His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1567) His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell Since you have world enough and time Sir, to admonish me in rhyme, Pray Mr Marvell, can it be You think to have persuaded me? Then let me say: you want the art To woo, much less to win my heart. The verse was splendid, all admit, And, sir, you have a pretty wit. All that indeed your poem lacked Was logic, modesty, and tact, Slight faults and ones to which I own, Your sex is generally prone; But though you lose your labour, I Shall not refuse you a reply: First, for the language you employ: A term I deprecate is "coy"; The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill, May simper and be coy at will; A lady, sir, as you will find, Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind, Means what she says and scorns to fence And palter with feigned innocence. The ambiguous "mistress" next you set Beside this graceless epithet. "Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave To wear my heart upon your sleeve? Or to imply, as sure you do, I had no other choice than you And must remain upon the shelf Unless I should bestir myself? Shall I be moved to love you, pray, By hints that I must soon decay? No woman's won by being told How quickly she is growing old; Nor will such ploys, when all is said, Serve to stampede us into bed. When from pure blackmail, next you move To bribe or lure me into love, No less inept, my rhyming friend, Snared by the means, you miss your end. "Times winged chariot", and the rest As poetry may pass the test; Readers will quote those lines, I trust, Till you and I and they are dust; But I, your destined prey, must look Less at the bait than at the hook, Nor, when I do, can fail to see Just what it is you offer me: Love on the run, a rough embrace Snatched in the fury of the chase, The grave before us and the wheels Of Time's grim chariot at our heels, While we, like "am'rous birds of prey", Tear at each other by the way. To say the least, the scene you paint Is, what you call my honour, quaint! And on this point what prompted you So crudely, and in public too, To canvass and , indeed, make free With my entire anatomy? Poets have licence, I confess, To speak of ladies in undress; Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough, In verses this is common stuff; But -- well I ask: to draw attention To worms in -- what I blush to mention, And prate of dust upon it too! Sir, was this any way to woo? Now therefore, while male self-regard Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard, May I suggest, before we part, The best way to a woman's heart Is to be modest, candid, true; Tell her you love and show you do; Neither cajole nor condescend And base the lover on the friend; Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch: A suitor looking at his watch Is not a posture that persuades Willing, much less reluctant maids. Remember that she will be stirred More by the spirit than the word; For truth and tenderness do more Than coruscating metaphor. Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu (Though I am grateful for the rhyme) And wish you better luck next time. -- A D Hope

         (1907-2000)

An effective rejoinder to a great poem requires a poet of greatness, and one
who appreciates and respects the genius under attack. No poet was able to do
this more effectively than Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000). In his
introduction to this rejoinder Hope commented:

  This most famous of all Marvell's poems is deservedly so. Yet it is a
  brilliant tour de force in which the poet's imaginative language triumphs
  over the fact that his arguments to the lady are a set of worn-out clichés,
  which were never very persuasive even when they were new -- but the lady can
  best speak for herself.

Marvell's most famous poem was an early contribution to Wondering Minstrels
(Poem #158). 'His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell' was published in Hope's Book of
Answers (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1978), which includes a number of gems --
though none more brilliant than this Marvell parody. (It includes a fine parody
of Gerard Manley "Hop-skip-jump-kins" -- which I may submit at some future
time.) The power of Hope's language, and the range of genres which he
commanded, were immense. He is a poet of considerable stature not just within
Australia, but globally.

William

Untitled -- Vikram Seth

Guest poem sent in by Vikas Kedia

(Poem #1566) Untitled Dark night, and silent, calm, and lovely, That stills the efforts of our lives, Rare, excellent-kind, and behovely No matter how the poet strives To weave with epithets and clauses Your soundless web, he falters, pauses, And your enchantment slips between His hands, as if it's never been. Of all times most inbued with beauty, You lend us by your spell relief From ineradicable grief (If for a spell), and pain, and duty. We sleep, and nightly are made whole In all our fretted mind and soul. -- Vikram Seth

        (from "The Golden Gate")

I had never thought I would be able to appreciate a novel written completely in
verse. But after having read a couple of poems by Seth on Minstrels, I decided
to take up the challenge. And now in last couple of days I have spent
innumerable precious hours (precious because I am in middle of end terms)
devouring it.

Unputdownable has become a cliched word in recent times due to unjudicious use
on the cover of paperback fictions, yet it seems as if the word was meant for
this book. I have found it to be a surprisingly light read, very contemporary
(even though written in the 80's) and at places even profound as this sonnet
illustrates. Being an aspiring computer scientist and student of logic,
I revel in paradoxes. Therefore the paradox in this verse, of a poet trying to
express the enchantment of the night by admitting his inadequacy to do so,
appeals to me in more than poetic sense.

Loneliness seems to be a recurring theme in the writings of Seth, if I can make
that judgement from the poems I have read on Minstrels and this book. But this
book is written in a lighter and humorous vein as compared to poems like "All
You who Sleep Tonight". Word play, alliteration, puns abound. Couple of gems
I have so far come across are "Monday's mundane", "Cultural and haughty and
hortycultural". This book has turned out to be an excellent introduction to the
art of verse for a novice like me.

regards
Vikas

Maintrunk Country Roadsong -- Sam Hunt

Guest poem sent in by Benjamin Withy

(Poem #1565) Maintrunk Country Roadsong Driving south and travelling not much over fifty, I hit a possum ... 'Little man,' I muttered chopping down to second gear, 'I never meant you any harm.' My friend with me, he himself a man who loves such nights, bright headlight nights, said 'Possums? just a bloody pest, they're better dead!' He's right of course. So settling back, foot down hard, Ohakune, Tangiwai - as often blinded by the single headlight of a passing goods train as by any passing car - Let the Midnight Special shine its ever-loving light on me: they run a prison farm somewhere round these parts; men always on the run. These men know such searchlight nights: those wide shining eyes of that young possum full-beam back on mine, watching me run over him ... 'Little man, I never meant you any harm.' -- Sam Hunt

Note: The lines "Let the Midnight Special shine/its ever-loving light on me:"
are in italics.

Sam Hunt is a New Zealand poet and raconteur, and in this poem he captures the
essence of driving down the middle of the country at night, the road running
parallel to the railroad.

The imagery of the moon, the headlights, searchlights and the possums eyes ties
together the narrative. When he recites his poetry he uses a style that tends
to lurch from word to word, the pauses not where you'd have thought, but it
suits the words he writes. His poems convey something of the country, fresh,
new, and still rough around the edges.

Benjamin

[Links]

Biography and Assessment
  http://www.samhunt.co.nz/
  http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/writers/huntsam.html

Acquainted with the Night -- Robert Frost

Guest poem submitted by Srihari Sukumaran:

(Poem #1564) Acquainted with the Night I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, O luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. -- Robert Frost

When I saw the list of Robert Frost's poems in Minstrels with yesterday's
poem (Poem # 1552 -- now more than a day old -- ed.) I realised that one of
my favourite Frost poems is not on Minstrels. Hence this contribution.

The first thing I liked about this poem when I read it (as is the case with
most of Frost's poems) is its rhythm and sound. There is a very regular
'beat' about it. The rhyme scheme is 'aba bcb cdc dad aa' (which Google
tells me is the terza rima).

Unusually for a Frost poem, this one is set in a city, which probably makes
it not very surprising that the theme is loneliness and homelessness. A
sense of loneliness permeates the entire poem -- especially the second,
third and fourth verses. Even time seems indifferent to the speaker -- the
"luminary clock against the sky [the moon?] / Proclaimed the time was
neither wrong nor right".

The poem begins and ends with "I have been one acquainted...". At the first
occurrence there is, I think, a feeling of 'energy' or 'endeavour' -
something positive conveyed in the second and third lines. But the end of
the poem the overwhelming feeling one gets is that of loneliness and even
despondency.

Srihari.

Ps. I hope the above makes sense; I haven't written some thing like this in
over 10 years.

Visits to St. Elizabeth's -- Elizabeth Bishop

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1563) Visits to St. Elizabeth's This is the house of Bedlam. This is the man that lies in the house of Bedlam. The is the time of the tragic man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is a wristwatch telling the time of the talkative man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is a sailor wearing the watch that tells the time of the honored man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is the roadstead all of board reached by the sailor wearing the watch that tells the time of the old, brave man that lies in the house of Bedlam. These are the years and the walls of the ward, the winds and clouds of the sea of board sailed by the sailor wearing the watch that tells the time of the cranky man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is a Jew in a newspaper hat that dances weeping down the ward over the creaking sea of board beyond the sailor winding his watch that tells the time of the cruel man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is a world of books gone flat. This is a Jew in a newsapaper hat that dances weeping down the ward over the creaking sea of board of the batty sailor that winds his watch that tells the time of the busy man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is a boy that pats the floor to see if the world is there, is flat, for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat that dances weeping down the ward waltzing the length of a weaving board by the silent sailor that hears his watch that ticks the time of the tedious man that lies in the house of Bedlam. These are the years and the walls and the door that shut on a boy that pats the floor to feel if the world is there and flat. This is a Jew in a newspaper hat that dances joyfully down the ward into the parting seas of board past the starting sailor that shakes his watch that tells the time of the poet, the man that lies in the house of Bedlam. This is the soldier home from the war. These are the years and the walls and the door that shut on a boy that pats the floor to see if the world is round of flat. This is a Jew in a newspaper hat that dances carefully down the ward, walking the plank of a coffin board with the crazy sailor that shows his watch that tells the time of the wretched man that lies in the house of Bedlam. -- Elizabeth Bishop

        1950.

I've never been a big fan of Bishop. She has an incredible eye for images
(describing a baby rabbit fleeing a fire as 'a handful of intangible ash /
with fixed, ignited eyes' -- "The Armadillo") and an almost unmatched
ability to sketch a scene or a sensation so that it's visible / tangible
(consider 'We stand as still as stones to watch / the leaves and ripples /
while light and nervous water hold / their interview' -- "Quai D'Orleans" or
'Hear nothing but a train that goes by, must go by, like tension' -- "Four
Poems") but for me her poems often fail to come together into a coherent
whole. They remain beautiful yet insubstantial, like a loose nosegay of
impressions that withers easily and is forgotten.

The only exceptions to this are poems where Bishop starts off with a conceit
or a clever idea (see for instance, the incredible Gentleman of Shallott or
The Man Moth, which features on Minstrels as Poem #1395). Here Bishop is at
her best - combining an easy playfulness with touches of exquisite yearning
to create poems that are so solipsistic you don't know how seriously to take
them. "Visits to St. Elizabeth's" is an excellent example of this - a poem
of ceaseless and inspired variation that combines some truly heartbreaking
images ('This is a boy that pats the floor / to see if the world is there,
is flat') with a structure that comes out of a children's rhyme. What makes
this poem stunning is the the deftness with which Bishop pulls off that
structure (just try running This is the house that Jack built upto twelve
lines and see how quickly it becomes tedious) making each new stanza more
exhilarating than the last. Minor variations in the lines from stanza to
stanza create the illusion of revelation - each repetition promises more
clues to the poems true meaning, but it is a meaning never quite grasped.
The overall effect is that of an exquisite piece of baroque music - some
Bach variation - that tempts and teases and leaves you gasping for more
while at the same time convinced that there's something you've missed.

Aseem.