The Wild Swans at Coole -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Radhika Gowaikar

(Poem #1939) The Wild Swans at Coole The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away? -- William Butler Yeats

I am surprised that we haven't run this before. I think the line, "And
scatter wheeling in great broken rings" is what does it for me. It is as if
Yeats is part of the picture with the swans and yet remains a mere onlooker.
The line describes the image in my mind perfectly.

The idea of returning to a place time after time and contrasting the changes
in oneself with the (apparent) constancy of the surroundings is not exactly
novel. But this poem does it justice. Perhaps the popularity of the idea
stems the fact that we are all practitioners of it, though not always
consciously.

--
radhika.

Notes:

1. Coole Park and Gardens are understandably pround of their connection to
Yeats.
  http://www.coolepark.ie/

2. I am also reminded of this poem/song
  http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=8272
Men reminiscing by the water.

Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour -- Thomas Moore

(Poem #1938) Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov'd a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die! -- Thomas Moore

   (from 'Lalla Rookh, An Oriental Romance')

There is about "old" poetry - particularly that of the Romantic and Georgian
periods - a quality that I find sadly absent in more modern verse: the
underlying sense that rhymed and metrical verse is a *natural* medium in
which to express one's thoughts and writings. Today's excerpt is a wonderful
example of this sort of unselfconsciousness - the verse flows easily and
naturally, but the primary focus is the dialogue between Moore and the
reader, and at no point do we stop and feel that what he has to say is in
any way constrained by the requirements of the form.

While "Lalla Rookh" itself has faded into relative obscurity, the above
quoted lines - particularly the second quatrain - have remained both
well-known and popular. (In particular, no fan of Wodehouse can fail to be
familiar with the "dear gazelle"!). And though it is a verse that has
inevitably attracted its share of parodies, this is more due to its
distinctiveness than to any inherent mockability. (That said, some of the
parodies are truly delightful, such as Tom Hood Jr.'s

  I never nursed a dear gazelle,
     To glad me with its dappled hide,
  But when it came to know me well,
     It fell upon the buttered side.

or Henry Leigh's

  My rich and aged Uncle John
    Has known me long and loves me well
  But still persists in living on -
    I would he were a young gazelle.
)

I've remarked, about some of Moore's other works, that their salient feature
is their musicality; today's piece does exhibit the same wonderful sense of
the sound and flow of the words, but it is more of a background quality.
Also, the fact that this is not a standalone poem but part of an extended
epic lends it a very different character (and indeed, by choosing to excerpt
such a small piece, I have inevitably sacrificed some of that character). To
convey some idea of the tradeoff involved,
http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1492.html for instance has a longer
excerpt that loses some of the distinctive beauty of the shorter piece, but
gives far more of the flavour of its setting.

martin

[Links]

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Moore

Full text of "Lalla Rookh"
  http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00generallinks/lallarookh/index.html

A bit about Lalla Rookh:
  [broken link] http://www.wwnorton.com/nto/romantic/topic_4/moore.htm

Mimi on the Beach -- Jane Siberry

Guest poem submitted by J. Goard:

(Poem #1937) Mimi on the Beach I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I scan for the both of us... I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I stand and scan on the strand of sand, Stand and scan on the strand of sand... But first I'm sitting over here. See that gaggle of guys and girls? A typical day at the beach, Well, typical 'til I make my speech. There is a girl out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard, With a picnic lunch and parasol, Sitting there like a typical girl. Well, this is not a locker room, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... there... One girl laughs at skinny guys; someone else points out a queer. They're all jocks, both guys and girls: Press a button, take your cue. And see the girl with perfect teeth? She picks up lonely guys in bars, Then takes off when they've bought her drinks. "Don't you have money?" I ask - "Of course I do!" This is not a locker room, here, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... there... But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... I'm still sitting over here. One guy just got up and brayed. They wag their words - they're all in heat - I can ignore it; just don't steam up the view. Mimi's still out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard; She's checking out her arms and legs In case her casing's getting burnt. This is not a locker room, here, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... quite... there... But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... You don't know me but I've been watching you all day, And I've come to the edge of the water now to have my say. The picnic lunch is off. Throw your parasol away. Put your belly to the board, Mimi, and paddle out to sea, Then turn the board around, Mimi, until you're facing me, Then you wait for the waves to start building, For the valleys to deepen And the mountains to increase in height, And when the right time comes, Mimi, You grab the edges of the board with your hands, Lift yourself up and stand there And see as far as you can see... Stand up, Mimi. Stand up! I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I scan for the both of us... I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I stand and scan on the strand of sand, Stand and scan on the strand of sand... The great leveller is coming, And he's not going to stop to take your pulse, And he's not going to ask you why you're the way you are, And I think that's the worst part: You never get a chance to explain yourself. And he's going to take those mountains And shove them into the valleys Until there's nothing left except a vast expanse... And you'll float there, Mimi, On the flat Sargasso Sea of your soul... And if they pull you away from your bleaching pink surfboard And stretch you across the wind, You'll make no sound, Wet leaves on a dry map, Nothing, Nobody, The great leveller, or the great escape? But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... There's a girl out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard. A parasol floats nearby. The arrangement's not... quite... quite... there. -- Jane Siberry

Jane Siberry (now, apparently, named "Issa") is probably the most
bizarre lyricist I've ever encountered, spinning dramatic monologues
that would seem too profoundly insane to be believable if she didn't
sell them so well with off-kilter rhythms and her quirky voice.  "Mimi
on the Beach" was her big indie hit from the early nineties, but I never
really registered its lyrics until recently.  I love this portrait of a
bitter wallflower -- or is it a homicidal stalker? -- fixated on the
singular importance of "Mimi and me", or, if you will, "me, me, and me".
"The great leveller is coming", indeed, but is it the inevitability of
death or aging, or the flatness of a "real world" outside of surfing, or
"me coming to kill you"?  (There is a sequel from a later album called
"Mimi Speaks", but I dislike its overly blunt attempt at resolution.)
However you hear it, it's a truly weird, cool song close to the heart of
"new wave".

J.

Untitled -- Michael Leunig

Guest poem sent in by Prachi Gupta

(Poem #1936) Untitled When the heart Is cut or cracked or broken Do not clutch it Let the wound lie open Let the wind From the good old sea blow in To bathe the wound with salt Let a stray dog lick it Let a bird lean in the hole and sing A simple song like a tiny bell And let it ring Let it go. Let it out. Let it all unravel. Let it free and it can be A path on which to travel. -- Michael Leunig

This is a poem without a title, by the Australian writer, poet, cartoonist,
philosopher, Michael Leunig. I first discovered Leunig about 10 years ago
when a cousin gifted me one of his books, I have followed his work ever
since and have always found it endearing and enchanting. Like this poem
here, he talks of simple things around us, within us and talks of them in an
amazingly simple and human way; and reading his work mostly opens a tiny
window somewhere in the heart.

I hope everyone enjoys this!

Prachi

[Links]

Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Leunig

Leunig's official site:
  http://www.leunig.com.au/

The Armful -- Robert Frost

Guest poem sent in by Pavithra Sankaran

Something Genevieve Aquino said about packing and putting things away [1]
reminded me of this quiet gem by Robert Frost:

(Poem #1935) The Armful For every parcel I stoop down to seize I lose some other off my arms and knees, And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns Extremes too hard to comprehend at once, Yet nothing I should care to leave behind. With all I have to hold with hand and mind And heart, if need be, I will do my best To keep their building balanced at my breast. I crouch down to prevent them as they fall; Then sit down in the middle of them all. I had to drop the armful in the road And try to stack them in a better load. -- Robert Frost

A graceful, calm poem about clumsy, inadequate but all too human attempts
at gathering and keeping everything that matters. As I grow older and watch
others a generation older than me fade into their sunset years, I realise
unhappily that neither the human mind nor heart really have all the space
we imagine (and hope) they do. But if there is indeed a way of stacking
memory and other love-tinsel in "better load", would that I learn it one
day!

Pavithra Sankaran

[1] see the comments to poem #1935:
  http://groups.yahoo.com/group/minstrels/message/2018