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So We'll Go No More a-Roving -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

       
(Poem #62) So We'll Go No More a-Roving
So we'll go no more a-roving
    So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
    And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
    And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
    By the light of the moon.
-- George Gordon, Lord Byron
"Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a
child." - Goethe.

I agree completely. Byron seems to be the distillation of all the
qualities which I dislike in the Romantic poets.

Having said that, I must add that this beautiful lyric is one of my
favourite vignettes. Again, it's a poem to which not much can be added
by way of commentary (funny, isn't it, how such poems tend to go
hand-in-hand with days on which I don't have time to write comments?)
Actually, I started writing some stuff, but I gave up because it wasn't
going too well, and also, to be frank, I don't like Byron enough to be
able to write about him. So I'll leave you with just the first line of
my (unfortunately) stillborn essay:

Written around the age of 30, after a tempestuous and highly
controversial youth, this shows Byron in a more pensive, melancholy
mood, far removed from his usual (somewhat wanton) sensuality.

That, I'm afraid, is all I wrote. Oh well, that's the way it crumbles,
cookiewise.

thomas.

Song -- Seamus Heaney

       
(Poem #61) Song
  A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
  Between the by-road and the main road
  Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
  Stand off among the rushes.

  There are the mud-flowers of dialect
  And the immortelles of perfect pitch
  And that moment when the bird sings very close
  To the music of what happens.
-- Seamus Heaney
This delicately lovely poem has always reminded me of a haiku - there is the
same ethereal yet etching-precise economy, the wealth and evocativeness of
the images, with every word worth a thousand pictures. The interweaving of
images and music captures the very essence of poetry, lending the poem a
self-referentiality that is no less real for being unstated.

Glossary:

immortelle [alien sense]
  imOrtel. [Fr. (short for fleur immortelle), fem. of immortel immortal.]
  A name for various composite flowers of papery texture (esp. Helichrysum
  orientale, and other species of Helichrysum, Xeranthemum, etc.) which
  retain their colour after being dried. -- OED

Biographical Notes:

  b. April 13, 1939, near CastledĂ wson, County Londonderry, N.Ire.

  in full SEAMUS JUSTIN HEANEY, Irish poet whose work is notable for its
  evocation of events in Irish history and its allusions to Irish myth. He
  received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995.

  Heaney's first poetry collection was the prizewinning Death of a
  Naturalist (1966). In this book and Door into the Dark (1969), he wrote in
  a traditional style about a passing way of life--that of domestic rural
  life in Northern Ireland. In Wintering Out (1972) and North (1975), he
  began to encompass such subjects as the violence in Northern Ireland and
  contemporary Irish experience, though he continued to view his subjects
  through a mythic and mystical filter. Among the later volumes that reflect
  Heaney's honed and deceptively simple style are Field Work (1979), Station
  Island (1984), The Haw Lantern (1987), and Seeing Things (1991). His
  Selected Poems, 1966-1987 also was published in 1991. The Spirit Level
  (1996) concerns the notion of centredness and balance in both the natural
  and the spiritual senses.

  Heaney also wrote essays on poetry and poets, including such figures as
  William Wordsworth, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Robert Lowell. Some of
  these essays appeared in Preoccupations: Selected Prose,A collection of his lectures at Oxford was published as The Redress of
  Poetry (1995). The Cure at Troy (1991) is Heaney's version of Sophocles'
  Philoctetes, and a later volume, The Midnight Verdict (1993), contains
  translations of selections from Ovid's Metamorphoses and from CĂșirt an
  mheadhon oidhche (The Midnight Court), a work by the 18th-century Irish
  writer Brian Merriman.
        -- EB

Assessment:

  1995 Nobel Laureate in Literature "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical
  depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past."
          -- The Nobel Foundation

  Robert Lowell has deemed Heaney "the most important Irish poet since
  Yeats." Critics have been largely positive about his verse, and he is
  undoubtedly the most popular poet writing in English today. His books sell
  by the tens of thousands, and hundreds of "Heaneyboppers" attend his
  readings. His earliest influences, Robert Frost and Ted Hughes, can be
  seen throughout his work, but most especially in his first two volumes,
  where he recollects images of his childhood at Mossbawn. Other poets,
  especially Gerard Manley Hopkins, William Wordsworth, Thomas Hardy, and
  even Dante have played important roles in his development.
  [...]
  Some critics have placed Heaney in a no-win situation; he is condemned
  either for confronting too strongly the situation in his homeland, or
  taken to task for remaining aloof from it. Nevertheless, some of his most
  convincing elegies deal with friends and family he has lost to the
  Troubles. "Casualty," a poem about a Catholic friend murdered by a bomb
  set by the Provisional Irish Republican Army in a Protestant pub, gives us
  another look at the tribal warfare in Northern Ireland. His questioning of
  his friend's responsibility for his own death realizes the ambiguous
  nature, the muddling of right and wrong, that grips Northern Ireland
  today. And yet, what is important is not placing blame, but the
  recognition of what remains to those who live, memories and sadness.

  It is easy to get the impression that Heaney is a provincial poet,
  concerned only with the happenings of his island and his memory. That
  conclusion, however, would be misleading. He is not merely a one-note
  minstrel; his birthplace does not completely occupy his mind. "Song"
  demonstrates his exploration of the poetic process. Like "Digging" and
  "Personal Helicon," this short lyric attends to his own imagination.
  His descriptive powers are akin to Wordsworth's, and his attention to
  the world around him and the details of language make this poem a
  small success.
  [...]
  Heaney's work is filled with images of death and dying, and yet it is also
  firmly rooted in the life of this world. His tender elegies about friends
  and family members who have died serve many purposes: they mourn great
  losses, celebrate those who have gone before us, and recall the solace
  that remains to us, our memories. When asked recently about his abiding
  interest in memorializing the people of his life, he replied, "The elegaic
  Heaney? There's nothing else."

        -- Joe Pellegrino, excerpted from
        <[broken link] http://metalab.unc.edu/dykki/poetry/heaney/heaney.bio.html>
        (and do go and read the whole thing)

Websites of interest:
  <[broken link] http://educeth.ethz.ch/english/readinglist/heaney,seamus.html> - highly
  recommended, along with all its links.

m.

Byzantium -- William Butler Yeats

       
(Poem #60) Byzantium
The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.
-- William Butler Yeats
This poem should be read in conjunction with 'Sailing to Byzantium' (the
Minstrels, poem #21) (and the notes attached thereto) for full effect.

Quoting extensively from George Macbeth...

"...Yeats' third period ... was concerned with [exploring and
expressing] the intricacies of a private mythology. [Read the commentary
to 'Sailing to Byzantium' for a more detailed description of Yeats'
poetic development - thomas] ...

...Yeats read philosophy late in life with an imperfect understanding of
what it was all about, and his ideas form a confused hotchpotch of
idealist thinking from Plato onwards. The amazing thing is that this
rather ridiculous superstructure enabled him to enrich and deepen his
response to experience in his later poems. In particular, the myth of
Byzantium as a magical city where life was entirely transmuted into art
inspired Yeats to some of his finest poetic flights [sorry to repeat
myself <grin> - thomas]. The idea of life as art was originally part of
the common vocabulary of decadence in the late nineteenth century, but
Yeats gave it a new twist and a new meaning...

...['Byzantium' is] perhaps the most extreme example of Yeats' third
period, a masterpiece of density and evocative but mysterious detail.
References to the history of the Holy Roman Empire blend with Yeats' own
philosophy in a glittering, intense traffic jam of brilliant ideas. In
essence, the poem is an ecstatic vision of the spontaneous creation of
spirits in what Yeats seems to see as the furnace of heaven. The dolphin
was the Byzantine guide to the other world. The idea of 'handiwork' in
the poem is a common one in Yeats' later work (compare, especially, the
last stanza of 'Sailing to Byzantium')..."

'a glittering, intense traffic jam of brilliant ideas' - I couldn't have
put it better myself. On that note,

thomas.

Spring and Fall, to a Young Child -- Gerard Manley Hopkins

Guest poem sent in by Kamal Janardhan
(Poem #59) Spring and Fall, to a Young Child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins
A bit about this poem, it takes a few readings to truly "get" it.  About a
little girl who weeps for the leaves that die in fall.  Hopkins language
here is a lot less compressed than most of his other works and hence in
being less ornate it ends up being startlingly elegant.

-----------------------------------------------------------
BIOGRAPHICAL SNIPPETS

  Gerard Manley Hopkins is one of the great unsung poets, virtually unknown
  in his lifetime. We have his poetry today only because it was collected
  and published by his friends after his death. It has some of the obsessive
  ornateness and sentimentality of the Victorians, but also a startling
  musicality which is ahead of its time and ours.

  Hopkins began his adult life, like many others of his time and
  middle-class background, as an earnest student at Oxford, concerned with
  the minutest details of religious practice. Like many others, Hopkins
  wound up "swimming the Tiber", that is, going from the Church of England
  to the Church of Rome: and, like many others, he was received there by
  John Henry Newman. The feelings of the converts' families are exemplified
  by a Mrs. Arnold, who wrote to Newman, "Sir, you have now for the second
  time been the cause of my husband's becoming a member of the Church of
  Rome and from the bottom of my heart I curse you for it." Not content with
  this, she also threw a brick through the window of the church where her
  husband was being received. Hopkins died in Dublin in 1889, aged 44. The
  first collection of his poetry was published in 1918.

Kamal

The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower -- Dylan Thomas

       
(Poem #58) The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
  The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
  Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
  Is my destroyer.
  And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
  My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

  The force that drives the water through the rocks
  Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
  Turns mine to wax.
  And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
  How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

  The hand that whirls the water in the pool
  Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
  Hauls my shroud sail.
  And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
  How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

  The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
  Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
  Shall calm her sores.
  And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
  How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

  And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
  How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
-- Dylan Thomas
Few poets manage to be simultaneously as lyrical and as powerful as Dylan
Thomas. The poem above is a perfect example - images are stark, yet with a
compelling beauty that both attracts and chills the reader. This poem did
take me a while to appreciate, but it is definitely one of those that
improve with rereading. The insistent rhythm, the reinforcing of images and
the repetitive construction all combine to stick it in the reader's mind, in
a manner characteristic of Thomas.

Note, in passing, the thematic similarity to 'Do Not Go Gentle'.

m.