Poem of the Week '10

[OrphanPip]

An interesting poem and I like the imagery provided.

How do you interpret these lines?

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

I just take them at face value as a description of the fox's shadow moving behind him as it moves across a clearing. I'm not sure how to take the shadow being lame, while the body is bold. It kind of imbues the fox with an ethereal quality. I get a sense that when we are first introduced to the fox, it has a very physical presence, which I think derives from that immediate description of the "now, and now, and now." It then becomes gradually more ethereal, until it is but a sensation, as it becomes a stink of fox.

[Paulclem]

An interesting poem and I like the imagery provided.

How do you interpret these lines?

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

There's an intermingling of the idea of a real fox, and inspiration . I think - as the poem is about inspiration - the prints in the snow could be the writing on the page which is complete by the end of the epiphany. His fingers are moving on a blank page.

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

The midnight moment's forest is in his imagination, but there's something else separate that enters - the fox. I think the fox is a great metaphor for inspiration - they are secretive, nocturnal - it's set at night, shy, and they don't - as Hughes has been experiencing - turn up when you want them to.

[Buh4Bee]

I think it is something that can be understood pretty literally. I understood the visual image as the path the "inspiration" takes as it is born into reality.

[Virgil]

An interesting poem and I like the imagery provided.

How do you interpret these lines?

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

I was going to respond, but then I saw Paul's response. I think he got it just right.

[LitNetIsGreat]

The midnight moment's forest is in his imagination, but there's something else separate that enters - the fox. I think the fox is a great metaphor for inspiration - they are secretive, nocturnal - it's set at night, shy, and they don't - as Hughes has been experiencing - turn up when you want them to.

Good point there, very interesting. I'm going to read a little Hughes today, I'm especially interested in his use of animal metaphors, think I'm going to read a few of the crow poems - wonder how they differ or are similar to the fox here?

[Scheherazade]

There's an intermingling of the idea of a real fox, and inspiration . I think - as the poem is about inspiration - the prints in the snow could be the writing on the page which is complete by the end of the epiphany. His fingers are moving on a blank page.

I also think the snow and prints can be a refence to the writing on a page.

Do you think "lame shadow" is his work in progress? In its "hollow body", something "bold" is developing?

[LitNetIsGreat]

Good point there, very interesting. I'm going to read a little Hughes today, I'm especially interested in his use of animal metaphors, think I'm going to read a few of the crow poems - wonder how they differ or are similar to the fox here?

Well I think that was a bit of an ambitious aim really, flicking through his collection (which I haven't looked at for a few years) his work is crammed full of animal metaphor of all description! (What's that crow all about, strange but interesting?)

Just to bring the poem back up again.

The Thought-Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

[Paulclem]

I also think the snow and prints can be a refence to the writing on a page.

Do you think "lame shadow" is his work in progress? In its "hollow body", something "bold" is developing?

It could well be - I hadn't thought of that.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

This is an interesting stanza.

Is Hughes saying something about the nature of poetic inspiration in his view? I haven't read an awful lot of his stuff, but I remember someone on a documentary saying the focus upon animals and birds has a shamanistic quality. Perhaps he means nearer - earthier than a star.

On the star - it did remind me of the star of Bethlehem. Is he saying he's a shaman rather than a follower of christ?

[Silas Thorne]

Sorry to jump in leaving questions unanswered, (though maybe that is a good thing too for poetry sometimes ) as I've decided to put a poem on here for discussion. As I'm not sure how much of it will get through the censors, here's a link to the unedited version:
http://ethnicity.rutgers.edu/~jlynch...imperfect.html

'The Imperfect Enjoyment' by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace, [5]
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. [10]
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er, [15]
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a ****.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys, [20]
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, [25]
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent. [30]
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry, [35]
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every **** reached every heart — [40]
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a **** it found or made —
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. [45]

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore [50]
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, [55]
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command, [60]
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common ****ing-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling ****
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt, [65]
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend. [70]

And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Note: Actually a lot of offensive words did get through. The stars are mostly for the C word, which is probably the most offensive single word in English today.

[Delta40]

Bravo! I really like this poem Silas. How effectively he portrays the self flogging man must give himself in more ways than one to perform when it matters to him most!

[OrphanPip]

Rochester's a funny poet. You got to love how he so effortlessly moves from that elevated classical tone into the vulgarity of self-chastisement, it emphasizes that disappointment so very much.

Aphra Behn wrote a poem of similar topic but from the women's perspective, http://www.poetry-archive.com/b/the_disappointment.html

[Silas Thorne]

Rochester's a funny poet. You got to love how he so effortlessly moves from that elevated classical tone into the vulgarity of self-chastisement, it emphasizes that disappointment so very much.

Aphra Behn wrote a poem of similar topic but from the women's perspective, http://www.poetry-archive.com/b/the_disappointment.html

I didn't know about the Aphra Behn one. Thanks!

But he doesn't just chastise himself does he? Though the speaker turns himself into no more than a static sex-toy in his own mind he also turns all the prostitutes he has been with into filthy pigs, abusing and dehumanising them in the process (lines 63-5).

I love how he personifies little John though.

[Virgil]

Now I need to go take a cold shower.

[Silas Thorne]

I've always admired the beauty of the presentation of his words in the first two stanzas here, and the vehemence of his abuse later on in the poem.
I feel that that 'cinder' and 'flame' in line 33 reminds me of Shakespeare's sonnet 73 a little.
Any more thoughts?

[Virgil]

I'm not familiar with this poet and poem Silas. Where is he from and when was this written?