Untitled -- Tanith Lee

Guest poem sent in by Catherine Pegg , as part
of the "poetry by authors" theme

(Poem #1366) Untitled A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is - The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same. -- Tanith Lee

Commentary:

One of the things that I admire about Tanith Lee is her versatility.  Her work
(mostly prose) ranges from science fiction, through fairy tales,
sword-and-sorcery, gothic horror to these beautiful little fantasy stories.
Some of the themes that crop up in her work are: Little Red Riding Hood,
vampires, re-incarnation, male-female gender politics, sexual ambiguity, the
odd bit of humour, philosophy, theology ...  While I find some of her horror a
bit dark, all of her work that I have read is carefully crafted, with
wonderfully lush visual images and strong plots.

She also does poetry.

This poem comes from one of my favourite novels, 'The Silver Metal Lover', a
love story.

Catherine

Biography:
  http://www.daughterofthenight.com/tlbio.html

Odes, Book 3, Verse 29: Happy the Man -- Horace

Guest poem submitted by Simon Pereira Shorey:

(Poem #1365) Odes, Book 3, Verse 29: Happy the Man Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. -- Horace

 Quintus Horatius Flaccus, 65 to 8 BC.
 Translated by John Dryden, 1631 to 1700 AD.

I always feel that this captures the essence of the imperative for each
of
us to take maximum advantage of our brief sojourn upon this planet. In
the unlikely event of my having an epitaph, this would be one to which I
should like to aspire.

Simon.

[PS. See Poem #633 for a biography and some comments on Horace's Odes -
t.]

It Isn't Time That's Passing -- Ruskin Bond

Guest poem sent in by Ankur Agrawal , as part of the Poems
by Authors theme

(Poem #1364) It Isn't Time That's Passing Remember the long ago when we lay together In a pain of tenderness and counted Our dreams: long summer afternoons When the whistling-thrush released A deep sweet secret on the trembling air; Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows, Black rose in the long ago summer, This was your song: It isn't time that's passing by, It is you and I. -- Ruskin Bond

This poem has all the trappings of any Ruskin Bond prose: the creation
of vivid images from nature to convey emotions, an elegance born out of
simplicity, nostalgia and yearning for old friends.  Like most of his
other writings which I read as a schoolboy, this doesnt fail to strike
a chord instantly.

Ankur Agrawal

Links:
  Biography:
   [broken link] http://www.penguinbooksindia.com/AuthorLounge/aspAuthorDetail.asp?aid=32

  A great site once you get past the design:
    http://members.rediff.com/ruskinbond/

Tricks with Mirrors -- Margaret Atwood

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani , in response to
the suggested theme - poems by writers better known for their prose.

(Poem #1363) Tricks with Mirrors i It's no coincidence this is a used furniture warehouse. I enter with you and become a mirror. Mirrors are the perfect lovers, that's it, carry me up the stairs by the edges, don't drop me, that would be back luck, throw me on the bed reflecting side up, fall into me, it will be your own mouth you hit, firm and glassy, your own eyes you find you are up against closed closed ii There is more to a mirror than you looking at your full-length body flawless but reversed, there is more than this dead blue oblong eye turned outwards to you. Think about the frame. The frame is carved, it is important, it exists, it does not reflect you, it does not recede and recede, it has limits and reflections of its own. There's a nail in the back to hang it with; there are several nails, think about the nails, pay attention to the nail marks in the wood, they are important too. iii Don't assume it is passive or easy, this clarity with which I give you yourself. Consider what restraint it takes: breath withheld, no anger or joy disturbing the surface of the ice. You are suspended in me beautiful and frozen, I preserve you, in me you are safe. It is not a trick either, it is a craft: mirrors are crafty. iv I wanted to stop this, this life flattened against the wall, mute and devoid of colour, built of pure light, this life of vision only, split and remote, a lucid impasse. I confess: this is not a mirror, it is a door I am trapped behind. I wanted you to see me here, say the releasing word, whatever that may be, open the wall. Instead you stand in front of me combing your hair. v You don't like these metaphors. All right: Perhaps I am not a mirror. Perhaps I am a pool. Think about pools. -- Margaret Atwood

[comments]

While I recognise Atwood's distinct style of writing, I have never really
been engaged by any of her books.  However, this poem by Atwood, nabbed my
attention and is one of the finest I've read on the role of a woman.  The
poem is couched in metaphors - and objectifying herself as a mirror, Atwood
points out the many parallels between a mirror and a woman in the shadow of
a man.  I really like the way - it starts by first acknowledging the imposed
subordination and then goes on to remind the reader that "There is more to a
mirror than you looking at" and that one should not "assume it is passive or
easy, this clarity with which I give you yourself.".  What has started as a
sentiment of resignation and vulnerability , climaxes to an appeal for
change and leaves you hoping that it will crystallize into determination and
resolve to actually make the change.

[Bio]
Margaret Eleanor Atwood, poet, novelist, and critic, was born November 18,
1939 in Ottawa.  She was educated at the University of Toronto (E.J. Pratt
Medal, 1961) and Radcliffe College, Harvard University, Mass.

Early influences on Atwood's mythic and archetypal poetry (Double Persephone
1961) were Northrop Frye andJay MacPherson. In 1966 The Circle Game was
awarded the Governor's General Award, establishing Atwood's poetic
reputation. In the 1970's Atwood was an editor for House of Anansi Press and
This Magazine.  Atwood's prolific output has included criticism, Survival: A
Thematic Guide to Canadian Literature (1972), Second Words (1982);  novels,
Lady Oracle (1976), Bodily Harm (1981); short stories, Dancing Girls
(1977),Bluebeard's Egg (1983) and children's books Anna's Pet (1980), among
others. In 1985 Atwood was awarded the Governor General's Award for her
novel The Handmaid's Tale.

Atwood has definitely put Canadian literature on the world map. Shortlisted
three times for the Booker Prize, she finally won it with Blind Assasin.
Atwood continues to live and write in Toronto.
[/bio]

Cheers,
Salima

Dublin -- Louis MacNeice

Guest poem submitted by Dave Fortin:

(Poem #1362) Dublin Grey brick upon brick, Declamatory bronze On sombre pedestals - O'Connell, Grattan, Moore - And the brewery tugs and the swans On the balustraded stream And the bare bones of a fanlight Over a hungry door And the air soft on the cheek And porter running from the taps With a head of yellow cream And Nelson on his pillar Watching his world collapse. This never was my town, I was not born or bred Nor schooled here and she will not Have me alive or dead But yet she holds my mind With her seedy elegance, With her gentle veils of rain And all her ghosts that walk And all that hide behind Her Georgian facades - The catcalls and the pain, The glamour of her squalor, The bravado of her talk. The lights jig in the river With a concertina movement And the sun comes up in the morning Like barley-sugar on the water And the mist on the Wicklow hills Is close, as close As the peasantry were to the landlord, As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish, As the killer is close one moment To the man he kills, Or as the moment itself Is close to the next moment. She is not an Irish town And she is not English, Historic with guns and vermin And the cold renown Of a fragment of Church latin, Of an oratorical phrase. But oh the days are soft, Soft enough to forget The lesson better learnt, The bullet on the wet Streets, the crooked deal, The steel behind the laugh, The Four Courts burnt. Fort of the Dane, Garrison of the Saxon, Augustan capital Of a Gaelic nation, Appropriating all The alien brought, You give me time for thought And by a juggler's trick You poise the toppling hour - O greyness run to flower, Grey stone, grey water, And brick upon grey brick. -- Louis MacNeice

A magnificent poem -- I like it not just for the close proximity that
we, the readers, have to the poet's state of mind, but also for the
historicity of the poem. Fans of The Dubliners will recognize the first
few lines from their song romanticizing the blowing up of Nelson's
statue on O'Connell Street in 1966 -- perhaps a broader statement on the
decline of the British Empire in general. However, Dublin's own history
as a Danish foundation, as the seat of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, as
the setting for the events of 1919 and finally as the capitol of the
newly founded Irish state is also celebrated -- though the last with
MacNeice's unfailing sense of irony.  The repetition of the phrase "grey
brick upon brick" sets the historical events against an unmoving force
to some extent -- the urbanization (and the poverty and dreariness that
comes with it) of Ireland as exemplified in the grey bricks of Dublin is
almost outside of the main historical events.

Dave.

[Minstrels Links]

Poem #MacNeice - more poems by Louis MacNeice
Poem #Yeats - poems by William Butler Yeats
Poem #41 - "Ireland, Ireland", by Sir Henry Newbolt

[Administrivia]

Yesterday's commentary had an error in it: the Mary who succeeded Edward
VI and preceded Elizabeth I was not Mary Queen of Scots, but rather
Henry VIII's eldest child (and half-sister to Ned and Bess). The error
was mine, not Christopher's; I added some glosses to his notes without
checking my facts. Apologies to all, and especially to Christopher, for
the goof. - t.