The Look -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #937) The Look Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day. -- Sara Teasdale

A delicately beautiful little poem - I love both the central image, and the
light, sure touch with which Teasdale develops it. And, as usual with
Teasdale's poetry, the combination of quietness and power, both masked by an
apparent simplicity, is nothing short of impressive.

There is, however (and unusually enough that I wonder if I'm misscanning the
poem), a slight roughness to the seventh line - I keep wanting to insert an
'oh,' after the 'but' to restore the regular iambic pattern. Comments?

Links:

 Biography: See Poem #113

 Teasdale poems on Minstrels:
   Poem #464, "Central Park at Dusk"
   Poem #113, "Morning"
   Poem #223, "There Will Come Soft Rains"
   Poem #430, "Wild Asters"

-martin

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part (Idea: LXI) -- Michael Drayton

(Poem #936) Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part (Idea: LXI) Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, Nay, I have done: you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. -- Michael Drayton

 Source: the "Idea" sonnets, LXI (published 1619; date of composition
unknown).
 Form: Shakespearean sonnet.
 Metre: 14 lines of iambic pentameter.
 Rhyme: ababcdcd efefgg.

   Like "Citizen Kane", or "Pet Sounds", today's poem springs from a happy
confluence of time, chance and circumstance. Masterpieces like this are not
written every day, nor even every decade; the alignment of planets that
produced today's sonnet is nothing short of miraculous. Witness: without
this poem, Michael Drayton would be just another obscure Renaissance poet,
of interest only to academics and enthusiasts. With its writing, however,
his immortality was assured. "Since there's no help" is the peer of anything
Shakespeare ever wrote; indeed, the peer of any sonnet ever written.

   The poem is magnificent. The phrasing is perfect, evenly balanced between
sincere simplicity and high-flown rhetoric. The same effortless balance
extends to the subject material, which bridges the personifications and
apostrophes of the Pastoral with the passion and directness of Elizabethan
love poetry. There's even a hint of the Metaphysicals in the elaboration of
one theme (the deaths of Love, Passion, Faith and Innocence) and its
subsequent (almost paradoxical) inversion in the couplet [1].

thomas.

[1] This inversion reminds me of Millay's wonderful sonnet "Love Is Not
All", Minstrels Poem #860.

[Links]
  There's a Michael Drayton biography at Luminarium:
  http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/draybio.htm

[Assessment]

   The only other Elizabethan of high poetic rank, apart from Shakespeare,
who prominently associated himself with the sonneteering movement, was
Michael Drayton. In one effort, Drayton reached the highest level of poetic
feeling and expression. His familiar quatorzain opening "Since there 's no
help, come let us kiss and part" is the one sonnet by a contemporary which
deserves to rank with some of Shakespeare's best. It is curious to note that
Drayton's triumphant poem was first printed in 1619, just a quarter of a
century after he first sought the suffrages of the Elizabethan public as a
sonneteer. The editio princeps of his sonnet-sequence, called Ideas Mirrour:
Amours in Quatorzains, included fifty-two sonnets, and was reprinted no less
than eight times, with much revision, omission and addition, before the
final version came forth in 1619.
   Drayton's sonneteering labours constitute a microcosm of the whole
sonneteering movement in Elizabethan England. He borrows ideas and speech
from all available sources at home and abroad. Yet, like many contemporary
offenders, he deprecates the charge that he is "a thief" of the "wit" of
Petrarch or Desportes. With equal vigour of language he disclaims
pretensions to tell the story of his own heart:
     Into these loves who but for passion looks:
     At this first sight, here let him lay them by!
     And seek elsewhere in turning other books,
     Which better may his labour satisfy.
   For the most part, Drayton is a sonneteer on the normal Elizabethan
pattern, and his sonnets are rarely distinguished by poetic elevation.
Occasionally, a thin rivulet of natural sentiment winds its way through the
fantastic conceits which his wide reading suggests to him. But only in his
famous sonnet did his genius find in that poetic form full scope.

        -- Sidney Lee, "The Cambridge History of English and American
Literature"
        http://www.bartleby.com/213/1212.html

[Links]
  Lemuel Whitaker, "The Sonnets of Michael Drayton"
  http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/whitaker.htm

[Minstrels Links]

William Shakespeare's sonnets:
Poem #44, My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun (Sonnets CXXX)
Poem #71, Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? (Sonnets XVIII)
Poem #219, Full many a glorious morning have I seen (Sonnets XXXIII)
Poem #363, Let me not to the marriage of true minds (Sonnet CXVI)
Poem #808, Not From The Stars Do I My Judgment Pluck (Sonnets XIV)

Works by other Renaissance poets:
Poem #565, Now Winter Nights Enlarge -- Thomas Campion
Poem #328, from The Faerie Queen  -- Edmund Spenser
Poem #75, The face that launch'd a thousand ships  -- Christopher Marlowe
Poem #506, Lament for Zenocrate  -- Christopher Marlowe

An excellent web resource: http://www.luminarium.org/renlit

The Lobster Quadrille -- Lewis Carroll

(Poem #935) The Lobster Quadrille "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle - will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance - Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France - Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" -- Lewis Carroll

Note: A parody of Mary Howitt's "The Spider and the Fly"

Today's poem is another of those wonderful pieces that practically sing
themselves. Of course, this is due in part to the fact that Howitt's
original has picked up an associated melody that naturally attaches itself
to Carroll's parody too, but even without taking that into consideration,
Caroll's words and rhythms have a musicality that far improves upon "The
Spider and the Fly".

The poem is also a lovely example of Carroll's rather whimsical sense of
humour - the images are not just funny but delightfully individual. Less
clear is why he picked on Howitt - most of the other parodies in Alice
target poems that by their sheer sententiousness are 'asking for it'.
Perhaps it was Howitt's annoying addition of a moral to the tale, or
perhaps, for once, he just liked the rhythm of the piece :)

Links:

  Biography: [broken link] http://65.107.211.206/victorian/carroll/carrollbio.html

  "The Spider and the Fly": http://ingeb.org/songs/thespide.html

  A list of Carroll's parodies (incomplete - today's poem is one of the
  omissions):
    [broken link] http://home.earthlink.net/~lfdean/carroll/parody/

  The Poets' Corner parody index:
    [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/SubjIdx/parodies.html

  Carroll on Minstrels:
    Poem #52, "Jabberwocky"
    Poem #265, "The Mad Gardener's Song"
    Poem #347, "The Walrus and the Carpenter"
    Poem #409, "Poeta Fit, Non Nascitur"
    Poem #600, "The Mouse's Tale"

-martin

Blackberry-picking -- Seamus Heaney

Guest poem submitted by Aamir Ansari:

(Poem #934) Blackberry-picking Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. -- Seamus Heaney

In a lecture given to students at Oxford University, Seamus Heaney compared
the writing of poetry to the creation of a labyrinth, one that mirrors the
gruesome contortions our own world assumes at times. The difference is,
however, that the poet's labyrinth, the poem, has the power to restore us,
to reset the balance.

Heaney displays those restorative powers wonderfully in this poem. The
arrival of joy and the subsequent convulsive preparations to capture every
last drop of it ("...with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots") are honest to the
rich sensations of childhood experience. The poem itself is laden with
strange rich fruit, sweet clammy experience ready to be tasted and stored.
This, finally, is art true to life.

Aamir.

[Minstrels Links]

Poems by Seamus Heaney:
Poem #61, Song
Poem #883, Personal Helicon
Poem #934, Blackberry-picking

Poems on related topics:
Poem #827, Strawberries -- Edwin Morgan
Poem #274, This Is Just To Say  -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #377, Loveliest of trees, the cherry now  -- A. E. Housman
Poem #430, Wild Asters  -- Sara Teasdale
Poem #417, Thistles  -- Ted Hughes
Poem #63, Daffodils  -- William Wordsworth

Mother's Little Helper -- Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti, the
final one in his guest theme:

(Poem #933) Mother's Little Helper What a drag it is getting old! "Kids are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Mother needs something today to calm her down. And though she's not really ill There's a little yellow pill She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day. "Things are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Cooking fresh food for a husband's just a drag. So she buys an instant cake And she burns her frozen steak And goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And two help her on her way, get her through her busy day. "Doctor please, some more of these!" Outside the door, she took four more. "Men just aren't the same today," I hear ev'ry mother say They just don't appreciate that you get tired. They're so hard to satisfy, You can tranquilize your mind So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight. "Life's just much too hard today," I hear ev'ry mother say The pursuit of happiness just seems a bore. And if you take more of those You will get an overdose No more running for the shelter of a mother's little helper They just helped you on your way, through your busy dying day. -- Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

[Comments]

Whoa! Did you expect to see Jagger/Richards lyrics in this forum someday?
Well, why not? Tightness of form, good scansion, internal rhymes, plus
biting commentary on then-modern (i.e., 1960's) middle- class society...
it's all here. And the topic is original to boot. What other songs, or for
that matter, poems, do you know of about the sixties anti-depressant drug
craze? The craze has still not ended, afaik. There are any number of poems
and songs about drug addiction in general but this highlights not just one
(overlooked) kind of addiction but its association with basic middle class
boredom. If I were feeling lofty, I might have said "existential angst" but
I'm not, so I won't.

Anyway, this one almost needed to be written.

-Amit.

[Bio]

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were the main songwriting force of the
British rock group "The Rolling Stones". Also, five times two equals ten.

[Links]

    http://www.therolling-stones.com/

[Notes]

The song is from the 1966 album "Aftermath". Unfortunately for the American
consumer, the album released under this name in the U.S. lacks this song.

[Sidenotes]

Here are two websites about those anti-depressant drugs (Prozac and its
relatives), if you want to learn more about the topic.
    [broken link] http://www.cchr.org/rape/mlh.htm
    http://www.breggin.com/minortranqs.html

[Administrivia]

Hey everybody, Sitaram's redesigned the Minstrels website! Check it out:
    http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/