Poem of the Week

[Flint]

This poem has quite the history. It harkens back to the original Horacian poem which contains the title in it's opening lines:

Exegi monumentum aere perennius,
regalique situ pyramidum altius,
quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens
possit diruere aut innumerabilis
annorum series et fuga temporum.
Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei
vitabit Libitinam. Usque ego postera
crescam laude recens. Dum Capitolium
scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus
et qua pauper aquae daunus agrestium
regnavit populorum ex humili potens,
princeps Aoelium carmen ad Italos
deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam
quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.


I have created a monument more lasting than bronze,
And higher than the royal site of the pyramids,
Which neither harsh rains nor the wild North wind
Can erode, nor the countless succession of years
And the flight of the seasons.
I will not entirely die! and a large part of me will avoid the grave.
Constantly renewed, I will grow in the eyes of posterity,
So long as the Pontifex and the solemn Vestal visit the Capitoline.
Where the river Aufidus roars, and where Daunus in the dry summers, ruled his rural folk,
I, risen to greatness from humble beginnings, will be renowned
As the first to adapt the Aoelian verses to Italian meters.
Take the well-deserved pride, Melpomene,
And freely grant me the wreath of Apollo for my crown.

The above poem has a distinct place in Russian historical literature, having been translated by 3 well known talents: Derzhavin, Lomonosov, and Pushkin.


The Pushkin poem is seemingly concerned with the vitality and fortitude of artistic production over the course of time, the passing of which naturally entails certain things - "slander, praise, ridicule, decay." There is imagery with the "overgrown path."

This poem always seems arrogant and pretentious to me, especially in the opening lines. Though later in stanza 4, I see the poet giving real reasons for his predictions concerning his future "reign":

And long I will be dear to people in my kingdom,
Because kind feelings with my lyre I have installed;
Because in my hard age, I have belauded freedom,
And mercy on the fallen called.

To God’s command, O Muse, pay heed; be full of reverence;
Not calling for a wreath, not fearing ridicule –
The slander and the praise accept with firm indifference,
And do not argue with the fool.

The Muse in the last stanza is the speaker himself, correct?

[holograph]

pushkin rocks my socks. but in russian, it sounds much better. translationally, its ok.

[Petrarch's Love]

Oh, I just realized we had a new poem for this week. Thanks for posting Jersey Bird, and thanks for the background info., Flint. For some reason I hadn't automatically thought of Horace's ode, but it makes sense that it was an influence on this poem. It's hard to judge a poem fairly when only coming to it in translation, but, translation or not, I like the final line: "do not argue with the fool." It has an almost Shakespearean feel to it. Incidently the Horatian influence and the claims to a poetry that will outlive (to quote Shakespeare's sonnet 55) "marble or the gilded monuments," reminds me of the poetry of the English Renaissance when they were trying to set ground for a new poetry in their vernacular. I'm ashamed to say I know almost nothing about the history of Russian literature. I know Pushkin's very famous. Does Flint, or anyone else know if he played a similar founding role in Russian lit. as say Shakespeare and the Elizabethans in English lit., or is the similarity simply incidently?

[holograph]

To russians (such as myself) Pushkin is the father of poetry. He is to Russians what Walt Whitman to the one-hundredth power is to Americans. Does that answer your question?

[ShoutGrace]

Okay, so it has been 2 weeks now that I haven't been able to silently watch people talk about poetry. I'm going to post a poem that I have read a couple of times in the past few days; though we can start a new poem if someone wants a different one.


She drew back; he was calm:
"It is this that had the power."
And he lashed his open palm
With the tender-headed flower.
He smiled for her to smile,
But she was either blind
Or willfully unkind.
He eyed her for a while
For a woman and a puzzle.
He flicked and flung the flower,
And another sort of smile
Caught up like fingertips
The corners of his lips
And cracked his ragged muzzle.
She was standing to the waist
In golden rod and brake,
Her shining hair displaced.
He stretched her either arm
As if she made it ache
To clasp her - not to harm;
As if he could not spare
To touch her neck and hair.
"If this has come to us
And not to me alone -"
So she thought she heard him say;
Though with every word he spoke
His lips were sucked and blown
And the effort made him choke
Like a tiger at a bone.
She had to lean away.
She dared not stir a foot,
Lest movement should provoke
The demon of pursuit
That slumbers in a brute.
It was then her mother’s call
From inside the garden wall
Made her steal a look of fear
To see if he could hear
And would pounce to end it all
Before her mother came.
She looked and saw the shame:
A hand hung like a paw,
An arm worked like a saw
As if to be persuasive,
An ingratiating laugh
That cut the snout in half,
And eye become evasive.
A girl could only see
That a flower had marred a man,
But what she could not see
Was that the flower might be
Other than base and fetid:
That the flower had done but part,
And what the flower began
Her own too meager heart
Had terribly completed.
She looked and saw the worst.
And the dog or what it was,
Obeying bestial laws,
A coward save at night,
Turned from the place and ran.
She heard him stumble first
And use his hands in flight.
She heard him bark outright.
And oh, for one so young
The bitter words she spit
Like some tenacious bit
That will not leave the tongue.
She plucked her lips for it,
And still the horror clung.
Her mother wiped the foam
From her chin, picked up her comb,
And drew her backward home.


-Robert Frost (1874-1963)

[Hyacinth Girl]

Storm
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Robert Pack

[Virgil]

In general, Hyacinth, I like the poem, but I do have some questions. First, who is the you he is addressing, "your ghostly form"? What does he mean by "my white consciousness"? I don't think he's making a racial statement, or is he? Why does he repeat the line, "Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines"? The repeatition doesn't seem to add anything.

[Jean-Baptiste]

This poem seems to be a documentation of a storm's communication with the poet. Perhaps the poet is guilt ridden at playing some part in turning a human into a ghost, but the storm knows that he is innocent, hence the "white consciousness". The repetition of the first line may be an attempt to regather his thoughts, or perhaps go back to the start of the train of thoughts and take a different course, which doesn't seem to be any less harsh, as it turns out. Is the poet seeking the help of the storm, seeking solace in an uncontrollable threat? I don't know, but I really like this poem. Thank you, Hyacinth Girl.

[Hyacinth Girl]

First, who is the you he is addressing, "your ghostly form"?

That is part of the ambiguity of the poem. Jean-Baptiste has offered one theory. Personally, I read it as a lost lover. Interpreting the "you" as an absent muse or the actual reader themself are two options that lend to interesting readings as well.

What does he mean by "my white consciousness"? I don't think he's making a racial statement, or is he?

No, I wouldn't say the speaker is making a racial statement, as there is nothing else to really indicate that in the text. I think "white consciousness" works on several levels:
1) the woods are aware of the speaker watching the snowstorm
2) the speaker's loss of the person who is now perceived only as a ghost
3) the perception of death and nothingness
Robert Pack is a Stevens/Frost scholar who works within a Romantic tradition, combining it with Stevens' view of nothingness and being and the search for some sort of transcendence. In this respect, I think the "white" functions as a destruction of commonplace metaphor for the reader - loss, death, loneliness are usually referred to as dark, black etc., but in this case I think the juxtaposition of snow(cold), winter(death), storm(trauma) create a "darker" meaning for "white" - I think Pack is drawing especially on Stevens' "mind of winter" explicated in "The Snow Man" and Frost's contemplation of death and loss in "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". In fact, I think that positing Stevens' Snow Man as the speaker would lend to another interesting reading of this poem, and would work with Pack's predeliction for creating dramatic monologues.

Why does he repeat the line, "Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines"? The repeatition doesn't seem to add anything.

I think it is functioning as a repetitive device in order to create a charm/spell/invocation when read aloud. There is a lot of repetition of thought or idea within the text, mostly with slight variation. For instance, the first two lines are actually reversed later in the poem. Also, white becomes "whiteness", swirling becomes whirled, etc. In fact, I think it's supposed to recreate the experience of watching a snowstorm through a window - it's never exactly the same, but the effect is that of a hypnotic whole.

And thank you, Virgil and Jean-Baptiste, for your compliments on the poem. I thought it would be fun to go with a poet I knew personally for a change.

[Virgil]

After reading it again, I think the "you" the narrator is addressing is the woods upon which the snow falls. "Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form" and "Calling me to you with wild gesturings/Homeward into the howling woods". Or perhaps he means the spirit of the woods. Is there possibly a subtle allusion to Frost's, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"?

Here's that poem:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

[Hyacinth Girl]

I think Pack is drawing especially on Stevens' "mind of winter" explicated in "The Snow Man" and Frost's contemplation of death and loss in "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".

Spot on Virgil

[Virgil]

Spot on Virgil

I'm sorry Hyacinth. I didn't see that you had already mentioned Frost, and you're right it echoes Stevens as well.

[jon1jt]

After reading it again, I think the "you" the narrator is addressing is the woods upon which the snow falls. "Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form" and "Calling me to you with wild gesturings/Homeward into the howling woods". Or perhaps he means the spirit of the woods. Is there possibly a subtle allusion to Frost's, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"?

Here's that poem:

I think you're not the only one who feels that way. I heard a lecture once on Frost and the professor figured that Frost was taking a stab at how silly the notion of property is---to watch "his" woods fill up with snow and the separateness of society (village) and nature. It may have also been about suicide, given Frost had apparently become very distraught when his wife rejected his proposal for marriage early in life (she later agreed to marry him, I read) He apparently ran off into the woods for days and contemplated suicide---"the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep..." The latter half you can see the contrast along with the last line he repeats, as an affirmation of life. Just one prof's interpretation. Hope that helps.

[Petrarch's Love]

Storm
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Robert Pack

Thanks for this poem, Hyacinth. I found it quite beautiful and evocative. The ambiguity as to who and/or what exactly the author has lost in the "white" of this poem really adds to the feeling of loss and confusion in the poem. The see-saw between a form so specific and well known that he imagines it before him in the falling snow and the threat of the obliterating white is powerfully evocative of loss. It's the way you try to remember the face of someone who has died. You are at once comforted that there is some ghostly image of the person in your mind, and disturbed that it is an image so shadowy and blurry, almost whited out.

I was particularly struck by the phrase, "white consciousness." It's one of those perfectly self-defining phrases, in that I know exactly what he means by it without feeling able to clearly define or express that meaning in other words (not half so well as these do, anyway). The poem as a whole has that sort of self-defining quality. It sketches a distinct emotional state as it draws its parallels between the outward storm and an inward "white consiousness," but has that quality pertaining to a certain kind of very good poetry, of being sufficient unto itself and almost defying translation.

[Scheherazade]

Here's a poem for the coming week:


O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for
you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

- Walt Whitman