I've Dreamed of You So Much -- Robert Desnos

Guest poem sent in by

(Poem #1339) I've Dreamed of You So Much I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing your reality. Is it already too late for me to embrace your literal, living and breathing physical body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice which is so dear to me? I've dreamed of you so much that my arms--which have become accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest after attempting to encircle your shadow--might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your literal form, perhaps So that coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years Might very well turn me into a shadow. Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales! I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up again. I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love and yet when it comes to you--you, the only being on the planet who matters to me now-- I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random passerby. I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now Is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy than that shifting shape which moves and which will go on moving, stepping lightly and happily across the sundial of your life. -- Robert Desnos

          (Translated by Michael Benedikt)

This poem by Robert Desnos was originally written in French in 1926.  I
translated this piece at the age of 16 during my 4th year of French Studies
in high school in North America.  Now in my 30's, I recently found the
tattered remnants of my romantic schoolgirl translation buried within the
pages of a book where I first discovered my heartfelt love and proclivity
for the written word.  Ironically, the words, the images and the idea of the
"one" as written by Robert Desnos -- which attracted me then -- haunt me
still.

Despite the yearning inherent in the impressionable adolescence of a
hesitant, yet  emerging young poet -- also a student of French -- I find I
like my version (below) best.  But then, I have so many dreams of.....

'Poem to the Mysterious'
1926

(translated by )

  I have so many dreams of you,
  that you lose your reality
  Is it too late to reach for your living, breathing body,
  and lower my mouth over the birthplace
  of a voice so dear to me?

  I have so many dreams of you,
  that my arms--accustomed to embracing only shadows--
  will cross themselves over my chest
  and will not unfold again if not perhaps around
  the contours of your very body.

  And until your actual appearance in my life
  --the ideal of the person who haunts and leads
  me through the days and the years--
  I too will become a shadow,
  without direction or sentimental balance

  I have so many dreams of you,
  that I may never wake up again.
  I sleep at will, exposing my life to love and to you,
  the only one that matters to me now.
  Would that I be able to touch your forehead and lips,
  and not those of a one who randomly crosses my path.

  I have so many dreams of you,
  so walked upon, talked about and slept with your haunting image, that there
    is no remedy but to be,
  a ghost among the ghosts.
  And I'd rather be this shadow one hundred times over,
  than the phantom shape that walks and
  will walk happily over the sundial of your life.

             ---

Biography of Desnos:
  http://members.aol.com/benedit5/desnos2.html#INTRO

And one of Benedikt:
  http://members.tripod.com/~MichaelBenedikt/ind2.html#Bio/Recent%20Photo

The World is Too Much With Us -- William Wordsworth

Guest poem sent in by Mallika Chellappa

(Poem #1338) The World is Too Much With Us The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. -- William Wordsworth

I was reading Edna St Vincent Millay's Sonnets
on Minstrels (lovely) and remembered this famous one.

Wordsworth laboured his poems, but just one phrase
makes this one worthwhile for me - a  picture
of the quiet winds over the ocean on a moonlit night.

I studied in a Convent, and some of us giggled when the line
"this Sea that bares her bosom to the moon" was read
in class. Our English teacher - a nun - admonished us
"You silly girls, don't you know a woman's bosom is one of the
most beautiful of God's creations!"

Beauty is Truth, and Truth is Beauty! I'm forever indebted
to Sister Catherine.

Mallika Chellappa

[Martin adds]

Like Mallika, I find this poem a trifle laboured, but the first line has an
indefinable *something* to it. It stuck in my memory long after the rest
of the poem had faded. The transition from the octet to the sestet is very well
handled, too - not always the case in a sonnet, but noticeable when it does
happen.

martin

Ample Make This Bed -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Linda Roberts

(Poem #1337) Ample Make This Bed Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair. Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise' yellow noise Interrupt this ground. -- Emily Dickinson

(Complete Poems Part Four: Time and Eternity, LXIII)

After reading today's Emily Dickinson (Poem #1328) and reflecting on the
recent "poetry in the movies" thread, I thought of this poem, used to such
great effect in "Sophie's Choice" and especially touching to anyone like me
who's recently lost a loved one.

Graves are often compared to beds, and death to sleep, but Dickinson's
description seems especially poignant to me, since graves are frequently
described as narrow or deep, but "ample" seems both an unusual and apt term.

Linda

Of Human Knowledge -- Sir John Davies

(Poem #1336) Of Human Knowledge I know my body's of so frail a kind, As force without, fevers within can kill; I know the heavenly nature of my mind, But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will. I know my Soul hath power to know all things, Yet is she blind and ignorant in all; I know I am one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. I know my life's a pain and but a span, I know my Sense is mock'd with every thing: And to conclude, I know myself a MAN, Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing. -- Sir John Davies

 From Nosce Teipsum ('know thyself'), published in 1599.

 One thing I like about the Elizabethan and metaphysical poets is the
wonderfully _assured_ quality of their verse. The Sonnets are perhaps
the canonical example of this: again and again Shakespeare uses the most
unexpected of words, yet on closer inspection these words are revealed
to be absolutely, incontrovertibly _right_ for their contexts. Even the
lesser poets of those days -- Campion, Peele and yes, John Davies --
seem to have this quality in spades.

 I think it has a lot to do with the intellectual climate of the time.
The late 15th and early 16th centuries saw a confluence of factors --
the humanistic ideals of the Renaissance, the emergence of England as a
seafaring power, the maturing of the English language, the merging of
Italianate and classical prosody with the folk songs and ballads of the
English countryside -- which combined to spark into life a poetry that
was confident and self-assured, exploring brave new themes in a language
perfectly suited to its purpose. English poetry had broken free of the
intellectual and thematic limitations of the Middle Ages, and had yet to
be entangled in the stifling conventions of the Augustan period. A true
golden age, responsible for such gems as today's poem.

thomas.

A biography of Sir John Davies can be found at Luminarium:
http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/daviebio.htm

Balloon Fight -- Roger McGough

(Poem #1335) Balloon Fight 'This morning, the American, Steve Fossett, ended his Round-The-World balloon fight...I'm sorry, balloon "flight"...in northern India.' - The Today Programme, Radio 4, 20 January 1997 It ended in Uttar Pradesh. It had to. You can't go around the world attacking people with balloons and expect to get away with it. What may be mildly amusing at children's parties in Upper Manhattan will not seem so funny ha ha on the Falls Road. How Fossett fought his way across the former Yugoslavia I'll never know. Some folk never grow up. Hang on to their childhood. Believing in the Tooth Fairy, watched over by the Man in the Moon. Thank you, Mr Newsreader, for bringing him down to earth. For bursting his balloon. -- Roger McGough

I had to laugh out loud when I read this poem, at the sheer *image* of our
intrepid hero working his way around the world and hitting unsuspecting
people with balloons.

As a child, McGough came as something of a revelation - I had always loved
poetry, but only if it rhymed and scanned. McGough was the first poet to
show me that modern poetry could be pleasurable, and here, watching him turn
a simple slip of the tongue into a wonderful piece of whimsy, I'm glad to
say that the magic hasn't faded.

martin