Yeats Reading Group

[downing]

THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER


I HEARD the old, old men say,
“Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away.”
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
“All that’s beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.”

I'd like to start a thread in which we would discuss Yeat's poems. I decided to start with this poem. I am not used to his poems, this is one among the first that I have ever read, but I was stroke by the beauty of his poems. What do you believe? Post other poems, comment,do whatever you wish. :) Who'd wish to participate in this reading group?

[downing]

When you are old


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

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

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

[Virgil]

Oh Downing. I love Yeats's poems. I will drop in occaisionally, but I'm overwhelmed with all the groups I'm currently participating in.

[downing]

Sure Virg. It will be a pleasure to see you in the thread :)

[Janine]

Nice thread, Downing, I can't wait to discover more of Yeats poems. I am only a little familiar with his work. I like the two very much that you have posted. Like Virgil, I am overwhelmed too, but will try to participate or at least drop in, from time to time, to see what has been posted. Thanks for starting this thread!

[Quark]

When you are old


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

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

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

Yes, this is a great poem. It has all that tension between the ideal and the circumstantial. The first lovers that the poem mentions adore for the person's current beauty while the last lover is attracted to the looks which change but still remain beautiful. This love is further idealized when it's pictured with its "face amid a crowd of stars". This poem seems favor the second admirer, but others of Yeats' poems suggest that the current reality is better than the ideal. For example, "A Dialogue of Self and Soul" gives the self more importance over the soul. The self argues intensely for the immediate, temporal world over the immortal and imagined one. The soul offers boring platitudes to counter the self, but the self ultimately prevails. Yeats even awards the self the final half of the poem. However conclusive a victory this may appear, it seems like Yeats preferred the opposite in this poem. Maybe, if there is a switch here between the two poems, we might see some tension in poems found between the two. I don't know. It's just entertaining--that's all

[aeroport]

I actually became really interested and bought his 'Collected Poems' (ed. Richard Pennerin) last spring when we were studying some of his poetry and drama in Irish Lit, but I've hardly read a single thing from it since! :( I think I'll participate. :thumbs_up
We naturally did "Easter 1916", which I found awesome for its ambiguities (and which I've discussed somewhere else on the Forum, the location of which eludes me), and a few others. I'll be reading some more now, and will drop by sometimes to comment.

[downing]

Yes, this is a great poem. It has all that tension between the ideal and the circumstantial. The first lovers that the poem mentions adore for the person's current beauty while the last lover is attracted to the looks which change but still remain beautiful. This love is further idealized when it's pictured with its "face amid a crowd of stars". This poem seems favor the second admirer, but others of Yeats' poems suggest that the current reality is better than the ideal. For example, "A Dialogue of Self and Soul" gives the self more importance over the soul. The self argues intensely for the immediate, temporal world over the immortal and imagined one. The soul offers boring platitudes to counter the self, but the self ultimately prevails. Yeats even awards the self the final half of the poem. However conclusive a victory this may appear, it seems like Yeats preferred the opposite in this poem. Maybe, if there is a switch here between the two poems, we might see some tension in poems found between the two. I don't know. It's just entertaining--that's all


Thank you Quark for commenting. You said some very interesting things. And thanks for telling us about the poem ''A Dialogue of Self and Soul''-I will read it with high interest.


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

I believe that the love which fled is the ego's love interest who passed away. The great imagery makes me see the starry celestial dome. I think that the last line refers to the popular belief that when a person dies, he becomes a star.

Of course, Jamesian, come into the thread and comment. ;) Glad to see you here!

[Niamh]

Excellent! I am a lover of Yeats poetry. I'm on for a discussion group!

[PrinceMyshkin]

To fully appreciate thisd great poem of Yeats one needs to know something of the theosophical beliefs he held, which I suggest any of you might wish to investigate:
http://www.yeatsvision.com/Theosophy.html
http://www.yeatsvision.com/Vedanta.html
http://www.wvup.edu/Academics/humanities/Oldaker/william_butler_yeats.htm


The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


You are 14?!!!!

[downing]

Great poem, Prince Myshkin! Thanks for posting it and also thank you for the sites which seem to be very useful.


You are 14?!!!!

What's the problem,Prince?:)

[Niamh]

I love the way Yeats repeats the image of a gyre in his later poems. I think it was also in "Sailing to Byzantium".

[PrinceMyshkin]

Great poem, Prince Myshkin! Thanks for posting it and also thank you for the sites which seem to be very useful.



What's the problem,Prince?:)

NO PROBLEM whatsoever, but astonished admiration! I have a grandson who is 14 and no slouch, I assure you, but I haven't encountered in him your depth of love for Yeats.

Did you know, btw, that Yeats felt a great kinship with Blake, and in the face of the general neglect that had befallen Blakes' work, Yeats and a scholar published the complete works of Blake, with the latter's illustrations, and a critical work expounding Blake's philosphical beliefs, which led to the revival of interest in Blake.

And do you know WH Auden's marvellous poem on the occasion of Yeats' death, which begins


Earth, receive an honoured guest,
WB Yeats is laid to rest

(quoting from memory.) And if I get up the nerve I might add here a trilogy I wrote in imitation of and in tribute to Yeats.

[downing]

In Memory of WB Yeats by WH Auden





I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.




III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.


Thanks, Prince Myshkin for the precious information you offered me. Very interesting things which I didn't know. :) I found the poem you were telling me about and I also found within it the verses you quoted.


And if I get up the nerve I might add here a trilogy I wrote in imitation of and in tribute to Yeats.

Please, do! That must be great and I can hardly wait to read it!


NO PROBLEM whatsoever, but astonished admiration! I have a grandson who is 14 and no slouch, I assure you, but I haven't encountered in him your depth of love for Yeats.

You made my blush,Prince. I have myself recently discovered Yeats and perhaps your grandson appreciates more other poets...who knows:)

[Il Penseroso]

This one I think is a bit underrated (tough to say for Yeats though). I never hear it talked about.

A Prayer for my Daughter
William Butler Yeats


Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggd smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

June 1919

[downing]

Great poem, Il Penseroso. Thank you so much for posting it! Welcome in the thread!

A Coat


I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

I like a lot this tiny poem. I believe it is a poetic art, but I am not sure what does it refer to. I ask those from this thread who know more about Y's biography: did he ever suffered a ''transfer'' from romanticism to modernism? I know this poem is a modern like one, quite different to those which we read till now.


I love the way Yeats repeats the image of a gyre in his later poems. I think it was also in "Sailing to Byzantium".

What does ''gyre'' mean? I looked in all kind of dictionaries, but found nothing. Could you please help me? I am not an English native so I will ask you to forgive my unknowledge at times.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Please, do! That must be great and I can hardly wait to read it![QUOTE]


THREE FOR W.B. YEATS

One

He was not the wild singer
we took him for, but a man
age and longing
drove half-mad.

The sweet black letters
of his trade
came cranky
sometimes to the page

until he learned,
with a boy's young rage,
that an old man's grief
is to be made a sage.

Two

--Someone who shifted syllables
around a page, practising
the rhymester's trade.
A simple game for a man to play.

While the world around him
traded more difficult things:
murder for love and truth
for deceit.

The world could be changed
(and remain the same)
but not by syllables
upon a page.

The worst men, in its stolid way,
the world to raging madness tames.
The best men
play the simplest games.

Three

Although he had the purest diction
he was just a man, mortal,
his voice
produced in the voice-box of the mind

or heart, trying to find
words to speak against the dark
of Ireland's trouble and the bleat
and roar of trouble in the blood,

rehearsing the common flood
that God might call on him
to speak about, or some
familiar stranger, met by the side

of the road, who would ask
of him, and of you:
What of the night? What of
the night?


J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992

[QUOTE]You made me blush,Prince. I have myself recently discovered Yeats and perhaps your grandson appreciates more other poets...who knows:)

As for blushing, I think it is an admirable quality and I would love to write a poem about it. Your remark about my grandson is thoughtful and he IS something of a poet himself! Indeed, when he was maybe 4 he turned to his wonderful 2 year old sister Lucy and spontaneously declaimed:



I love you more than a fish;
I love you more than a cornstalk;
I love you more than a willow
floating on a mud pool

By the way, considering one of your signature quotations, have you any idea where my pseudonym comes from?

And would you care to tell us here - or me via a PM - more about yourself, where you live, what else you love - or hate?

Jer

[Niamh]

Great poem, Il Penseroso. Thank you so much for posting it! Welcome in the thread!

A Coat


I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

I like a lot this tiny poem. I believe it is a poetic art, but I am not sure what does it refer to. I ask those from this thread who know more about Y's biography: did he ever suffered a ''transfer'' from romanticism to modernism? I know this poem is a modern like one, quite different to those which we read till now.



What does ''gyre'' mean? I looked in all kind of dictionaries, but found nothing. Could you please help me? I am not an English native so I will ask you to forgive my unknowledge at times.

A gyre is something circular or coiled like a spiral. It can also be refared to the likes of worlpools and vortexs. Its the motion of 'turning' in the beginning of "the Second Coming". It is believed that the use of "gyre" in many of poems is symbolic of the spiritual frame of mind he was in at this stage of his life; a like with the psyche and the spirit worlds, the gyre being the vortex of the mind.

[downing]

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


Your poem is wonderful, Prince Myshkin! You're a great poet and I think your grandson takes after you;). That tiny poem of his is very very cute. I guess he is precocious.
Sincerely, I didn't know who Prince Myshkin was, but I knew vaguely of a connection between this name and Dostoevsky's. I searched the internet and found out that it is D's main character from ''The Idiot''. Unfortunately, I haven't read the book yet. I found the quote I have at my signature in LitNet and liked it so much that I put it as a signature.
You can find a lot of things about me by reading my profile page. If you have any other questions, contact me via PM.
Thank you so much Niamh for telling me what ''gyre'' means. That helped a lot!:thumbs_up

[downing]

O Do Not Love Too Long


Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed —
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

I love this poem!

[dramasnot6]

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.




I love the simple yet powerful imagery that litters this poem, "midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow". So soulful.
I think this poem does a lovely job of expressing the everyday life as something to be treasured, the simple moments and occurences like crickets singing or water lapping presented as the "hearts core", or really fuel for our purpose in living.

[Niamh]

I love the simple yet powerful imagery that litters this poem, "midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow". So soulful.
I think this poem does a lovely job of expressing the everyday life as something to be treasured, the simple moments and occurences like crickets singing or water lapping presented as the "hearts core", or really fuel for our purpose in living.

yes.:nod: it show a beauty that can be seen i we take the time on our own to see it. Beauty can be seen in Isolation.

[downing]

Down by the salley gardens

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white
feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the
tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not
agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white
hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

[downing]

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15529

WB Yeats reciting himself ''The Lake Isle of Inisfree''!

[Niamh]

Down by the salley gardens

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white
feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the
tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not
agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white
hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
i love this poem. We even have it as a song here now. It is amazing that a man can write such beautiful poetry for a woman whom never loved him in return.

HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


this poems shows a great example of how much he loved her and wanted to threet her like a queen. She was very undeserving if i may say so myself!

[Mrs. Dalloway]

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15529

WB Yeats reciting himself ''The Lake Isle of Inisfree''!

woow! I want to be in this group too :)

The way he recited the poem is a bit strange! Is it to make fear?

[Mrs. Dalloway]

THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER


I HEARD the old, old men say,
“Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away.”
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
“All that’s beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.”

I love this poem! What do you think it means? maybe that the beauty and youth never come back... everything takes its curse: nature, time, and also humans. That's why the old men look like trees.

[Quark]

I love this poem! What do you think it means? maybe that the beauty and youth never come back... everything takes its curse: nature, time, and also humans. That's why the old men look like trees.

I think Yeats is comparing the effect of age on the trees to its effect on human beings: both are deformed by long life. The waters that flow past the trees are compared with experiences which come and go, but cannot be retained.

I'm curious whether Yeats means the deformities of the old men in the poem to be just physical. They also could be psychological. The small failures and tragedies in their lives could make them just as twisted and knotty mentally as physically.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I think Yeats is comparing the effect of age on the trees to its effect on human beings: both are deformed by long life. The waters that flow past the trees are compared with experiences which come and go, but cannot be retained.

I'm curious whether Yeats means the deformities of the old men in the poem to be just physical. They also could be psychological. The small failures and tragedies in their lives could make them just as twisted and knotty mentally as physically.

Yes, they also could be psychological but when you look at trees or the old men you only can see the physical effects of the time. You can't discover what the old men are feeling, thinking or what experiences they had. The same happens with trees. So the only you can see the physical effects of the life.

[downing]

Good question, Mrs. Dalloway!
I think both of you are right: Quark is very right when he/she(?) talks about the exterior deformities which are also found within.


Yes, they also could be psychological but when you look at trees or the old men you only can see the physical effects of the time. You can't discover what the old men are feeling, thinking or what experiences they had. The same happens with trees. So the only you can see the physical effects of the life.

Inded, Mrs. Dalloway is right when she is saying this, but I'd point out that poetry revolves around the interior even more than around the exterior, so I believe Quark also said a good thing.

I think we should look more attentively at the statement ''thorn-trees''. Observe the word ''thorn''. I think this is a key word because it referrs to the old mens' deformities of which we were talking about. The experiences and difficulties through which they passed created some ''thorns'' withing them and so they became alike ''thorn-trees''. Interesting idea.

I agree with you, Mrs. Dalloway, Yeats had a very orginal way of reciting the poem in that link I posted. I didn't expect to hear something like that. It was rewarding, though.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

Inded, Mrs. Dalloway is right when she is saying this, but I'd point out that poetry revolves around the interior even more than around the exterior, so I believe Quark also said a good thing.



Yes, I agree of course! I just tried to comprehend why the poet use "thorn-trees" and I totally agree with what you said. Nice idea :)

I also want to "talk" about another poem :D

POLITICS

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

what do you think? :)

[Quark]

I also want to "talk" about another poem :D

POLITICS

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

what do you think? :)

Hmm, I've never seen that one; it must not be anthologized very often. Yeah, I like it. I wish I could say some important thing about content or form here, but it's very complete. There isn't much to add. I like how it begins and ends on the same lustful thought, and the high-minded ideas of the people going past are only a disturbance. The poem is somewhat anti-intellectual. He wasn't the only modernist with this bent, though. The people in the D.H. Lawrence threads should know all about this. When I read this poem, it seemed to fit a lot more with my idea of Yeats as a poet very fixed in the immediate passions of life. There's very little self-criticism, just feeling. I like the poem; thanks for bringing it up.

[downing]

Hmm, I've never seen that one; it must not be anthologized very often. Yeah, I like it. I wish I could say some important thing about content or form here, but it's very complete. There isn't much to add. I like how it begins and ends on the same lustful thought, and the high-minded ideas of the people going past are only a disturbance. The poem is somewhat anti-intellectual. He wasn't the only modernist with this bent, though. The people in the D.H. Lawrence threads should know all about this. When I read this poem, it seemed to fit a lot more with my idea of Yeats as a poet very fixed in the immediate passions of life. There's very little self-criticism, just feeling. I like the poem; thanks for bringing it up.

Quark, what is it about DHL's anti-intellectual writing? Is this what were you talking about? I have never heard of it, even though I am in the DHL short stories thread. Please help, this looks interesting.

As about the poem- just like Quark, I have never read it before. It is nice, but I do not like it too much. It seems uninteresting for me(sorry Yeats about this), it certainly doesn't reach the level of the other Yeats poems.

[PrinceMyshkin]

As about the poem- I have never read it before. It is nice, but I do not like it too much. It seems uninteresting for me(sorry Yeats about this), it certainly doesn't reach the level of the other Yeats poems.

No, it may not reach the level of other poems by Yeats but none of us is always at the top of our form. Personally, I see merit in the simplicity of this. Would I like it as much if I didn't know it was by Yeats? I can't answer but but I do think I would still cherish


But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

such a heartfelt, plainspoken declaration of yearning.

[Quark]

Quark, what is it about DHL's anti-intellectual writing? Is this what were you talking about? I have never heard of it, even though I am in the DHL short stories thread. Please help, this looks interesting.

I don't want to get too far off topic. I'll keep as close to Yeats poetry as I can--lest some overzealous admin grabs my response, shakes the life out of it, and moves it to some other thread where it can be ignored. With that act of obeisance out of the way, I can say that I think Yeats belongs to a widespread anti-intellectual movement in the early twentieth century. Artists became disenchanted with the scientific and spiritualist leanings of the previous generations, and began writing novels that had less to do with ideal, universal sentiments and more to do with the personal, emotional events in people's lives. The Modernist artists referred to the new focus of their work as "life". I brought up D.H. Lawrence because he's currently enjoying a lot of attention from Litneters (someone help me on the spelling so I can get rid of this red line). Lawrence, writing in tirade fashion, says, "Nothing is important but life... All things that are alive are amazing... It seems impossible to get a saint, or a philosopher, or a scientist, to stick to this simple truth. They are all, in a sense, renegades." (Lawrence, Why The Novel Matters). Yeats wrote similar sentiments in poems like this one and the dialogue between the soul and self. If you have more questions I can be more specific, but I thought I would keep it short to make it more readable. I am surprised the D.H. Lawrence threads haven't talked about this. I'm going to have to set those people straight.

[Virgil]

Great point Quark. There are similaities between Lawrence and Yeats in as you point out. Perhaps that's why I'm a fan of both. The Years Crazy Jane sequence of poems coud easily be something that Lawrence would enjoy and agree. Both seem to find a spirituality in the natural world and both seem to find sexuality as a means to spirituality. But on the other hand there are significant diferences too. Yeats believed that aesthetics were a source of hapiness, while I doubt Lawrence would agree with that.

[downing]

Thank you, Quark and Virgil for telling all these interesting things. I knew nothing of this anti-intellectual movement.
Quark, I saw that people usually spell ''Lit-netters''.:)

[dramasnot6]

O Do Not Love Too Long


Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed —
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

I love this poem!

Me too! It reveals how false and shallow immature love can be.

[Virgil]

I think we discussed this once in the poem of the week thread.


The Lake Isle Of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I think we discussed this once in the poem of the week thread.

I love it!! hehe I like the sounds! amazing :) did this lake isle become really important in Ireland since this poem was written, didn't it?

[Virgil]

I love it!! hehe I like the sounds! amazing :) did this lake isle become really important in Ireland since this poem was written, didn't it?

Mrs D, we discussed this poem at lenth in the poem of the week thread here: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=13557&page=4&highlight=Lake+Isle+Innisfree, starting at post#46 and going for a few pages. We went into quite a bit of detail.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I know ...:rolleyes:

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I reccomend all of you a song of Goran Bregovic which is a version of the poem of Yeats "The Stolen Child". It's beautiful. I love the voice and the way she sings... :) If you can, listen to it!

[Mrs. Dalloway]

does anyone know if Yeats was in the Gaelic League?? I'm trying to find the poets that were in that group. Does anyone know it?

I'm not sure if Yeats wrote in Gaelic...

Thanks!

[Niamh]

does anyone know if Yeats was in the Gaelic League?? I'm trying to find the poets that were in that group. Does anyone know it?

I'm not sure if Yeats wrote in Gaelic...

Thanks!
I checked up an old school book, Had to check acuracy first.
Yeats was involved in the Anglo Irish Literary revival, which brought about the birth of the National Irish Theatre whom founded the Abbey Theatre on Lower Abbey St in Dublin. Yeats and Lady Gregory, two Dramatist that wrote many patriotic plays at the time, helped found The Irish Literary Theatre in 1899 along side Edward Martyn, Cousin of writer George Moore, which set up shop in the Abbey in 1904. J.M.Synge didnt become a director of the Abbey till a later date, i think after Martyn left in protest against on of synges plays. Many of the Earlier plays of the Anglo Irish Literary revival were based on Irish mythologies.
An Baile Strand is one of Yeats Plays based on Cuchulainn.

I'll look up some members for you.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I checked up an old school book, Had to check acuracy first.
Yeats was involved in the Anglo Irish Literary revival, which brought about the birth of the National Irish Theatre whom founded the Abbey Theatre on Lower Abbey St in Dublin. Yeats and Lady Gregory, two Dramatist that wrote many patriotic plays at the time, helped found The Irish Literary Theatre in 1899 along side Edward Martyn, Cousin of writer George Moore, which set up shop in the Abbey in 1904. J.M.Synge didnt become a director of the Abbey till a later date, i think after Martyn left in protest against on of synges plays. Many of the Earlier plays of the Anglo Irish Literary revival were based on Irish mythologies.
An Baile Strand is one of Yeats Plays based on Cuchulainn.

I'll look up some members for you.

So, he didn't write in Gaelic, did he? Ok Niamh thanks a lot! :)

[Mrs. Dalloway]

A Cradle Song

The angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with His mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.

[Niamh]

So, he didn't write in Gaelic, did he? Ok Niamh thanks a lot! :)

No he didn't. The Anglo Irish Literary Revival was about writing about Ireland, Irish history and culture and Irish legands in English;Anglo being a term for English or of English origin.:)

[Quark]

I just read the elegy written by Auden. I was wondering what people thought the poem said about Yeats. While much of the poem is an argument by Auden about the nature of poetry and society in general, I think it does lead us to think certain things about Yeats. It makes me believe that Yeats wrote poems less from a perspective of success or joy, but more from tragedy and loss. Auden's last lines particularly lead me to that conclusion. He says:

"With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise".

Auden seems to be saying that Yeats wrote from a painful and depressed personal situation, but was able to use his suffering to teach his audience truth, compassion, and hope. Some of this is Auden's pessimism seeping in, but I think that he believes that Yeats shared this understanding.

[Virgil]

Quark, I'll post the entire poem:


In Memory of W. B. Yeats
by W. H. Auden


I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.




II




You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.






III




Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.


For publishing rights, see here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15544. Let me digest this for a few days and I'll comment.

[Niamh]

I think your right Quark. Yeats poetry wasnt written for success, it was almost like an extention of himself. He poured all his feelings into them. When he was accused of basicly not trying to promote irishness enough C1910, he wrote so many stong poems fueled by his anger. Thats when he started pointing fingers at other groups and gave up His involvement with the Anglo Irish literary revival. He wasnt afraid to give his opinion.

[Mrs. Dalloway]

The Anglo Irish Literary Revival was about writing about Ireland, Irish history and culture and Irish legands in English

Why did they write in English? I mean, they could have writen about Ireland, Irish history and culture and Irish legends in Gaelic. Why didn't they do it? What do you think? :)

[downing]

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[Niamh]

Why did they write in English? I mean, they could have writen about Ireland, Irish history and culture and Irish legends in Gaelic. Why didn't they do it? What do you think? :)

Oops! only saw this now!:blush: Alot of the members of the irish literary revival didnt have Irish as a second language and therefore couldnt speak it. Many of the ILR were from middle class and aristocratic back round, and english ansestry; to talk in Irish was frowned upon by many for the classes and the majority who spoke the language were the poor and working class Irish and mainly in the gaeltacht areas of the west. The upper class promoted the english language amonst their tenents for hundreds of years resulting in Irish almost becoming a dead language. The point of the Gaelic League was to revive the language, and promote it amongst their fellow Irish men but only a few of the classes joined and grasped the language. The reason why Yeats, Gregory, Synge and the others didnt write in Irish is because they werent apart of the Gaelic league. The Anglo-Irish literary revival was separate, used to promote Irish history and culture to the citizens of Ireland who didnt speak Irish. Its not an easy language to learn. So Ireland was being promoted through both the Irish and English languages. But, for the interest of anyone reading this, J.M.Synge could actually speak Irish, having learnt it in Trinity College, and spoke it almost fluently while living amongst the people of the Aran Islands. Hope all this helps! even if it is late!:D

[Mrs. Dalloway]

Thanks! very interesting Niamh!;)

[Niamh]

Since this thread has kind of gone quiet with Downing not around, i propose that as a group we should read one of his plays and discuss it.:) We have his Countess Cathleen on this site so it could be handy for us to read that. Personally i'd love it if we could read Cathleen Ni Houlihan.
What do you think? Whos up for it?:)

[Mrs. Dalloway]

good idea Niamh!! Can we read it from this site?

[Virgil]

I'm definetely up for it. I've been reading Yeats all week and loving it. I won't be able to start until toward the end of the week. For now I'll leave you with a poem that has captivated me the last few days:



The Circus Animals' Desertion
by William Butler Yeats
I

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

III

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

This is one of the last poems he wrote before he died. I think he was struggling to find some new subject and felt his age. But it is a great poem. I absolutely love that last line. Hey he mentions Countess Cathleen in the poem. Niamh, I don't know who she was, could you fill us in if you know?

[Niamh]

Oh Virgil I love that poem. I had to do a study of it for my Leaving certificate. I'm going to have to wreak my brain now because its quite a complex poem.:)

As for the Countess Cathleen, I've never actually gotten around to reading it, but if i recall correctly, i think its about a woman who sells her soul to feed her starving tenents during the famine.

And yeah we can read it from here!:D

[Mrs. Dalloway]

well then! what do you think about suggesting a date to have finished the reading and to talk about the play?

[Niamh]

We could always read it bit by bit, and discuss each act, scene or what ever way it has been split up, accordingly. What do you guys think?

[Niamh]

Scene 1 to be read by sun 16th.:)

[Virgil]

Scene 1 to be read by sun 16th.:)

Just read it about an hour ago. I was shocked at Shemus striking his wife. I think I need to re-read it. I'm not sure why he did that.

[Niamh]

Well if thats the case if anyon else has read it, feel free to post you opinions regarding it. I gave a nice time span incase people are a bit busy. I'm off to read it now.

[Niamh]

Okay so i just read scene one.
Shemus hits Mary because she does not what what he bids of her.
Think about it this way; Its the Potato famine. People all across the country are dying of starvation, and some people are driven to doing crazy things out of desperation. People even drank the blood of cows (a fact that inspired Bram stoker while writing Dracula). Here we have Shemus, Teig and Mary who are bordering starvation; shemus and Teig are desperate, so desperate they are willing to sell their souls. Leaving the door open is an invitation. Mary wants to close it and shut out the misery of the outside world but Shenus wants it left open as he is willing to invite the devil himself into the house in order to eat. She tries to defy this and he hits her.:)

[Mrs. Dalloway]

I just read the first scene! a bit late maybe...

I think that Shemus hits Mary because she doesn't agree with him, Teig (how is Teig pronounced?) and the idea of selling their souls in exchange of food.

Shemus and Teig are starting thinking that praying is useless (am I right?) and that the best solution is what they decided finally.

But there are some things that I don't understand...

What do the demons ask apart from their souls? or is something we will find out later?

Mary faints (is it a symbol or not?) and the first merchant says: "Our faces go unscratched, for she has fainted..." I don't understand what he means... :(

And then the end of the scene I is that Shemus and Teig give the fowl to the demons but it is the only thing they had for dinner.

Does the Countess have any meaning in that scene? could it be the contrast between poor people and rich ones?

I also have some problems with vocabulary, but I think I've understood the scene.

I like it! :thumbs_up good choice!:D

[Mrs. Dalloway]

Can anyone help me? :D

[Niamh]

I think It is mainly just an introduction to the countess in the first scene, and that the scene itself is there to show the distress that the country was going through at the time of the famine. The greedy merchants had everything, and the poor gave them everything in hope that they will help them feed their starving families. But they were devils to the poor as they took from them everything the had for little or nothing and out of depersation, the poor obliged. Most of the time it was the ruin of the families.They would have sold their souls to the devil for food. I think this is an issue that Yeats is trying to point out.

[abrown]

Everyone has their version of history/religion. Yeats believed that there was such a thing as "historical gyres"...If you were to draw a gyre, you would draw a twister like spiral until it comes to a point, then draw an upside down twister until it gets bigger again...Each twister represents one "gyre" He believed that every 26,000 years there was a new turn in history and that each gyre took 2,000 years. He was referring to a changing point in our history/beliefs/religion. He believes that history collapses itself and it is re-born again every 2,000 years or every "gyre"...For example: there was the Roman-Grecko Gyre (related to his poem Leda and the Swan) at 1 A.D, then at 2 A.D there was the Christian Era (read the Second Coming)...Pretty neat! Hope that helps.