Ode to the Lemon -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar :

(Poem #1701) Ode to the Lemon From blossoms released by the moonlight, from an aroma of exasperated love, steeped in fragrance, yellowness drifted from the lemon tree, and from its planetarium lemons descended to the earth. Tender yield! The coasts, the markets glowed with light, with unrefined gold; we opened two halves of a miracle, congealed acid trickled from the hemispheres of a star, the most intense liqueur of nature, unique, vivid, concentrated, born of the cool, fresh lemon, of its fragrant house, its acid, secret symmetry. Knives sliced a small cathedral in the lemon, the concealed apse, opened, revealed acid stained glass, drops oozed topaz, altars, cool architecture. So, when you hold the hemisphere of a cut lemon above your plate, you spill a universe of gold, a yellow goblet of miracles, a fragrant nipple of the earth's breast, a ray of light that was made fruit, the minute fire of a planet. -- Pablo Neruda

The imagery is exquisite. Neruda is my favorite poet, but I only just
stumbled upon his collection of odes
(http://sunsite.dcc.uchile.cl/chile/misc/odas.html) and was pleasantly
surprised to note his versatility. A master of expression of human emotions,
he brings to life the most mundanely inanimate of things.

Neha.

The Darkling Thrush -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem sent in by Neha Kumar

(Poem #977) The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. -- Thomas Hardy

      (31 December, 1900)

Note: Originally titled "By the Century's Deathbed"

We did this poem in high school, before the turn of the century, and I
recall how we spent quite a bit of time discussing the date the poem was
written. Apparently, at that time it was understood that the 19th century
turned to the 20th on 1st January 1901 (rightly so).

Anyway, here's some additional information for those interested:

"... to commemorate the occasion, Hardy composed a poem originally titled
"By the Century's Deathbed" which was published under that name in the
Graphic on 19 December 1900. It later was renamed "The Darkling Thrush", and
has been published under that title ever since. It is considered by many to
be one of Hardy's finest poems. It is included in his 1901 collection titled
Poems of the Past and the Present, and, though written several weeks
earlier, is dated 31 December 1900.

The year 1900 was not kind to Thomas Hardy. His marriage to Emma had become
strained; she sat in her upper room writing letters and dabbling in poetry;
he sat alone in his Max Gate study writing letters and serious poetry.
Sickness in Emma's family had caused her to be absent from Max Gate for
prolonged periods, upsetting the daily routine so important to Hardy. Two of
Emma's cousins had been resident at Max Gate for several weeks, another
upsetting anxiety in his domestic life.

Thus, at year's end, as the 19th century drew its last breaths, Hardy
composed his thoughts at that time. He portrays a wistfully gloomy, wintry
world, "as fervourless as I". Yet, within that colorless scene, a thrush
sings a joyful, hopeful carol. This is classic Hardy: always hoping for the
best even within the context of a conviction of the worst."

have a great new year!
neha

The More Loving One -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar:

(Poem #618) The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. -- W H Auden

There's a certain satisfaction in being able to confront this situation, and
still go on -- to find a meaning in our lives that comes, not from the outer
universe, but from within ourselves. The poet would much rather be "the more
loving one" than the one to show indifference to those that love. Perhaps it
is the notion of being able to govern one's own emotions independently of
others' towards us that leads him to feel this way. And yet, there is a
comfort in knowing that, regardless of the absence of mutual love and
admiration, everything in nature approaches that point of equilibrium where
indifference is matched by indifference, love by love.

In the first stanza, the predominant theme is of indifference. We know the
stars to be incapable of feeling or expressing any kind of emotion towards
us, but that indifference is insignificant if compared to the several
concerns that plague us in our relationships with other creatures of the
earth. And yet, as he says in the next stanza, what if the stars did love us
passionately and we were unable to reciprocate? It is the failiarity of the
poet with the pain of unrequited love that leads him to desire being "the
more loving one". After all, we rarely wish for others to be afflicted with
the same pain and anguish we ourselves recognize to be unbearable.

Perhaps the last two stanzas are a means of consolation for the poet, as he
realizes (or wishes himself to realize) the fact that however deeply he
might admire and love the stars that care little about him, were he to lose
them, time would play its role as the great healer and he would eventually
learn to go on living without them.

I think the imagery of the stars is especially beautiful in that it serves
to emphasize the notion of distance/separation that characterizes unrequited
love. No matter how much love he may feel, the poet realizes that he could
never quite lessen this separation and acquire the love of the one he loves,
and thus resigns himself to wait indefinitely for time to heal his wounds.

Neha.

The Professor -- Nissim Ezekiel

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar:

(Poem #579) The Professor Remember me? I am Professor Sheth. Once I taught you geography. Now I am retired, though my health is good. My wife died some years back. By God's grace, all my children Are well settled in life. One is Sales Manager, One is Bank Manager, Both have cars. Other also doing well, though not so well. Every family must have black sheep. Sarala and Tarala are married, Their husbands are very nice boys. You won't believe but I have eleven grandchildren. How many issues you have? Three? That is good. These are days of family planning. I am not against. We have to change with times. Whole world is changing. In India also We are keeping up. Our progress is progressing. Old values are going, new values are coming. Everything is happening with leaps and bounds. I am going out rarely, now and then Only, this is price of old age But my health is O.K. Usual aches and pains. No diabetes, no blood pressure, no heart attack. This is because of sound habits in youth. How is your health keeping? Nicely? I am happy for that. This year I am sixty-nine and hope to score a century. You were so thin, like stick, Now you are man of weight and consequence. That is good joke. If you are coming again this side by chance, Visit please my humble residence also. I am living just on opposite house's backside. -- Nissim Ezekiel

As in the last Ezekiel poem [1], most of you will note the predominant usage
of  'Indian English', and the following extended quote says much about how
he came to write this way:

N.E.: "It all started as a comment by a friend who said that you write in
English no doubt and you write English well but you don't seem to even know
or realise that thousands of Indians speak what can only be called Indian
English, because you only meet people who are learning English Literature.
So I said yes, it's true I have never thought in terms of writing what you
call Indian English. I have just thought it was bad English or wrong English
and ignored it. He said no, no, no, you must listen to it. So from that time
in all my train journeys from Mithibai College back home, I began to take
some interest in the way English was being spoken on the train. Every time I
heard an obvious Indian English phrase like, "I'm not knowing only", I would
take it down. When I had about a thousand of these, I thought now is the
time to create a character, who will speak Indian English from beginning to
end. A situation has to be created, you have to think of all those things.
So several hours would pass before finally the poem would begin and perhaps
come to an end. Then it had to be revised and cut down and the emphasis
would be on the Indian English that the character speaks. So naturally one
wouldn't write a hundred Indian English poems either so if I would total
them up, they would come to about six or seven. I think or maybe ten
perhaps."

In this poem in particular he describes a conversation between a professor
and a student of his whom he is meeting after a long time. The setting is
such that the poet is seemingly effortlessly able to describe this very
typical conversation between student and teacher in the Indian English he is
so famous for.

To an aged man in his late sixties, retired, these are the things that
matter - sons that are doing well, the one that isn't! Daughters married and
well-settled. Grandchildren. There's the typical health talk of how he's
doing well and is spared from the most typical ailments of blood pressure,
diabetes etc. Then there is mention of the times that are a-changing, simply
a must when it comes to this age group of 'retired intellectuals'. The
generation gap is also kind of indicated by the difference in the number of
'issues' (I've never heard that term used anyplace else!).

It didn't have to be a professor as the subject of this poem, and perhaps
that had something to do with Ezekiel's having been an (English) professor
himself. (Though I can only guess about that!)

As far as the theme of the poem goes, there is clearly a coming together of
the old and the new. The style with which Ezekiel describes this, however,
leaves a far greater impact on the reader's mind than the content itself.
The choice of the rhyming names 'Sarala and Tarala', of the respectable,
well-paying managerial positions... As simple an addition as 'Both have
cars' goes a long way towards expressing the mentality of the professor,
quite a typically Indian mentality for his age and position in society. Also
note how the only questions he asks are how many children his student has
and how his health is keeping! And I just love the way he cracks the joke
about being thin vs. weight :), then adding "That is good joke." :) :)

About the language and the terms used, Ezekiel is been excessively generous
with his use of the present continuous, but that is his style of using
Indian English in his poetry. As is the complete omission of articles...
also mentioned in the commentary to 'The Patriot' [1].  But Thomas wrote in
such detail about his style, I guess I can omit that bit here.

Neha.

[1] poem #516

If you were coming in the fall -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar:

(Poem #529) If you were coming in the fall If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting. -- Emily Dickinson

While going over the Dickinson poems in the Minstrels archive I found this one
missing... it's one of my favorites from all of her works, I guess mostly for
its simple expression of undying, though unrequited, love.

Compared to most of her works, this poem is quite simply written, easy to
understand and easy to appreciate. I think it especially beautiful for how
effortlessly and effectively it captures the sands of time: ".. wind the months
in balls", "If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand". This tone of
hope of the poem undergoes a change to one of despair in the key (last) stanza,
where the agony that remained successfully hidden in the rest of the poem is
finally expressed.

The style spelt out Dickinson to me, but I couldn't think of anything to say on
that. I thought it would be nice to see this on the mailing list. Dickinson
doesn't seem to be too popular there and I think that's a shame, for of the
roughly 1800 poems that she did write, there are a few that I feel are worth a
read still, to say the very least... I thought the above was one. And I remember
when we did Dickinson's works in High School, this one was introduced to us as
one of her best few and it was fun explicating it!

Neha.

PS. Van Diemen's Land - now Tasmania.