Two Tanka -- Otomo No Yakamochi

(Poem #87) Two Tanka From outside my house, only the faint distant sound of gentle breezes wandering through bamboo leaves in the long evening silence. Late evening finally comes: I unlatch the door and quietly await the one who greets me in my dreams. -- Otomo No Yakamochi

Translated by Sam Hamill.

[from Merriam-Webster online]

Main Entry: tan$B(Bka
Pronunciation: 't$B(B[ng]-k&
Function: noun
Etymology: Japanese
Date: circa 1877
: an unrhymed Japanese verse form of five lines containing 5, 7, 5, 7,
and 7 syllables respectively; also : a poem in this form

[from www.americantanka.com]

Tanka are 31-syllable poems that have been the most popular form of
poetry in Japan for at least 1300 years. As a form of poetry, tanka is
older than haiku, and tanka poems evoke a moment or mark an occasion
with concision and musicality.

During Japan's Heian period (794-1185 A.D.) it was considered essential
for a woman or man of culture to be able to both compose beautiful
poetry and to choose the most aesthetically pleasing and appropriate
paper, ink, and symbolic attachment---such as a branch, a flower---to go
with it.

Tanka were often composed as a kind of finale to every sort of occasion;
no experience was quite complete until a tanka had been written about
it.

Tanka have changed and evolved over the centuries, but the form of five
syllabic units containing 31 syllables has remained the same.Topics have
expanded from the traditional expressions of passion and heartache, and
styles have changed to include modern language and even colloquialisms.

In Japanese, tanka is often written in one straight line, but in English
and other languages, we usually divide the lines into the five syllabic
units: 5-7-5-7-7. Usually, each line consists of one image or idea;
unlike English poetry, one does not seek to "wrap" lines in tanka,
though in the best tanka the five lines often flow seamlessly into one
thought.

[the original poem]

Wa ga yado no
isasamuratake
fuku kaze no
oto no kasokeki
kono yube ka mo

Yu saraba
 yado ake makete
ware matamu
ime ni aimi ni
komu tou hito o

[my own comments]

A lovely little vignette, today's poem emphasizes the minimal aesthetic
so typical of Japanese art. Note that these were written a full thousand
years before Basho - evidently, this particular form of refined
elegance has been around for a long time.

thomas.

When I Was One-and-Twenty -- A E Housman

...back in action after a much-needed vacation...

(Poem #86) When I Was One-and-Twenty When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. -- A E Housman

There are some poems which should not be analysed to death, just read
out loud for the sheer joy of reading. This is one of them. Critics over
the years have had a field day with Housman's work, often going
completely off the deep end about his morbidity, his sexual orientation,
his atheism, his fragile psychological makeup and so on, but for me his
poems can stand alone on the strength of their beauty and simplicity.

If you *really* want to read more about Housman's work in general and
this poem in particular, you can visit
http://www.gale.com/gale/poetry/housmbio.html

thomas.

The Raven -- Edgar Allan Poe

This week's theme (if you can call it a theme) is oft-parodied poems,
starting off with what is probably the most famous of them all...

(Poem #85) The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is, and nothing more," Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; -- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never-nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore. -- Edgar Allan Poe

Another of my favourite poems - this is a lovely example of both the art and
the craft of poetry. The poetry is undeniable - the lovely atmospheric
buildup, the increasingly distraught reactions of the narrator. But IMHO all
that is overshadowed by the sheer quality of the verse - the complicated
yet flawless rhyme scheme and metre, the way the different line lengths are
balanced with no hint of strain, the plethora of polysyllabics that *work*
rather than sounding pretentious.

Of course, the distinctive, indeed instantly recognisable quality of the
verse lends itself marvellously to parody, and several excellent ones have
been written. A few of them have been collected at
<http://www.angelfire.com/al/10avs/ravenlike.html>

The reader is strongly urged to read Poe's essay, 'The Philosophy of
Composition', which uses The Raven for illustration, and which greatly
enhances the understanding and enjoyment of the poem.

The essay can be found at
<[broken link] http://www.poedecoder.com/Qrisse/works/philosophy.html>

Some excerpts:
 I select 'The Raven' as most generally known. It is my design to render it
 manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to
 accident or intuition- that the work proceeded step by step, to its
 completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical
 problem.

 [...]

 The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to
 select a word embodying this sound, and at the same
 time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had
 pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a
 search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word
 "Nevermore." In fact it was the very first which
 presented itself.

 [...]

 Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the
 "Raven." The former is trochaic- the latter is octametre acatalectic,
 alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth
 verse, and terminating with tetrametre catalectic. Less pedantically the
 feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by
 a short, the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet, the
 second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the
 fourth of seven and a half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half.
 Now, each of these lines taken individually has been employed before, and
 what originality the "Raven" has, is in their combination into stanza;
 nothing even remotely approaching this has ever been attempted. The effect
 of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and some
 altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of
 the principles of rhyme and alliteration.

[...]

 I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
 mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had to
 combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
 application of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of such
 combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to
 the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the
 opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending, that is
 to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could make
 the first query propounded by the lover- the first query to which the Raven
 should reply "Nevermore"- that I could make this first query a commonplace
 one, the second less so, the third still less, and so on, until at length
 the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the melancholy
 character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a
 consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at
 length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far
 different character- queries whose solution he has passionately at heart-
 propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair
 which delights in self-torture- propounds them not altogether because he
 believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason
 assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he
 experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive
 from the expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most
 intolerable of sorrows.

Biographical Notes and Appraisal:

Poe, Edgar Allan

 b. Jan. 19, 1809, Boston, Mass., U.S.
 d. Oct. 7, 1849, Baltimore, Md.

  American short-story writer, poet, critic, and editor who is famous for
  his cultivation of mystery and the macabre. His tale "The Murders in the
  Rue Morgue" (1841) initiated the modern detective story, and the
  atmosphere in his tales of horror is unrivaled in American fiction. His
  "The Raven" (1845) numbers among the best-known poems in the national
  literature.

  Poe's work owes much to the concern of Romanticism with the occult and the
  satanic. It owes much also to his own feverish dreams, to which he applied
  a rare faculty of shaping plausible fabrics out of impalpable materials.
  With an air of objectivity and spontaneity, his productions are closely
  dependent on his own powers of imagination and an elaborate technique. His
  keen and sound judgment as appraiser of contemporary literature, his
  idealism and musical gift as a poet, his dramatic art as a storyteller,
  considerably appreciated in his lifetime, secured him a prominent place
  among universally known men of letters.

  The outstanding fact in Poe's character is a strange duality. The wide
  divergence of contemporary judgments on the man seems almost to point to
  the coexistence of two persons in him. With those he loved he was gentle
  and devoted. Others, who were the butt of his sharp criticism, found him
  irritable and self-centred and went so far as to accuse him of lack of
  principle. Was it, it has been asked, a double of the man rising from
  harrowing nightmares or from the haggard inner vision of dark crimes or
  from appalling graveyard fantasies that loomed in Poe's unstable being?

  Much of Poe's best work is concerned with terror and sadness, but in
  ordinary circumstances the poet was a pleasant companion. He talked
  brilliantly, chiefly of literature, and read his own poetry and that of
  others in a voice of surpassing beauty. He admired Shakespeare and
  Alexander Pope. He had a sense of humour, apologizing to a visitor for not
  keep ing a pet raven. If the mind of Poe is considered, the duality is
  still more striking. On one side, he was an idealist and a visionary. His
  yearning for the ideal was both of the heart and of the imagination. [...]
  On the other side, Poe is conspicuous for a close observation of minute
  details, as in the long narratives and in many of the descriptions that
  introduce the tales or constitute their settings.

  The same duality is evinced in his art. He was capable of writing angelic
  or weird poetry, with a supreme sense of rhythm and word appeal, or prose
  of sumptuous beauty and suggestiveness, with the apparent abandon of
  compelling inspiration; yet he would write down a problem of morbid
  psychology or the outlines of an unrelenting plot in a hard and dry style.
  In Poe's masterpieces the double contents of his temper, of his mind, and
  of his art are fused into a oneness of tone, structure, and movement, the
  more effective, perhaps, as it is compounded of various elements.

        -- EB

  A nice online biography can be found at
  <http://www.gale.com/gale/poetry/poetset.html>

m.

From a Railway Carriage -- Robert Louis Stevenson

Sorry - egroups didn't send this properly yesterday, so I'm resending it as
today's poem.

(Poem #84) From a Railway Carriage Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; And here is the green for stringing the daisies! Here is a cart runaway in the road Lumping along with man and load; And here is a mill, and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone forever! -- Robert Louis Stevenson

        (From 'A Child's Garden of Verses')

Stevenson's childrens' poetry had a charm all it's own. Like all good
childrens' verse, this one has a strong sense of rhythm and emphasised
rhymes, delighting as much in the sound of the poem as in what it is saying.
Like all the best poetry, of any sort, this piece also blends form and
content beautifully, the regular metre evoking the rhythms of the train, and
the rhyme scheme rushing the reader along and lending a sense of speed. To
complete the effect, note that each image is contained entirely within its
couplet, splitting the poem into a series of snapshots, 'each a glimpse and
gone forever'.

m.

Notes etc: See 'Requiem', poem #20

For another nice biography of Stevenson, see
<[broken link] http://www.rit.edu/~exb1874/mine/stevenson/stevenson_ind.html>

The Red Wheelbarrow -- William Carlos Williams

(Poem #83) The Red Wheelbarrow so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. -- William Carlos Williams

Simple, elegant, and wonderfully evocative... this is more painting than
poem.

thomas.

"Reading this poem is like peering at an ordinary object through a pin
prick in a piece of cardboard. The fact that the tiny hole arbitrarily
frames the object endows it with an exciting freshness that seems to
hover on the verge of revelation."
    - Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding Poetry.

[Biography]

William Carlos Williams was born September 17, 1883 in Rutherford, New
Jersey, to middle-class parents who were lovers of literature and visual
art. But Williams showed little interest in art until he attended the
University of Pennsylvania's medical school. It was there that he became
enamoured with poetry and was for some time torn between his parents'
wishes that he become a doctor and his own, less conventional
aspirations. While in Pennsylvania, Williams befriended the poet Ezra
Pound, a relationship that he later termed a watershed in his literary
career. Pound not only helped Williams develop his aesthetic of magism -
a poetic approach that emphasized the concrete over abstractions - but
also introduced him to a literary circle that included the flamboyant
poet Hilda Doolittle (H. D.). By the time Williams completed his
studies, he was committed to his writing; yet he still pursued a medical
career and maintained a private practice in Rutherford for over forty
years. From his medical practice Williams gained not only the financial
freedom to write what he wished, but also a rare and intimate insight
into the lives of common people.

Williams's immersion in and attachment to the lives of Rutherford's
townsfolk was mirrored in the aesthetic principles he developed over the
years. He consistently advocated and wrote literature that took its
themes from ordinary life and its voice from the patterns of common
speech. During much of his poetic career, however, these values ran
counter to those of the critically acclaimed poetry of the day - namely,
the classicist, academic, and formal poetry exemplified by T. S. Eliot
and Wallace Stevens. During the 1920s and 1930s Williams labored largely
in obscurity; with the publication of the first Paterson volumes in the
1940s, however, he gained wider recognition, and the emerging Beat
Movement poets of the 1950s venerated him for his rejection of
formalism. Shortly after receiving a Pulitzer Prize, Williams died on
March 4, 1963.

[Commentary]

The opening lines set the tone for the rest of the poem. Since the poem
is composed of one sentence broken up at various intervals, it is
truthful to say that "so much depends upon" each line of the poem. This
is so because the form of the poem is also its meaning. This may seem
confusing, but by the end of the poem the image of the wheelbarrow is
seen as the actual poem, as in a painting when one sees an image of an
apple, the apple represents an actual object in reality, but since it is
part of a painting the apple also becomes the actual piece of art.

Notice how the monosyllabic words in line 3 elongate the line, putting
an unusual pause between the word "wheel" and "barrow." This has the
effect of breaking the image down to its most basic parts. The reader
feels as though he or she were scrutinizing each part of the scene.
Using the sentence as a painter uses line and color, Williams breaks up
the words in order to see the object more closely.

The word "glazed" evokes another painterly image. Just as the reader is
beginning to notice the wheelbarrow through a closer perspective, the
rain transforms it as well, giving it a newer, fresher look. This new
vision of the image is what Williams is aiming for.

The last lines offer up the final brushstroke to this "still life" poem.
Another color, "white" is used to contrast the earlier "red," and the
unusual view of the ordinary wheelbarrow is complete. Williams, in
dissecting the image of the wheelbarrow, has also transformed the common
definition of a poem. With careful word choice, attention to language,
and unusual stanza breaks Williams has turned an ordinary sentence into
poetry.

    - from the Gale Poetry Resource Center
http://www.gale.com/gale/poetry/poetset.html