Poem of the Day

[Nightwalk]

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Who still considers himself very likeable

- Tristan Tzara ( 1896 - 1963 )

Translation from the French by Barbara Wright

[Scheherazade]

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Who still considers himself very likeable

-Tristan Tzara

Translation from the French by Barbara Wright

That must have been a toughie to translate!


As for today... Quite possibly I have posted this poem somewhere before as it is one of my favorites but it sums up my mood well today so... Here we go again:


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

[Virgil]

Lovely choice, Scher. That's an old favorite of mine.

[Riesa]

As for today... Quite possibly I have posted this poem somewhere before as it is one of my favorites but it sums up my mood well today so... Here we go again:


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

hey, that fits my mood today too.

what really gets me right now is:

"are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not."

great choice, Scher.

[Nightwalk]

from The Dramatic Symphony

1. The by-street was bathed in sun. The road was turning white. In place of the sky there hung a gigantic turquoise.

2. The neo-classical house had six columns, and on the six columns stood six white, stone maidens.

3. The stone maidens had six stone cushions on their heads, and the cornice of the house rested on the cushions.

4. In the little asphalt courtyard stood a pile of damp red sand.

5. Blond-curled children played on the pile of sand dressed in sailors' jackets with red anchors.

6. They sank their little hands into the cold sand and threw the sand in handfuls over the dry asphalt.

7. On top of the pile of sand stood a little boy; his face was austere and thoughtful. His deep blue eyes absorbed the colour of the sky. His curly hair was soft as flax and tumbled in dreamy waves onto his shoulders.

8. With austere authority the little boy held in his hands an iron piston, found heaven knows where. The child was beating his little sisters with a rod of iron, as the vessels of a potter breaking them to shivers.

9. His little sisters squealed and threw handfuls of sand at the despot.

10. With austere authority the boy wiped the red sand from his face and looked thoughtfully up at the turquoise of the sky as he leaned on his rod.

11. Then suddenly he abandoned his iron piston, leaped from the pile of sand and ran along the asphalt courtyard, crying out joyfully.

12. A cab carried Leavenovsky by. Leavenovsky was proceeding to the fair-haired prophet to talk about general mysteries.


1. A monk was walking along a fashionable street. His head-dress rose high above his lean face.

2. He wore a silver cross and walked quickly through the festive crowd.

3. His black beard reached down to his waist; it began right beneath his eyes.

4. His eyes were sad and mournful despite the fact that it was Whitsunday.

5. Suddenly the monk stopped and spat superstitiously. A malicious smile twisted his austere features.

6. This happened because the cynical mystic had uttered yet another new thought, and it had been published in Polar Patterns.


1. Prophets and prelates had been on display in the window of an art shop on Kuznetsky Bridge Street.

2. And the prophets appeared to be shouting from behind the glass windows, stretching their bare hands towards the street, shaking their sorrowful heads.

3. The prelates, however, looked serene and smiled quietly, hiding a crafty grin in their whiskers.

4. People clustered by the windows with wide-open mouths.


1. Golden streams of light flooded into the windows of the decadent house.

2. They fell on a mirror. The mirror reflected the next room. From where the sound of suppressed sobbing could be heard.

3. In the middle of the flowers and silk stood the fairy-tale who had turned very pale. Her reddish hair gleamed in the gold of the sun and her pale violet dress was covered with white irises.

4. She had found out at the festival of flowers about the death of the dreamer, and now the orphaned fairy-tale was wringing her slender white hands.

5. Her coral-coloured lips trembled and silver pearls ran down her pale marble cheeks, freezing in the irises pinned to her breast.

6. She stood distraught and weeping, looking out of the window.

7. And from the window the mad dawn laughed at her tears, as it burnt through a jasper-coloured cloud.

8. The fairy-tale's tears were futile because the time of democrats was passing.

9. The wave of time had washed away the dreamer, had borne him away to eternal rest.

10. This is what the mad dawn told her, laughing to the point of exhaustion, and the fairy-tale wept over the scattered irises.

11. And ... in the next ... room stood the shattered centaur. He had entered this room ... and seen the reflection of his nymph.

12. He stood there stunned, not believing the looking-glass reflection, not daring to verify the perfidious mirror.

13. Two sorrowful wrinkles creased the brow of the good-natured centaur, and he pulled pensively at his elegant beard.

14. Then he quietly left the room.

- Andrey Bely ( 1880 - 1934 )

Translation from the Russian by Roger and Angela Keys

[Anonymous Angel]

I'm not too sure about Cummings myself. He seems a bit clever-clever and lacking in real emotional depth. Although I haven't read a lot of his work, just odd poems in anthologies. I know you like him a lot Scher, perhaps you could recommend some titles that would prove me wrong.

I'm not quite sure he's lacking in emotional depth, I just wonder whether his view of life might have been a bit different. I know he seems clever, but I think some of his thoughts betray a creativity that's certainly missing sometimes from a lot of modern poetry. Anyway, he's not one of my favorite poets, but I do like him. One of his poems I've always liked is "Who Knows?" I don't know. Just the thought of the moon being a balloon coming out of a keen city in the sky makes me want to smile

[Basil]

Naming the Stars

This present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
a sign of something long since lost.

This will be another one of those
loose changes, the rearrangement of
hearts, just parts of old lives
patched together, gathered into
a dim constellation, small consolation.

Look, we will say, you can almost see
the outline there: her fingertips
touching his, the faint fusion
of two bodies breaking into light.

Joyce Sutphen

[Virgil]

Nice poem Basil. I don't know Joyce Sutphen. Last stanza is fabulous.

[Scheherazade]

Naming the Stars

This present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
a sign of something long since lost.

This will be another one of those
loose changes, the rearrangement of
hearts, just parts of old lives
patched together, gathered into
a dim constellation, small consolation.

Look, we will say, you can almost see
the outline there: her fingertips
touching his, the faint fusion
of two bodies breaking into light.

Joyce Sutphen

Hadn't read this poem before (nor am I familiar with Joyce Sutphen) but I love it, Basil. I cannot claim to have understood it all especially in relation to the title but I still like its overall meaning and flow. Thank you for posting it!

Nice poem Basil. I don't know Joyce Sutphen. Last stanza is fabulous.

The second one is my favorite.

[Hyacinth Girl]

Wonderful poem - I really like the mist of time obscuring the present and turning it into something meaningful and resonant, yet an abstract of that actual present. To me, it speaks of the power of imagination, the fluidity of meaning and reality, and yet, hints at the importance inherent in everything, even if that importance is unintentional.
Plus, the language just gives me goosebumps.

[Scheherazade]

To me, it speaks of the power of imagination, the fluidity of meaning and reality, and yet, hints at the importance inherent in everything, even if that importance is unintentional.

Very interesting! Even though I agree with you its emphasis on the fluidity of meaning, I am not sure about the latter that the everything is inherently important. To me, the poem is pointing the other way round... That things we attach great importance today are not likely to be so in future; that they will melt into each other to form a part of a bigger picture and lose their seeming importance of the present... And that we maybe should not lose our heads concentrating on the moment.

[Hyacinth Girl]

Very interesting! Even though I agree with you its emphasis on the fluidity of meaning, I am not sure about the latter that the everything is inherently important. To me, the poem is pointing the other way round... That things we attach great importance today are not likely to be so in future; that they will melt into each other to form a part of a bigger picture and lose their seeming importance of the present... And that we maybe should not lose our heads concentrating on the moment.

I agree that that the poem demonstrates how the actions of the present blend into the greater picture of the future.
My reading of present actions containing untold meaning arises from the first stanza:

This present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
a sign of something long since lost.

The present will become myth - to me, that means that the present will become part of a tradition with meaning layered upon meaning throught time. The everyday will become epic, and what seems insignificant at present will take on meaning in the future.
The bell, at present, seems nothing more than an accident of fate. It tolls, but for no particular reason, yet in the future recasting, it will have great signinficance: "a sign of something long since lost".
In the end, all these layers of meaning combine in an undefined constellation of existence that bears resemblance to the truth, but also creates space for interpretation and creation

[Scheherazade]

Thank you very much for replying, Hyacinth. I am really under the spell of this poem - been turning it in my head since yesterday - and it is wonderful to be able to discuss it with someone

The present will become myth - to me, that means that the present will become part of a tradition with meaning layered upon meaning throught time. The everyday will become epic, and what seems insignificant at present will take on meaning in the future.

It seems like the word 'myth' is saying different things to each of us. To me, it does not signal something epic but a 'mere story';something you hear of but never sure of; sometimes you know they are made up stories (like Greek Mythology - true, epic elements here but we know that they are imaginary stories) or sometimes you can never be sure they are really true (like urban myths).

So, the present events, no matter how tragic they are, will fade in time, losing their seeming importance and melting in the greater picture. So much so that we will have a hard time to remember whether they have really happened or they have been just a figment of our imagination.

The bell, at present, seems nothing more than an accident of fate. It tolls, but for no particular reason, yet in the future recasting, it will have great signinficance: "a sign of something long since lost".

Here, I thought the bell tolling was not accidental but, on the contrary, is quite significant. It is annoucing something tragic, something effecting us deeply (a death maybe?) but, the persona in the poem is suggesting that once the present turns into a myth, even the bells tolling will not seem so important; they will not sound so tragic anymore but just remind something lost long ago.

In the end, all these layers of meaning combine in an undefined constellation of existence that bears resemblance to the truth, but also creates space for interpretation and creation

Yes, all these present incidents (even tragedies) will melt and merge into something greater in future but I have to admit that I am still not comfortable with the last stanza, especially with the way the poem ends and would like to hear your detailed interpretation.

[Nightwalk]

The Jewels

My darling was naked, and, knowing my heart, she had kept on only her sounding jewels, whose rich array gave her the all-conquering look that the slaves of the Moors have in their happier times.

When, as it moves, it throws out its sharp, mocking sound, that glittering world of metal and stone ravishes me into ecstasy, and I love to distraction things where sound is mingled with light.

She was lying there, then, and letting herself be loved, and from her vantage point on the couch she smiled happily at my love, deep and gentle as the sea, as it rose towards her as if to its cliff.

Her eyes fixed on me like a tamed tiger's, with a dreamy, vague look she tried out new poses, and the combination of candour and lubricity lent a new charm to her various shapes;

And her arm and her leg, and her thigh and her hips, smooth as oil, undulating like a swan, passed before my eyes, all-seeing and serene; and her belly and her breasts, those clusters of my vine,

Thrust forward, more tempting than the Angels of evil, to trouble the state of rest my soul had entered, and to displace it from the crystal rock where, calm and alone, it had seated itself.

I felt I was seeing, by some new device, the haunches of Antiope joined to the torso of a beardless youth, so strongly did her waist set off her pelvis. On that wild, brown skin the make-up was wonderful!

-And the lamp having died down at last, as the fire alone lit up the chamber, every time it heaved a flaming sigh, it flooded with blood that amber-coloured skin.

- Charles Baudelaire ( 1821 - 1867 )

Translation from the French by Carol Clark

[Hyacinth Girl]

Thank you very much for replying, Hyacinth. I am really under the spell of this poem - been turning it in my head since yesterday - and it is wonderful to be able to discuss it with someone
. . . I am still not comfortable with the last stanza, especially with the way the poem ends and would like to hear your detailed interpretation.

My apologies for the delay - I don't have access to the computer on the weekends. For me, the final stanza sums up the first two. It posits a future in which the speaker and companion will trace the outline of their lives, the "present tragedy" (which, by the by, I interpret as not being tragic in the sense of any catastrophe, but as ending in death rather than a marriage for comic mode). It will be reimagined/reinterpreted through the 'mist" of time and experience. The use of "constellation" in the previous stanza informs the final one. . . just as the Greeks found the outline of mythic figures in the stars, so too, do the speaker and companion find their myth in the heavens, and the constellation they create is no less arbitrary than that of the Greek astronomers. . . . and it is also fraught with as much meaning as its predecessors.
I like the idea of "the faint fusion of two bodies, breaking into light" - it gives me a sense of two becoming one to form light=knowledge=truth=illumination= divine inspiration. The lives found in the stars speak truth,. It also brings to mind the Sistine Chapel, with the fusion of God and Adam's fingertips creating a point of light, or if you are of a more pop culture bent, ET and the boy touching fingertips.