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The Passionate Shepherd to His Love -- Christopher Marlowe

This week's theme: obviously, love poetry:
(Poem #997) The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
 Come live with me and be my love,
 And we will all the pleasures prove
 That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
 Woods or steepy mountain yields.

 And we will sit upon the rocks,
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
 By shallow rivers to whose falls
 Melodious birds sing madrigals.

 And I will make thee beds of roses
 And a thousand fragrant posies,
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

 A gown made of the finest wool
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
 Fair lined slippers for the cold,
 With buckles of th purest gold;

 A belt of straw and ivy buds,
 With coral clasps and amber studs:
 And if these pleasures may thee move,
 Come live with me and be my love.

 The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
 For thy delight each May morning:
 If these delights thy mind may move,
 Then live with me and be my love,
-- Christopher Marlowe
The first pastoral verse in English was written during the reign of Queen
Elizabeth the First. Edmund Spenser, Christopher Marlowe and their
contemporaries at court discarded the elaborate framework of convention that
governed the masques and morality plays of medieval times to create a new
genre that was light-hearted, direct and unpretentious. "The Passionate
Shepherd" is an excellent example of the type: it's not a poem that demands
a great deal of analysis or explication, yet that very simplicity is its
strength, and the source of its lasting popularity.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Marlowe is capable of both beauty and bombast, often in quick succession. I
have to confess that I prefer the energy of his plays to the often vapid
sentiments of his poetry (but then, I'm not a big fan of pastoral verse in
the first place; give me the metaphysicals any day :)). By way of contrast
to today's poem, check out:
        Poem #75, The face that launch'd a thousand ships
        Poem #506, Lament for Zenocrate
both of which are actually verse extracts from his plays (Faustus and
Tamerlane, respectively).

[Britannica on the Pastoral]

Pastoral literature: a class of literature that presents the society of
shepherds as free from the complexity and corruption of city life. Many of
the idylls written in its name are far remote from the realities of any
life, rustic or urban. Among the writers who have used the pastoral
convention with striking success and vitality are the classical poets
Theocritus and Virgil and the English poets Edmund Spenser, Robert Herrick,
John Milton, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Matthew Arnold.

The pastoral convention sometimes uses the device of "singing matches"
between two or more shepherds, and it often presents the poet and his
friends in the (usually thin) disguises of shepherds and shepherdesses.
Themes include, notably, love and death. Both tradition and themes were
largely established by Theocritus, whose Bucolics are the first examples of
pastoral poetry. The tradition was passed on, through Bion, Moschus, and
Longus, from Greece to Rome, where Virgil (who transferred the setting from
Sicily to Arcadia, in the Greek Peloponnese, now the symbol of a pastoral
paradise) used the device of alluding to contemporary problems--agrarian,
political, and personal--in the rustic society he portrayed. His Eclogues
exerted a powerful effect on poets of the Renaissance, including Dante,
Petrarch, and Giovanni Boccaccio in Italy; Pierre de Ronsard in France; and
Garcilaso de la Vega in Spain. These were further influenced by medieval
Christian commentators on Virgil and by the pastoral scenes of the Old and
New Testaments (Cain and Abel, David, the Bethlehem shepherds, and the
figure of Christ the good shepherd). During the 16th and 17th centuries,
too, pastoral romance novels (by Jacopo Sannazzaro, Jorge de Montemayor,
Miguel de Cervantes, and Honoré d'Urfé) appeared, as did in the 15th and
16th centuries the pastoral drama (by Torquato Tasso and Battista Guarini).

In English poetry there had been some examples of pastoral literature in the
earlier 16th century, but the appearance in 1579 of Edmund Spenser's
Shepheardes Calender, which imitated not only classical models but also the
Renaissance poets of France and Italy, brought about a vogue for the
pastoral. Sir Philip Sidney, Robert Greene, Thomas Nash, Christopher
Marlowe, Michael Drayton, Thomas Dekker, John Donne, Sir Walter Raleigh,
Thomas Heywood, Thomas Campion, William Browne, William Drummond, and
Phineas Fletcher all wrote pastoral poetry. (This vogue was subjected to
some satirical comment in William Shakespeare's As You Like It--itself a
pastoral play.) The first English novels, by Robert Greene and Thomas Lodge,
were written in the pastoral mode. Apart from Shakespeare, playwrights who
attempted pastoral drama included John Lyly, George Peele, John Fletcher,
Ben Jonson, John Day, and James Shirley.

The climax of this phase of the pastoral tradition was reached in the unique
blend of freshness and learned imitation achieved by the poetry of Herrick
and of Andrew Marvell. Later 17th-century work, apart from that of Milton,
was more pedantic. The 18th-century revival of the pastoral mode is chiefly
remarkable for its place in a larger quarrel between those Neoclassical
critics who preferred "ancient" poetry and those others who supported the
"modern." This dispute raged in France, where the "ancient" sympathy was
represented in the pastoral convention by René Rapin, whose shepherds were
figures of uncomplicated virtue in a simple scene. The "modern" pastoral,
deriving from Bernard de Fontenelle, dwelled on the innocence of the
contemporary rustic (though not on his miseries). In England the controversy
was reflected in a quarrel between Alexander Pope and Ambrose Philips,
though the liveliest pastorals of the period were by John Gay, whose mode
was burlesque (and whose Beggar's Opera is ironically subtitled "A Newgate
Pastoral"--Newgate being one of London's prisons).

A growing reaction against the artificialities of the genre, combined with
new attitudes to the natural man and the natural scene, resulted in a
sometimes bitter injection of reality into the rustic scenes of such poets
and novelists as Robert Burns, George Crabbe, William Wordsworth, John
Clare, George Eliot, Thomas Hardy, George Sand, Émile Zola, B.M. Bjørnson,
and Knut Hamsun. Only the pastoral elegy survived, through Shelley and
Matthew Arnold.

In the time since Wordsworth, poets have sometimes revived the pastoral
mode, though usually for some special purpose of their own--often ironic, as
in the eclogues of Louis MacNeice, or obscure, as when W.H. Auden called his
long poem The Age of Anxiety "a baroque eclogue."

        -- EB

The Little Boy and the Old Man -- Shel Silverstein

Guest poem submitted by Priscilla Jebaraj:
(Poem #996) The Little Boy and the Old Man
 Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
 Said the old man, "I do that, too."
 The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
 "I do that too," laughed the little old man.
 Said the little boy, "I often cry."
 The old man nodded, "So do I."
 "But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
 Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
 And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
 "I know what you mean," said the little old man.
-- Shel Silverstein
   This is the only Shel Silverstein poem I'd read till the one on the
pencil maker appeared on the Minstrels a couple of days ago [Make that a
couple of months ago - ed.]. I guess the special thing about this poem is
that when I first read it, I was still a child who understood what it felt
like when grown-ups didn't pay attention to me. And it had never really
struck me till then that very often the very old are also treated like the
very young. It helped me understand an aging grandfather. And ever since
then, I've tried to pay attention - to both the little boys and the little
old men around me.

Priscilla.

[Minstrels Links]

Shel Silverstein:
Poem #845, Recipe for a Hippopotamus Sandwich
Poem #892, Stupid Pencil Maker

Come Together -- John Lennon

Guest poem submitted by Matthew Chanoff:
I know you already did your song lyric theme, but I've got to propose you
run this anyway.
(Poem #995) Come Together
 Here come old flattop he come grooving up slowly
 He got Joo-Joo eyeball he one holy roller
 He got hair down to his knee
 Got to be a joker he just do what he please

 He wear no shoeshine he got toe-jam football
 He got monkey finger he shoot coca-cola
 He say "I know you, you know me"
 One thing I can tell you is you got to be free
 Come together right now over me

 He bag production he got walrus gumboot
 He got Ono sideboard he one spinal cracker
 He got feet down below his knee
 Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease
 Come together right now over me

 He roller-coaster he got early warning
 He got muddy water he one mojo filter
 He say "One and one and one is three"
 Got to be good-looking 'cause he's so hard to see
 Come together right now over me

 Come together, come together, come together, come together, yeah.
-- John Lennon
This is my all time favorite obscure poem.  What could they have had in
mind? Maybe it's a poem about a street person with a personality disorder
who needs to come together.  Maybe it's a parody of John "he got Ono
sideboard."  Maybe it's just a stream of imagery.

One thing I love about it is the rhythm.  Everyone over 30 has that rhythm
somewhere in their brain cells. You can tell you have it if you try reading
the thing aloud.  Try saying "He say "One and one and one is three" without
stretching and syncopating on "one."  The poem is also very heavy on
trochees (stress-unstressed feet) like slowly, roller, football, cola,
gumboot, cracker, warning, filter. Very often they're used as a signal for
indecisiveness, passivity, etcetera. cf, the "To be or not to be" soliloquey
in Hamlet.

Maybe it's about recognizing mentally distrurbed street people as not so
different from you and me.

I'm not sure who wrote it. At this stage in their development, Lennon and
McCartney pretty much wrote separately, though they continued to put both
names on all songs. [It was Lennon, actually - ed.]

For a bio of the band, check out
[broken link] http://beatles.sonicnet.com/artists/biography/969.jhtml

For a complete Beatles lyric archive, check out
[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Limo/3518/

Matt.

The Gift Outright -- Robert Frost

Guest poem submitted by Sara G:
(Poem #994) The Gift Outright
 The land was ours before we were the land's.
 She was our land more than a hundred years
 Before we were her people. She was ours
 In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
 But we were England's, still colonials,
 Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
 Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
 Something we were withholding made us weak
 Until we found out that it was ourselves
 We were withholding from our land of living,
 And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
 Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
 (The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
 To the land vaguely realizing westward,
 But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
 Such as she was, such as she would become.
-- Robert Frost
 Written in 1942, recited at JFK's inauguration in 1961.

 How can you not have this poem yet? Frost wrote a longer poem, "Dedication"
for the inauguration, but the glare of the sun on the snow blinded him (he
was 86 years old) and he recited this, which he knew by heart. The
inaguration was on a freezing day, the whole northeastern coast was snowed
in. As an 11 year old living in New England, we didn't have school that day
because of the snow, and I remember watching the inauguration on TV.

 Sara.

[Minstrels Links]

Robert Frost:
Poem #51, The Road Not Taken
Poem #155, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Poem #170, The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
Poem #336, A Patch of Old Snow
Poem #681, The Secret Sits
Poem #730, Mending Wall
Poem #779, Fire and Ice
Poem #917, A Considerable Speck
Poem #985, Once by the Pacific

Midsummer, Tobago -- Derek Walcott

       
(Poem #993) Midsummer, Tobago
 Broad sun-stoned beaches.

 White heat.
 A green river.

 A bridge,
 scorched yellow palms

 from the summer-sleeping house
 drowsing through August.

 Days I have held,
 days I have lost,

 days that outgrow, like daughters,
 my harbouring arms.
-- Derek Walcott
This is the first Derek Walcott poem to feature on the Minstrels, a
situation for which you can blame my abject lack of familiarity with
post-colonial poetry in general and Walcott's work in particular. This will
not do; I really do need to read more Walcott. It's not just that he's an
"important" poet [1], he's also a very good one. Caught between European
culture and Caribbean experience, he has spent a lifetime seeking to resolve
the post-colonial paradox; in a poetic career spanning half a dozen decades,
his work has been of a consistently high standard.

Walcott's poems are about voyages. Not necessarily physical ones; he's
equally concerned with the links that connect past and present, and the
journeys of the mind between them. He fills his verse with ruminations on
the nature of memory and the creative imagination, the history, politics and
landscape of the West Indies, his own life and loves, and his enduring
awareness of time and death. These themes are explored with insight and
tact; they are also, in Walcott's hands, infused with the rarest of
qualities, a sense of _place_.

Walcott's poems are excellent proof of the fact that it is possible to write
"poetically" using free verse. His language is elegant and evocative and
never forced; his merging of various linguistic influences (the vibrant
Creole of his native Caribbean, the stately Latin and Greek of the classics,
the workaday English of his Boston years) gives his poetry a richness and
texture lost to many more traditional poets, while the absence of formal
structure gives it a suppleness equal to the demands of his themes.

Today's poem is short, but astonishingly vivid, and deceptively subtle.
Walcott uses the stillness and uniformity of summer days to highlight the
inexorable passage of time; one day follows another, "drowsing through
August", until suddenly years have gone by, years which can never be
reclaimed. A resolution that might easily have slipped into pathos in the
hands of a lesser poet is handled here with delicacy and care, so that we
are left with a sense of poignancy and loss, yes, but also of nostalgia and
quietude. Notice the skill with which Walcott paints his landscape in the
opening lines: he uses less than a dozen words, but they are enough. Notice,
also, the sheer perfection of the analogy that concludes the poem: the
phrase "like daughters" adds layers of depth and meaning and feeling to the
whole. Wonderfully done.

thomas.

[1] I'd be the last to consider "importance" to be any sort of criterion for
the appreciation of poetry.

[Nobel Committee announcement]

Derek Walcott won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992. Here is the text
of the statement made by the Nobel Committee, announcing the award:

"This year the Swedish Academy has decided to award the Nobel Prize for
Literature to Derek Walcott. Walcott, who is 62 was born in Saint Lucia but
now lives in Trinidad. He has both African and European blood in his veins.
In him West Indian culture has found its great poet. He also has a chair in
English at Boston University.

Walcott showed his mettle early on. As the title of his substantial volume
of "Collected Poems 1948-1984" shows, he was already writing poetry of
lasting value at the end of his teens. Like Brodsky and Paz he has an
intense belief in poetry and poets and he has made this one of his themes.

Otherwise it is the complexity of his own situation that has provided one of
the most fruitful sources of inspiration. Three loyalties are central for
him - the Caribbean where he lives, the English language, and his African
origin. In the poem "A Far Cry from Africa", he says "How choose / Between
this Africa and the English tongue I love?" One of his major works, the long
poem "Another Life" (1973), is devoted to his development and the course of
his education in this environment.

In his collection of poems "The Arkansas Testament" (1987) he continues the
broadening of perspective which is also a characteristic of his oeuvre.
Among these poems can be found works dedicated to Marina Tsvetaeva and W.H.
Auden ("Strict as Psalm or Lesson, / I learnt your poetry").

Walcott's latest poetic work is "Omeros" (1990), a majestic Caribbean epos
in 64 chapters - "I sang our wide country, the Caribbean Sea". This is a
work of incomparable ambitiousness, in which Walcott weaves his many strands
into a whole. Its weft is a rich one, deriving from the poet's wide-ranging
contacts with literature, history and reality. We find Homer, Poe,
Mayakovsky and Melville, allusions are made to Brodsky (" the parentheses of
palms / shielding a candle's tongue"), and he quotes the Beatles'
"Yesterday". Walcott's metaphors and images are numerous, and often striking
- "And beyond them, like dominoes / with lights for holes, the black
skyscrapers of Boston". He captures white seagulls against a blue sky in the
image "Gulls chalk the blue enamel". His poetry acquires at one and the same
time singular lustre and great force.

Walcott is in the first place a poet but he has also produced interesting
work for the theatre. His masterstroke was "Dream on Monkey Mountain"
(1970), a striking but scenographically demanding Caribbean fresco. The same
dream-like atmosphere can be found in several of his plays, such as "Ti-Jean
and His Brothers" (1958) and, to a certain extent, in "The Last Carnival"
(in "Three Plays" (1986), which deals with two important decades in the
recent history of Trinidad. A significant feature of his plays is the skill
with which the author plays on his own complex range of voices. It is
impossible, however, to reproduce this in the totally different language
situation of Sweden.

Walcott's style is melodious and sensitive. It seems to issue principally
from a prolific inspiration. In his literary works Walcott has laid a course
for his own cultural environment, but through them he speaks to each and
every one of us."

        -- http://www.nobel.se/literature/laureates/1992/press.html