Memorabilia -- Robert Browning

Many thanks to Divya Sampath for suggesting this poem:

(Poem #425) Memorabilia Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you? And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new! But you were living before that, And you are living after, And the memory I started at-- My starting moves your laughter! I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about: For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather-- Well, I forget the rest. -- Robert Browning

Percy Shelley's been getting a fair bit of coverage on the Minstrels lately [1],
so it comes as a bit of a relief to know that I'm not alone in disliking his
verse [2].

Actually, I can't name too many parodies written by well-known poets [3] - this
is a pretty rare example of one. Maybe the originality that is the mark of any
great poet prevents him (or her) from ever writing a true parody... I don't
know.

Be that as it may, I think Browning does an excellent job of capturing the exact
tone of voice and style of imagery used by the Romantics... indeed, I must
confess that this poem (especially the last stanza) had me laughing out loud.

thomas.
(still grinning)

[1] see poem #22 for a rave, and poem #399 for a hatchet job.
[2] Not that he's a bad poet, mind you. It's just that _I_ don't like his
work. Your mileage may vary.
[3] Lewis Carroll, of course, is the exception that proves the rule.

The Moonsheep -- Christian Morgenstern

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti:

(Poem #424) The Moonsheep The moonsheep stands upon the clearing. He waits and waits to get his shearing. The moonsheep. The moonsheep plucks himself a blade returning to his alpine glade. The moonsheep. The moonsheep murmurs in his dream: 'I am the cosmos' gloomy scheme.' The moonsheep. The moonsheep, in the morn, lies dead. His flesh is white, the sun is red. The moonsheep. -- Christian Morgenstern

1920.
Translated by Max Knight.

[Personal feelings]

The first time I read this surrealistic beauty of a poem, it was about 2.30
a.m., I was almost sleepy, and was startled wide awake. I reread and reread it,
savouring its delightful couplets and the hypnotic and insistent repetitions of
its refrain.

The sudden splash of a totally unexpected image in the final couplet (the *red*
sun) strikes me almost literally, even on the nth reading.

The first read wasn't too long ago, but I suspect this is one of those poems
that will remain a gem to me, forever.

Amit.

[Genesis]

This poem is an English translation by Max Knight from the original Deutsch poem
"Das Mondschaf" by Christian Morgenstern from his famous "Galgenlieder"
("Gallows Songs"), all of which are available at this Project Gutenberg site:
   http://www.gutenberg.aol.de/morgenst/galgenli/inhalt.htm

What makes English translations of Morgenstern's poetry interesting is that HE
IS ONE OF THE STANDARD EXAMPLES OF an untranslatable poet. Is this claim true?
You decide.

[Explanation]

Morgenstern hated to 'explicate' his Galgenlieder, insisting that they had far
less hidden meaning to them than many critics were bent on reading into them.
However, when pressed hard, he occasionally would offer a crumb. In this case,
he suggested the moonsheep might be the moon itself -- first against the sky;
then vanishing behind mountains; next, a dream of grandeur, with its own
tininess filling the cosmos; and at least appearing at dawn as a pale disk.

[Bio]

1871--1914. German poet and humorist whose work ranged from the mystical and
personally lyrical to nonsense verse.  Morgenstern's international reputation
came from his nonsense verse, in which he invented words, distorted meanings of
common words by putting them into strange contexts, and dislocated sentence
structure, but always with a rational, satiric point. Volumes of nonsense verse
include Galgenlieder (1905; "Gallows Songs"); Palmström (1910), named for an
absurd character; and three volumes published posthumously: Palma Kunkel (1916),
Der Gingganz (1919), and Die Schallmühle (1928; "The Noise Mill"), all collected
in Alle Galgenlieder (1932).

The above from Encyclopædia Brittanica, of course.

Hope you liked it!

- Amit.

[Minstrels Links]

'The Midnightmouse', also from Morgenstern's Galgenlieder, at poem #252
'The Pobble who has no toes', by Edward Lear, at poem #297

The Song of Songs -- Anonymous

The first two chapters of

(Poem #423) The Song of Songs I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions? If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents. I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots. Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold. We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver. While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir. ... I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether. -- Anonymous

(Attributed to Solomon in the Old Testament; also known as the 'Song of
Solomon')
(English translation: the King James Version of the Bible, 16th century)

I've spent most of the last 5 days listening to Palestrina's choral setting of
the Song of Songs ('Cantica Canticorum', in Latin), and all I can say is, Ooh.

(Digression: Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina was a 16th century composer of
sacred music. From the CD liner notes:

'The music of Palestrina represents undoubtedly the artistic culmination of the
church music reform advocated by the Council of Trent in the age of the
Counter-Reformation... Palestrina [had unmatched] skill in the creation of a
superb correspondence between text and music, and thus [fulfilled] an urgent
demand rising out of pastoral considerations... [F]or the individual educated in
the spirit of humanism, a composition doing full justice to a text required not
only the proper choice of musical figures in accordance with the natural flow of
the text to be set - certainly this as well - but also an intellectual
pervasiveness in which language, textual content, onomatopoeic interpretation
with musical figures, rhythm and euphony were combined to create a harmonious
whole in compliance with what at that time was considered Beauty. It is this
lofty idea of harmony and beauty - for that age the best conceivable integration
of intellect and artistic form, of internal clarity and creative truth, of a
classical sense of balance and order - which is Palestrina's legacy to the
world.'

and from Brittanica:

'[Palestrina's] 29 motets based on texts from the Song of Solomon afford
numerous examples of "madrigalisms": the use of suggestive musical phrases
evoking picturesque features, apparent either to the ear or to the eye,
sometimes to both.'

Incidentally, I read elsewhere that Bach was a keen student of Palestrina's
works - not surprising, given the contexts in which they wrote music and the
many similarities in their work).

The point of this long (but interesting, don't you think?) digression is to
restate a thesis I've made previously on the Minstrels: matching lyrics to text
is _hard_. I've mentioned a few popular musicians in this regard (see the links
below), but their art cannot compare with the greats of antiquity - Mozart's
arias, Bach's cantatas, and Palestrina's masses.

For example, there's a bit in today's piece which goes 'filii matris meae
pugnaverunt contra me' ('my mother's children were angry with me' - see the
second verse above); the softness and delicate beauty of the preceding line
suddenly swells into overwhelming emotion when the singers reach the phrase
'contra me' - the effect is powerful, moving, and absolutely glorious. As I said
before, Ooh.

thomas.

PS. The poem itself? Lyrical, sensuous, and frankly erotic - gorgeous stuff.

[Minstrels Links]

poem #114, poem #287, poem #299.
 - all include short essays on the difficulties faced by lyricists (as opposed
to 'pure' poets). The first two are by myself; the third is a guest poem
submitted by Amit Chakrabarti.

We've actually covered quite a bit of popular music on the Minstrels, from
Dylan, Simon and Cohen to Willie Dixon and Richard Thompson. You can read their
work, and much much more, at the Minstrels website,
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

[Glossary]

'spikenard' - a fragrant ointment, derived from a Himalayan aromatic plant
(Nardostachys jatamansi) of the valerian family.
'the voice of the turtle' - refers to the turtledove, not the slow and steady
critter.

Sonnet XVII: Love -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by Sudha Shastri:

(Poem #422) Sonnet XVII: Love I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close. -- Pablo Neruda

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

An Italian sonnet (Petrarchan form), where the 14 lines are divided as 8
(octave) + 6 (sestet). Usually this form is characterised by a 'turn' in the
thought after the octave, but here the divide seems to be rather differently
achieved. Almost (?) ironical the way the octave elaborately labours the ways of
loving ( reminds me of 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' ) and the
sestet tersely dismisses the possibility of a successful description of the
emotion.

As for theme, well, it carries echoes and echoes from mostly Renaissance poetry.
The octave in particular reminds me of Viola's description of her love in
'Twelfth Night' - the oft-quoted 'Patience on a monument' speech.

Also, I wonder if the anaphora helps.

S Shastri.

[PS:

'Anaphora' - repetition of a word or expression at the beginning of successive
phrases, clauses, sentences, or verses especially for rhetorical or poetic
effect <Lincoln's "we cannot dedicate--we cannot
consecrate--we                      cannot hallow--this ground" is an example>

        -- Merriam-Webster, www.m-w.com

- t.]

The Jungle Husband -- Stevie Smith

(Poem #421) The Jungle Husband Dearest Evelyn, I often think of you Out with the guns in the jungle stew Yesterday I hittapotamus I put the measurements down for you but they got lost in the fuss It's not a good thing to drink out here You know, I've practically given it up dear. Tomorrow I am going alone a long way Into the jungle. It is all grey But green on top Only sometimes when a tree has fallen The sun comes down plop, it is quite appalling. You never want to go in a jungle pool In the hot sun, it would be the act of a fool Because it's always full of anacondas, Evelyn, not looking ill-fed I'll say. So no more now, from your loving husband Wilfred. -- Stevie Smith

Stevie Smith's poetry is beguilingly simple, and incredibly impossible to
imitate. It _sounds_ childlike, artless, direct; in reality, it betokens a
complete and utter originality: she's certainly one of the most distinctive
voices of the mid 20th century.

Which raises the question, why isn't she more famous? I know I like her poetry;
I like its irreverence and its whimsy and its no-holds-barred attitude to a
number of society's sacred cows. But somehow, her poems are not _quite_ there -
they fall just short of greatness. Maybe her subjects are too light; maybe her
verse is just too pithy - I don't know. Pity. But I enjoy them anyway.

thomas.

[Links]

There's a nice biography of Stevie Smith (and an essay wondering why her poetry
isn't more widely read) at [broken link] http://community.wow.net/folio/Stevie_Smith.html

'hittapotamus' is straight out of Ogden Nash (though if I remember aright,
Smith's poem predates Nash by a goodly bit). Assorted pieces of Nashery can be
found at the Minstrels website,
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html