Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:
(Poem #870) No worst, there is none "No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing - Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling- -ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'. O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep." |
Easily one of the darkest poems in the English language, and one of the most glorious to read aloud. I've always admired Hopkins for the way his poems almost always have drive - they flow like white water, pouring relentlessly forward with unimaginable force, dashing angrily through outthrust rocks of words so that the overall effect is of a sort of muscular grandness that I can only compare with Blake. And of all these incredible, unforgettable poems, this one is my favourite. I love the way Hopkins creates an unrelenting landscape of desolation, a twisted badlands of igneous pain that one cannot just run through, but that must be crawled through on hands and knees so that years after I first read this poem, some line or the other will pop into my head and I will experience an authentic sense of wretchedness, even when I have absolutely nothing to be wretched about. And, ironically enough, that's precisely what makes this poem so precious. Aseem. [Minstrels Links] Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poem #3, Inversnaid Poem #35, The Windhover Poem #59, To a Young Child Poem #134, Pied Beauty Poem #260, Moonrise Poem #606, God's Grandeur William Blake: Poem #26, Jerusalem Poem #66, The Tyger Poem #97, The Fly Poem #368, Auguries of Innocence Poem #546, The Sick Rose Poem #771, The Divine Image
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Anyone who has suffered from major depression will recognise these images of the precipices of the mind, the vertiginous places so frightening that consciousness longs for death or sleep to end the awareness of them. This poem expresses a suffering which all to many people know, and does it in language that invokes the experience with a visceral strength.
very obscure poem but a very enjoyable one, nobody do it like Manley and his strange metaphors.
I haven't tried it out when reading aloud. It would be nice to do. So I will try it out in the next book club.
Sounds like the possibility to travel to the past and you can reach and you desire with all your soul to fix something but is impossible.
Thanks a lot, nice poem.
Now no matter, child, the name:Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed,What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.
i dont understand this poem
This poem expresses a suffering which all to many people know, and does it in language that invokes the experience with a visceral strength.
I really liked your blog and would like to know more about the topic. Thank you for the post.
Super blog and nice to read
Hello
Excellent post.
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