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The Leaden-Eyed -- Vachel Lindsay

This week's theme: Poems with a Purpose.
(Poem #1069) The Leaden-Eyed
 Let not young souls be smothered out before
 They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
 It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
 Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.

 Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly;
 Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
 Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
 Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
-- Vachel Lindsay
Art for Art's sake? Not quite. Love poems and nature poems, odes to
melancholy and cats, Life sliced and filleted, funnies and furies -- these
are all very well, but there's a special place in the poetic pantheon for
pieces propounding purely political principles: Poems with a Purpose.

Unfortunately, there are two dangers which such poems often run into, both
easily foreseen, but quite a bit harder to prevent. Firstly, there's the
possibility that the poet allows the moral, social or political aspects of
his poem to overwhelm the purely poetic ones; he is so caught up in _what_
he is saying that he loses sight of _how_ he's saying it. The result, more
often than not, is a stilted, overly didactic piece, the kind which
Coleridge, the later Wordsworth and Shelley wrote far too many of. It was
this danger that the Imagists were warning against with their tenet "Show,
don't tell"; it was this possibility that Archibald MacLeish was reacting to
when he wrote "A poem should not mean / but be" [1].

The second danger is, ironically, the exact obverse of the first: namely,
the possibility that the poem's readers respond, not to the purely poetic
merits of the verse, but to the political ones; they allow their agreement
(or lack thereof) with the poet's philosophy to cloud their judgement when
it comes to evaluating the poem per se [2]. There are two ways to avoid this
danger; the easy one is to retreat into platitudes that offend nobody (but
equally, please nobody). That way lies mediocrity.

The other, more difficult way is to do what Vachel Lindsay does in today's
poem: find something you feel strongly about, which nonetheless has not been
bromided to death by a thousand previous moralisers, express it in words
fresh enough to be powerful, and leave it at that. The reader will do the
rest.

thomas.

[1] Poem #188, "Ars Poetica" -- Archibald MacLeish

[2] It might be argued that this is not a flaw: a poem that arouses strong
passions (favourable or otherwise) in its readers is a poem that's doing
_something_ right.

[Links]

Here's a nice resource on Lindsay's life and works:
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/g_l/lindsay/lindsay.htm

Here are some Imagist poets on the Minstrels:
Poet #Kreymborg -- Alfred Kreymborg
Poet #Sandburg -- Carl Sandburg
Poet #Pound -- Ezra Pound
Poet #D. -- H. D.
Poet #Williams -- William Carlos Williams

Here are some previous poems, each with their own respective Purposes:
Poem #26, Jerusalem  -- William Blake
Poem #592, Sonnet: England in 1819 -- Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem #132, Dulce Et Decorum Est  -- Wilfred Owen
Poem #28, To Whom It May Concern  -- Adrian Mitchell

Lovers and a Reflection -- Charles S Calverley

       
(Poem #1068) Lovers and a Reflection
 In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
   (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
 Meaning, however, is no great matter)
   Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween.

 Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,
   I and my Willie (O love my love):
 I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
   And flitter-bats wavered alow, above;

 Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,
   (Boats in that climate are so polite,)
 And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
   And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

 Thro' the rare red heather we danced together
   (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:
 I must mention again it was glorious weather,
   Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

 By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
   Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
 We walked or waded, we two young shavers,
   Thanking our stars we were both so green.

 We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
   In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
 Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
   Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

 Song-birds darted about, some inky
   As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
 Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky--
   They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

 But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
   Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;
 They need no parasols, no goloshes;
   And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

 Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather),
   That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
 And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)--
   Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

 And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty;
   Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)--
 Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
   Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

 Bowers of flowers encountered showers
   In William's carol--(O love my Willie!)
 Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrow
   I quite forget what--say a daffodilly.

 A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"
   I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
 And clay that was "kneaden" of course in "Eden"--
   A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

 Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
   And all least furlable things got "furled";
 Not with any design to conceal their glories,
   But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."

 O if "billows" and "pillows" and "hours" and "flowers,"
   And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
 Could be furled together, this genial weather,
   And carted or carried on wafts away,
 Nor ever again trotted out--ah me!
 How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.
-- Charles S Calverley
The late P. G. Wodehouse once remarked upon the lamentable lack of rhymes
for 'love' in English, forcing generations of poets to make trite references
to doves and stars above[1]. Calverley has much the same idea here, though he
takes it a step further, pointing out, in his usual aside-laden style, the
sheer abundance of traditionally 'poetic' words whose sole raison d'etre is
to provide a time-honoured rhyme.

Alongside his spot-on commentary on the "brave rhymes of an elder day",
Calverley sets his sights on a number of other poetic cliches - the
deliberately archaic language, exaggeratedly florid imagery, stirring
sentiment (sentiment should be stirred frequently, lest it overflow) and
other devices that collectively bespeak Poetry.

The flip side of the coin is that it is hard to write good 'bad' poetry, and
what "Lovers and a Reflection" gains in reflexivity, it loses in quality.
This is an amusing enough poem, but it is nowhere as memorable as works by,
say, Lewis Carroll or Wendy Cope.

[1] one can only imagine the poet Wordsworth's delight at first encountering
that princess of rivers, the fair Dove

-martin

Links:

 "How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be" - see also Poem #190
 "Rhyme most novel": Poem #343
 All things furl'd and furlable:
   Poem #89
   Poem #148
   Poem #787

http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Tennyson/tennyson_contents_the_voyage.htm
   http://www.bartleby.com/101/822.html
   http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/hemans/records/madeline.html
   and (don't miss the rhyme!) http://www.bartleby.com/101/356.html

PS: Many thanks to Thomas for covering while I had email problems

On A Wedding Anniversary -- Dylan Thomas

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:
(Poem #1067) On A Wedding Anniversary
 The sky is torn across
 This ragged anniversary of two
 Who moved for three years in tune
 Down the long walks of their vows.

 Now their love lies a loss
 And Love and his patients roar on a chain;
 From every tune or crater
 Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.

 Too late in the wrong rain
 They come together whom their love parted:
 The windows pour into their heart
 And the doors burn in their brain.
-- Dylan Thomas
Easily one of my favourite Dylan poems. I love the way the sense of distance
and separation in the first stanza dissolves into aching passion; how a
quiet walk on a cloudy day becomes an experience of love that is
simulataneously revelation and loss. And I love the way that Thomas, as
always, finds the exact phrases for that experience - of all the places in
poetry that relationships have floundered, there are few more simple and
more moving than "too late in the wrong rain" - and finds also the exact
balance between those phrases, so that a poem filled with raging lines
("Love and his patients roar on a chain", "Doors burn in their brain") still
manages to convey an overall impression of quiet tragedy.

Aseem.

[Minstrels Links]

Dylan Thomas:
Poem #14, Prologue
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Poem #58, The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
Poem #138, Fern Hill
Poem #225, Poem In October
Poem #270, Under Milk Wood
Poem #335, After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
Poem #405, Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
Poem #476, In my craft or sullen art
Poem #568, Especially when the October Wind
Poem #1035, The Hand that Signed the Paper
Poem #1067, On A Wedding Anniversary

Let Evening Come -- Jane Kenyon

Guest poem submitted by Kathy:
(Poem #1066) Let Evening Come
 Let the light of late afternoon
 shine through chinks in the barn, moving
 up the bales as the sun moves down.

 Let the cricket take up chafing
 as a woman takes up her needles
 and her yarn. Let evening come.

 Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
 in long grass. Let the stars appear
 and the moon disclose her silver horn.

 Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
 Let the wind die down. Let the shed
 go black inside. Let evening come.

 To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
 in the oats, to air in the lung
 let evening come.

 Let it come, as it will, and don't
 be afraid. God does not leave us
 comfortless, so let evening come.
-- Jane Kenyon
Those of us who had the good fortune of spending at least some of our
childhood in a rural setting must understand this poem in a different way
than those without that experience. Still, any child who has taken the time
to listen to a cricket chirping on a hot summer night knows something about
this poem.

By showing us the dew gathering, the stars and moon appearing, and a bottle
lying in a ditch, Jane Kenyon reveals the enduring peace of the natural
world. Her ability to perceive this peace seems especially remarkable in
light of her long struggle with bipolar disease. She knew well that the
evening and darkness will come, but she also knew that there was comfort in
the middle of the darkness.

I can't read this poem without thinking of Dylan Thomas' Fern Hill. The
sense of the sacramental nature of the physical world pervades them both and
I suppose for that reason they are two of my favorite poems.

Kathy.

[Minstrels Links]

Jane Kenyon:
Poem #474, Otherwise
Poem #1004, Finding a Long Gray Hair
Poem #1066, Let Evening Come

Dylan Thomas:
Poem #14, Prologue
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Poem #58, The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
Poem #138, Fern Hill
Poem #225, Poem In October
Poem #270, Under Milk Wood
Poem #335, After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
Poem #405, Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
Poem #476, In my craft or sullen art
Poem #568, Especially when the October Wind
Poem #1035, The Hand that Signed the Paper

The Cable Ship -- Harry Edmund Martinson

       
(Poem #1065) The Cable Ship
 We fished up the Atlantic Cable one day between the Barbadoes and the
Tortugas,
 held up our lanterns
 and put some rubber over the wound in its back,
 latitude 15 degrees north, longitude 61 degrees west.
 When we laid our ear down to the gnawed place
 we could hear something humming inside the cable.

 "It's some millionaires in Montreal and St John
 talking over the price of Cuban sugar, and ways to
 reduce our wages", one of us said.

 For a long time we stood there thinking, in a circle of lanterns,
 we're all patient cable fishermen,
 then we let the coated cable fall back
 to its place in the sea.
-- Harry Edmund Martinson
Translated from the Swedish by Robert Bly.

I just finished reading a wonderful book - "The Last Grain Race", by Eric
Newby. It's about the author's experiences as an apprentice seaman on board
the 'Moshulu', a four-masted barque that sailed the trade route between
Europe and Australia by way of the Atlantic, the Cape of Good Hope, and the
Indian Ocean (outwards), and the Southern Ocean, Cape Horn and the Atlantic
again (back). The crew of the Moshulu were mainly Scandinavian, descendants
of a long line of seafarers and wanderers, and it's precisely that group of
hardy folk that Martinson describes in (several, but by no means all of) his
poems.

Martinson was awarded the Nobel Prize 'for writings that catch the dewdrop
and reflect the cosmos'; reading today's poem, you can see why.

thomas.

[Biography]

HARRY EDMUND MARTINSON (b. May 6, 1904, Jämshög, Swed.--d. Feb. 11, 1978,
Stockholm), Swedish novelist and poet who was the first self-taught,
working-class writer to be elected to the Swedish Academy (1949). With
Eyvind Johnson he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1974.

Martinson spent his childhood in a series of foster homes and his youth and
early adulthood as a merchant seaman, labourer, and vagrant. His first book
of poetry, Spökskepp ("Ghost Ship"), much influenced by Rudyard Kipling's
Seven Seas, appeared in 1929. His early experiences are described in two
autobiographical novels, Nässlorna blomma (1935; Flowering Nettle) and Vägen
ut (1936; "The Way Out"), and in original and sensitive travel sketches,
Resor utan mål (1932; "Aimless Journeys") and Kap Farväl (1933; Cape
Farewell). Among his best-known works are Passad (1945; "Trade Wind"), a
collection of poetry; Vägen till Klockrike (1948; The Road), a novel that
sympathetically examines the lives of tramps and other social outcasts; and
Aniara (1956; Aniara, A Review of Man in Time and Space), an epic poem about
space travel that was turned into a successful opera in 1959 by Karl Birger
Blomdahl. Martinson's language is lyrical, unconstrained, innovative, and
sometimes obscure; his imagery, sensuous; his style, often starkly realistic
or expressionistic; and his philosophy, primitivistic. He was married to
another noted Swedish writer, Moa Martinson, from 1929 to 1940.

        -- http://search.eb.com/nobel/micro/378_93.html

[Minstrels Links]

There's no shortage of sea poems on the Minstrels; two which I'm
particularly reminded of are:
Poem #147, The Unspoken -- Edwin Morgan
Poem #758, Sea-Change -- John Masefield

Incidentally, the Minstrels website has several new features; visit
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/ and see if you can spot them!
Thanks as ever to Sitaram for his programming wizardry.

[this poem is archived, accessible and waiting for your comments at]
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1065.html