Subscribe: by Email | in Reader

Serenade -- Oscar Wilde

Carrying on with the theme...

Guest poem sent in by Suchitra
(Poem #658) Serenade
 The western wind is blowing fair
   Across the dark Ægean sea,
 And at the secret marble stair
   My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
 Come down! the purple sail is spread,
   The watchman sleeps within the town,
 O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
   O Lady mine come down, come down!

 She will not come, I know her well,
   Of lover's vows she hath no care,
 And little good a man can tell
   Of one so cruel and so fair.
 True love is but a woman's toy,
   They never know the lover's pain,
 And I who loved as loves a boy
   Must love in vain, must love in vain.

 O noble pilot tell me true
   Is that the sheen of golden hair?
 Or is it but the tangled dew
   That binds the passion-flowers there?
 Good sailor come and tell me now
   Is that my Lady's lily hand?
 Or is it but the gleaming prow,
   Or is it but the silver sand?

 No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew,
   'Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
 It is my own dear Lady true
   With golden hair and lily hand!
 O noble pilot steer for Troy,
   Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
 This is the Queen of life and joy
   Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

 The waning sky grows faint and blue,
   It wants an hour still of day,
 Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
   O Lady mine away! away!
 O noble pilot steer for Troy,
   Good sailor ply the labouring oar,
 O loved as only loves a boy!
   O loved for ever evermore!
-- Oscar Wilde
[Bio]

1854-1900
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin, the son of an
eye-surgeon and a literary hostess and writer (known under the pseudonym
"Speranza"). After studying at Trinity College, Dublin, Wilde went to
Magdalen College, Oxford, where he achieved a double first and won the
Newdigate prize for a poem "Ravenna".

While at Oxford he became notorious for his flamboyant wit, talent, charm
and aestheticism, and this reputation soon won him a place in London
society. Bunthorne, the Fleshly Poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera
Patience was widely thought to be a caricature of Wilde (though in fact it
was intended as a skit of Rossetti) and Wilde seems to have consciously
styled himself on this figure.

In 1882 Wilde gave a one year lecture tour of America, visiting Paris in
1883 before returning to New York for the opening of his first play Vera. In
1884 he married and had two sons, for whom he probably wrote his first book
of fairy tales, The Happy Prince. The next decade was his most prolific and
the time when he wrote the plays for which he is best remembered. His
writing and particularly his plays are epigramatic and witty and Wilde was
not afraid to shock.

This period was also haunted by accusations about his personal life, chiefly
prompted by the Marquess of Queensberry's fierce opposition to the intense
friendship between Wilde and her son, Lord Alfred. These accusations
culminated in 1895 in Wilde's imprisonment for homosexual offences.

While in prison, Wilde was declared bankrupt, and after his release he lived
on the generosity of friends. From prison he wrote a long and bitter letter
to Lord Alfred, part of which was afterwards published as De Profundis, but
after his release he wrote nothing but the poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol.

[Links]

Oscar Wilde's works online at
http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Oscar_Wilde/oscar_wilde_contents.htm
http://www.upei.ca/~english/202/victorian/wilde.html

A comprehensive biography at
http://www.bartleby.com/65/wi/Wilde-Os.html

The Dark and Turbulent Sea -- Stephen Dobyns

Guest poem sent in by Ravi Mundoli
(Poem #657) The Dark and Turbulent Sea
 Sailboat, sailboat - so Heart counts the ships at sea
 in order to raise his thoughts above matters of flesh.
 Heart is at the beach in his red swimsuit and nearby
 on towels or tossing balls in the air are abundant
 examples of female dazzle. Often Heart is comforted
 by the waves' regulation, the distant line of watery
 horizon, and the air with its mixed aspects of seafood,
 salt and sweat. But here at the beach Heart is no closer
 to the sea's soothing sway and resultant philosophical
 reflection than on a city street. Lolling and frolicking
 nymphs, pink flesh, and half-bared breasts, consume
 his vision and so in desperation Heart counts the ships
 at sea - sailboat, sailboat - in hopes he'll be restored
 to calm. This for Heart enacts life's essential problem-
 the distant vista with its philiosophical paraphernalia
 is disturbingly hidden by the delights of the foreground.
 Why for instance, mull over mortality when a bevy
 of young ladies is engaged in a bosomy bout of volleyball
 just a few feet away. Jiggle, jiggle thinks Heart, it leads
 to trouble. Sad to say, he hasn't thought of Kierkegaard
 all day. Heart is even hesitant to swim or take a nap lest
 he miss some beauty adjust a strap or hitch her halter up.
 as for the dark and violent sea it's just a distraction, easily
 ignored; moral issues, highbrow notions - all forgotten.
 This is in answer to a question asked the next day by a man
 in his car starting through his tempest - streaked windshield
 at the wind pummeled beach: Why's that guy sitting there
 grinning? Heart's having a picnic, even though its storming.
 Raindrops run down his neck. Heart stares at the waves disappearing
 into the fog and feels able at last to see what's there in peace. And
 what's that?:
 What lies ahead and what always has been. All the immutable why's and
 wherefores.
 But now Heart's distracted once again. Beneath the sand he has found a
 polka dotted bikini top. What amazing luck! Heart presses it to his lips,
 then folds it neatly in his basket. Is he aware of the wintry weather's
 fierce attack? Guess not.
-- Stephen Dobyns
Stuff:

   Dobyns has published 21 works of fiction; a book of essays on poetry,
   "Best Words, Best Order" (St. Martin's Press, 1996); and ten books of
   poems, most recently "Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides." His most
   recent novels are "Boy in the Water" and "Church of Dead Girls." A
   collection of his short stories, "Eating Naked," is forthcoming from
   Holt this year. Dobyns' poems have won many awards and prizes,
   including the Lamont Poetry Selection, the Poetry Society of America's
   Melville Cane Award and Guggenheim and National Endowment for the Arts
   fellowships. His novels have been translated into some 15 languages,
   and two of them have been made into films ("Cold Dog Soup" and "Two
   Deaths of Señora Puccini"). Whether working in prose or poetry, he is a
   storyteller of great playfulness, caustic wit and heartfelt tenderness
   -- provocative and deeply curious.

The present poem is from "Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides".

   In "Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides," we see the world through
   the melancholic eyes of Heart -- blood-pumping organ, lover, poet and
   skeptical philosopher of the everyday. Heart reflects on the vagaries
   of love, the cruelties of time and on "how some folks get pearls,
   others pebbles." Dividing two sections of Heart poems is the long
   "Oh, Immobility, Death's Vast Associate," which is a jazzy
   disquisition on human isolation and inaction in the midst of a planet
   full of people brooding over problems of gravity, age and memory.
   Full of Dobyns' characteristic black humor and maniacal imagination,
   the poem also admits moments of irresistible affirmation:

       But the flower, the poem, the sonata, the song:
       all beauty is a form of eager activity. Within
       its delicate body each daisy is a rowdy dance.

   "Pallbearers" has been called "a cycle of medieval morality poems for
   a new Dark Age."

   "Stephen Dobyns is nothing so much as the Dean Swift of contemporary
   American poetry," writes The Washington Post. "Satirist and
   absurdist, unsparing chronicler of the body's runaway appetites and
   the body politic's rampant festerings, a searing moralist camouflaged
   in a manic style and a flair for the macabre." But, as Hayden Carruth
   said, while "his manner is tart, often sardonic,.at heart the poems
   are profoundly humane," struggling as they always are with the
   paradox of the human condition: "How hard to love the world; we must
   love the world."

        -- [broken link] http://www.smith.edu/newsoffice/Releases/00-025.html

The book is an excellent one, the poems all seem "relevant" even though
(!!) Dobyns uses such modern day images as fax machines and email to put
his point across. In particular, the separating out of "Heart" as though he
were a separate person, with a separate consciousness from the more
business-like brain seems like a brilliant literary trick. You will have to
read the book to understand what I'm saying :-).

Ravi Mundoli

Edward, Edward -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Ira Cooper
(Poem #656) Edward, Edward
 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
         Edward, Edward?
 Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
     And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
         Mither, mither;
 O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
     And I had nae mair but he, O.'

 'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
         Edward, Edward;
 Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
     My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
         Mither, mither;
 O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
     That erst was sae fair and free, O.'

 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
         Edward, Edward;
 Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
     Some other dule ye dree, O.'
 'O I hae kill'd my father dear,
         Mither, mither;
 O I hae kill'd my father dear,
     Alas, and wae is me, O!'

 'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
         Edward, Edward?
 Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
     My dear son, now tell me, O.'
 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
         Mither, mither;
 I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
     And I'll fare over the sea, O.'

 'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
         Edward, Edward?
 And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
     That were sae fair to see, O?'
 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
         Mither, mither;
 I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
     For here never mair maun I be, O.'

 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
         Edward, Edward?
 And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
     When ye gang owre the sea, O?'
 'The warld's room: let them beg through life,
         Mither, mither;
 The warld's room: let them beg through life;
     For them never mair will I see, O.'

 'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
         Edward, Edward?
 And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
     My dear son, now tell me, O?'

 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
         Mither, mither;
 The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
     Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'
-- Anonymous
Glossary:
  brand: blade [of a sword]
  erst: before, at first [cf erstwhile]
  gang: go
  dree: do, perform, suffer [penance etc.]
  dule ye dree: grief you suffer.
  bairns: children

In keeping with a misogynist theme, the above has always been a favorite of
mine.  It apparently is considered anonymous, from the seventeenth century.
I seem to remember reading  a commentary that this ballad was based on an
actual historical incident.  I cannot remember what.  Anyway, this ballad is
frequently listed in anthologies of British literature as a prime example of
its type.  Supposedly they were very popular amongst the good people of the
time.  These days, we have video games and movies for our blood and gore!

-Ira

Links:

Brahms' 'Edward Ballade' is a musical interpretation of the ballad
http://www.qedinteractive.com.au/html/jbc/brahint.htm

Andrew Lang's Collection of Ballads is online at
[broken link] http://www.ulib.org/webRoot/Books/CMU_Classics/Browse_By_Title/C/A_Collection_of_Ballads/index.html

Some other old, traditional ballads we've run:
 poem #303
 poem #437
 poem #548

The 'misogynist theme' was with reference to yesterday's poem: poem #655

No Second Troy -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem:
(Poem #655) No Second Troy
 Why should I blame her that she filled my days
 With misery, or that she would of late
 Have taught ignorant men most violent ways,
 Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
 Had they but courage equal to desire?
 What could have made her peaceful with a mind
 That nobleness made simple as a fire,
 With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
 That is not natural in an age like this,
 Being high and solitary and most stern?
 Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
 Was there another Troy for her to burn?
-- William Butler Yeats
We are studying Yeats' poetry in our class at the moment, and I dont think I
like his work very much; however, this poem made me pause while I was
skimming through his book of poems. There is something about this poem-
maybe it is the way in which beauty is synonymous to violence and misery, or
the inaccesibility of the woman, or her potential for causing so much
destruction...which makes the poem quite powerful.

Links:

Biography at poem #21

Commentary scattered throughout the several Yeats poems we've run - he's the
most frequently run poet on Minstrels, just ahead of Shakespeare and
Kipling.

Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai -- Omar Khayyam

       
(Poem #654) Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai
 Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
 Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
 How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
 Abode his destined Hour, and went his way
-- Omar Khayyam
Nothing particular to say about today's poem - I just liked the image of the
world as a caravanserai, with Night and Day (or Life and Death if you
prefer) as its doors.

The theme is a common one - it has played itself out in several variations
across most of the world's great works, including the Bible, Shakespeare,
and indeed in the Rubaiyat itself; however it has not suffered for that, and
has indeed produced a number of haunting analogies and images.

[Speaking of which, if anyone can provide me a fuller reference to the one
about life being like a bird passing brielfy through a lighted room before
returning to the outer darkness whence it came, I'd be grateful.]

Notes:

 Freely translated by Edward Fitzgerald; stanza 17 from the 5th edition

 Caravanserai: A kind of inn in Eastern countries where caravans put up,
 being a large quadrangular building with a spacious court in the middle.
        -- OED

Links:

poem #545 has a biography of
Fitzgerald and a number of other Rubaiyat links.

'Caravanserai' is another of those wonderfully evocative words that conjures
up entire realms and stories. For something in the same vein, check out the
Silk Road theme we ran a while back: Poem #504, Poem #506, Poem #509,
Poem #513, Poem #515, Poem #518 and Poem #526 - yes, it was a long theme
but a beautiful one.

And if anyone can find or scan in pictures of a caravanserai, do send in a
link.

Afterthought:

Having spent a happy half-hour or so rereading all four editions of the
Rubaiyat, I can recommend it - the second and fourth editions have a few
hidden gems that are lost if you concentrate on the outer two.

-martin