PoemoftheWeek

[Scheherazade]

I would like to read and discuss more poetry (and not only to help someone with their homeworks! ). So shall we try this? We will have a new poem every Monday and discuss it during the following week.

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

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


Even though it is Tuesday today, I will post the first poem to get things moving:

Poem of the Week (Sep 26th - Oct 3rd):

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

by Edgar Allan Poe, 1849

[Aurora Ariel]

Annabel Lee is actually one of my favourite EAP poems and I was sent this in my inbox a few weeks ago.I've actually still got it there and was sent it by the poem hunter website, which I subscribed to and receive a lucky poem everyday.Though sometimes I've had a few when I haven't checked my email and I get some lovely poetic surprizes and some familar ones to!Has anyone else done this and been surprized by receiving one of their favourite poems or opened their email to find a new poem they have never read before?

[Scheherazade]

I grew up hearing this poem from my parents (translated, not in English) and well before I knew who Poe was, I had learnt it by heart. And when I read it in English at university, I was over the moon!

The pure, naive love in the poem and sadness of it, without being soppy, touches my heart every time I read it.

And I learnt what 'sepulchre' means while reading this poem.

Did you know that this is the last poem Poe wrote?

[chatnoir1311]

I read it the first time , and really enjoyed it!!! It's so lovely !

[Kaltrina]

it's really a beautiful poem. I read so many times and whenever i read it I have the same pleasure and the same great feeling as if I am reading it for the first time...

[Rosevn]

hi all,

Yes, it's a very beautiful poem that I can't help re-reading it. I also read it for the first time

I especially like this:

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

This Edgar Allan Poe must be a lovable man who was so sweet with his beloved one, right?

Thank you, Scheherazade!

[Scheherazade]

Found a copy of the original manuscript of the poem:

[Aurora Ariel]

Thanks for posting his manuscript.I love seeing old manuscripts.Also in museums and art galleries.Previously I had not seen this one.I have a thing for looking at the poets handwriting;it feels one can get a greater connection and then see for themself that they truely were once alive and their hand brushed along the page.It's quite a strange feeling that can come over you if you have read their poetry before, but in a reproduced text and not having seen their ink writing;which curls around by their own hand in a very personal style.It makes me wonder about the exact moment of creation and poetic inspiration;almost frozen in time to be viewed by future generations.I wonder, with the digital age, what will happen as nowdays most seem to type instead of writing with ink.Is this the end of manuscripts?Maby a poets handwriting and paper and pen will no longer exist?

[Scheherazade]

I wonder, with the digital age, what will happen as nowdays most seem to type instead of writing with ink.Is this the end of manuscripts?Maby a poets handwriting and paper and pen will no longer exist?

I agree with you Aurora that seeing a writer/poet's manuscripts (especially with some revisions on them) makes them 'real' to us. Like you, I cannot help wondering what they were feeling/thinking or what led them to that moment when they had the inspritation to write that particular piece. I also try to get an idea about the person who held the pen. Although I understand where your worries are stemming from, I am not sure if it will ever come to the point of making pen and paper obsolete. Like e-books cannot replace the actual printed books, I would like to think that 'the real thing' will survive owing to its personal touch and intimacy.


Since it is another month and no one else has posted another poem, I will do the honour again!

Poem for October 3rd - 10th:

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 howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
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 wreathèd horn.

William Wordsworth

[amuse]

i've never read the whole thing; thanks Scher. these lines are beautiful:

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.9

[ADLforApril]

To go back to "Annabel Lee," I think that the poem is twisted when you consider the subject and Poe's relationship with her. Knowing that Poe is writing of his 13 year old cousin whom he married and presumably had sexual relations with makes this poem rather creepy.

[Scheherazade]

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!

I am sure I have mentioned this somewhere else in the Forum but these lines carry so much depth to me. The whole poem refers to industrialisation but when I read tthe opening lines, I feel some kind of angst, questioning, some kind of Judgement Day reflection. I can very easily say that these are among the lines which have moved most in English poetry (as little as I have read of it).

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
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 wreathèd horn.

The yearning for nature in these latter lines is so strong and so passionate. I have never been someone who had close ties with nature (apart from the sea) but I can almost feel his desperation and resentment and agree with it.

[Ashen]

I wonder, if these poets of old had access to a keyboard, would they have gladly given up the slow and tedious and often inefficient use of pen and paper? I know, it is a romantic thought, to take your pen and paper and write a few lines, watching your ideas flow fluidly from your mind onto the page.
Im not a complete advocate of a keyboard (laptop in this case) as I do often find myself somewhere with a sudden inspirationk, and my trusty Wordpad program nowhere to be found, wishing I had a scrap of paper and anything to write with. But for the most part, the bulk of my writing is done by pushing keys. I personally find it much easier to pull the ideas from my mind and get them on the page without losing anything.
S.

[A Hard Rain]

by charles bukowski

love is a dog from hell

feet of chese
coffeepot soul
hands that hate poolsticks
eyes like paperclips
I prefer red wine
I am bored on airliners
I am docile during earthquakes
I am sleepy at funerals
I puke at parades
and am scrificial at chess
and **** and caring
I smell urine in churches
I can no longer read
I can no longer sleep

eyes like paper clips
my green eyes
I prefer white wine

my box of rubers is getting
stale
I take them out
Trojan-Enz
lubricated
for greater sensitivity
I take them out
and put three of them on

the walls of my bedroom are blue

Linda where did you go?
Katherine where did you go?
(and Nina went to England)

I have toenail clippers
and Windex glass cleaner
green eyes
blue bedroom
bright machinegun sun

this whole thing is like a seal
caught on oily rocks
and circled by the Long Beach Marching Band
at 3:36 p.m.

there is a ticking behind me
but no clock
I feel something crawling along
the left side of my nose:
memories of airliners

my mother had false teeth
my father had false teeth
and every Saturday of their lives
they took up all the rugs in their house
waxed the hardwood floors
and covered them with rugs again

and Nina is in England
and Irene is on ATD
and I take my green eyes
and lay down in my blue bedroom.

[Scheherazade]

I am not familiar with Bukowski's works... I remember reading one of his poems somewhere here and liking it but... this one, I am afraid, does not do much for me... apart from getting an 'Ugh'. I am probably not deep/intelligent/learned/philosophical enough (delete as appropriate) to appreciate this. I don't mind raw writings but to me this is more than raw... a little unpalatable.

*edit*

Here is the other Bukowski thread