Poem of the Week

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.

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.

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. :)

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.

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.

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

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Originally Posted by 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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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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;

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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.

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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:

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

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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:

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?"