Poem of the Week '10

[OrphanPip]

I'm not familiar with this poet and poem Silas. Where is he from and when was this written?

He was a libertine poet, and courtier of Charles the II, during the Restoration.

"Love a woman? You're an ***.
'Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The idlest part of God's creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia's womb
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell, woman! I intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And if busy Love intrenches,
There's a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches."

It just drips aristocratic self-entitlement and recently imported French libertine values.

[Silas Thorne]

Here's a few links about Rochester:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wi...l_of_Rochester
http://www.luminarium.org/eightlit/rochester/
http://www.buzzle.com/articles/earl-...hn-wilmot.html


He was a very interesting individual of his time. I remember once reading his life story, which I enjoyed a great deal. He didn't only write poetry like the one I have put on here, and wrote some incredible satirical pieces, such as 'A Satyre Against Reason and Mankind', as well as some very touching love poems, such as 'A Song of a Young Lady to her Ancient Lover', and 'The Mistress'.

[Buh4Bee]

I truly laughed as I read my way through this poem.

"When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey."

These are great lines!

Thanks for sharing Sylas.

It is nice to see poetry written so well about such a pornographic topic.

[Silas Thorne]

Thanks for giving your opinion on the poem. I think it's mainly due to the quality of his poetic expression that he could get away with what other people couldn't.

[Buh4Bee]

Surprisingly, I have heard of him before. I know OrphanPip mentioned Rochester was a libertine poet. I suppose that this kind of "talent" brought him quite a bit of exposure. I can imagine all the ladies in their closets giggling as they read this piece.

[Paulclem]

There's not much analysis compared to some of the other posted poems. Do you think the subject matter excludes?

[Buh4Bee]

He was a libertine poet, and courtier of Charles the II, during the Restoration.

"Love a woman? You're an ***.
'Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The idlest part of God's creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia's womb
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell, woman! I intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And if busy Love intrenches,
There's a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches."

It just drips aristocratic self-entitlement and recently imported French libertine values.

I agree with your statement about aristocratic self-entitlement. Although interesting, I don't particularly care for the libertine personality.

[Silas Thorne]

There's not much analysis compared to some of the other posted poems. Do you think the subject matter excludes?

Yes, you are right, there isn't much analysis. I don't necessarily think lack of discussion is due to the subject matter, just that it isn't as open for different interpretations as some other poems posted here. Next time I'll throw out an out-there John Ashbery poem for a range of varied responses.

[Paulclem]

I agree that the poem is less open to interpretation, but only one Lady has posted upon the poem. I think the subject matter has affected the discussion. I'm not being censorious, just making an observation.

[Silas Thorne]

Who wants to choose the poem for this week, or should I choose that Ashbery poem I was thinking of?

[Buh4Bee]

post-it- why not?

[Silas Thorne]

OK, here goes:

Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape by John Ashbery


The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits in thunder,
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
From livid curtain’s hue, a tangram emerges: a country.”
Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: “How pleasant
To spend one’s vacation en la casa de Popeye,” she scratched
Her cleft chin’s solitary hair. She remembered spinach


And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
“M’love,” he intercepted, “the plains are decked out in thunder
Today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched
The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
Seemed to grow smaller. “But what if no pleasant
Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country.”


Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
When the door opened and Swee’pea crept in. “How pleasant!”
But Swee’pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. “Thunder
And tears are unavailing,” it read. “Henceforth shall Popeye’s apartment
Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched.”


Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
Her long thigh. “I have news!” she gasped. “Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country
One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
And all that it contains, myself and spinach
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant


Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched
Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder.”
She grabbed Swee’pea. “I’m taking the brat to the country.”
“But you can’t do that—he hasn’t even finished his spinach,”
Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.


But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
Succumbed to a strange new hush. “Actually it’s quite pleasant
Here,” thought the Sea Hag. “If this is all we need fear from spinach
Then I don’t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over”—she scratched
One dug pensively—“but Wimpy is such a country
Bumpkin, always burping like that.” Minute at first, the thunder


Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.


http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=177258

[Scheherazade]

Just a reminder:

[B]
* The same person cannot post another poem within the same month/four weeks.

(Just to be able to give everyone an opportunity to post their choice of poems).


I am not familiar with Ashbery and will read/post my thoughts later on.

(I was extremely busy with school last week; sorry for neglecting this thread).

[Silas Thorne]

Oops, sorry, it seems that that rule passed into the realm of forgetting. If anyone wants to, post another and I will scratch this one.

[Scheherazade]

Oops, sorry, it seems that that rule passed into the realm of forgetting. If anyone wants to, post another and I will scratch this one.

It was a reminder for coming weeks, Silas. We can discuss this one this week.