The Ruin -- Dafydd ap Gwilym

Guest poem submitted by Dave Fortin:

(Poem #1489) The Ruin Nothing but a ruin now Between moorland and meadow, Once the owners saw in you A comely cottage, bright, new, Now roof, rafters, ridge-pole, all Broken down by a broken wall. A day of delight was once there For me, long ago, no care When I had a glimpse of her Fair in an ingle-corner. Beside each other we lay In the delight of that day. Her forearm, snowflake-lovely, Softly white, pillowing me, Proffered a pleasant pattern For me to give in my turn, And that was our blessing for The new-cut lintel and door. Now the wild wind, wailing by, Crashes with curse and with cry Against my stones, a tempest Born and bred in the East, Or south ram-batterers break The shelter that folk forsake. Life is illusion and grief; A tile whirls off, as a leaf Or a lath goes sailing, high In the keening of kite-kill cry. Could it be our couch once stood Sturdily under that wood? Pillar and post, it would seem Now are less than a dream. Are you that, or only the lost Wreck of a fiddle, rune-ghost? "Dafydd, the cross on their graves Marks what little it saves, Says, They did well in their lives." -- Dafydd ap Gwilym

This is one of my favorite Dafydd ap Gwilym poems.  Dafydd is considered
to be the best of the medieval Welsh poets, living only from 1340-1370,
and is particularly noted for his rhyme schemes and poetic composition.
His themes run from the very sexual (he did an ode to his penis) to
nature poetry to such pieces as above that focus on the transitoriness
of this life.  He is carefree, randy and thoughtful all at the same
time.

The above is my favorite of his more 'thoughtful' works, where he
considers the fate of a cottage that he has had a tryst in earlier in
life.  Given his short life-span, it is remarkable that he writes as an
old man in some sense in this poem--the cottage of his earlier pleasures
is now a ruin, and perhaps is an allegory of life.

The above translation is from the Oxford Book of Welsh Verse in English.

To Maeve -- Mervyn Peake

Guest poem sent in by Elaine Campbell

(Poem #1488) To Maeve You walk unaware Of the slender gazelle That moves as you move And is one with the limbs That you have. You live unaware Of the faint, the unearthly Echo of hooves That within your white streams Of clear clay that I love Are in flight as you turn, As you stand, as you move, As you sleep, for the slender Gazelle never rests In your ivory grove. -- Mervyn Peake

That Peake wrote this poem for his wife just tugs at my heart. He died in
1968 at the age of 57. He was best known for The Gormenghast Trilogy, an
unusual gothic romance set in the sprawling castle of Gormenghast whose
ridiculous rituals echo a Kafkaesque nightmare and whose absurd characters
seem to have strayed from Dickens. Also quite noted for his paintings and
illustrations, he was a brilliant poet whose haunted poems share the same
peculiar brilliance as his prose. He married fellow artist Maeve Gilmore,
the woman who would become the centre of his life and imagination. Amongst
his friends were Dylan Thomas and Graham Greene.

I discovered the poetry of Mervyn Peake soon after devouring "The
Gormenghast Trilogy". That was about 25 years ago; his poetry continues to
hold a place in my heart.

Elaine

All Day Permanent Red (extract) -- Christopher Logue

Guest poem sent in by Tim Cooper

(Poem #1487) All Day Permanent Red (extract) To welcome Hector to his death God sent a rolling thunderclap across the sky The city and the sea And momentarily-- The breezes playing with the sunlit dust-- On either slope a silence fell. Think of a raked sky-wide Venetian blind. Add the receding traction of its slats Of its slats of its slats as a hand draws it up. Hear the Greek army getting to its feet. Then of a stadium when many boards are raised And many faces change to one vast face. So, where there were so many masks, Now one Greek mask glittered from strip to ridge. Already swift, Boy Lutie took Prince Hector's nod And fired his whip that right and left Signalled to Ilium's wheels to fire their own, And to the Wall-wide nodding plumes of Trojan infantry-- Flutes! Flutes! Screeching above the grave percussion of their feet Shouting how they will force the savage Greeks Back up the slope over the ridge, downplain And slaughter them beside their ships-- Add the reverberation of their hooves: and "Reach for your oars. . ." T'lesspiax, his yard at 60°, sending it Across the radiant air as Ilium swept Onto the strip Into the Greeks Over the venue where Two hours ago all present prayed for peace. And carried Greece Back up the slope that leads Via its ridge Onto the windy plain. -- Christopher Logue

Today's posting [Poem #1480] made me instantly think of Christopher Logue's
transliteration of Homer's Iliad (published piecemeal as Husbands, Kings,
All Day Permanent Red and War Music). You have previously carried one piece
of his, a wryly amusing poem on disposable literature which was a side of
him I had not met before. However what he is absolute master of is a
cinematic style like this extract from All Day Permanent Red. The narrator
seems to swoop across the battle field picking out the scenes which
illustrate his point before moving on to the next one. It's all very macho –
I have no idea whether the original is the same – and absolutely
exhilarating.

One other thing which he does here very subtly is to use his own, modern
imagery without it jarring. It's obvious as soon as I say it, but it wasn't
until many readings that I realised Homer could never have known about a
Venetian blind. The poem is littered with images like that (an army humming
like power station outflow cables, an arrow leaving a hole the width of a
lipstick, a warrior plucked from a chariot by a spear like a sardine from a
tin) that are both thoroughly modern and yet do not jar. He never tries to
use modern imagery to say that the Greeks were modern, but uses it
instead to simultaneously make their world both alien and real.

Regards,

Tim Cooper

[Martin adds]

Tim's comments about the deliberately modern imagery in today's poem,
whereby the world of the ancient Greeks is made to seem "both alien and
real", reminded me of my similar reaction to Auden's "Roman Wall Blues"
[Poem #491], although in that case Auden used not anachronism but the
establishment of a universal common ground that erased the difference
between the Roman and the modern soldier.

(I'm also reminded of similar anachronisms Tolkien introduced in "The
Hobbit"; unlike today's piece, those were definitely jarring when I noticed
them.)

And Death Shall Have No Dominion -- Dylan Thomas

Guest poem sent in by Linda Roberts

(Poem #1486) And Death Shall Have No Dominion And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. -- Dylan Thomas

I checked the archives for this poem and was rather surprised not to find
it. I find it interesting, not only as one of that subset of poems that defy
death, much like Donne's "Death be not proud" (Poem #796) but also for the
interesting form used. It's not a villanelle or a rondeau. I'll admit my
ignorance and ask that if someone knows the name of this form I'd like to
learn it.

As a recent widow I find myself remembering odd bits of poetry dealing with
death. While this may sound morbid, I usually find it fairly comforting -
especially such lines as "though lovers be lost, love shall not."

Lollee

Untitled -- Anise

Guest poem sent in by Jade

(Poem #1485) Untitled What scares them most is That NOTHING HAPPENS! They are ready For DISTURBANCES. They have machine guns And soldiers, But this SMILING SILENCE Is uncanny. The business men Don't understand That sort of weapon . . . It is your SMILE That is UPSETTING Their reliance On Artillery, brother! It is the garbage wagons That go along the street Marked "EXEMPT by STRIKE COMMITTEE." It is the milk stations That are getting better daily, and the three hundred WAR Veterans of Labor Handling the crowds WITHOUT GUNS, For these things speak Of a NEW POWER and a NEW WORLD That they do not feel At HOME in. -- Anise

Note: "Printed in the Seattle Union Record (a daily newspaper put out by
labor people)" -- Howard Zinn

I found this poem in one of my AP History text books at school ("A People's
History of the United States" by Howard Zinn.)  On February 6, 1919 (shortly
after World War I) Seattle, Washington started a city-wide strike.  The only
people that stayed on the job were laundry workers who did only hospital
laudry, firemen and authorized vehicles that had signs saying "Exempted by
the General Strike Committee."  Meals were prepared in thirty-five milk
stations and transported all over the city.  Strikers payed twenty-five
cents and the general public thirty five for as much beef stew, spaghetti,
bread and coffee.

   "A Labor War Veteran's Guard was organized to keep the peace.  On the
  blackboard at one of its headquarteres was written: 'The purpose of this
  organization is to preserve law and order without the use of force.  No
  volunteer will have any police power or be allowed to carry weapons of any
  sort, but to use persuasion only.'  During the strike, crime in the city
  decreased.  The commander of the U.S. army detachment sent into the area
  told the strikers' committee that in forty years of military experience he
  hadn't seen so quiet and orderly a city" (Zinn 378)

Many people believe that, without force, peace and civilization cannot be
maintained.  But this poem and passage speak contrary to that. The strike
stopped after five days.

Jade

[Links]

An extensive set of excerpts from Zinn's text, giving the historical background

to the poem:
  [broken link] http://colfa.utsa.edu/users/jreynolds/Textbooks/WWI/ZinnIWW.html