Poem of the Week

[ChinaRose]

Thanks China Rose. this is one of my favorites.

This poem touched me deeply the first time I read it, and has ever since. It's a beautiful poem. It seems to me to be about a woman remembering a past (and past loves) that she can never return to, except in her dreams as she stares into the fire.
I got a little distracted
by the second stanza at first, but I think that is the point, since it's about daydreaming and reminiscing, then brought back to the poem's present reality of the fire grate, with the 'And' which continues from the end of the description in the first stanza.

The love of the man who loved the pilgrim soul in her seems to be the Moon, that 'hid his face among a crowd of stars'.

Actually, when I look at the poem I get irritated by all the 'And' s, but when I read it, the 'And's seem quite natural.

That's my reaction to it anyway. I tend to get caught by the feeling and emotions of the words when I'm reading, so I probably miss a lot.

I had the same feeling like you when I read the first stanza. But later, it seems to me that it is like a piece of music composed by violin which states the love, sad and soft...

[Silas Thorne]

There is definitely regret in there as well...regret for what could have been but never was. It's more than just beautiful word-play on love.

[dramasnot6]

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

I wish I could remember the number of the Shakespeare sonnet this reminds me of...when he too discusses the appreciation of beauty despite aging. Great Choice,CR!

[Cat_Brenners]

Nice way of putting words. I enjoyed reading this and it flows good.
Thank you for sharing.
Cat

[stlukesguild]

I wish I could remember the number of the Shakespeare sonnet this reminds me of...when he too discusses the appreciation of beauty despite aging.

Actually it echoes any number of poets who wrote poems essentially attempting to seduce the woman by suggesting that she should enjoy love now while she is young... for soon she will be old and no one will want her. One of the most famous by Robert Herrick:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

This actual poem by Yeats was specifically modeled on a poem by the French
poet, Pierre Ronsard:

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.

Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587

“When you are very old...”

When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”

Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.

I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,

regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.

tr. Anthony Weir

[latimeri]

I remain still, nice poets and nice interpretations. Knowing little or nothing about poets I will stay aside.

[rimbaud]

it's Monday so here is one of my fav poems

How Sweet I roam'd
How Sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his golden net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and play with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

W.Blake

[Scheherazade]

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

~ WH Auden

[Virgil]

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

~ WH Auden

Wow, that's a great poem! I need to read more Auden. Thanks Scher.

[Scheherazade]

Love that poem and can neither read nor hear it without tearing up.

Auden wrote it when his boyfriend passed away.

Which part is your favorite?

For me, as I finish reading each stanza, I think the last one is my favorite but the next one outdoes the previous one.

Still:

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

*sighs*

[Virgil]

I would agree with you Scher. That is the best stanza in the poem.

[Saladin]

Where Everything Is Music by Rumi

Don`t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn`t matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atomsphere,
and even if the whole world`s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can`t see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

[pjjrfan1]

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

my uncle gave me a book of english literature from his college days back in the mid 50's, that I still have, sometime in the 80's I opened it and found this poem, and I fell in love with it. I felt it was about a love that is true and pure and was lost amidst the chaos of living her life, but the love is still there and will always be there.

[nievesalvarez]

Hello,
I just read your comment.well nice comment,I am very glad with your idea for sharing this type of article or link.I am also hoping a healthy discussion and reviews for poems at the community.Thank you for sharing such a nice comment.

[Scheherazade]

Of Many Worlds in This World

Just like as in a nest of boxes round,
Degrees of sizes in each box are found:
So, in this world, may many others be
Thinner and less, and less still by degree:
Although they are not subject to our sense,
A world may be no bigger than two-pence.
Nature is curious, and such works may shape,
Which our dull senses easily escape:
For creatures, small as atoms, may there be,
If every one a creature’s figure bear.
If atoms four, a world can make, then see
What several worlds might in an ear-ring be:
For, millions of those atoms may be in
The head of one small, little, single pin.
And if thus small, then ladies may well wear
A world of worlds, as pendents in each ear.

by Margaret Cavendish

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19742