— Charles Simic, Hotel Insomnia
This chair was once a student of Euclid.
The book of his laws lay on its seat.
The schoolhouse windows were open,
So the wind turned the pages
Whispering the glorious proofs.
The sun set over the golden roofs.
Everywhere the shadows lengthened,
But Euclid kept quiet about that.
ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD
Lo -- to the battle-ground of Life,
Child, you have come, like a conquering shout,
Out of a struggle -- into strife;
Out of a darkness -- into doubt.
Girt with the fragile armor of Youth,
Child, you must ride into endless wars,
With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth,
And a banner of love to sweep the stars. . . .
About you the world's despair will surge;
Into defeat you must plunge and grope --
Be to the faltering, an urge;
Be to the hopeless years, a hope!
Be to the darkened world a flame;
Be to its unconcern a blow --
For out of its pain and tumult you came,
And into its tumult and pain you go.
The Independent ......... Louis Untermeyer {published 1913}
Last edited by quasimodo1; 10-08-2007 at 02:14 AM. Reason: date
Quasimodo you are certainly doing an excellent job of keeping the poetry discussions going... almost single-handedly. I think a lot of potential posters might have gotten scared off... especially from the contemporary poetry thread... due to the limitations imposed upon them by the administrators. Considering the obscene awards and fines that the music and film industry have been slamming violators of intellectual property rights with it is probably not ridiculous to fear book publishers will be next. Nevertheless... I just thought I'd throw Thomas Traherne in here... cross posted from the 100 Books You Never Heard of thread:
Thomas Traherne- Selected Poems and Prose
http://www.amazon.com/Traherne-Selec...1977700&sr=1-6
Traherne is one of the great religious poetic visionaries... a marvelous precursor to William Blake, but unfortunately far too little known. He lived 1637-1674... but his writings were not first discovered until the very end of the 19th century and the author was not identified and the works published until the early 20th century. As recently as 1967 another volume of his work was dramatically rescued from a burning garbage dump in London. This work, the Commentaries of Heaven was not identified as being by Traherne until 1982 and had not yet been edited or published at the time of the publication of this Penguin volume. To this sad history one must also add the fact that Traherne was poorly served by his literary executor... his brother... who made a shambles (mutilation?) of his attempts at editing Traherne's work in order to make them more fit for the staid religious audience he imagined. Luckily, a good body of these works also exist in Traherne's own original autograph.
Trahernes writings include poems and poetic prose that recalls nothing so much as Blake or Novalis. His poetic structures are incredibly varied and avoid traditional form. Whether this was intentional or simply due to the fact that he was little aware of poetic traditions is unknown. In a manner also similar to Blake his poems often appear upon first reading to convey a child-like innocence or naïvety which grows in depth upon subsequent readings:
Wonder
HOW like an Angel came I down!
How bright are all things here!
When first among His works I did appear
O how their glory me did crown!
The world resembled His Eternity, 5
In which my soul did walk;
And every thing that I did see
Did with me talk.
The skies in their magnificence,
The lively, lovely air, 10
Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair!
The stars did entertain my sense,
And all the works of God, so bright and pure,
So rich and great did seem,
As if they ever must endure 15
In my esteem.
A native health and innocence
Within my bones did grow,
And while my God did all his Glories show,
I felt a vigour in my sense 20
That was all Spirit. I within did flow
With seas of life, like wine;
I nothing in the world did know
But ’twas divine.
Harsh ragged objects were concealed, 25
Oppressions, tears and cries,
Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes
Were hid, and only things revealed
Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize.
The state of Innocence 30
And bliss, not trades and poverties,
Did fill my sense.
The streets were paved with golden stones,
The boys and girls were mine,
Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! 35
The sons of men were holy ones,
In joy and beauty they appeared to me,
And every thing which here I found,
While like an Angel I did see,
Adorned the ground. 40
Rich diamond and pearl and gold
In every place was seen;
Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green,
Mine eyes did everywhere behold.
Great wonders clothed with glory did appear, 45
Amazement was my bliss,
That and my wealth was everywhere;
No joy to this!
Cursed and devised proprieties,
With envy, avarice 50
And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise,
Flew from the splendour of mine eyes,
And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds,
I dreamed not aught of those,
But wandered over all men’s grounds, 55
And found repose.
Proprieties themselves were mine,
And hedges ornaments;
Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents
Did not divide my joys, but all combine. 60
Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed
My joys by others worn:
For me they all to wear them seemed
When I was born.
In spite of the beauty of his poetry, his prose work, Centuries of Meditations is commonly thought of as his masterwork. This visionary and poetic bit of prose reminds me not only of William Blake and the great German Romantic, Novalis, but also of the ecstatic and declaratory manner of Walt Whitman:
1. An empty book is like an infant's soul, in which anything may be written. It is capable of all things... I have a mind to fill this with profitable wonders...
2. Do not wonder that I promise to fill it with those truths you love but know not: for tho it be a maxim in the schools, that there is no love of a thing unknown: yet I have found, that the things unknown have a secret influence on the soul...
3. I will open my mouth in parables: I will utter things that have been kept secret from the foundations of the world. Things strange, yet common; incredible, yet known; most high, yet plain; infinitely profitable, but not esteemed. Is it not a great thing that you should be heir of the world?...
4. I will not by the noise of bloody wars and the dethroning of kings advance you to glory; but by the gentle ways of peace and love... Yet shall the end be so glorious that angels durst not hope for so great a one til they had seen it.
15. ...Souls are God's jewels. Every one of which is worth many worlds... So that I alone am the end of the world. Angels and men being all mine... God gave me alone to all the world, and all the world to me alone.
Beware of the man with just one book. -Ovid
The man who doesn't read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them.- Mark Twain
My Blog: Of Delicious Recoil
http://stlukesguild.tumblr.com/
IN PRAISE OF WRITING LETTERS
Blest be the Man! his Memory at least,
Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast,
And taught succeeding Times an easy way
Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey;
To baffle Absence, and secure Delight,
Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight.
The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu,
The less'ning Distance past, then loss of View,
The Friend was gone, which some kind Moments gave,
And Absence separated, like the Grave.
The Wings of Love were tender too, till then
No Quill, thence pull'd, was shap'd into a Pen,
To send in Paper-sheets, from Town to Town,
Words smooth was they, and softer than his Down.
O'er such he reign'd, whom Neighborhood had join'd,
And hopt, from Bough to Bough, supported by the Wind.
When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch sent,
The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went,
A wealthy Equipage, tho' grave and slow;
But not a Line, that might the Lover shew.
The Rings and Bracelets woo'd her Hands and Arms;
But had she known of melting Words, the Charms
That under secret Seals in Ambush lie,
To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye,
The Fair Assyrian had not took this Guide,
Nor her soft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty'd.
Had these Conveyances been then in Date,
Joseph had known his wretched Father's State,
Before a Famine, which his Life pursues,
Had sent his other Sons, to tell the News.
Oh! might I live to see an Art arise,
As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes;
That the dark Pow'rs of distance cou'd subdue,
And make me See, as well as Talk to You;
That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove
Bars to my Sight, and shadows to my Love!
Yet were it granted, such unbounded Things
Are wand'ring Wishes, born on Phancy's Wings,
They'd stretch themselves beyond this happy Case,
And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace.
{by Anne Kingsmill Finch, 1661-1720}
Congratulations to Charles Simic, our new Poet Laureate!
He is one of my favorite poets.
THE PROGRESS OF POETRY
The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:
And hardly waddles forth, to cool
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the Door;
For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.
But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren Common strays,
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare:
Her Body light, she tries her Wings,
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,
While all the Parish, as she flies,
Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.
Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay,
(The third Night's Profits of his Play
His Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill,
Among his Brethren of the Quill:
With good Roast Beef his Belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:
Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight,
What Poet e'er could take his Flight?
Or stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,
What Poet e'er could sing a Note?
Nor Pegasus could bear the Load,
Along the high celestial Road;
The Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth,
To raise the Lumber from the Earth.
But, view him in another Scene,
When all his Drink is Hippocrene,
His Money spent, his Patrons fail,
His Credit out for Cheese and Ale;
His Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare,
Through ev'ry Thread it lets in Air;
With hungry Meals his Body pin'd,
His Guts and Belly full of Wind;
And, like a Jockey for a Race,
His Flesh brought down to Flying-Case:
Now his exalted Spirit loaths
Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths;
And up he rises like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.
.................................................. .................................................. .... {by Jonathan Swift, 11667-1745)
Hey Quasimodo, this is an excellent thread. Saw the Zen poems and thought I'd contribute with some Haikus.
What lives in the lake
filled with a blue
that has no name?
kimiko itami
Muffled in white breath-
voice of the
heart.
koko kato
May, come quick!
the earth at the horse's hooves
has fallen in.
kiyoko uda
And here's one I wrote:
Self-possessed black rose
Veiled in velvety darkness
Like a young widow
karo
FIVE PRECEPTS ON HAPPINESS
1
Though your friends and family
will likely try
to save you from it,
yours is nobody else’s
business or responsibility.
2
You cannot cause,
manufacture or manipulate it.
It comes, if at all,
as gift to be received
with gratitude.
3
Hope to receive it
and prepare by giving away
what you least want to lose.
On this point
Jesus and Buddha dance.
4
Refuse to carry the burden
of maintaining it.
That’s unnecessary baggage,
will betroth you
to a boulder and a hill.
{excerpt from Bonnie Thurston's poem}
INSOMNIA
Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit's wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love's new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.
{by Dante Gabriel Rossetti}
Poetry April 26, 2007
by Isabella Whitney
Will and Testament
A communication which the Author had to London, before she made her Will.
1 The time is come I must departe
2 from thee, ah, famous Citie:
3 I never yet, to rue my smart,
4 did finde that thou hadst pitie,
5 Wherefore small cause ther is, that I
6 should greeve from thee to go:
7 But many Women foolyshly,
8 lyke me, and other moe.
9 Doe such a fyxed fancy set,
10 on those which least desarve,
11 That long it is ere wit we get,
12 away from them to swarve,
13 But tyme with pittie oft wyl tel
14 to those that wil her try:
15 Whether it best be more to mell,
16 or vtterly defye.
17 And now hath time me put in mind,
18 of thy great cruelnes:
19 That never once a help wold finde,
20 to ease me in distres.
21 Thou never yet woldst credit geve
22 to boord me for a yeare:
23 Nor with Apparell me releve
24 except thou payed weare.
25 No, no, thou never didst me good,
26 nor ever wilt, I know:
27 Yet am I in no angry moode,
28 but wyll, or ere I goe,
29 In perfect love and charytie
30 my Testament here write:
31 And leave to thee such Treasurye,
32 as I in it recyte.
33 Now stand a side and geve me leave
34 to write my latest Wyll:
35 And see that none you do deceave,
36 of that I leave them tyl.
The maner of her Wyll, and what she left to London: and to all those in it: at her departing.
37 I whole in body, and in minde,
38 but very weake in Purse:
39 Doo make, and write my Testament
40 for feare it wyll be wurse.
41 And fyrst I wholy doo commend,
42 my Soule and Body eke:
43 To God the Father and the Son,
44 so long as I can speake.
45 And after speach: my Soule to hym,
46 and Body to the Grave:
47 Tyll time that all shall rise agayne,
48 their Judgement for to have.
49 And then I hope they both shal meete.
50 to dwell for aye in ioye:
51 Whereas I trust to see my Friends
52 releast, from all annoy.
53 Thus have you heard touching my soule,
54 and body what I meane:
55 I trust you all wyll witnes beare,
56 I have a stedfast brayne.
57 And now let mee dispose such things,
58 as I shal leave behinde:
59 That those which shall receave the same,
60 may know my wylling minde.
61 I firste of all to London leave
62 because I there was bred:
63 Braue buildyngs rare, of Churches store,
64 and Pauls to the head.
65 Betweene the same: fayre streats there bee,
66 and people goodly store:
67 Because their keeping craveth cost,
68 I yet wil leave him more.
69 First for their foode, I Butchers leave,
70 that every day shall kyll:
71 By Thames you shal have Brewers store,
72 and Bakers at your wyll.
73 And such as orders doo obserue,
74 and eat fish thrice a weeke:
75 I leave two Streets, full fraught therwith,
76 they neede not farre to seeke.
77 Watlyng Streete, and Canwyck streete,
78 I full of Wollen leave:
79 And Linnen store in Friday streete,
80 if they mee not deceave.
81 And those which are of callyng such,
82 that costlier they require:
83 I Mercers leave, with silke so rich,
84 as any would desyre.
85 In Cheape of them, they store shal finde
86 and likewise in that streete:
87 I Goldsmithes leave, with Iuels such,
88 as are for Ladies meete.
89 And Plate to furnysh Cubbards with,
90 full braue there shall you finde:
91 With Purle of Siluer and of Golde,
92 to satisfye your minde.
93 With Hoods, Bungraces, Hats or Caps,
94 such store are in that streete:
95 As if on ton side you should misse
96 the tother serues you feete.
97 For Nets of every kynd of sort,
98 I leave within the pawne:
99 French Ruffes, high Purles, Gorgets and Sleeves
100 of any kind of Lawne.
101 For Purse or Kniues, for Combe or Glasse,
102 or any needeful knacke
103 I by the Stoks have left a Boy,
104 wil aske you what you lack.
105 I Hose doo leave in Birchin Lane,
106 of any kynd of syse:
107 For Women stitchte, for men both Trunks
108 and those of Gascoyne gise.
109 Bootes, Shoes or Pantables good store,
110 Saint Martins hath for you:
111 In Cornwall, there I leave you Beds,
112 and all that longs thereto.
113 For Women shall you Taylors have,
114 by Bow, the chiefest dwel:
115 In every Lane you some shall finde,
116 can doo indifferent well.
117 And for the men, few Streetes or Lanes,
118 but Bodymakers bee:
119 And such as make the sweeping Cloakes,
120 with Gardes beneth the Knee.
121 Artyllery at Temple Bar,
122 and Dagges at Tower hyll:
123 Swords and Bucklers of the best,
124 are nye the Fleete vntyll.
125 Now when thy Folke are fed and clad
126 with such as I have namde:
127 For daynty mouthes, and stomacks weake
128 some Iunckets must be framde.
129 Wherfore I Poticaries leave,
130 with Banquets in their Shop:
131 Phisicians also for the sicke,
132 Diseases for to stop.
133 Some Roysters styll, must bide in thee,
134 and such as cut it out:
135 That with the guiltlesse quarel wyl,
136 to let their blood about.
137 For them I cunning Surgions leave,
138 some Playsters to apply.
139 That Ruffians may not styll be hangde,
140 nor quiet persons dye.
141 For Salt, Otemeale, Candles, Sope,
142 or what you els doo want:
143 In many places, Shops are full,
144 I left you nothing scant.
145 Yf they that keepe what I you leave,
146 aske Mony: when they sell it:
147 At Mint, there is such store, it is
148 vnpossible to tell it.
149 At Stiliarde store of Wines there bee,
150 your dulled mindes to glad:
151 And handsome men, that must not wed
152 except they leave their trade.
153 They oft shal seeke for proper Gyrles,
154 and some perhaps shall fynde:
155 (That neede compels, or lucre lures
156 to satisfye their mind.)
157 And neare the same, I houses leave,
158 for people to repayre:
159 To bathe themselues, so to preuent
160 infection of the ayre.
161 On Saturdayes I wish that those,
162 which all the weeke doo drug:
163 Shall thyther trudge, to trim them vp
164 on Sondayes to looke smug.
165 Yf any other thing be lackt
166 in thee, I wysh them looke:
167 For there it is: I little brought
168 but nothyng from thee tooke.
169 Now for the people in thee left,
170 I have done as I may:
171 And that the poore, when I am gone,
172 have cause for me to pray.
173 I wyll to prisons portions leave,
174 what though but very small:
175 Yet that they may remember me,
176 occasion be it shall:
177 And fyrst the Counter they shal have,
178 least they should go to wrack:
179 Some Coggers, and some honest men,
180 that Sergantes draw a back.
181 And such as Friends wyl not them bayle,
182 whose coyne is very thin:
183 For them I leave a certayne hole,
184 and little ease within.
185 The Newgate once a Monthe shal have
186 a sessions for his share:
187 Least being heapt, Infection might
188 procure a further care.
189 And at those sessions some shal skape,
190 with burning nere the Thumb:
191 And afterward to beg their fees,
192 tyll they have got the some.
193 And such whose deedes deserueth death,
194 and twelue have found the same:
195 They shall be drawne vp Holborne hill,
196 to come to further shame:
197 Well, yet to such I leave a Nag
198 shal soone their sorowes cease:
199 For he shal either breake their necks
200 or gallop from the preace.
201 The Fleete, not in their circuit is,
202 yet if I geve him nought:
203 It might procure his curse, ere I
204 unto the ground be brought.
205 Wherfore I leave some Papist olde
206 to vnder prop his roofe:
207 And to the poore within the same,
208 a Boxe for their behoofe.
209 What makes you standers by to smile.
210 and laugh so in your sleeve:
211 I thinke it is, because that I
212 to Ludgate nothing geve.
213 I am not now in case to lye,
214 here is no place of iest:
215 I dyd reserve, that for my selfe,
216 yf I my health possest.
217 And ever came in credit so
218 a debtor for to bee.
219 When dayes of paiment did approch,
220 I thither ment to flee.
221 To shroude my selfe amongst the rest,
222 that chuse to dye in debt:
223 Rather then any Creditor,
224 should money from them get.
225 Yet cause I feele my selfe so weake
226 that none mee credit dare:
227 I heere reuoke: and doo it leave,
228 some Banckrupts to his share.
229 To all the Bookebinders by Paulles
230 because I lyke their Arte:
231 They e'ry weeke shal mony have,
232 when they from Bookes departe.
233 Amongst them all, my Printer must,
234 have somwhat to his share:
235 I wyll my Friends these Bookes to bye
236 of him, with other ware.
237 For Maydens poore, I Widdoers ritch,
238 do leave, that oft shall dote:
239 And by that meanes shal mary them,
240 to set the Girles aflote.
241 And wealthy Widdowes wil I leave,
242 to help yong Gentylmen:
243 Which when you have, in any case
244 be courteous to them then:
245 And see their Plate and Iewells eake
246 may not be mard with rust.
247 Nor let their Bags too long be full,
248 for feare that they doo burst.
249 To e'ry Gate vnder the walles,
250 that compas thee about:
251 I Fruit wives leave to entertayne
252 such as come in and out.
253 To Smithfeelde I must something leave
254 my Parents there did dwell:
255 So carelesse for to be of it,
256 none wolde accompt it well.
257 Wherfore it thrice a weeke shall have,
258 of Horse and neat good store,
259 And in his Spitle, blynd and lame,
260 to dwell for evermore.
261 And Bedlem must not be forgot,
262 for that was oft my walke:
263 I people there too many leave,
264 that out of tune doo talke.
265 At Bridewel there shal Bedelles be,
266 and Matrones that shal styll
267 See Chalke wel chopt, and spinning plyde,
268 and turning of the Mill.
269 For such as cannot quiet bee,
270 but striue for House or Land:
271 At Th' innes of Court, I Lawyers leave
272 to take their cause in hand.
273 And also leave I at ech Inne
274 of Court, or Chauncerye:
275 Of Gentylmen, a youthfull roote,
276 full of Actiuytie:
277 For whom I store of Bookes have left,
278 at each Bookebinders stall:
279 And parte of all that London hath
280 to furnish them withall.
281 And when they are with study cloyd:
282 to recreate theyr minde:
283 Of Tennis Courts, of dauncing Scooles,
284 and fence they store shal finde.
285 And every Sonday at the least,
286 I leave to make them sport.
287 In diuers places Players, that
288 of wonders shall reporte.
289 Now London have I (for thy sake)
290 within thee, and without:
291 As coms into my memory,
292 dispearsed round about
293 Such needfull thinges, as they should have
294 heere left now unto thee:
295 When I am gon, with consience,
296 let them dispearced bee.
297 And though I nothing named have,
298 to bury mee withall:
299 Consider that aboue the ground,
300 annoyance bee I shall.
301 And let me have a shrowding Sheete
302 to couer mee from shame:
303 And in obliuyon bury mee
304 and never more mee name.
305 Ringings nor other Ceremonies,
306 vse you not for cost:
307 Nor at my buriall, make no feast,
308 your mony were but lost.
309 Reioyce in God that I am gon,
310 out of this vale so vile.
311 And that of ech thing, left such store,
312 as may your wants exile.
313 I make thee sole executor, because
314 I lou'de thee best.
315 And thee I put in trust, to geve
316 the goodes unto the rest.
317 Because thou shalt a helper neede,
318 In this so great a chardge,
319 I wysh good Fortune, be thy guide, least
320 thou shouldst run at lardge.
321 The happy dayes and quiet times,
322 they both her Seruants bee.
323 Which well wyll serue to fetch and bring,
324 such things as neede to t
325 Wherfore (good London) not refuse,
326 for helper her to take:
327 Thus being weake and wery both
328 an end heere wyll I make.
329 To all that aske what end I made,
330 and how I went away:
331 Thou answer maist like those which heere,
332 no longer tary may.
333 And unto all that wysh mee well,
334 or rue that I am gon:
335 Doo me comend, and bid them cease
336 my absence for to mone.
337 And tell them further, if they wolde,
338 my presence styll have had:
339 They should have sought to mend my luck;
340 which ever was too bad.
341 So fare thou well a thousand times,
342 God sheelde thee from thy foe:
343 And styll make thee victorious,
344 of those that seeke thy woe.
345 And (though I am perswade) that I
346 shall never more thee see:
347 Yet to the last, I shal not cease
348 to wish much good to thee.
349 This, xx. of October I,
350 in ANNO DOMINI:
351 A Thousand: v. hundred seuenty three
352 as Alminacks descry.
353 Did write this Wyll with mine owne hand
354 and it to London gaue:
355 In witnes of the standers by,
356 whose names yf you wyll have.
357 Paper, Pen and Standish were:
358 at that same present by:
359 With Time, who promised to reveale,
360 so fast as she could hye
361 The same: least of my nearer kyn,
362 for any thing should vary:
363 So finally I make an end
364 no longer can I tary.
{reprinted in the Antlantic Monthy}
THE METEORITE
Among the hills a meteorite
Lies huge; and moss has overgrown,
And wind and rain with touches light
Made soft, the contours of the stone.
Thus easily can Earth digest
A cinder of sidereal fire,
And make her translunary guest
The native of an English shire.
Nor is it strange these wanderers
Find in her lap their fitting place,
For every particle that's hers
Came at the first from outer space.
All that is Earth has once been sky;
Down from the sun of old she came,
Or from some star that travelled by
Too close to his entangling flame.
{excerpt from this poem by C. S. Lewis}
Juan Ramon Jimenez
Into the infinite white,
snow, spice-plants, and salt he took
his imagination, and left it.
The color white is walking
over a silent carpet
made of the feathers of a dove.
With no eyes or geatures
it takes in a dream without moving.
But it trembles inside.
In the infinite white
his imagination left
such a pure and deep wound!
In the infinite white.
Snow, Spice-Plants. Salt
Last edited by firefangled; 10-20-2007 at 04:39 PM.
To firefangled: Thanks for your fine post; wish more members would add bits of poetry that they are familiar with and would seem "neglected" in the larger sense. quasi
I wish I brought more to this thread, Quasi. It is good to see poets that we maybe don't hear of as often. I have seen some post for poets I never heard of.Originally Posted by quasimodo1
Thanks for starting the thread.
MNEMOSYNE
IT'S autumn in the country I remember.
How warm a wind blew here about the ways!
And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber
During the long sun-sweetened summer-days.
It's cold abroad the country I remember.
The swallows veering skimmed the golden grain
At midday with a wing aslant and limber;
And yellow cattle browsed upon the plain.
It's empty down the country I remember.
I had a sister lovely in my sight:
Her hair was dark, her eyes were very sombre;
We sang together in the woods at night.
It's lonely in the country I remember.
The babble of our children fills my ears,
And on our hearth I stare the perished ember
To flames that show all starry thro' my tears.
It's dark about the country I remember.
There are the mountains where I lived. The path
Is slushed with cattle-tracks and fallen timber,
The stumps are twisted by the tempests' wrath.
But that I knew these places are my own,
I'd ask how came such wretchedness to cumber
The earth, and I to people it alone.
It rains across the country I remember.
by Trumbull Stickney {The Titan goddess of memory and the inventor of words, daughter of Uranus and Gaea. She is one of the three elder Muses.......origin of MNEMOSYNE}
Last edited by quasimodo1; 10-23-2007 at 08:30 PM.
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