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On His Blindness -- John Milton

Rectifying a serious omission in the list of covered poets...
(Poem #106) On His Blindness
 When I consider how my light is spent
     Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
     And that one talent which is death to hide
     Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present
     My true account, lest he returning chide,
     "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
     I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
 That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
    Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait."
-- John Milton
Milton is not really one of my favourite poets, but this in no way detracts
from his obvious merits. The poem above is one of his most famous[1], and
certainly one of the more famous sonnets around. Like most of Milton's
poetry, it is explicitly religious; this does, I think, give it a slightly
anachronistic feel today, but it was far from uncommon in his time. Like a
number of famous poems, most of this one's impact lies in its last line,
which provides a beautiful counterpoint to the rest of the poem, and which
is far more famous than the sonnet itself.

[1] always excepting 'Paradise Lost'

m.

Notes:

Form: sonnet: abbaabbacdecde
1. The date of composition is uncertain, Milton's blindness, to which this
   is the first reference in his poetry, became virtually complete in 1652,
   but if the arrangement of his sonnets is (as it elsewhere appears to be)
   chronological, the date must be, like that of Sonnet XVIII, 1655. First
   printed in Poems, 1673.

   light: power of vision, to be taken in conjunction with "this dark
   world.'' In a letter of 1654 Milton refers to a very faint
   susceptibility to light still remaining to him.

2. Ere half my days: we must not expect mathematical accuracy. But if we
   remember that Milton is speaking about his career in God's service, take
   its beginning in the avowed dedication to that service in Sonnet VII
   (1632), and assume the scriptural life-span of three score years and ten
   (which would mean life till 1678), 1652 falls before, and even 1655 does
   not extend beyond, the half-way mark of Milton's expected career of
   service.

3-6. The allusion is to the parable of the talents (Matthew 25:14-30);
     death, like the outer darkness into which the unprofitable servant was
     cast, stands for the utmost in punishment; the Talent was a measure of
     weight and hence of value; there is here, of course, a play on the word
     in its modern sense of mental gift or endowment, in Milton's case his
     gift of poetry.

8. fondly: foolishly.

 -- from <http://library.utoronto.ca/www/utel/rp/authors/milton.html>

Biography and Assessment

  Milton's sonnets (he only wrote a few, but they are so well-known that his
  variation is called the Miltonic sonnet) retain the original rhyme scheme
  of the Petrarchian or Italian sonnet, but completely get rid of the
  "volte", or change or perspective between the octet and sestet. The result
  is that the 14-line stanza becomes a monolith. An astounding thing is that
  it turns out to be just the right length, even for wide-minded (and
  occasionally long-winded) Milton.

        -- Bob Blair

  The major sonnets have much poetical as well as autobiographical interest,
  and as a group they illustrate (with "Lycidas") both in texture and rhythm
  the beginnings of the grand style (i.e., a literary style marked by a
  sustained and lofty dignity and sublimity) that was to have full scope in
  Paradise Lost. One is less conscious of sonnet structure and of rhymes
  than of a single massive unit that approaches a paragraph of Milton's
  blank verse.

        -- EB

Milton, John

 b. Dec. 9, 1608, London, Eng.
 d. Nov. 8, 1674, Chalfont St. Giles, Buckinghamshire

  one of the greatest poets of the English language. He also was a noted
  historian, scholar, pamphleteer, and civil servant for the
  Parliamentarians and the Puritan Commonwealth.

  Milton ranks second only to Shakespeare among English poets; his writings
  and his influence are an important part of the history of English
  literature, culture, and libertarian thought. He is best known for
  Paradise Lost, which is generally regarded as the greatest epic poem in
  the English language. Milton's prose works, however, are also important as
  a valuable interpretation of the Puritan revolution, and they have their
  place in modern histories of political and religious thought.

        -- EB

  A more complete biogaphy may be found at
  <http://www.gale.com/gale/poetry/poetset.html>

And since no biography of Milton would be compelete without a short note on
Paradise Lost:

  By 1650 Milton had given up the idea of composing a British epic. Instead
  he chose what was considered the most momentous event, next to the life
  and death of Christ, in the world's history--the fall of mankind from
  grace. Paradise Lost is an epic poem written in blank verse--i.e.,
  unrhymed iambic pentameter verse. It tells the story of Satan's rebellion
  against God and his expulsion from heaven and the subsequent temptation
  and expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden.

  By Milton's time the Fall of Man had already received innumerable
  literary treatments, narrative and dramatic, so that the simple tale in
  Genesis and the more shadowy role of Satan in heaven, earth, and hell
  had acquired a good deal of interpretative and concrete embellishment.
  So the main motives and events of Paradise Lost had abundant literary
  precedent, though they were handled with powerful originality; Milton,
  like a Greek dramatist, was reworking a story familiar in outline to his
  audience. His story, moreover, gave him the advantage of immemorial
  belief and association in the minds of his earlier readers. This
  advantage no longer operates in the same way--although, for modern
  readers, the fable still possesses at least the immemorial and universal
  import of archetypal myth.

        -- EB

Five Ways to Kill a Man -- Edwin Brock

       
(Poem #105) Five Ways to Kill a Man
There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
To the top of a hill and nail him to it.
To do this
Properly you require a crowd of people
Wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
To dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
Man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
Shaped and chased in a traditional way,
And attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,

At least two flags, a prince and a
Castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
Allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
A mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
Not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
More mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
And some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
Miles above your victim and dispose of him by
Pressing one small switch. All you then
Require is an ocean to separate you, two

Systems of government, a nation's scientists,
Several factories, a psychopath and
Land that no one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
To kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
Is to see that he lives somewhere in the middle
Of the twentieth century, and leave him there.
-- Edwin Brock
A simple, direct poem, neither overstated nor emotional, yet chillingly
effective. The matter-of-fact tone, as dry as a news-caster's, highlights
the horror of the deeds being described; at the same time, it suggests the
impersonality which makes war so terrible. This is a poem where form is as
important as content in establishing meaning.

thomas.

[Biography]

Born in London, Brock (1927-) served two years in the Royal Navy. He was a
police officer when he completed his first poetry collection, An Attempt at
Exorcism (1959). Influenced by American confessional poets, Brock writes
about family relationships, childhood memories, and sometimes shifts into
the linguistic mode of an advertising copywriter (which he became in 1959).
Suggesting that all poetry is to some extent autobiographical, Brock argues
"that most activity is an attempt to define oneself in one way or another:
for me poetry, and only poetry, has provided this self-defining act." His
works include over a dozen poetry collections; a novel, The Little White God
(1962); and an autobiography, Here, Now, Always (1977).

My Last Duchess -- Robert Browning

Guest poem sent in by Pavithra Krishnan
(Poem #104) My Last Duchess
    That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
    Looking as if she were alive. I call
    That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
    Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
    Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
    "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
    Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
    The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
    But to myself they turned (since none puts by
   The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
   And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
   How such a glance came there; so, not the first
   Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
   Her husband's presence only, called that spot
   Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
   Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps
   Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
   Must never hope to reproduce the faint
   Half-flush that dies along her throat"; such stuff
   Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
   For calling up that spot of joy. She had
   A heart . . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,
   Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
   She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
   Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
   The dropping of the daylight in the West,
   The bough of cherries some officious fool
   Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
   She rode with round the terrace--all and each
   Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
   Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good; but thanked
   Somehow . . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked
   My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
   With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
   This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
   In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will
   Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
   Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
   Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let
   Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
   Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
   --E'en then would be some stooping; and I chuse
   Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
   Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
   Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
   Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
   As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
   The company below, then. I repeat,
   The Count your Master's known munificence
   Is ample warrant that no just pretence
   Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
   Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
   At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
   Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, though,
   Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
   Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
-- Robert Browning
I think this one is Great. A dramatic monologue and also the aristocratic,
unapologetic explanation of a poikilothermic  murderer. You read this poem
as partial victim of the Duke's chillingly warped sense of reality. This is
not Evil revelling in itself- but Evil masquerading as Righteousness...
Deliciously creepy. The brutal arrogance of the supremely egotistical Duke
and his veneer of consummate refinement are brought out masterfully in that
telling line- "..and I choose/ Never to stoop." The 'inconclusive-ness' of
the piece leaves the reader in horrified suspense (a pretty innovative
decision on Browning's part- the use of open-endings as a technique had yet
to catch on). A virtuoso performance by a fascinating character,an
exquisitely handled script, and a title that is a dangerous revelation in
itself.

Pavithra Krishnan

Jenny Kissed Me -- James Leigh Hunt

       
(Poem #103) Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
  Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
  Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
  Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
  Jenny kiss'd me.
-- James Leigh Hunt
  Note: The Jenny in question was Jane Welsh Carlyle, wife of Thomas
  Carlyle. Hunt had just recovered from an extended battle with influenza,
  and when he went to tell the Carlyles the news, Jenny (in a very
  uncharacteristic move) leaped up and kissed him.

While Hunt is perhaps best known for 'Abou Ben Adhem'[1], I think the
charming, somewhat whimsical 'Jenny Kissed Me' is a far nicer poem. The
simple, unaffected lyrics hide the construction somewhat, which is how it
should be - however, several details of the form are notable.

First off, the poem is perfectly trochaic[2], which is neither common nor
easy. Moreover, it is probably the most natural piece of trochaic verse I've
seen. It also avoids both the common traps of trochaic verse, one being a
tendency to sound singsong (thanks in part to the fact that the most common
perfect trochaics around are nursery rhymes like 'Twinkle, twinkle little
star') and the tendency to sound heavy and solemn. The latter is not
technically a trap; it is due to the 'falling' pattern of a trochaic foot,
and is often used to good effect. However, here the poem is slightly more
lighthearted, and needs something to offset the trochees. That something is
provided by the feminine rhymes - masculine rhymes are usually associated
with serious poetry, and feminine and triple rhymes with lighter verse, and
most serious trochaic poetry drops the last syllable throughout, having
implied caesuras (pauses) at the end of each line. The singsong effect is
offset by the abab (as opposed to aabb) rhyme scheme - it makes the verse,
rather than the couplet, the basic unit of the poem - and by the alternate
feminine rhymes, which tend to group every two lines into a longer line,
with the masculine rhymes being deemphasized.

The verse pattern used here (alternating between implied caesuras and
feminine rhymes) lends the poem a very natural tone, putting the reader in
comfortable and familiar territory versewise, and letting the words get
across unhindered and unshadowed by formal complications.

[1] may his tribe increase
[2] a trochaic foot is stress, unstress.
    'Jen ny 'kiss'd me 'when we 'met etc.

m.

Biography and Assessment:

Hunt, (James Henry) Leigh

 b. Oct. 19, 1784, Southgate, Middlesex, Eng.
 d. Aug. 28, 1859, Putney, London

English essayist, critic, journalist, and poet, who was an editor of
influential journals in an age when the periodical was at the height of its
power. He was also a friend and supporter of the poets Percy Bysshe Shelley
and John Keats. Hunt's poems, of which "Abou Ben Adhem" and "Jenny Kissed
Me" are probably the best known, reflect the influence of foreign
versification.

Though he falls short of greatness, Hunt, at his best, in some essays and
his Autobiography (1850; a rewriting of Lord Byron and Some of His
Contemporaries, 1828), has a charm that has gained him a high place in his
readers' affection. He excels in perceptive judgments of his contemporaries,
from Keats to the Victorian Tennyson; and, as Radical journalist, though not
much interested in politics, he attacks oppression with indignation. He
considered himself to be essentially a dilettante.

The poems in Juvenilia (1801), his first volume, show his love for Italian
literature. He looked to Italy for a "freer spirit of versification," and in
The Story of Rimini (1816), published in the year of his meeting with Keats,
he reintroduced a freedom of movement in English couplet verse lost in the
18th century. From him Keats derived his delight in colour and imaginative
sensual experience and a first acquaintance with Italian poetry, a potent
influence long after he had outgrown Hunt's tutelage.

        -- EB

Generations -- Amy Lowell

       
(Poem #102) Generations
You are like the stem
Of a young beech-tree,
Straight and swaying,
Breaking out in golden leaves.
Your walk is like the blowing of a beech-tree
On a hill.
Your voice is like leaves
Softly struck upon by a South wind.
Your shadow is no shadow, but a scattered sunshine;
And at night you pull the sky down to you
And hood yourself in stars.

But I am like a great oak under a cloudy sky,
Watching a stripling beech grow up at my feet.
-- Amy Lowell
Another Imagist poem... I like Imagist poetry :-)

'Generations' is deceptively simple in thought and execution. I say
'deceptively', because it's difficult to appreciate today how revolutionary
poems like this one were, back in the early years of this century. To an
audience who had grown up on a diet of maudlin Victorian poets, the plain
and unadorned yet intensely evocative works of art fashioned by Pound and
his ilk came as nothing short of a revelation. It takes great skill and
painstaking craftsmanship to make poetic statements with their particular
type of compressed 'meaningfulness'; today's poem may not be as brilliantly
concentrated as some, but it's nevertheless a fine piece of work, elegant
and unforced.

And yes, I used the phrase 'works of art' quite intentionally, in the
previous paragraph. I've always felt that Imagist poetry is closer to
painting than it is to literature - read 'The Red Wheelbarrow', Minstrels
Poem #83 to see what I mean.

thomas.

[Overview]

First published in 1919 in Pictures of a Floating World, "Generations" is a
fine example of the imagist style which Lowell, along with Ezra Pound and H.
D. (Hilda Doolittle), made famous in England and America during the early
part of the twentieth century. This poetic movement, a reaction to what was
seen as the abstract and sentimental poetry of the Victorian period,
stressed the importance of the concrete image and argued for poetic forms
based not upon fixed forms but upon common speech presented through
free-verse or what Lowell termed "unrhymed cadence." Proponents of this
movement argued for what might be termed "rhetorical efficiency" or
minimalism. In other words, imagism called for a new poetry, one in which
there were no frills, no ornament, one in which the poem managed to
communicate as much as possible in the fewest words and with the least
rhetorical posturing.

[Criticism]

"Generations" was first published in 1919, in a collection of poems titled
Pictures of a Floating World, a collection which did much to assure Lowell's
critical acclaim. The title of this volume Pictures of a Floating World was
derived from the Japanese word "ukiyoye" which was commonly applied to
eighteenth-century realistic paintings that depicted delight in life's
transient pleasures. As well, the brilliant images of the volume were
informed by Lowell's many years studying Chinese and Japanese visual art and
poetry. Indeed, one could argue that Lowell's poetry is best understood in
the context of her Asian studies. Glenn Richard Ruihley notes in his book
The Thorn of a Rose that the "wide ranging research" Lowell did in this area
"deepened her response to a civilization in which art had ordered and
refined the whole conduct of life. This was the concept of the Orient
developed by Percival Lowell, her brother, and Amy's identification with
Oriental life follows the lines of this thought." Poetically, Lowell was
especially interested in hokku and tantra and wrote a number of experiments
in which she tried to imitate these poetic forms. According to S. Foster
Damon, in his book Amy Lowell: A Chronicle with Extracts from Her
Correspondence, each of these might "be considered an experiment in economy
of means." That is to say that Lowell did not emulate the elaborate syllabic
patterns of these poetic forms. Rather, she was profoundly influenced by the
simplicity and clarity of their imagery. As Glenn Hughes notes in his
article "Amy Lowell: The Success," only a fraction of this book is "written
in actual imitation of foreign modes, yet the Oriental influence is dominant
throughout the book. Fantastic imagery conveying evanescent moods is the
artistic aim involved." "Generations" is not an imitation of Asian poetic
form per se, but the terseness of the last few lines are remindful of haiku
and share with it the sense of economy as regards language.

[Biography]

A descendent of one of the oldest and most respected families in New
England, Amy Lowell was born in Brookline, Massachusetts, on February 9,
1874, to Augustus Lowell and Katherine Bigelow Lawrence Lowell. Raised on a
ten-acre estate, Lowell first received tutoring at home by governesses
before she attended private schools in Boston until the age of seventeen.
Around 1902 Lowell decided to seriously study poetry in hopes of becoming a
poet herself. Houghton Mifflin published her first collection of poems in
1912, but the work received little notice from critics. Not until she
traveled to London in the summer of 1913 to meet Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle
(H. D.), and other poets involved in Imagism, did Lowell begin to receive
both recognition and notoriety for her work. Upon returning to Boston she
became an important promoter for the Imagist movement in America, helping
edit, publish, and support Imagist poets and anthologies. Throughout the
rest of her life, Lowell continued to champion the works of American poets
and introduce the public to contemporary poetry. Afflicted by chronic hernia
problems since 1916, Lowell underwent numerous operations, but she never let
her illness interfere with her poetry. On May 10, 1925, she cancelled a
lecture tour after suffering from her most serious hernia attack. Two days
later, Lowell died on her Brookline estate of a cerebral hemorrhage.

(all the above are from the Gale Poetry Resource Centre,
http://www.gale.com/gale/poetry/poetset.html)