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Showing posts with label Submitted by: Anustup Datta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Submitted by: Anustup Datta. Show all posts

Octopusses -- Simon Goodway

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta
(Poem #1428) Octopusses
 I don't know what the fuss is,
 Cooking's easy if you try.
 Just take two octopusses
 And you've got an octopi.
-- Simon Goodway
By rights, Nash should have written this. I had never heard of Simon Goodway
before I stumbled onto this little gem, and I still don't know anything
about him, but anyone who can bake an octopi out of octopusses in four lines
surely knows a thing or two about poetry. This bit of whimsy ranks way up
there with the best of Hein and Dahl - and as I had mentally promised myself
that this review should not exceed the poem, that's it. Just run it on a day
when you feel bluer than the sky.

Regards
Anustup

[Martin adds]

Don't worry, I'm not feeling blue - just thought I'd run it :)

Nash has (unsurprisingly) done something vaguely similar - see Poem #848.
And on octopi, Steven Pinker has this to say: "The -us in octopus is not the
Latin noun ending that switches to the -i in the plural, but the Greek pous
(foot). The etymologically defensible octopodes is not an improvement".

If You Forget Me -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta who writes:

Aseem's poem [Poem #1409] reminded me of Joni Mitchell's voice and the way it
sparkles like a dry white wine in a crysal goblet, so I had to go back and
listen to River again after a long time. Coincidentally, I was reading Neruda's
poetry just yesterday, and I came across this gem, which I don't think we have
run -
(Poem #1410) If You Forget Me
 I want you to know
 one thing.

 You know how this is:
 if I look
 at the crystal moon, at the red branch
 of the slow autumn at my window,
 if I touch
 near the fire
 the impalpable ash
 or the wrinkled body of the log,
 everything carries me to you,
 as if everything that exists:
 aromas, light, metals,
 were little boats that sail
 toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

 Well, now,
 if little by little you stop loving me
 I shall stop loving you little by little.

 If suddenly
 you forget me
 do not look for me,
 for I shall already have forgotten you.

 If you think it long and mad,
 the wind of banners
 that passes through my life,
 and you decide
 to leave me at the shore
 of the heart where I have roots,
 remember
 that on that day,
 at that hour,
 I shall lift my arms
 and my roots will set off
 to seek another land.

 But
 if each day,
 each hour,
 you feel that you are destined for me
 with implacable sweetness,
 if each day a flower
 climbs up to your lips to seek me,
 ah my love, ah my own,
 in me all that fire is repeated,
 in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
 my love feeds on your love, beloved,
 and as long as you live it will be in your arms
 without leaving mine.
-- Pablo Neruda
        (translated by Donald S. Walsh)

This is vintage Neruda - with all the passion and fickleness of desire. The
underlying melancholy is beautifully brought out by the conversational style
(a la Mir Taqi Mir) - the conceit could have been metaphysical had it not
been for the pain inherent in every verse. This is love that is hurting,
that has been hurt in the past, and yet is open to being hurt again. There
is surrender (and renunciation), but how different from, for instance,
Juliet's youthful optimism in surrender -

        "Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
        If that thy bent of love be honourable,
        Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
        By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
        Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
        And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
        And follow thee my lord throughout the world."

            - Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II.

A really moving poem, the more for being tender and unpretentious. I think
Madonna recites this in the "Il Postino" soundtrack, incidentally.

For those who care about things like the original Spanish, here it is -

        "Si Tu Me Olvidas"
        By Pablo Neruda

        Quiero que sepas
        una cosa.

        Tú sabes cómo es esto:
        si miro
        la luna de cristal, la rama roja
        del lento otoño en mi ventana,
        si toco
        junto al fuego
        la impalpable ceniza
        o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
        todo me lleva a ti,
        como si todo lo que existe:
        aromas, luz, metales,
        fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
        hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

        Ahora bien,
        si poco a poco dejas de quererme
        dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

        Si de pronto
        me olvidas
        no me busques,
        que ya te habré olvidado.

        Si consideras largo y loco
        el viento de banderas
        que pasa por mi vida
        y te decides
        a dejarme a la orilla
        del corazón en que tengo raíces,
        piensa
        que en esa día,
        a esa hora
        levantaré los brazos
        y saldrán mis raíces
        a buscar otra tierra.

        Pero
        si cada día,
        cada hora,
        sientes que a mí estás destinada
        con dulzura implacable,
        si cada día sube
        una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
        ay amor mío, ay mía,
        en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
        en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
        mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
        y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
        sin salir de los míos.

Regards
Anustup

As the poets have mournfully sung -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #1403) As the poets have mournfully sung
 As the poets have mournfully sung,
 Death takes the innocent young,
        The rolling-in-money,
        The screamingly-funny,
 And those who are very well hung.
-- W H Auden
Haven't contributed something for ages, so thought I would. Came across
this oft-quoted gem while re-reading Auden, and it seemed to resonate
with my current cheerful frame of mind, so here it is. Don't think we
have run it on the group before.

As Thomas has pointed out before, Auden has a curious knack of being
just right at times - of finding just the right word or phrase that
illuminates the idea blindingly. Sometimes, this gives his work a rather
trite feel, like someone who uses his power with the language to play
around with superficial concepts. More often, though, one is simply awed
by the craftsmanship of a truly instinctive poet. Here, for instance, he
uses the somewhat farcical tone of a limerick to explore the human
condition and the death penalty that we are born with. The 'mournful'
poets mentioned in the first line number many - but the lines it reminds
me most of belong to the Rubaiyat -

  The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
  Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
  Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
  Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

        -- Omar Khayyam
        tr. Edward FitzGerald
        Minstrels Poem #545

The same essential idea, differently and delightfully expressed.

Anustup.

[Minstrels Links]

W. H. Auden:
Poem #50, In Memory of W. B. Yeats
Poem #68, Musee des Beaux Arts
Poem #256, Funeral Blues
Poem #307, Lay your sleeping head, my love
Poem #371, O What Is That Sound
Poem #386, The Unknown Citizen
Poem #427, The Two
Poem #491, Roman Wall Blues
Poem #494, The Fall of Rome
Poem #618, The More Loving One
Poem #677, Villanelle
Poem #708, Five Songs - II
Poem #728, from The Dog Beneath the Skin
Poem #762, Miranda
Poem #868, Partition
Poem #889,  September 1, 1939
Poem #895,  August 1968
Poem #913, In Time of War, XII
Poem #1038, Epitaph on a Tyrant
Poem #1082, Under Which Lyre
Poem #1281, Night Mail
Poem #1298, Miss Gee

There is a detailed biography of Auden attached to Poem #50 above.

Omar Khayyam:
Poem #162, Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Poem #342, Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
Poem #545, The Moving Finger Writes; and, Having Writ
Poem #654, Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai
Poem #750, Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough
Poem #1354, Ah, Love!, Could Thou and I with Fate Conspire

And finally:
Poem #587, Strugnell's Rubaiyat -- Wendy Cope

Wallace (extract) -- Blind Harry

Carrying on with the theme, a guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta
(Poem #1167) Wallace (extract)
 Of our ancestors, brave true ancient Scots,
 Whose glorious scutcheons knew no bars or blots;
 But blood untainted circled ev'ry vein,
 And ev'ry thing ignoble did disdain;
 Of such illustrious patriots and bold,
 Who stoutly did maintain our rights of old,
 Who their malicious, invet'rate foes,
 With sword in hand, did gallantly oppose:
 And in their own, and nation's just defence,
 Did briskly check the frequent insolence
 Of haughty neighbours, enemies profest,
 Picts, Danes, and Saxons, Scotland's very pest;
 Of such, I say, I'll brag and vaunt so long
 As I have power to use my pen or tongue;
 And sound their praises in such modern strain
 As suiteth best a Scot's poetic vein,
 First, here I honour, in particular,
 Sir William Wallace, much renown'd in war,
 Whose bold progenitors have long time stood,
 Of honourable and true Scottish blood.
-- Blind Harry
        (15th c., trans. William of Gilbertfield, 1722)

Note: Variously titled - everything from "Wallace" to "The Life and
Heroic Actions of the Renoun'd Sir William Wallace, General and Governor
of Scotland"

Then there is the "The Life of Sir William Wallace", which, if I'm not
mistaken was used in "Braveheart". (Today's extract is the opening lines
of the poem.)  The book became the most popular volume in Scotland after
the Bible. It inspired Burns to write "Scots Wha Hae" and Randall
Wallace also read them prior to his involvement in creating the film
"Braveheart." A modern edition of this epic poem was published in 1998.

Anustup

[Martin adds]

I was surprised I'd never heard of this; anyway, I enjoyed reading bits
and pieces of it (no, I was not about to sit and read the whole thing
through :)), and exploring some of the background behind the poem and
Blind Harry (who, if you believe all the critics, was neither).

And as an aside, it always gives me a pleasant little frisson to see,
among all the 18th century English, a startlingly modern-looking phrase
like

  So much for the brave Wallace's father's side

- it's like an interesting little linguistic tidepool hidden among the
rocks.

Links:

The whole book can be found at [broken link] http://skell.org/SKELL/blharry1.htm

An excellent discussion of 'Braveheart' and the poem:
  [broken link] http://www.unf.edu/classes/medieval/film/halsall-krossa-braveheart.htm

A biography of Blind Harry:
  http://www.bartleby.com/65/bl/BlindHar.html

And a discourse on "The Wallace" and its place in the canon:
  http://www.bartleby.com/212/0503.html

martin

Frogs -- Norman MacCaig

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta
(Poem #863) Frogs
 Frogs sit more solid
 than anything sits. In mid-leap they are
 parachutists falling
 in a free fall. They die on roads
 with arms across their chests and
 heads high.

 I love frogs that sit
 like Buddha, that fall without
 parachutes, that die
 like Italian tenors.

 Above all, I love them because,
 pursued in water, they never
 panic so much that they fail
 to make stylish triangles
 with their ballet dancer's
 legs.
-- Norman MacCaig
Absolutely delightful. I think the comparison with Italian tenors is
especially perfect - it makes you really sit up and chuckle.

Anustup.

[Links etc.]

MacCaig poems on the Minstrels:
Poem #755, Gone are the days
Poem #699, Incident

There's more about MacCaig online at
[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/william_brodie/maccaig/backgr.html
This site also has a fair collection of his poetry.

Random irrelevancies:
Poem #544, Toads -- Philip Larkin
Poem #799, Mr Toad -- Kenneth Grahame

Mariana in the Moated Grange -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #852) Mariana in the Moated Grange
 With blackest moss the flower-plots
 Were thickly crusted, one and all:
 The rusted nails fell from the knots
 That held the pear to the gable-wall.
 The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
 Unlifted was the clinking latch;
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
 Upon the lonely moated grange.
 She only said, "My life is dreary,
 He cometh not," she said;
 She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
 I would that I were dead!"

 Her tears fell with the dews at even;
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
 She could not look on the sweet heaven,
 Either at morn or eventide.
 After the flitting of the bats,
 When thickest dark did trance the sky,
 She drew her casement-curtain by,
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
   She only said, "The night is dreary,
   He cometh not," she said;
   She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
   I would that I were dead!"

 Upon the middle of the night,
 Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
 The cock sung out an hour ere light:
 From the dark fen the oxen's low
 Came to her: without hope of change,
 In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
 About the lonely moated grange.
   She only said, "The day is dreary,
   He cometh not," she said;
   She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
   I would that I were dead!"

 About a stone-cast from the wall
 A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
 And o'er it many, round and small,
 The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
 Hard by a poplar shook alway,
 All silver-green with gnarled bark:
 For leagues no other tree did mark
 The level waste, the rounding gray.
   She only said, "My life is dreary,
   He cometh not," she said;
   She said "I am aweary, aweary
   I would that I were dead!"

 And ever when the moon was low,
 And the shrill winds were up and away,
 In the white curtain, to and fro,
 She saw the gusty shadow sway.
 But when the moon was very low
 And wild winds bound within their cell,
 The shadow of the poplar fell
 Upon her bed, across her brow.
   She only said, "The night is dreary,
   He cometh not," she said;
   She said "I am aweary, aweary,
   I would that I were dead!"

 All day within the dreamy house,
 The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
 The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
 Or from the crevice peer'd about.
 Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
 Old voices called her from without.
   She only said, "My life is dreary,
   He cometh not," she said;
   She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
   I would that I were dead!"

 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound
 Which to the wooing wind aloof
 The poplar made, did all confound
 Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
 When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
 Athwart the chambers, and the day
 Was sloping toward his western bower.
   Then said she, "I am very dreary,
   He will not come," she said;
   She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
   Oh God, that I were dead!"
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Just read "Now sleeps the crimson petal ..." after a long time and
remembered what a favourite Tennyson was when I was just beginning to
discover the magic of poetry. Poetry is meant to be read aloud, and
Tennyson's melody and construction made an immediate impression at that
admittedly impressionable age - who could forget the babbling of The Brook,
or resist the delicious pathos of Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead? As a
special treat, our English teacher read aloud selections from 'Maud' - and
for days on end, the class was hypnotically chanting 'Come into the garden'
at the slightest provocation.

With critical faculties more developed in later years, one began to
understand Tennyson's failings: ultra-conservatism (what else could one
expect of a Victorian Poet Laureate?), the conscious abandonment of reason
for rhyme, and the tendency towards over-dramatisation; but one had to still
admit that his genius was far from commonplace - the perfect word at the
perfect place, the metre and the melody, and his superb creation of
'atmosphere', all add up to a wonderful audio-visual experience. In my
anthology of a hundred great poems to be read aloud, Tennyson and Walter de
la Mare would occupy the first ten slots.

I feel that Tennyson's gifts were ideal for the creation of fragments of
beauty - a scene, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a moment of wonder. He is
definitely not at his best in longer poems - take Maud, for example, which
taken as a whole is decidedly a feverish poem about an over-dramatic hero.
But there too exists snippets of almost unbearable beauty like the scene
with the flowers in the garden. Creating sustained dramatic tension and
irony was beyond Tennyson - for that one has to turn to Browning, a
contemporary at the other end of the spectrum, both difficult and obscure,
but rich with the subtlety of minute shades of human emotion and passions.

I am attaching two great Tennysons [we'll run the other one some other day -
t.] that were among the first I read at school - and they showcase his
particular talents admirably. The first is an old favourite that alludes to
Mariana in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure" - and is chiefly remarkable
for the use of language. Take the first few lines (which incidentally were
used by Professor Higgins to improve Eliza's diction) - "With blackest moss
the flower-plots were thickly crusted, one and all:, The rusted nails fell
from the knots that held the pear to the gable-wall...". How skilfully is
the picture of the lonely manor woven, and the lament of Mariana in the
final lines of each stanza provide the perfect counterpoint. It is
wonderfully tactile, you can feel the disused manor in your bones.

Anustup.

[Minstrels Links]

Tennyson:
Poem #15, The Eagle (a fragment)
Poem #31, Break, break, break
Poem #80, The Brook (excerpt)
Poem #121, Ulysses
Poem #355, Charge of the Light Brigade
Poem #653, Ring Out, Wild Bells
Poem #825, Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White

Browning:
Poem #65, Home Thoughts From Abroad
Poem #104, My Last Duchess
Poem #130, The Lost Leader
Poem #133, Song, from Pippa Passes
Poem #242, The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Poem #352, My Star
Poem #364, The Patriot
Poem #425, Memorabilia
Poem #526, A Toccata of Galuppi's
Poem #635, Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
Poem #778, Incident of the French Camp
Poem #814, Parting at Morning

de le Mare:
Poem #2, The Listeners
Poem #272, Napoleon
Poem #483, Brueghel's Winter
Poem #725, Silver

Untitled -- Bhartrihari

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #773) Untitled
 She who is always in my thoughts prefers
  Another man, and does not think of me.
 Yet he seeks for another's love, not hers;
 And some poor girl is grieving for my sake.
         Why then, the devil take
 Both her and him; and love; and her; and me.
-- Bhartrihari
In stark contrast [to e. e. cummings' love poetry - t.] is this short
quatrain (in the Sanskrit) from Bhartrihari - a man who wrote fiery love
poems in his youth and turned to the renunciation of worldly pleasures in
his old age. The theme is not new - love can be terribly confusing - but the
mode of expression is really charming and captures the frustration of the
lover perfectly. A little gem, which grows on you as you read it a second
time.

Anustup.

[Biography]

  born AD 570?, Ujjain, Malwa, India
  died 651?, Ujjain

Hindu philosopher and poet-grammarian, author of the Vakyapadiya ("Words in
a Sentence"), regarded as one of the most significant works on the
philosophy of language, earning for him a place for all time in the
sabdadvaita (word monistic) school of Indian thought.

Of noble birth, Bhartrihari was attached for a time to the court of the
Maitraka king of Valabhi (modern Vala, Gujarat), where most likely his taste
for sensuous living and material possessions was formed. Following the
example of Indian sages, he believed he must renounce the world for a higher
life. Seven times he attempted monastic living, but his attraction to women
caused him to fail each time. Though intellectually he presumably understood
the transitory nature of worldly pleasures and felt a call to yoga and
ascetic living, he was unable to control his desires. After a long
self-struggle, Bhartrihari became a yogi and lived a life of dispassion in a
cave in the vicinity of Ujjain until his death.

Bhartrihari entitled three of his works sataka ("century"): The Sringara
(love) -sataka, Niti (ethical and polity) -sataka, and Vairagya (dispassion)
-sataka. Although all three are attributed to him, only the first is
regarded as his with certainty by most scholars. In another work sometimes
attributed to Bhartrihari, the Bhatti kavya ("Poem of Bhatti"), he performs
linguistic gymnastics to demonstrate the subtleties of Sanskrit.

        -- EB

Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta
(Poem #727) Milk for the Cat
 When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
 And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
 The little black cat with bright green eyes
 Is suddenly purring there.

 At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
 She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
 But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
 She is never late.

 And presently her agate eyes
 Take a soft large milky haze,
 And her independent casual glance
 Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

 Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
 Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
 Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
 One breathing, trembling purr.

 The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
 The two old ladies stroke their silk:
 But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
 Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

 The white saucer like some full moon descends
 At last from the clouds of the table above;
 She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
 Transfigured with love.

 She nestles over the shining rim,
 Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
 Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
 Is doubled under each bending knee.

 A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
 Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
 Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
 Then she sinks back into the night,

 Draws and dips her body to heap
 Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
 Lies defeated and buried deep
 Three or four hours unconscious there.
-- Harold Monro
A very well-known poem, and probably the most popular piece of work Monro
has produced. The beauty lies in the detail and the empathetic observation.
Not a great deal to say about form here, but this is one of those poems that
you suddenly find yourself smiling about. And if you're a feline-fancier,
you're probably purring by now. It has got that indescribable feeling of
what the Teutons call gemutlichkeit, of which 'cosiness' is a hopelessly
inadequate translation.

The Columbia Encyclopaedia has this to say about Monro -

Harold Monro

  1879?1932, English poet, b. Belgium. In 1911 he founded the Poetry Review
  and the following year established the Poetry Bookshop, which became a
  refuge and intellectual center for poets. His Poetry and Drama (1913), a
  successor to the Poetry Review, was discontinued during World War I, but
  Monro reestablished it as Chapbook (1919?25). Both periodicals had great
  influence on the poetical work of the time. His own work, first published
  in 1906, includes Children of Love (1914) and Elm Angel (1930).

  Works : His Collected Poems (introd. by T. S. Eliot, 1933); J. Grant,
  Harold Monro and the Poetry Bookshop (1967).

Harold Monro was associated with the Georgian Poetry school of antebellum
England, of which the Brittanica says -

Georgian poetry

  A variety of lyrical poetry produced in the early 20th century by an
  assortment of British poets, including Lascelles Abercrombie, Hilaire
  Belloc, Edmund Charles Blunden, Rupert Brooke, William Henry Davies, Ralph
  Hodgson, John Drinkwater, James Elroy Flecker, Wilfred Wilson Gibson,
  Robert Graves, Walter de la Mare, Harold Monro (editor of The Poetry
  Review), Siegfried Sassoon, Sir J.C. Squire, and Edward Thomas. Brooke and
  Sir Edward Marsh, wishing to make new poetry accessible to a wider public,
  with Monro, Drinkwater, and Gibson, planned a series of anthologies. To
  this series they applied the name "Georgian" to suggest the opening of a
  new poetic age with the accession in 1910 of George V.

  Five volumes of Georgian Poetry, edited by Marsh, were published between
  1912 and 1922. The real gifts of Brooke, Davies, de la Mare, Blunden, and
  Hodgson should not be overlooked, but, taken as a whole, much of the
  Georgians' work was lifeless. It took inspiration from the countryside and
  nature, and in the hands of less gifted poets, the resulting poetry was
  diluted and middlebrow conventional verse of late Romantic character.
  "Georgian" came to be a pejorative term, used in a sense not intended by
  its progenitors: rooted in its period and looking backward rather than
  forward.

Regards,
Anustup

Links:

We've run one previous poem by Monro: poem #594

Last Sonnet -- John Keats

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #696) Last Sonnet
 Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
 And watching, with eternal lids apart,
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
 The moving waters at their priest-like task
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
 Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
 No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
      Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
      And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
-- John Keats
Of course, this one needs no introduction. I thought of this sonnet, which I
had read and loved in school, when reading "The more loving one" by Auden.
This is a beautiful love poem, and I agree with you that Keats is the most
"natural" poet of the language - whatever he wrote became poetry. Here, the
imagery in the octet is purely Romantic - especially "The moving waters at
their priest-like task/Of pure ablution round earth's human shores"; but the
sestet turns the focus inward and makes it beautifully tender and intimate -
the poet looking at the sleeping form of his beloved and wishing he could
capture the moment forever. Not a startlingly original emotion, nor by any
means a unique conceit, but perfectly and gracefully executed.

Anustup.

[Links]

"The More Loving One", W. H. Auden, Poem #618

Other Keats poems:

"On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer", Poem #12
"La Belle Dame Sans Merci", Poem #182
"Ode to a Nightingale", Poem #316
"Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell", Poem #33
"To Mrs Reynolds' Cat", Poem #575

Death -- Thomas Hood

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta
(Poem #672) Death
 It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
 This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
 That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
 In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
 That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
 And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;
 That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
 Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;
 It is not death to know this -- but to know
 That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
 In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
 So duly and so oft -- and when grass waves
 Over the pass'd-away, there may be then
 No resurrection in the minds of men.
-- Thomas Hood
           (1798-1845)

Found this gem while going through the Oxford Book of English Verse, edited
by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (Q to you <g>). Have not read Hood before in any
depth, but this sonnet appeared to me a really polished example of poetic
craftsmanship - not an image or a word out of place, and a wonderfully
strong metre. Death is a melancholy reflection of how the inexorable passage
of time dulls human memory - dying is complete when there is "No
resurrection in the minds of men." This could be a companion piece to
Silence, another Hood sonnet done earlier on Minstrels (Poem #513).

Regards,
Anustup

The Sniffle -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #625) The Sniffle
 In spite of her sniffle
 Isabel's chiffle.
 Some girls with a sniffle
 Would be weepy and tiffle;
 They would look awful,
 Like a rained-on waffle,
 But Isabel's chiffle
 In spite of her sniffle.
 Her nose is more red
 With a cold in her head,
 But then, to be sure,
 Her eyes are bluer.
 Some girls with a snuffle,
 Their tempers are uffle.
 But when Isabel's snivelly
 She's snivelly civilly,
 And when she's snuffly
 She's perfectly luffly.
-- Ogden Nash
There's a nasty little bug going round Bangalore and pretty wisps of lace
and cambric are everywhere ("A handkerchief, my dear, is a tissue that you
don't throw away."). If all the pretty young things sniffling around the
city were laid end-to-end, I (and Dorothy parker) wouldn't be a bit
surprised. This is a dedication to all the colds-in-the-head this flu
season, in Beantown and elsewhere.

Alert Minstrels readers will remember another Ogden Nash gem on the common
cold (Poem no. 325) - this is more whimsical, and even more delightfully,
utterly Nash-esque (Nash-ian? Nash-istic?).

Anustup.

Love Letter -- Sylvia Plath

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #612) Love Letter
 Not easy to state the change you made.
 If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
 Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
 Staying put according to habit.
 You didn't just tow me an inch, no-
 Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
 Skyward again, without hope, of course,
 Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

 That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
 Masked among black rocks as a black rock
 In the white hiatus of winter-
 Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
 In the million perfectly-chiseled
 Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
 My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
 Angels weeping over dull natures,

 But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
 Each dead head had a visor of ice.
 And I slept on like a bent finger.
 The first thing I was was sheer air
 And the locked drops rising in dew
 Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
 Dense and expressionless round about.
 I didn't know what to make of it.
 I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
 To pour myself out like a fluid
 Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

 I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
 Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
 My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
 I started to bud like a March twig:
 An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
 From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
 Now I resemble a sort of god
 Floating through the air in my soul-shift
 Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
-- Sylvia Plath
A very different sort of love poem, but great reading nevertheless. I like
the beautiful matter-of-fact way in which Plath attempts to describe the
tumultuous love of her life - as though she were a dispassionate observer
looking at the wondrous changes in herself from the outside. It is as though
her love is so intense that it would sweep away all her reason (and rhyme)
if she gave way to it. Hence the documentary style carefully repressing
emotion, which shines through doubly reinforced because of this very
restraint. The last sentence is magical:

        Now I resemble a sort of god
        Floating through the air in my soul-shift
        Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

Anustup.

The Working Party -- Siegfried Sassoon

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #535) The Working Party
 Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,
 Sliding and poising, groping with his boots;
 Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls
 With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.
 He couldn't see the man who walked in front;
 Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet
 Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing
 Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.
 Voices would grunt "Keep to your right -- make way!"
 When squeezing past some men from the front-line:
 White faces peered, puffing a point of red;
 Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks
 And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom
 Swallowed his sense of sight;  he stooped and swore
 Because a sagging wire had caught his neck.
 A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread
 And flickered upward, showing nimble rats
 And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain;
 Then the slow silver moment died in dark.
 The wind came posting by with chilly gusts
 And buffeting at the corners, piping thin.
 And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots
 Would split and crack and sing along the night,
 And shells came calmly through the drizzling air
 To burst with hollow bang below the hill.
 Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench;
 Now he will never walk that road again:
 He must be carried back, a jolting lump
 Beyond all needs of tenderness and care.
 He was a young man with a meagre wife
 And two small children in a Midland town,
 He showed their photographs to all his mates,
 And they considered him a decent chap
 Who did his work and hadn't much to say,
 And always laughed at other people's jokes
 Because he hadn't any of his own.
 That night when he was busy at his job
 Of piling bags along the parapet,
 He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet
 And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.
 He thought of getting back by half-past twelve,
 And a tot of rum to send him warm to sleep
 In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes
 Of coke, and full of snoring weary men.
 He pushed another bag along the top,
 Craning his body outward; then a flare
 Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire;
 And as he dropped his head the instant split
 His startled life with lead, and all went out.
-- Siegfried Sassoon
(one of a series of war poems submitted by Anustup; see poem #481 and
poem #503 for two previous instances; there are more to come - t.)

What can one say about these poems? Any poor words that I may construe are but
woefully inadequate beside the stark reality of these pictures of war and
suffering in the trenches. The impulse to string together some of these was
triggered by re-reading Rupert Brooke's "The Soldier" (Poem #280 on the
Minstrels) - a soulful evocation of fighting and dying for one's country. The
wistful melancholy of that poem is in sharp contrast to the dark underbelly of
war portrayed by Sassoon and Owen.

The first poem is by Sassoon, as grisly as any that Owen wrote - for instance,
one is forcibly reminded of "Dulce et Decorum est" (Poem #132 on the Minstrels).
A worthy poem for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier anywhere - far more
appropriate than "For the sake of their tomorrows". But great poetry
nevertheless - see for instance the craftsmanship of the last two lines, how
that freeze-frame of the fatal bullet is captured against the backdrop of the
flare's harsh light.

Anustup.

MCMXIV -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #502) MCMXIV
 Those long uneven lines
 Standing as patiently
 As if they were stretched outside
 The Oval or Villa Park,
 The crowns of hats, the sun
 On moustached archaic faces
 Grinning as if it were all
 An August Bank Holiday lark;
 And the shut shops, the bleached
 Established names on the sunblinds,
 The farthings and sovereigns,
 And dark-clothed children at play
 Called after kings and queens,
 The tin advertisements
 For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
 Wide open all day;
 And the countryside not caring
 The place-names all hazed over
 With flowering grasses, and fields
 Shadowing Domesday lines
 Under wheats' restless silence;
 The differently-dressed servants
 With tiny rooms in huge houses,
 The dust behind limousines;
 Never such innocence,
 Never before or since,
 As changed itself to past
 Without a word--the men
 Leaving the gardens tidy,
 The thousands of marriages
 Lasting a little while longer:
 Never such innocence again.
-- Philip Larkin
Philip Larkin is not usually counted among the so-called War Poets, and his poem
is naturally more detached, though none the less harsh and caustic for that. I
think comparing the lines of entraining soldiers (and presaging the lines of
trenches stretched across the countryside) with the ticket queues at the
Kensington or at an Aston Villa match on August Bank Holiday is absolutely
devastating in its irony. Also note the biting satire of "The thousands of
marriages/Lasting a little while longer" - never such innocence again, indeed -
the Great War destroyed all that was sweet and innocent in civilization.

Anustup.

Before Action -- W N Hodgson

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #480) Before Action
By all the glories of the day
  And the cool evening's benison,
By that last sunset touch that lay
  Upon the hills where day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
  And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
  Make me a solider, Lord.

By all of man's hopes and fears,
  And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
  And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
  With high endeavor that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
  Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
  Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
  Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
  Must say goodbye to all of this;--
By all delights that I shall miss,
  Help me to die, O Lord.
-- W N Hodgson
If there be perfection in war poetry, Hodgson's "Before Action" is it. It is,
first of all, beautiful poetry - the rhythms of the soldier's orisons are
perfectly captured. The second verse introduces the irony - subtly - all the sad
and lovely things that the romantic ages had to say about battle, valour, glory
and the ideals of high endeavour : the finale of Tennyson's "Maud" is an
excellent example. The third verse is pure despair - the last line drops like a
bombshell, but not before beguiling one with the perfect beauty of "A hundred of
Thy sunsets spill/Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice". All in all, a real gem.

Anustup.

Kipling's Vermont -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta :
(Poem #388) Kipling's Vermont
The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.
-- Ogden Nash
A wonderful vignette - almost Imagist in intensity but escaping that label
through its stylisation and sly allusion to Kipling. Appropriately, it is called
"Kipling's Vermont". Notice the satire though in the  congregationalist image,
which reminds me of Kipling's own weltanschaung in Kim -

  Oh those who tread the narrow way
  By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day
  Be gentle when the heathen pray
     To Buddha at Kamakura.

Anustup.

[thomas adds: 'The Buddha at Kamakura' can be read at poem #379]

Song -- John Donne

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta :
(Poem #384) Song
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devils foot;
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights
Till Age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return'st wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet.
Yet do not; I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three.
-- John Donne
Here is Donne at his bitterest - the disappointed lover reviles
womankind and bemoans his own fortune as well. But like all of Donne's
poetry, it is simply beautiful : read aloud the wonderful first stanza
and you would know why Tagore rated Donne the greatest lyric poet in the
English tongue.

Anustup.

PS. I have always felt that Donne's use of difficult argument, complex
metaphor and allegory was a device to control and discipline his wildly
romantic heart - he treads over-carefully like a drunk who does not
trust his own tottering footsteps.

Look, Delia, How We 'Steem the Half-blown Rose (Delia XXXIX) -- Samuel Daniel

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #375) Look, Delia, How We 'Steem the Half-blown Rose (Delia XXXIX)
  Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown Rose,
  The image of thy blush and Summer's honor,
  Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
  That pure sweet Beauty Time bestows upon her.

  No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
  But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
  She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the Fair;
  So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.

  No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
  Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;
  Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
  Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

  O let not then such riches waste in vain,
  But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.
-- Samuel Daniel
  As far as I know, we have not had any of the celebrated
"Delia" sonnets on Minstrels. I hope this - probably the
most famous, Sonnet 39 - will correct the omission. That
apart, this is probably the best carpe diem poem ever - it
balances didactic philosophy and poetic delicacy wonderfully
well. The main argument is presented as logically and
cogently as to rival any of the great metaphysical poets -
Donne at his best would not have been ashamed to be credited
for this.

Anustup.

[Biography]

  b. 1562?, Taunton, Somerset, Eng.
  d. 1619

English contemplative poet, marked in both verse and prose
by his philosophic sense of history.

Daniel entered Oxford in 1581. After publishing a
translation in 1585 for his first patron, Sir Edward Dymoke,
he secured a post with the English ambassador at Paris;
later he travelled in Italy, visiting the poet Battista
Guarini in Padua. After 1592 he lived at Lincoln in the
service of Sir Edward Dymoke, at Wilton as tutor to William
Herbert, later earl of Pembroke, and at Skipton Castle,
Yorkshire, as tutor to Lady Anne Clifford. In 1604 Queen
Anne chose him to write a masque, The Vision of the Twelve
Goddesses, in which she danced. She awarded him the right to
license plays for the boy actors at the Blackfriars Theatre
and a position as a groom, and later gentleman, of her privy
chamber.

Edmund Spenser praised Daniel for his first book of poems,
'Delia, with The Complaint of Rosamond' (1592). Daniel
published 50 sonnets in this book, and more were added in
later editions. The passing of youth and beauty is the theme
of the Complaint, a tragic monologue. In 'The Tragedie of
Cleopatra' (1594) Daniel wrote a Senecan drama. 'The Civile
Warres' (1595-1609), a verse history of the Wars of the
Roses, had some influence on Shakespeare in Richard II and
Henry IV.

Daniel's finest poem is probably 'Musophilus: Containing a
Generall Defence of Learning', dedicated to Fulke Greville.
His Poeticall Essayes (1599) also include 'A Letter from
Octavia to Marcus Antonius'. His 'Defence of Ryme',
answering Thomas Campion's 'Observations in the Art of
English Poesie', a critical essay, was published in 1603.
Fame and honour are the subjects of 'Ulisses and the Syren'
(1605) and of 'A Funerall Poeme uppon the Earle of
Devonshire' (1606). He had to defend himself against a
charge of sympathizing with the Earl of Essex in 'The
Tragedie of Philotas', acted in 1604 (published 1605). His
other masques include 'Tethys' Festival' (1610), staged with
scenery by Inigo Jones, and 'The Queene's Arcadia'
(published 1606), a pastoral tragicomedy in the Italian
fashion. Daniel's last pastoral was 'Hymen's Triumph'
(1615). He also wrote 'The Collection of the Historie of
England' (1612-18) as far as the reign of Edward III.

    -- EB

Common Cold -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta
(Poem #325) Common Cold
  Go hang yourself, you old M.D,!
  You shall not sneer at me.
  Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
  Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
  I contemplate a joy exquisite
  In not paying you for your visit.
  I did not call you to be told
  My malady is a common cold.

  By pounding brow and swollen lip;
  By fever's hot and scaly grip;
  By those two red redundant eyes
  That weep like woeful April skies;
  By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
  By handkerchief after handkerchief;
  This cold you wave away as naught
  Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

  Give ear, you scientific fossil!
  Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
  The Cold of which researchers dream,
  The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
  This honored system humbly holds
  The Super-cold to end all colds;
  The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
  The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

  Bacilli swarm within my portals
  Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
  But bred by scientists wise and hoary
  In some Olympic laboratory;
  Bacteria as large as mice,
  With feet of fire and heads of ice
  Who never interrupt for slumber
  Their stamping elephantine rumba.

  A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
  Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
  Don Juan was a budding gallant,
  And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
  The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
  And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
  Oh what a derision history holds
  For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
-- Ogden Nash
It is with a great sense of disquiet (and some surprise) that I notice that
we haven't yet covered that epitome of comic versification, Ogden Nash. I
will not trouble you with a biography of Nash, for everyone has heard of him
and read his poetry. Indeed, I consider that my first acquaintance with
comic poetry began with his delightful

  The Cobra

  The cobra's mouth is filled with venom,
  He walks upon his duodenum.
  He who attempts to tease a cobra
  Is soon a sadder he, and sobra.

It progressed through the famous and oft-anthologised "Reflections on
Ice-Breaking". His jarringly exact rhymes and biting social satire were only
matched by his delightfully human failings and wonderful whimsicality. His
celebrated brevity is exemplified in the

  Reflection On A Wicked World

  Purity
  Is obscurity.

This is the shortest poem I have ever read - may be the shortest ever
written. But the rapier thrust is ever the keener for that.

'Common Cold' is a longer and more substantial poem about a very mundane
subject. But what Nash does to it is far from common - with splendid
hypochondriac hyperbole, he elevates the everyday cold to Olympian heights.
I especially enjoy the last stanza and its withering humour - P G Wodehouse
couldn't have done it better - and calling his bacterium 'the Fuhrer of the
Streptococcracy' is nothing less than genius. I could go on - but you get
the picture.

Anustup

Juliet -- Hilaire Belloc

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta :
(Poem #315) Juliet
How did the party go in Portman Square?
I cannot tell you: Juliet was not there.

And how did Lady Gaster's party go?
Juliet was next to me and I do not know.
-- Hilaire Belloc
... I wanted to send just two poems, but came across this beauty from
Belloc, who has been covered in some detail on the group. He is not know
for romantic verse, but the current poem is memorable because of its
brevity and trenchant insight. Really liked it - don't know why I
haven't come across it earlier.

Anustup.

Aside: one of the fringe benefits of running the Minstrels is that we
get to discover lots of lovely poems (like today's little gem) which we
haven't read before. Come to think of it, that's not a fringe benefit,
that's one of the main reasons we keep the show running. That, and the
fact that it's fun to do :-)

thomas.
(And I'm sure I speak for Martin too).

[Minstrels Links]

Belloc has indeed been covered in some detail on the Minstrels; some
previous poems of his to have featured include

'October', poem #226
'Tarantella', poem #294
'The Hippopotamus', poem #124

Another Aside: You should all listen to Little Feat's song 'Juliette',
on their classic 1973 album, 'Dixie Chicken'.