Poem of the Day

[firefangled]

For a man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost. . . . Not til we are lost . . . do we begin to find ourselves.”
—Thoreau, Walden


Kind Sir: This is an old game
that we played when we were eight and ten.
Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine,
in late August, when the cold fog blew in
off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell
and grandfather’s cottage grew white and strange.
It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole
we did not know; as if day had rearranged
into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick
to turn around once and know you were lost;
knowing the crow’s horn was crying in the dark,
knowing that supper would never come, that the coast’s
cry of doom from that far away bell buoy’s bell
said your nursemaid is gone. O Mademoiselle,
the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead.
Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head.

....

-Anne Sexton, To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960)

[quasimodo1]

Untitled, Tamerlane and Other Poems, 1827
Untitled
by Edgar Allan Poe


The happiest day — the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride, and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween
But they have vanish'd long alas!
The visions of my youth have been —
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me —
Be still my spirit.

The happiest day — the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see — have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feel — have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd, with the pain
Ev'n then I felt — that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing wall dark alloy
And as it flutter'd — fell
An essence — powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.


-The End-







"[The Happiest Day]", North American (Baltimore), Sept. 15, 1827
(Original.)
by Edgar Allan Poe


The happiest day — the happiest hour,
My sear'd and blighted heart has known,
The brightest glance of pride and power


I feel hath flown —

Of power, said I? Yes, such I ween —
But it has vanish'd — long alas!
The visions of my youth have been —

But let them pass. —

And pride! what have I now with thee?
Another brow may e'en inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me:

Be still my spirit.

The smile of love — soft friendship's charm —
Bright hope itself has fled at last,
'T will ne'er again my bosom warm—

'Tis ever past.

The happiest day, — the happiest hour,
Mine eyes shall see, — have ever seen, —
The brightest glance of pride and power,

I feel has been. W. H. P.
-The End-


["W. H. P." are the initials of Edgar's brother, William Henry Leonard Poe, usually called Henry. As this version of the poem appeared only a few months after the abortive publication of Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), it is presumed that they are a revision of Edgar's verses rather than the other way around. T. O Mabbott felt that the rather tepid value of the modifications suggests that they were made by Henry, though perhaps with Edgar's approval.]

[A photographic facsimile of this printing was included by Hervey Allen and T. O. Mabbott in Poe's Brother, New York: George H. Doran Company, 1926, p. 43.]

[The full title of the newspaper was North American, or Weekly Journal of Politics, Science and Literature. ] (notes from: http://www.eapoe.org/)


{this posting is a direct result of a statement made in the "what is a good poem" thread saying, in paraphrase, I wish we could go back to the day and style of E.A.Poe}

[quasimodo1]

"Married people often look that way"—
"seldom and cold, up and down,
mixed and malarial
with a good day and a bad."
"When do we feed?"
We occidentals are so unemotional,
we quarrel as we feed;
self lost, the irony preserved
in "the Ahasuerus tête-à-tête banquet,
with its small orchids like snakes' tongues,
with its "good monster, lead the way,"
with little laughter
and munificence of humour
in that quixotic atmosphere of frankness...................
{excerpt from Marianne Moore's poem, "Marriage"}

[quasimodo1]

AN ALPHABET OF FAMOUS GOOPS.
Which you 'll Regard with Yells and Whoops.
Futile Acumen!
For you Yourselves are Doubtless Dupes
Of Failings Such as Mar these Groups --
We all are Human!

1 ABEDNEGO was Meek and Mild; he Softly Spoke, he Sweetly Smiled.
2 He never Called his Playmates Names, and he was Good in Running Games;
3 But he was Often in Disgrace because he had a Dirty Face!

4 BOHUNKUS would Take Off his Hat, and Bow and Smile, and Things like That.
5 His Face and Hair were Always Neat, and when he Played he did not Cheat;
6 But Oh! what Awful Words he Said, when it was Time to Go to Bed!

7 The Gentle CEPHAS tried his Best to Please his Friends with Merry Jest;
8 He tried to Help Them, when he Could, for CEPHAS, he was Very Good;
9 And Yet -- They Say he Used to Cry, and Once or Twice he Told a Lie!

10 DANIEL and DAGO were a Pair who Acted Kindly Everywhere;
11 They studied Hard, as Good as Gold, they Always did as They were Told;
12 They Never Put on Silly Airs, but They Took Things that were Not Theirs.

13 EZEKIEL, so his Parents said, just Simply Loved to Go to Bed;
14 He was as Quiet as could Be whenever there were Folks to Tea;
15 And yet, he had a Little Way of Grumbling, when he should Obey.

16 When FESTUS was but Four Years Old his Parents Seldom had to Scold;
17 They never Called him 'FESTUS DON'T!' he Never Whined and said 'I Won't!'
18 Yet it was Sad to See him Dine. His Table Manners were Not Fine.

19 GAMALIEL took Peculiar Pride in Making Others Satisfied.
20 One Time I asked him for his Head. 'Why, Certainly! GAMALIEL Said.
21 He was Too Generous, in Fact. But Bravery he Wholly Lacked.

22 HAZAEL was (at Least he Said he Was) Exceedingly Well Bred;
23 Forbidden Sweets he would not Touch, though he might Want them very Much.
24 But Oh, Imagination Fails to quite Describe his Finger Nails!

25 How Interesting ISAAC Seemed! He never Fibbed, he Seldom Screamed;
26 His Company was Quite a Treat to all the Children on the Street;
27 But Nurse has Told me of his Wrath when he was Made to Take a Bath!

28 Oh, Think of JONAH when you 're Bad; Think what a Happy Way he had
29 Of Saying 'Thank You! -- 'If you Please' -- 'Excuse Me, Sir,' and Words like These.
30 Still, he was Human, like Us All. His Muddy Footprints Tracked the Hall.

31 Just fancy KADESH for a Name! Yet he was Clever All the Same;
32 He knew Arithmetic, at Four, as Well as Boys of Nine or More!
33 But I Prefer far Duller Boys, who do Not Make such Awful Noise!

34 Oh, Laugh at LABAN, if you Will, but he was Brave when he was Ill.
35 When he was Ill, he was so Brave he Swallowed All his Mother Gave!
36 But Somehow, She could never Tell why he was Worse when he was Well!

37 If MICAH's Mother Told him 'No' he Made but Little of his Woe;
38 He Always Answered, 'Yes, I'll Try!' for MICAH Thought it Wrong to Cry.
39 Yet he was Always Asking Questions and Making quite Ill-timed Suggestions.

40 I Fancy NICODEMUS Knew as Much as I, or even You;
41 He was Too Careful, I am Sure, to Scratch or Soil the Furniture;
42 He never Squirmed, he never Squalled; he Never Came when he was Called!

43 Some think that OBADIAH'S Charm was that he Never Tried to Harm
44 Dumb Animals in any Way, though Some are Cruel when they Play.
45 But though he was so Sweet and Kind, his Mother found him Slow to Mind.

46 When PELEG had a Penny Earned, to Share it with his Friends he Yearned.
47 And if he Bought a Juicy Fig, his Sister's Half was Very Big!
48 Had he not Hated to Forgive, he would have been Too Good to Live!

49 When QUARTO'S brother QUARTO Hit, was QUARTO Angry? Not a Bit!
50 He Called the Blow a Little Joke, and so Affectionately Spoke,
51 That Everybody Loved the Lad. Yet Oh, What Selfish Ways he had!

{A to Q of this "Alphabet..........." by Gelett Burgess}

[quasimodo1]

AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR
(For Aline)

Now by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should dance
Walk weary and laborious ways?
But rays from Heaven, white and whole,
May penetrate the gloom of earth;
And tears but nourish, in your soul,
The glory of celestial mirth.
The darts of toil and sorrow, sent
Against your peaceful beauty, are
As foolish and as impotent
As winds that blow against a star.

[firefangled]

The Dove in the Belly

The whole of appearance is a toy. For this,
The dove in the belly builds his nest and coos,

Selah, tempestuous bird. How is it that
The rives shine and hold their mirrors up,

.........................................

[Virgil]

I've never seen that Stevens poem before, Fire. What a marvelous poem. Like most Stevens poems I can't quite grasp it, but the language is wonderful.

[firefangled]

I've never seen that Stevens poem before, Fire. What a marvelous poem. Like most Stevens poems I can't quite grasp it, but the language is wonderful.

I know what you mean. I have read it I don't know how many times and I still don't have my head around it completely.

With Stevens, a part of me does not want to get him completely. it is the beauty of his poems. One his obsession was the imagination and I seem to understand his poems the way I understand human imagination - not quite totally. It is somewhat like the Mona Lisa and her smile, an eternal mystery and better for it. Some things understanding diminishes, don't you think?

The Poems of Our Climate by Bloom, Words Chosen Out of Desire, Parts of a World, and, of course, The Necessary Angel, all helped me to not understand him better.

Stevens said, "The poem must resist the intelligence/Almost successfully." I have always thought him one of the greatest masters to have done that so well so often.

Do you remember the struggle of the main characters in Close Encounters of the Third Kind to understand the iconic image of the Devils Tower? Roy kept saying to himself, "This means something." That's how I feel about Stevens and it is frustrating and soothing at the same time.

[quasimodo1]

To Firefangled:With Stevens, "a part of me does not want to get him completely. it is the beauty of his poems. One his obsession was the imagination and I seem to understand his poems the way I understand human imagination - not quite totally. It is somewhat like the Mona Lisa and her smile, an eternal mystery and better for it. Some things understanding diminishes, don't you think?" This view of Stevens, elegantly stated by you, is common with readers of his poetry. I think you ought know nothing of the authors history before you read his/her work. Someone once told me to never read introductions or prefaces before you read the poem or novel; then read those parts. quasimodo1

[firefangled]

FROM Girl Without Hands

Walking through the ruins
on your way to work
that do not look like ruins
with the sunlight pouring over
the seen world
like hail or melted
silver, that bright
and magnificent, each leaf
and stone quickened and specific in it,
and you can't hold it,
you can't hold any of it. Distance surrounds you,
marked out by the ends of your arms
when they are stretched to their fullest.
You can walk no further than this,
you think, walking forward,
pushing the distance in front of you
like a metal cart on wheels
with its barriers and horizontals.

....

© 1995 by Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House, Houghton Mifflin Company

[Virgil]

That is a haunting poem, Firef. I enjoyed it very much. Thanks.

[firefangled]

That is a haunting poem, Firef. I enjoyed it very much. Thanks.

It's one of my favorite by Atwood. Her inspiration, I think, was a Grimm's Fairytale of the same name.

I also love "Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing."

[firefangled]

partial posting

Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing

The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

....

[quasimodo1]

Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather's house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather's house away!
We would not stop for doll or top,
for 'tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood-
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose,
as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood.
with a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark and the children hark,
as we go jingling by.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, “Ting a ling ding!”
Hurray for Thanskgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood-
no matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get the sleigh upset
into a bank of snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all, and play snowball
and stay as long as we can.

Over the river, and through the wood,
trot fast my dapple gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!
For 'tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood
and straight through the barnyard gate.
We seem to go extremely slow-
it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his paw with a loud bow-wow,
and thus the news he tells.

Over the river, and through the wood-
when Grandmother sees us come,
She will say, “O, dear, the children are here,
bring pie for everyone.”

Over the river, and through the wood-
now Grandmothers cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!



_ { by Lydia Maria Child, published 1844} __________________________________________________ _____________

[quasimodo1]

. . . The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning, to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in the statue devil;--Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously tranferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and, then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it. (Moby-Dick, Chapter 41)

--Herman Melville