One of the great poems ^^^
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One of the great poems ^^^
Definitely. I love the way, among many other things, it leaps from describing a single moment in the first half to encompass worlds of philosophy in the second. I'm never quite sure how specific the intention is behind that second half, but perhaps the slight vagueness of it, the poem's 'white rush' of fluid muscularity among carefully selected details, is itself part of the answer. To me at this moment, it seems as if the poem is dealing with questions of free will, and of the curious and uncertain boundary which demarcates interactions between the universe and the self.
The Will, by John Donne. I would post it here but it's a little lengthy. . . Very interesting poem.
http://www.poetseers.org/the-great-p...ill/index.html
In Praise of Limestone - W. H. Auden (too long to post here).
This difficult poem presents its readers with a unity it reaches by contrasting (and thereby stripping of perceived ideal features) a limestone landscape with various landscapes of clay, gravel, granite, and a forest. Here the peculiarity of the diction, the slight shifts in register to and from formality, and the seemingly flighty nature of the imagery, accompany a typically Auden-esque form of insight that combines obscurity with a summative effect that communicates extraordinarily well; see the last lines:
when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.
Certainly a poem worth many re-readings.
I'm reading The Cloud, by Percy Shelley, and various ones by Sri Aurobindo.
http://www.internal.org/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley/The_Cloud
Well, this one - A God's Labour, by the latter
http://intyoga.online.fr/labour.htm
Quote:
Originally Posted by Lykren
Yes, I'm not entirely sure the specific meaning behind the second half but I've come to somewhat of a similar conclusion as well. I think the first half with it's imagery presents the feelings of a physical struggle, which leads into the feelings of an existential/philosophical struggle in the second half, largely based around struggling with notions of free will against fate or a predestined ending (I think using 'Agamemnon' is important here) and struggling too with the idea of a cold indifferent ("indifferent beak") universe. This is what I love about poems like this though, they're endlessly re-readable and offer themselves to different interpretations and feelings.
I also just really love the imagery too.
Yes, the imagery! Not only that, but the way he simultaneously pairs and opposes the imagery with the thought underneath it gives it a monumental, statuesque flair, making those philosophical undertones seem so well-fitted to the image.
Clear Night - Charles Wright
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
Charles Wright is a fantastic contemporary poet.
i'm alone but this word is so familiarQuote:
Originally Posted by cacian
how long is it gonna be
for me to feel so inferior
i really wish that he could see
that my pain is interior
if only he could see....
i'm alone but this word is my friend
i wonder how is it gonna be
when i reach the end
i really wish he'd listen to me
i can no longer defend
if only he could see...
i'm alone but this word is everything i've got
i'm really not gonna be
some one i am not
i really wish he knew me
instead of locking me in a cot
if only he could see.....
but he 'll never see through me..
Hello bewitched. I missed you somehow, but welcome to the site! Your poem is nice but so sad. Be sure to say hi in the introductions thread (where I will probably welcome you again). Remember, just because "he" is being a jerk to you doesn't mean that the rest of us will. Welcome again! :)
A Good Boy, by Robert Louis Stevenson
I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.
And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good.
My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.
I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,
No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.
But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,
And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.
The Voice of the Ancient Bard, by William Blake
Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel--they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
Flowers, by Robert Louis Stevenson
All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.
Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames--
These must all be fairy names!
Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!
Fair are grown-up people's trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.
and Ad Olum -
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poet...n/ad_olum.html
I've read Lang Leav's "Love & Misadventure" after her other books appeared on Goodreads. Here is her site if you would like to read some of them: http://langleav.com/tagged/Popular
She is also on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/lang-leav
I thought they were pretty good.
9
Allons! whoever you are, come travel with me!
Traveling with me, you find what never tires.
The earth never tires;
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first—Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first;
Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things, well envelop’d;
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
Allons! we must not stop here!
However sweet these laid-up stores—however convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here;
However shelter’d this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor here;
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive it but a little while.
Song of the Open Road, by Whitman
http://www.bartleby.com/142/82.html
721
Behind Me—dips Eternity—
Before Me—Immortality—
Myself—the Term between—
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin—
'Tis Kingdoms—afterward—they say—
In perfect—pauseless Monarchy—
Whose Prince—is Son of None—
Himself—His Dateless Dynasty—
Himself—Himself diversify—
In Duplicate divine—
'Tis Miracle before Me—then—
'Tis Miracle behind—between—
A Crescent in the Sea—
With Midnight to the North of Her—
And Midnight to the South of Her—
And Maelstrom—in the Sky—
Emily Dickinson.
This poem leaves me breathless. All the hope and fear that happens when we think 'forever' contained in a strange binary the product of which is: "Maelstrom--in the Sky--"
Footprint on Your Heart
Gary Lenhart
Someone will walk into your life,
Leave a footprint on your heart,
Turn it into a mudroom cluttered
With encrusted boots, children’s mittens,
Scratchy scarves—
Where you linger to unwrap
Or ready yourself for rough exits
Into howling gales or onto
Frozen car seats, expulsions
Into the great outdoors where touch
Is muffled, noses glisten,
And breaths stab,
So that when you meet someone
Who is leaving your life
You will be able to wave stiff
Icy mitts and look forward
To an evening in spring
When you can fold winter away
Until your next encounter with
A chill so numbing you strew
The heart’s antechamber
With layers of rural garble.
A brilliant metaphor encapsulating love.
721Quote:
Originally Posted by Lykren
is that the title?
Mealstrom is a word i sure dont know.
Dickinon didn't title her poems, so scholars give them numbers. A maelstrom is a chaotic storm.
Other than mine own and Jerrybaldys' (and my other favorite poets on litnet): "The Road Not Taken" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road_Not_Taken by Robert Frost.
I created an anagramic version titled "The Road Not Ken: Ta !" for a contest here on litnet a number of months ago, and still tinker with it on occasion. I used "Ken: Ta!" in the title to give a clue that my "poem" was anagramic - with "Taken" rent to include my signature "Ta!" as in "Ta ! (short for tarradiddle)...", and "Ken": from google: ken/ken/noun one's range of knowledge or sight. verb know; or "known" (my note).
Just last Sunday a lesson was given at church ( https://www.lds.org/general-conferen...d-see?lang=eng ) and our instructor alluded to Frost's poem and it became bright and shiny again when it came to memory; and I reread it. Frost's poem is emblematic of my continuing conversion in my faith: "And that has made all the difference".
I often revisit Emily Dickinson's delicate poetry; and self-study pretty much all genres.
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
I am restless. I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim
distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am
bound in this spot evermore.
I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not
the winged horse.
I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine
takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in
the house where I dwell alone!
Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener
one dead of night
in the dead still
he looked up
from his book
from that dark
to pore on other dark
till afar
taper faint
the eyes
in the dead still
till afar
his book as by
a hand not his
a hand on his
faintly closed
for good or ill
for good and ill
-- Samuel Beckett
I saw this and then forgot where I saw this!Quote:
Originally Posted by free
The first lines remind me of a snippet from Rumi's poetry,
"My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there."
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
Percy Shelley's Masque of Anarchy - I'll not post it all here.
I read this seasonal medley enshrouded with love. Enjoy!
The Four Seasons
By cjkrieger on 03/25/2015
Small speckles of wild grass
Looking like tiny green drops
That had fallen to the earth
Were the very first sign
Waving in the breeze
With their feathery tops rippling
They slowly reached for the sun
Growing much taller than myself
Then the dragonflies
Darting about like lost Messerschmitts
Looking for a place to land
Foretold of the coming
As I looked down the long winding path
I saw off in the distance
A slight figure of a woman
Drawing closer and closer
It was you
(And I had missed you so)
With your smiling face
And your arms wildly waving hello
Must be spring
The unusually humid
Hot summer night
Found my hands sliding
Along your warm, moist body
As I watched you
Uncovered
Lying nakedly on the cool sheets
My eyes followed a single drop
Of beaded sweat
Which had leisurely rolled down
Your gentle curves
And magically disappeared
As you awoke to my touch
Smiling
We both followed
The movements of my fingers
Thoroughly searching
For a single drop of water
Lost within the folds
Of your thighs
Must be summer
There was not a bird in the sky
They had all fallen
Into the top
Of a large red oak tree
On the northeast side of the meadow
Each one singing
Louder than the next
Until all the leaves shattered
And fell
Must be autumn
A single leaf
On a tree
Unyielding
Is all that remains
As a tribute to summer
While on the ground
Changing patterns with the blowing wind
The dry crinkling sound of leaves
Moves to and fro
As the tree quietly sleeps
Waiting
For the chilly mornings to pass
And the warmth of a spring rain
To say hello
I sit at my window
Staring down the road
Counting the passing days
Until I see your smiling face
And your arms wildly waving hello
Must be winter
I read a poem by Steve Henn among my emails from Rattle today and checked out his website. http://www.therealstevehenn.com/theliveexperience.html
I enjoyed his humor.
I remember hearing this as a child in a cartoon, but I forgot it until I saw shadow of iris's blog: http://www.shadowofiris.com/the-arro...-w-longfellow/
The Arrow and the Song
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1845
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
I have just read "A Sunday Morning Tragedy" by Thomas Hardy, which was published in his 1909 collection "Time`s Laughingstocks". Unfortunately it is too long to copy here and I cannot find a link, but it is worth seeking out (No. 155 in the "Complete Poems"). But be prepared - it is typical Hardy, much in the same vein as his last two major novels...
Sonnet 18 - William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
Walt Whitman's 'Song of Myself'. I'll post just the first few lines, but I like a lot of it very much.
I
I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
This is beautiful, virtuoso! Thank you so much for sharing!Quote:
Originally Posted by virtuoso
Yesterday, the weather being particularly fine in the north of England we journeyed to Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire for a day out. Whilst enjoying the surrounding landscape we visited St Mary and St Cuthbert church, which adjoins the ruined priory. The graveyard there being very nice, commanding spectacular views. Anyhow, I was reminded of a favourite poem (as I always am when visiting churchyards) and when I returned home I read it again;
A Churchyard
Hundreds of times has grief been here,
Hundreds of mourners themselves lie here,
For some no grieved hearts followed their bier,
They had outlived all who shed a tear.
Emma Hardy (1911)
O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman
And few others by WW. I pick up 'Leaves of Grass' every month or so and revisit a few favourites. It will be noted (because I know how to spell 'favourites') that I am not American. Nevertheless, the patriotism that pervades so much of Walt Whitman's writing speaks of and to humanity way beyond national borders.
To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers (English translation) - Arthur Rimbaud http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-th...ct-of-flowers/
"electric butterflies" !
I presently am reading the Brazilian poet Manoel the Barros. To my glad surprise I discovered that some of his poetry has been traduced.
ombmagazine.org/article/3060/five-poems
`Christmas 1924`
`Peace upon earth !` was said. We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We`ve got as far as poison-gas.
Thomas Hardy. 1924
Too true! Hardy witnessed the beginning of it all.
one more good one by Charles Bukowski in Pleasures of the Damned
There goes mine from my Canadian Literature course:
THE LONELY LAND, by A.J. Smith
Cedar and jagged fir
uplift sharp barbs
against the gray
and cloud-piled sky;
and in the bay
blown spume and windrift
and thin, bitter spray
snap
at the whirling sky;
and the pine trees
lean one way.
*
A wild duck calls
to her mate,
and the ragged
and passionate tones
stagger and fall,
and recover,
and stagger and fall,
on these stones —
are lost
in the lapping of water
on smooth, flat stones.
This is a beauty
of dissonance,
this resonance
of stony strand,
this smoky cry
curled over a black pine
like a broken
and wind-battered branch
when the wind
bends the tops of the pines
and curdles the sky
from the north.
*
This is the beauty
of strength
broken by strength
and still strong.