I'm not a man of the quitting kind,
But I never felt so blue
As I sat there gazing at that stiff
And studying what I'd do.
Then I rose and I kicked off the husky dogs
That were nosing round about,
And I lit a roaring fire in the stove,
And I started to thaw Bill out.

Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days,
But it didn't seem no good;
His arms and legs stuck out like pegs,
As if they was made of wood.
Till at last I said: "It ain't no use --
He's froze too hard to thaw;
He's obstinate, and he won't lie straight,
So I guess I got to -- saw."
So I sawed off poor Bill's arms and legs,
And I laid him snug and straight
In the little coffin he picked hisself,
With the dinky silver plate;
And I came nigh near to shedding a tear
As I nailed him safely down;
Then I stowed him away in my Yukon sleigh,
And I started back to town.

So I buried him as the contract was
In a narrow grave and deep,
And there he's waiting the Great Clean-up,
When the Judgment sluice-heads sweep;
And I smoke my pipe and I meditate
In the light of the Midnight Sun,
And sometimes I wonder if they was,
The awful things I done.
And as I sit and the parson talks,
Expounding of the Law,
I often think of poor old Bill --
And how hard he was to saw.

by Robert W. Service

----------


## Beverly S

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the fears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow -
There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day!
From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way -
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

----------


## quasimodo1

BOAZ ASLEEP
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight 
made his pallet on the threshing floor 
where all day he had worked, and now he slept 
among the bushels of threshed wheat.

The old man owned wheatfields and barley, 
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded. 
No filth soured the sweetness of his well. 
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.

His beard was silver as a brook in April. 
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate 
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said, 
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.

The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling, 
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes. 
His heaped granaries spilled over always 
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.

Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen. 
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him 
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome, 
but to him in his old age came greatness.

An old man, nearing his first source, may find 
the timelessness beyond times of trouble. 
And though fire burned in young men's eyes, 
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light. 
By Victor Hugo

----------


## Beverly S

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

----------


## Beverly S

"Hope" is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops-at all-

And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird-
That kept so many warm-

I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of Me.

----------


## iyad79

:Smile:  hello

----------


## quasimodo1

Ode to Psyche

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: 
Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied: 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 
The wingèd boy I knew; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
His Psyche true! 


O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 
Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

O brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire; 
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming: 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, 
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,  
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 
To let the warm Love in! 





- By: John Keats

----------


## mukta581

For You Are The One

For you I would climb
The highest mountain peak
Swim the deepest ocean
Your love I do seek.

For you I would cross
The rivers most wide
Walk the hottest desert sand
To have you by my side.

For you are the one
Who makes me whole
You've captured my heart
And touched my soul.

For you are the one
That stepped out of my dreams
Gave me new hope
Showed me what love means.

For you alone
Are my reason to live
For the compassion you show
And the care that you give.

You came into my life
And made me complete
Each time I see you
My heart skips a beat.

For you define beauty
In both body and mind
Your soft, gentle face
More beauty I'll ne'er find.

For you are the one
God sent from above
The angel I needed
For whom I do love.

----------


## quasimodo1

Another Firefly


In a turning instant, my head
Catches light of a leaping star
Over my left shoulder in a 
Green region of space darkened,
Into distance beyond distance, 
A cold, green star, not rising like
Sons and empires, slow as breath, 
In the way of stars, but as no
Darkened water could have mirrored
The partly glimpsed meteor in
Surging reversal of falling --- {excerpt from this poem}

----------


## quasimodo1

PD: One of my favorite sonnets from Powers of Thirteen is number 97, "The Old Tale":

"No sun shone for so long during that long summer that 
Candles everywhere in the land burned with a gray flame. 
Gold had become dull, and lead like tar, and the demesne
Of sunny meadows shivered under a foreign reign;
Master craftsman downed their tools halfway through every piece
Of work, not for enjoyments, but to start on the next
Slightly inferior one; the standard musical
Pitch wandered through a major second from town to town, 
And as for numbers, weights and measures – But then you came
Surveyed the hopeless scene, and, yawning, closed the Big Book
In which all this had been written, shelved it heavily,
And wrote a laughing letter to the whole afternoon
Of great enterprise and beauty (yesterday, this was)."

----------


## quasimodo1

Fleming Helphenstine


At first I thought there was a superfine 
Persuasion in his face; but the free glow 
That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!" 
Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. 
He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, 
But be that as it may;--I only know 
He talked of this and that and So-and-so, 
And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. 

But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, 
And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed 
In a strained way that made us cringe and wince: 
Then, with a wordless clogged apology 
That sounded half confused and half amazed, 
He dodged,--and I have never seen him since.

----------


## Urizen

*What the 
Ancients Taught**

In the end! 
The world awaken,
Traditions of the past
Forever forsaken.
Man infest the world,
Man see the light,
Man banished 
In a single night.
The Earth's natural cycle
Unfold the mind;
Obtained ability:
Of space,
Of time.
The soul carrying beyond,
The reverberation
Of the poetic ryhme
To live on;
In a physical blight
Man doth fall
But out of the darkness
Come light to ye all.*

----------


## AuntShecky

This is a "pattern" poem in which the lines on the page take the shape of the poem's subject. Try this site, tilt your head sideways, and look.

Easter Wings
by George Herbert
(1593-1633)

Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:

With Thee
O let me rise,
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day Thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne;
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.

With Thee
Let me combine,
And feel this day Thy victorie;
For, if I imp my wing on Thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

----------


## Kafka's Crow

From TS Eliot's East Coker (second of the _Four Quartets_)

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That quesions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind us of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

*The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.*

----------


## quasimodo1

SUMMER
Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men! 
{by Amy Lowell}

----------


## AuntShecky

A Shropshire Lad II "Loveliest of Trees"

by A.E. Housman

(1839-1936)


A. E. Housman


Loveliest of trees, the cherry now 
Is hung with bloom along the bough, 
And stands about the woodland ride 
Wearing white for Eastertide. 


Now, of my threescore years and ten, 
Twenty will not come again, 
And take from seventy springs a score, 
It only leaves me fifty more. 


And since to look at things in bloom 
Fifty springs are little room, 
About the woodlands I will go 
To see the cherry hung with snow.

----------


## Virgil

> A Shropshire Lad II "Loveliest of Trees"
> 
> by A.E. Housman
> 
> (1839-1936)
> 
> 
> A. E. Housman
> 
> ...


Lovely choice Auntie. Yes, twenty will not come again.  :Frown:  Ah to be young again.

----------


## quasimodo1

The Progress of Poetry


The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble, 
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble; 
Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still, 
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill: 
And hardly waddles forth, to cool 
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool: 
Nor loudly cackles at the Door; 
For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze, 
And round the barren Common strays, 
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare 
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare: 
Her Body light, she tries her Wings, 
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs, 
While all the Parish, as she flies, 
Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.

Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay, 
(The third Night's Profits of his Play :Wink:  
His Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill, 
Among his Brethren of the Quill: 
With good Roast Beef his Belly full, 
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull: 
Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight, 
What Poet e'er could take his Flight? 
Or stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat, 
What Poet e'er could sing a Note? 
Nor Pegasus could bear the Load, 
Along the high celestial Road; 
The Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth, 
To raise the Lumber from the Earth.

But, view him in another Scene, 
When all his Drink is Hippocrene, 
His Money spent, his Patrons fail, 
His Credit out for Cheese and Ale; 
His Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare, 
Through ev'ry Thread it lets in Air; 
With hungry Meals his Body pin'd, 
His Guts and Belly full of Wind; 
And, like a Jockey for a Race, 
His Flesh brought down to Flying-Case: 
Now his exalted Spirit loaths 
Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths; 
And up he rises like a Vapour, 
Supported high on Wings of Paper; 
He singing flies, and flying sings, 
While from below all Grub-street rings. 

Jonathan Swift

----------


## quasimodo1

BOAZ ASLEEP
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight 
made his pallet on the threshing floor 
where all day he had worked, and now he slept 
among the bushels of threshed wheat.

The old man owned wheatfields and barley, 
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded. 
No filth soured the sweetness of his well. 
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.

His beard was silver as a brook in April. 
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate 
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said, 
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.

The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling, 
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes. 
His heaped granaries spilled over always 
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.

Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen. 
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him 
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome, 
but to him in his old age came greatness.

An old man, nearing his first source, may find 
the timelessness beyond times of trouble. 
And though fire burned in young men's eyes, 
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.

----------


## alakungfu

The Clod and the Pebble

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives at ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble at the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seetheth only itself to please,
To bind abother to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

-- by William Blake

----------


## alakungfu

The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping fold and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires of dreams and powers
And everything by sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from ear or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labout,
Weak winds and spirits steer;
They drive adrift and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale buds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a seed belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep with pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands:
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs , and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear ser free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things dismal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

--Algernon Charles Swinburne

----------


## alakungfu

The World is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
WE have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be bouncing at all hours,
And are un-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of turn;
It moves us not -- Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

-- by William Wordsworth

----------


## alakungfu

Morte D’Arthur

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fall’n in Lyonesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his would was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knight,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere;
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep -- the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time;
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the garden and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made--
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule one more -- but let what will be ,be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou remembers how
In those old days, one summer moon, an arm
Rose out from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding trhe sword -- and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And whosesoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur;
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what though seest, and lightly bring me word.”
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm
A little thing may harm a wonderful man.
Yet I thy best will all perform at full
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”
So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Here lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
The drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
An sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d
Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d
There in the many knotted vatwrflags,
That whistled stiff and dry above the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag.”
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knieght:
For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud.
“And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good shall follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Someone might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps,
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.’
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour, and much fame were lost.”
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hai Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily
“What is it thou hast seen? Or what hast heard?”
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the water lapping on the ctag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow’d of the power in his eye
That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes,
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,
And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere
And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
“Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look’d again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
“My end draws nigh; ‘tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.
But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Cloth’d with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves
And barren charms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels --
And on a sudden, lo! The level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stern to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the deck were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream -- by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold -- and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d in the tingling stars
And as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or, hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge.”
And to the barge they came. There those three queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,,
And loos’d the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither’d moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east:
And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls --
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne -- were parch’d with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, lance in rest
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Ah! My lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight,
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh,
And now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
And slowly answered Arthur from the batge:
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills Himself in many ways.,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure: but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul.. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for one night and day,
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest -- if indeed I go --
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avalon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where will I heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn
And on the mere the wailing died away.




-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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## Wilde woman

Yes, one of my favorites! I'm always awestruck by the image of the jewelled Excalibur whirling in the air above the Lake. And this passage always gets me...




> Ah! My lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
> Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
> For now I see the true old times are dead,
> When every morning brought a noble chance,
> And every chance brought out a noble knight,
> Such times have been not since the light that led
> The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh,
> And now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
> Which was an image of the mighty world;
> ...


What a wonderful lament! This passage always makes me doubt whether Arthur will ever come back from Avalon, though I hope he will and fulfill Merlin's prophecy.

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