tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31383274982054342042024-03-18T14:16:03.584-07:00The Wondering MinstrelsA poem a day, complete with analysis, criticism, biographical info, literary anecdotes, trivia, and our own skewed sense of humour :-)Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.comBlogger1969125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-31956300127080568492007-01-21T10:02:00.000-08:002010-02-22T20:12:05.633-08:00The Word -- Tony Hoagland<pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Rachel%20Morarjee">Rachel Morarjee</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1969.html">Poem #1969</A></b>) <b>The Word</b> <pre class=poembox> Down near the bottom of the crossed-out list of things you have to do today, between "green thread" and "broccoli" you find that you have penciled "sunlight." Resting on the page, the word is as beautiful, it touches you as if you had a friend and sunlight were a present he had sent you from some place distant as this morning -- to cheer you up, and to remind you that, among your duties, pleasure is a thing, that also needs accomplishing Do you remember? that time and light are kinds of love, and love is no less practical than a coffee grinder or a safe spare tire? Tomorrow you may be utterly without a clue but today you get a telegram, from the heart in exile proclaiming that the kingdom still exists, the king and queen alive, still speaking to their children, - to any one among them who can find the time, to sit out in the sun and listen. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Tony%20Hoagland">Tony Hoagland</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>I stumbled across this poem today, in a book given to me by a friend in Afghanistan, where I now live, and where the stream of news is endlessly depressing. It was a reminder, that each one of us, whereever we live, needs a gentle prod to remember that within the daily grind of modern life, "pleasure/ is a thing / that also needs accomplishing." This poem is from Tony Hoagland's first anthology Sweet Ruin, and is perhaps the most unalloyed and directly sweet poem he has written, in contrast to much of his other work which addresses the bitter humour of disillusion and the heart's struggle to clamber over the accumulated detritus of disappointment -- and does it with a light humourous touch. Sweet Ruin won the 1992 Brittingham Prize in Poetry and Hoagland has since published two other books, Donkey Gospel, and What Narcissism Means to Me. On the back of the last book it said he teaches at the University of Houston, but I wasn't able to check online from here today. Rachel. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com2128tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-27491909102546744902007-01-13T07:05:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.621-08:00The Old Fools -- Philip Larkin <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Radhika%20Gowaikar">Radhika Gowaikar</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1968.html">Poem #1968</A></b>) <b>The Old Fools</b> <pre class=poembox> What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming? At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside your head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Philip%20Larkin">Philip Larkin</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>The last two poems brought to mind this one. As in some of his other poems, Larkin starts brashly, perhaps even offensively. But by the time he is done we are given an intimate view of what it must be like to "have lighted rooms / Inside your head" and "trying to be there / Yet being here." The analogy of death with a "peak" is quite unusual (I am sure I have never seen it before) and works perfectly with "the constant wear and tear / Of taken breath." The last line is pure Larkin. It is rather a long poem, but we are in good hands. Do read it aloud. -- radhika. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com853tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-77430367774185135312007-01-12T01:41:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.611-08:00A Winter Ode to the Old Men of Lummus Park, Miami, Florida -- Donald Justice <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20David%20W">David W</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1967.html">Poem #1967</A></b>) <b>A Winter Ode to the Old Men of Lummus Park, Miami, Florida</b> <pre class=poembox> Risen from rented rooms, old ghosts Come back to haunt our parks by day, They crept up Fifth Street through the crowd, Unseeing and almost unseen, Halting before the shops for breath, Still proud, pretending to admire The fat hens dressed and hung for flies There, or perhaps the lone, dead fern Dressing the window of a small Hotel. Winter had blown them south-- How many? Twelve in Lummus Park I counted, shivering where they stood, A little thicket of thin trees, And more on benches, turning with The sun, wan heliotropes, all day. O you who wear against the breast The torturous flannel undervest Winter and summer, yet are cold, Poor cracked thermometers stuck now At zero everlastingly, Old men, bent like your walking sticks As with the pressure of some hand, Surely they must have thought you strong To lean on you so hard, so long! </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Donald%20Justice">Donald Justice</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Donald Justice might be my favorite poet. It's difficult to say for sure, but I can say that his work has influenced me more than any other's. He is the "master of nostalgia", but I think that the intimacy and elegance of his work are the major allures for me. Here is one of my favorites. It isn't anthologized as much as some others. If anybody has ever used the word "heliotropes" with more effect, I haven't seen it. He slips that Latinate polysyllable in, but you might notice it's a little lonely. The simplicity of his language may be part of what makes it feel intimate. One of his more popular poems "Men At Forty" is similar in this respect. If you are interested, here is a short bio for Justice: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/39" target#61;_blank>http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/39</A> David. [Minstrels Links] Donald Justice: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/503.html">Poem #503</A>: Anonymous Drawing <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1343.html">Poem #1343</A>: Poem to be read at 3am <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1647.html">Poem #1647</A>: Men at Forty </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com663tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-65926300673526148402007-01-11T06:22:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.599-08:00Hello In There -- John Prine <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Rama%20Rao">Rama Rao</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1966.html">Poem #1966</A></b>) <b>Hello In There</b> <pre class=poembox> We had an apartment in the city, Me and Loretta liked living there. Well, it'd been years since the kids had grown, A life of their own left us alone. John and Linda live in Omaha, And Joe is somewhere on the road. We lost Davy in the Korean war, And I still don't know what for, don't matter anymore. Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger, And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day. Old people just grow lonesome Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello." Me and Loretta, we don't talk much more, She sits and stares through the back door screen. And all the news just repeats itself Like some forgotten dream that we've both seen. Someday I'll go and call up Rudy, We worked together at the factory. But what could I say if asks "What's new?" "Nothing, what's with you? Nothing much to do." So if you're walking down the street sometime And spot some hollow ancient eyes, Please don't just pass 'em by and stare As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello." </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20John%20Prine">John Prine</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>I am a little surprised not to see John Prine on the Minstrels. Hailed by some on his debut as "the next Dylan " he has had many of his folksy lyrics sung by other famous singers. As the developed world including America ages, with larger percentages of older people in their populations, this poem captures some of the increasing loneliness they feel. The stanza contrasting old people to old trees and old rivers is particularly powerful. A John Prine bio is available at <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Prine" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Prine</A> <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Rama%20Rao">Rama Rao</A>. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com688tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-12637763440825436752007-01-10T04:10:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.590-08:00To Virgins, to Make Much of Time -- Robert Herrick <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Nandini%20Krishnamoorthy">Nandini Krishnamoorthy</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1965.html">Poem #1965</A></b>) <b>To Virgins, to Make Much of Time</b> <pre class=poembox> Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Robert%20Herrick">Robert Herrick</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>I was surprised that Minstrels had not run this famous Herrick poem. My first recollection of the poem is from "Dead Poets Society", Robin Williams reading it to the students. It's one of those poems that stays with you forever and a wonderful joy in re-discovering it. Nandini. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com1124tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-51681742482948646852007-01-09T07:42:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.578-08:00The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus -- Ogden Nash <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Firdaus%20Janoos">Firdaus Janoos</A> : </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1964.html">Poem #1964</A></b>) <b>The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus</b> <pre class=poembox> In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued. He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE. He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down. Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave. They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early. Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof. What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, And ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up. All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Ogden%20Nash">Ogden Nash</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>It's a bit too early for Christmas [not any more it isn't! -- ed.], but I had to send this one in -- it is one of Nash's real gems. I'll not say much about it -- a light, witty ditty, showing Ogden Nash's typical flair for nonsense verse. I'll let your readers chuckle over its silly simplicity, without my analyzing or philosophizing over it. Firdaus. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com476tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-86434738277366478782007-01-07T09:51:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.567-08:00Brown Penny -- William Butler Yeats <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Jessica%20K.%20Schnell">Jessica K. Schnell</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1963.html">Poem #1963</A></b>) <b>Brown Penny</b> <pre class=poembox> I whispered, "I am too young," And then, "I am old enough"; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. "Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair." Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20William%20Butler%20Yeats">William Butler Yeats</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>This little poem was recited by Christopher Plummer in the 2005 motion picture "Must Love Dogs," and a part of the reason for my submitting this particular selection. It seems all too rare that poems are found in modern culture, and always a wonderful surprise when quoted in films (another popular W. B. Yeats one is <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/597.html">Poem #597</A>). And, as always, I delight in poems that encourage one to carpe diem and be run away with love. Jessica. </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com446tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-9881166859353462122007-01-03T00:43:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.557-08:00The Year -- Ella Wheeler Wilcox <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem submitted by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Jeffrey%20Sean%20Huo">Jeffrey Sean Huo</A>: </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1962.html">Poem #1962</A></b>) <b>The Year</b> <pre class=poembox> What can be said in New Year rhymes, That's not been said a thousand times? The new years come, the old years go, We know we dream, we dream we know. We rise up laughing with the light, We lie down weeping with the night. We hug the world until it stings, We curse it then and sigh for wings. We live, we love, we woo, we wed, We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead. We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear, And that's the burden of a year. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Ella%20Wheeler%20Wilcox">Ella Wheeler Wilcox</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Ms. Wilcox was introduced in Minstrels, <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/911.html">Poem #911</A> ("The Traveled Man"); this poem I think speaks for itself. Thank you, and happy holidays, -- Jeffrey [And a very Happy New Year to all our faithful Minstrels subscribers! -- Martin, Thomas and Sitaram] </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com267tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-66140832975183505402006-12-22T01:46:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.546-08:00Topography -- Sharon Olds <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20David%20Grabill">David Grabill</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1961.html">Poem #1961</A></b>) <b>Topography</b> <pre class=poembox> After you flew across the country we got in bed, laid our bodies delicately together, like maps laid face to face, East to West, my San Francisco against your New York, your Fire Island against my Sonoma, my New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas burning against your Kansas your Kansas burning against my Kansas, your Eastern Standard Time pressing into my Pacific Time, my Mountain Time beating against your Central Time, your sun rising swiftly from the right my sun rising swiftly from the left your moon rising slowly from the left my moon rising slowly from the right until all four bodies of the sky burn above us, sealing us together, all our cities twin cities, all our states united, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Sharon%20Olds">Sharon Olds</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter> (published in "The Gold ) Here's another poem on a flying theme that a friend gave me before I took a long flight a few years back. Sharon Olds is a master of transforming mundane airplane flights like this and common garden slugs [<A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1003.html">Poem #1003</A>], into sensual feasts. This one's an outrageous mix of metaphors that kept me smiling for a thousand miles or more on that flight, and continues to enchant every time I reread it. <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20David%20Grabill">David Grabill</A> [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon_Olds" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon_Olds</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com319tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-86133688325806003672006-12-20T05:17:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.535-08:00The Day Flies Off Without Me -- John Stammers <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Hemant%20Mohapatra">Hemant Mohapatra</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1960.html">Poem #1960</A></b>) <b>The Day Flies Off Without Me</b> <pre class=poembox> The planes bound for all points everywhere etch lines on my office window. From the top floor London recedes in all directions, and beyond: the world with its teeming hearts. I am still, you move, I am a point of reference on a map; I am at zero meridian as you consume the longitudes. The pact we made to read our farewells exactly at two in the afternoon with you in the air holds me like a heavy winter coat. Your unopened letter is in my pocket, beating. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20John%20Stammers">John Stammers</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>I love the quiet strength of this powerful piece. It speaks volumes about an unrequited love in a way that is neither sappy, nor reflective. It just "is" and seems to convey "This is how it is, and that is so". Every once in a while, a poet creates something so heartfelt that all his/her other poems pale in comparison. This is one of those pieces. 'nuff said. Hemant [Links] Biography: [broken link] http://uk.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=6964 </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com268tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-56320266806282884742006-12-19T04:30:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.524-08:00Day Flight -- Jack Davis <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Cornelius%20O'Brien">Cornelius O'Brien</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1959.html">Poem #1959</A></b>) <b>Day Flight</b> <pre class=poembox> I closed my eyes as I sat in the jet And asked the hostess if she would let Me take on board a patch of sky And a dash of the blue-green sea. Far down below my country gleamed In thin dry rivers and blue-white lakes And most I longed for, there as I dreamed, A square of the desert, stark and red, To mould a pillow for a sleepy head And a cloak to cover me. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Jack%20Davis">Jack Davis</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Les Murray's strong poem while he was musing aboard an airliner reminded me of another Australian poet - Jack Davis - and his lovely poem DAY FLIGHT. You can almost hear the mighty beating heart of Australia in his lines. Only an Aboriginal poet could have written this one. He doesn't own the land. The land owns him. Con O'Brien (Cornelius) [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Davis_" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Davis_</A>(playwright) </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com130tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-8818877937165837072006-12-18T02:34:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.515-08:00The International Terminal -- Les Murray <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Steve%20Forsythe">Steve Forsythe</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1958.html">Poem #1958</A></b>) <b>The International Terminal</b> <pre class=poembox> Some comb oil, some blow air, some shave trenchlines in their hair but the common joint thump, the heart's spondee kicks off in its rose-lit inner sea like an echo, at first, of the one above it on the dodgy ladder of love -- and my mate who's driving says I never found one yet worth staying with forever. In this our poems do not align. Surely most are if you are, answers mine, and I am living proof of it, I gloom, missing you from the cornering outset -- And hearts beat mostly as if they weren't there, Rocking horse to rocking chair, most audible dubbed on the tracks of movies or as we approach where our special groove is or our special fear. The autumn-vast parking-lot-bitumen overcast now switches on pumpkin-flower lights all over dark green garden sites and a wall of car-bodies, stacked by blokes, obscures suburban signs and smokes. Like coughs, cries, all such unlearned effects the heartbeat has no dialects but what this or anything may mean depends on what poem we're living in. Now a jet engine, huge child of a gun, shudders with haze and begins to run. Over Mount Fuji and the North Pole I'm bound for Europe in a reading role and a poem long ago that was coming for me had Fuji-san as its axle-tree. Cities shower and rattle over the gates as I enter that limbo between states but I think of the heart swarmed around by poems like an egg besieged by chromosomes and how out of that our world is bred through the back of a mirror, with clouds in its head --and airborne, with a bang, this five-hundred-seat theatre folds up its ponderous feet. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Les%20Murray">Les Murray</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Here is another poem on a different aspect of flight - it is almost the opposite of Walcott's poem [<A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1957.html">Poem #1957</A>]: anticipation vs. completion, the anxiety of departure vs. the expansive consciouness of Walcott's being in flight, almost formal vs. free-flowing verse. It captures well all the emotions evoked by the beginning of a long journey. The depiction of the actual takeoff ("Now a jet engine...") brilliantly evokes the final physical and mental rush. <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Steve%20Forsythe">Steve Forsythe</A> [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Murray" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Murray</A> Official site: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.lesmurray.org/" target#61;_blank>http://www.lesmurray.org/</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com147tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-62452324197824320502006-12-17T07:23:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.504-08:00The Dead Wingman -- Randall Jarrell <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Aseem">Aseem</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1957.html">Poem #1957</A></b>) <b>The Dead Wingman</b> <pre class=poembox> Seen on the sea, no sign; no sign, no sign In the black firs and terraces of hills Ragged in mist. The cone narrows, snow Glares from the bleak walls of a crater. No. Again the houses jerk like paper, turn, And the surf streams by: a port of toys Is starred with its fires and faces; but no sign. In the level light, over the fiery shores, The plane circles stubbornly: the eyes distending With hatred and misery and longing, stare Over the blackening ocean for a corpse. The fires are guttering; the dials fall, A long dry shudder climbs along his spine, His fingers tremble; but his hard unchanging stare Moves unacceptingly: I have a friend. The fires are grey; no star, no sign Winks from the breathing darkness of the carrier Where the pilot circles for his wingman; where, Gliding above the cities' shells, a stubborn eye Among the embers of the nations, achingly Tracing the circles of that worn, unchanging No - The lives' long war, lost war - the pilot sleeps. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Randall%20Jarrell">Randall Jarrell</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>I was planning to send in this poem for the flight theme anyway, and a comment on a recent post made me even more determined. William Pritchard, in his introduction to Randall Jarrell's Selected Poems (FSG 1990) bemoans the fact that one poem, the justly celebrated 'Death of the Ball Turret Gunner' has eclipsed all of Jarrell's other accomplishments as a poet. The truth is that, coming out of World War II, Jarrell wrote a number of poems about flying in the war - poems like 'The Dead Wingman', 'A Pilot from the Carrier', 'Losses' and 'A Front'. These are not poems about the 'lonely impulse of delight', rather they are poems about isolation, about the helplessness of suffering; the people in them having more in common with the disillusioned crew of Heller's Catch 22 than with Yeats' Airman. There is no balance. There is only death. Cut off from earthly contact in the desolation of the air, the pilot in his plane becomes a metaphor for the soul trapped in its body. There is no question of anything or anyone bidding the pilot to fight because the pilot has no real choice; the sky is his only reality, and the anguish he feels surveying the world below him is thus an existential one. The plane, like the war (for these are, in every sense of the word, war poems) is a death-dealing machine, one that man is strapped into, an Ixionan wheel, a negative womb ('A Pilot from the Carrier' opens with the line "Strapped at the centre of the blazing wheel") 'The Dead Wingman' is my favourite of these poems - in part because of the incredible way in which Jarrell captures the physical experience of a circling plane ("Again the houses jerk like paper, turn, / And the surf streams by"), in part because of the perfection with which Jarrell connects the failing of hope to external manifestations ("The fires are guttering; the dials fall") and in part because of the way the poem, starting so restlessly ("Seen on the sea, no sign; no sign, no sign") ends on a note of weary, circling resignation. This is a greasy, metallic and yet deeply moving poem. And it takes a talent like Jarrell's to keep a poem like this aloft. <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Aseem">Aseem</A> [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randall_Jarrell" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randall_Jarrell</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com301tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-44569371365315167892006-12-16T03:33:00.000-08:002010-02-23T14:24:18.474-08:00l(a -- e e cummings<pre class="beforeafter">Guest poem sent in by <a class="underlined" href="http://www.blogger.com/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Pranesh%20Prakash">Pranesh Prakash</a> , in yet
another take on the flight theme:
</pre><table class="poembox"><tbody>
<tr><td><div class="poembox">(<b><a class="underlined" href="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1956.html">Poem #1956</a></b>) <b>l(a</b> <br />
<pre class="poembox">l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
</pre><br />
<center>-- <a class="underlined" href="http://www.blogger.com/search/label/Poet%3A%20e%20e%20cummings">e e cummings</a></center> </div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><pre class="beforeafter">Comments:
This is a poem I immediately thought of when I saw the theme "flight". It
is about the flight of a leaf as it is falling down from a tree. When read
together without the line-breaks, it turns out to be
l(a leaf falls)oneliness.
It links up the falling of a lone leaf (note the emphasis on "1" (the
numeral one) in the first line, as also the "one" in l"one"liness) to the
emotion of loneliness.
The most beautiful part of this poem is the way it is structured, which to
me seems to resemble the passage of a leaf through various points of time
from the half-horizontal "l(a" of the leaf on the tree, to the side-view of
"ll" when it is in mid-air to the final full-horizontal of "iness".
If you don't see that leaf falling, perhaps instead you see a large "L" in
the shape of the poem, or perhaps a large "1" (with a line underneath: think
of 1 in "Courier" instead of in "Arial".) The imagery that Cummings manages
to evoke by saying so little is just beautiful. And this is actually a poem
where the reason for abrupt and seemingly random line-breaks is clear
(though with different clarity to each person) after some thought, and goes
on to be really appreciated. The poem is all the more beautiful for the way
the words are broken up.
Pranesh
[Links]
Biography:
<a class="underlined" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings" target#61;_blank="">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings</a>
Here's an excellent essay on Cummings's use of typography and line breaks as
a poetic element:
<a class="underlined" href="http://www.cyberessays.com/English/104.htm" target#61;_blank="">http://www.cyberessays.com/English/104.htm</a>
And, since it appears to be a perennial misconception, an explanation of why
it is not "e. e. cummings":
<a class="underlined" href="http://www.gvsu.edu/english/cummings/caps.htm" target#61;_blank="">http://www.gvsu.edu/english/cummings/caps.htm</a>
</pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com160tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-57500538866149460262006-12-15T04:13:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.480-08:00The Swing -- Robert Louis Stevenson <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Dale%20Rosenberg">Dale Rosenberg</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1955.html">Poem #1955</A></b>) <b>The Swing</b> <pre class=poembox> How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside-- Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown-- Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down! </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Robert%20Louis%20Stevenson">Robert Louis Stevenson</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>My first thought for the "poems about flying" theme was Randall Jarell's devastating "Death of a Ball Turret Gunner." I see Minstrels has already printed it. so I went for the complete opposite in emotional impact. "The Swing" was the first poem I learned about flying. It just captures for me so perfectly the lovely feeling of soaring which children have on swings. I remember being quite small and my mother reciting it to me as she pushed me higher and higher. I did the same with my own kids. So many of RLS's poems in A Child's Garden of Verses sound so fresh and real today. I think that since his subject matter is often universal, the poems don't seem dated in the way that some children's verse can. Dale [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson</A> A Child's Garden of Verses: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.bartleby.com/188/" target#61;_blank>http://www.bartleby.com/188/</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com204tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-88608198826504466572006-12-14T03:52:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.467-08:00I Need Air -- Alan Lerner <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Zenobia%20Driver">Zenobia Driver</A> : </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1954.html">Poem #1954</A></b>) <b>I Need Air</b> <pre class=poembox> I could see it wasn't worth Spending time with them on earth. There were fewer in the sky. I decided I would fly. I need air... Where only stars get in my hair: And only eagles stop and stare. I need air. Oh, the work is mad And I've had my share. I need air. I need air. I need air... There's not a sign of life down there. Just hats and grown-ups everywhere. I need air. Lots of cosy sky That God and I can share. I need air. I need air. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Alan%20Lerner">Alan Lerner</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter> (from the musical 'The Little Prince', based on the book by Antoine St. Exupery) I guess this describes the pilot who is not one of the gang, a loner, who flies to get away from it all. A nice poem to read on days when everyone around is getting on your nerves. I could see it wasn't worth Spending time with them on earth. There were fewer in the sky. I decided I would fly. As good a reason to fly as any! Loved the cheekiness in the lines: There's not a sign of life down there. Just hats and grown-ups everywhere. Yes, I feel like this quite often. Zen [Martin adds] It's surprising how many flying poems and songs have their essence captured by Yeats's immortal line "a lonely impulse of delight". Today's is no exception. martin [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Jay_Lerner" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Jay_Lerner</A> The Little Prince [I really need to see this! - martin]: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071762/maindetails" target#61;_blank>http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071762/maindetails</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com120tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-54481069022181046422006-12-13T02:24:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.455-08:00from Midsummer -- Derek Walcott <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Aseem">Aseem</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1953.html">Poem #1953</A></b>) <b>from Midsummer</b> <pre class=poembox> The jet bores like a silverfish through volumes of cloud - clouds that will keep no record of where we have passed, nor the sea's mirror, nor the coral busy with its own culture; they aren't doors of dissolving stone, but pages in a damp culture that come apart. So a hole in their parchment opens, and suddenly, in a vast dereliction of sunlight, there's that island known to the traveller Trollope, and the fellow traveller Froude, for making nothing. Not even a people. The jet's shadow ripples over green jungles as steadily as a minnow through seaweed. Our sunlight is shared by Rome and your white paper, Joseph. Here, as everywhere else, it is the same age. In cities, in settlements of mud, light has never had epochs. Near the rusty harbor around Port of Spain bright suburbs fade into words - Maraval, Diego Martin - the highways long as regrets, and steeples so tiny you couldn't hear their bells, nor the sharp exclamation of whitewashed minarets from green villages. The lowering window resounds over pages of earth, the canefields set in stanzas. Skimming over an ocher swamp like a fast cloud of egrets are nouns that find their branches as simply as birds. It comes too fast, this shelving sense of home - canes rushing the wing, a fence; a world that still stands as the trundling tires keep shaking and shaking the heart. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Derek%20Walcott">Derek Walcott</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>When I saw that you were running a flying theme, this was the first poem I thought of. It is a poem that evokes so perfectly, for me, the experience of being on a flight - the familiar cycle of staring out of the window, reading the newspaper for a bit, thinking about distance and the world, looking down again, seeing the tiny signs of human civilisation get closer and closer as the flight descends and we come in to land. Walcott describes all of that in lines at once ponderous and lyrical - that air of something restlessly inventive but also classically ode-like that he renders so effortlessly. There are several phrases in here that are permanently inscribed in my head ("The jet's shadow / ripples over green jungles as steadily as a minnow / through seaweed") and the last eight lines are sheer genius. I could go on and on about the clever, clever way that Walcott weaves the metaphor of a book together with the experience of flight, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to suggest that you read the last lines of this poem again, and experience once more that sensation of coming closer and closer to the earth, the acceleration you feel an illusion, your heart waiting for that final thwack of the wheels that will tell you that you're finally back. <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Aseem">Aseem</A> [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1992/walcott-bio.html" target#61;_blank>http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1992/walcott-bio.html</A> <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Walcott" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Walcott</A> Nice essay on Walcott and his work: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.english.emory.edu/Bahri/Walcott.html" target#61;_blank>http://www.english.emory.edu/Bahri/Walcott.html</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com143tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-33211090651786201532006-12-12T05:39:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.442-08:00A Newer Kingdom -- Anonymous <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Cornelius%200Brien">Cornelius 0Brien</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1952.html">Poem #1952</A></b>) <b>A Newer Kingdom</b> <pre class=poembox> The men who billow down the sea in ships Have earned these ages tributes justly high; But now is newly told on peoples's lips Of men in airy craft who seek the sky. Flung freely through their newer kingdom won, Clean wings describe the geometric arc, And hurtle down the starlight to the dark Or gambol with the spear-shafts of the sun. A newer kingdom and a newer race - They spurn with pride the lowly creed of earth, And glory in the boundlessness of space, Where worlds through aeons past have leapt to birth. Though mortal span is told in numbered weeks They brush eternity with youthful cheeks. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Anonymous">Anonymous</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Notes: I found this sonnet in the published memoirs of Gordon Fox. Gordon, uncle of my wife Rosie, was a bomber pilot in World War Two. His memoirs, written in diary form, were published privately about a year after his death in September, 2001. His eldest son Kennedy Fox very kindly sent us a copy. This sonnet ("A Newer Kingdom" is my name for it) was found by Gordon in an anthology of air force poems. Kennedy says that neither he nor his father had any idea who wrote the poem. It is beautifully crafted, and to my heart and mind does what all good poems do - draws pictures with words and stirs emotions in the reader or listener. Yeats' "An Irish Airman Foresees his Death" could be a blood relative of this lovely sonnet. I am also reminded of Wilfred Owen, although I cannot really say why. Cornelius </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com84tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-38497338183707121382006-12-11T02:54:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.431-08:00Impressions of a Pilot -- Gary Claude Stoker <pre class=beforeafter>This week, a guest theme run by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Zenobia%20Driver">Zenobia Driver</A> : poems about flying. </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1951.html">Poem #1951</A></b>) <b>Impressions of a Pilot</b> <pre class=poembox> Flight is freedom in its purest form, To dance with the clouds which follow a storm; To roll and glide, to wheel and spin, To feel the joy that swells within. To leave the earth with its troubles and fly, And know the warmth of a clear spring sky; Then back to earth at the end of the day, Released from the tensions which melted away. Should my end come while I am in flight, Whether brightest day or darkest night; Spare me no pity and shrug off the pain, Secure in the knowledge that I'd do it again. For each of us is created to die, And within me I know, I was born to fly. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Gary%20Claude%20Stoker">Gary Claude Stoker</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Some time ago, I was reading 'On Wings of Fire' by Dr. Abdul Kalam, and came across a reference to a poem about Darius Greene. While trying to track down that poem, I came across lots of other poems about flying and realized that this was one topic that was not sufficiently represented in the poems we read in school, college etc, or on the minstrels. (A notable exception to this being 'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death' by W.B.Yeats, which is reproduced and quoted everywhere, but that is not about flying alone and it has only one reference to the 'lonely impulse of delight' that 'drove to this tumult in the clouds'.) So here are some poems that describe the joy of flying, the reasons for flying, the irreverent attitude of fighter pilots and of course, the story of Darius Greene. For those who want to read more quotes, poems etc about flying, <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.skygod.com/quotes/misc.html" target#61;_blank>http://www.skygod.com/quotes/misc.html</A> is one good site. I thought I would start with a poem that describes the sensation of flying. I loved the first paragraph - I can feel a plane rolling and spinning and dancing with the clouds as I say the lines. Also loved the analogy of flight as freedom. The last paragraph was great too - wouldn't it be marvellous if you knew exactly why you were on this earth, and you knew that you were doing exactly that and you absolutely loved it? Zenobia [Martin adds] As usual, contributions to the theme are welcome - send them in! </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com89tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-78805250867059939232006-12-10T05:17:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.419-08:00A Deep-Sworn Vow -- William Butler Yeats <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Kamalika%20Chowdhury">Kamalika Chowdhury</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1950.html">Poem #1950</A></b>) <b>A Deep-Sworn Vow</b> <pre class=poembox> Others because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; Yet always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20William%20Butler%20Yeats">William Butler Yeats</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>This poem - taken from The Wild Swans at Coole (1919) - showcases the maturity of Yeats' later work, and his distinctive brand of genius. With a master conjurer's dexterity, Yeats tells a story in a six simple lines that become breathtaking when put together. Trying to express my thoughts on this poem leaves me feeling absolutely inadequate, but I cannot let it go without a salute. So here it is. The call of these few compelling lines is powerful and intimate, utterly human and almost sacred. The reader is directly drawn into a deep relationship with the narrator, yet one that is infused with the guilt of having broken "that deep-sworn vow". But before one can fully assimilate the impact, one is quietly brought face-to-face with the inescapable truth of the final line. The inherent loneliness in this poem is ignored - it does not rave or rant, or cry out. It simply is. The two aspects of this relationship are not meant to be reconciled. And because its soul-searing intensity must have came from the poet's innermost being, I like to think that he remains immortal in this poem. Kamalika </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com87tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-53441472135940591882006-12-09T03:37:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.409-08:00The Dove -- Leonard Cohen <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Laurie%20Edwards">Laurie Edwards</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1949.html">Poem #1949</A></b>) <b>The Dove</b> <pre class=poembox> I saw the dove come down, the dove with the green twig, the childish dove out of the storm and flood. It came towards me in the style of the Holy Spirit descending. I had been sitting in a cafe for twenty-five years waiting for this vision. It hovered over the great quarrel. I surrendered to the iron laws of the moral universe which make a boredom out of everything desired. Do not surrender, said the dove. I have come to make a nest in your shoe. I want your step to be light. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Leonard%20Cohen">Leonard Cohen</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter> From "Death of a Lady's Man" (1978) I love this poem -- when I first encountered it, it provided some encouragement to not surrender and allow everything desired to become "a boredom." I think it's interesting that although Leonard Cohen was a poet before he was a songwriter, some believe that he has only written song lyrics (cf <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/624.html">Poem #624</A>, Gift). It's certainly lucky, I think, that he did turn his creativity to music, so that his gift became more widely known than it might otherwise have been. I've also alway wondered about the Catholic icons and images that twine through his lyrics/poetry (as in The Dove, above), given that Cohen is a Jewish name. He was born in Montreal in 1934, and is now a committed Buddhist, having been ordained as a Buddhist monk and given the (ironic? appropriate?) name Jikan (Silent One). Laurie D. Edwards [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Cohen" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Cohen</A> Official Cohen website: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.leonardcohen.com/" target#61;_blank>http://www.leonardcohen.com/</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com96tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-55303039235818326942006-12-08T05:58:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.398-08:00The Grammar Lesson -- Steve Kowit <pre class=beforeafter></pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1948.html">Poem #1948</A></b>) <b>The Grammar Lesson</b> <pre class=poembox> A noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does. An adjective is what describes the noun. In "The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz" *of* and *with* are prepositions. *The's* an article, a *can's* a noun, a noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does. A can *can* roll - or not. What isn't was or might be, *might* meaning not yet known. "Our can of beets *is* filled with purple fuzz" is present tense. While words like our and us are pronouns - i.e. *it* is moldy, *they* are icky brown. A noun's a thing; a verb's the thing it does. Is is a helping verb. It helps because *filled* isn't a full verb. *Can's* what *our* owns in "Our can of beets is filled with purple fuzz." See? There's almost nothing to it. Just memorize these rules...or write them down! A noun's a thing, a verb's the thing it does. The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Steve%20Kowit">Steve Kowit</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>What always fascinates me about villanelles is the various ways poets deal with the repetition inherent in the form. The one inescapable thing is that this repetition *does* have to be dealt with, and that it is often a major force in the shaping of the poem - pronouncements about form not dictating content notwithstanding. Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is without doubt the most celebrated example of the English villanelle, and with reason - it is, to my mind, a perfect study in how to make the form work to reinforce the content and tone, with never a hint of awkwardness or constraint. Along other axes, humorous poets have used the structure of the villanelle to poke fun at itself, experimentalists have seen how much they can bend the form without it breaking, and, of course, countless poets have simply ignored the fact that the form does and should influence the content, and repeated the end lines mechanically and without regard to their contribution to the flow and progress of the poem. Today's poem caught my eye for yet another clever take on making the repetition work for the theme - in the context of a grammar lesson, repeating a sentence again and again with minor changes rung upon it makes perfect sense - is, indeed, almost inevitable. I love the way Kowit makes it seem that the villanelle form itself fell out of the requirements of the subject, rather than the other way around. In the grand scheme of things I'd say this poem falls somewhere between 'serious' and 'intellectual exercise' (with a dash of humour in the unexpected image of "this can of beets is filled with purple fuzz") - not by any means an immortal poem, but a very well crafted one, and definitely worth reading. martin [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://www.flagstaffcentral.com/bookfest2000/Authors/kowit.html" target#61;_blank>http://www.flagstaffcentral.com/bookfest2000/Authors/kowit.html</A> Kowit on deliberately difficult poetry [long but brilliant essay]: [broken link] http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/dept/press/kowit.html </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-57672986204855851422006-12-07T01:44:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.387-08:00Spring is like a perhaps hand -- e e cummings <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Michael%20Andrews">Michael Andrews</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1947.html">Poem #1947</A></b>) <b>Spring is like a perhaps hand</b> <pre class=poembox> Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere)arranging a window,into which people look(while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here)and changing everything carefully spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and from moving New and Old things,while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there)and without breaking anything. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20e%20e%20cummings">e e cummings</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>We have this neighbor who loves to garden. Her whole front yard is planted with bulbs and other herbaceous perennials but, for the most part, the plot is brown in winter. But starting in late February, as I drive past her house, I see her stooped over the earth from time to time. This E. E. Cummings poem so reminds me of what takes place in her garden plot as I drive by her house each day when I leave the development. These are delicate changes in her little plot, none dramatic, but a plant is up one day, flowering the next without any dramatic fanfare; a bed is barren one day but covered with small green shoots the next. The neighbor's hand, arranging and rearrranging the plants for the year, in small increments, mostly unseen (she works out of her home, is not in the garden most times I pass, but leaves evidence of her work - a peach basket here, gardening stool there, a pile of weeds... gone the next day) is captured precisely in this poem. She moves new things and old in and out of garden spots. Not all at once, but you notice slight movements in plant blooming. Changes are slight but quick. "How did that clump get there?" I ask one day. The clump is in blossom the next! 'a fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there) and without breaking anything.' Cummings captures the joy of incremental, but inexorable growth that happens each Spring in this small poem. I like to think my neighbor Ruth is Spring's hand in the window... Enjoy! Mike Andrews </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com110tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-14549833193931363352006-12-06T06:18:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.377-08:00I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden -- Percy Bysshe Shelley <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Anagha%20Bhat">Anagha Bhat</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1946.html">Poem #1946</A></b>) <b>I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden</b> <pre class=poembox> I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burden thine. I fear thy mien, thy tone, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Percy%20Bysshe%20Shelley">Percy Bysshe Shelley</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Today, I came to ministrels looking for one of my favourit-est-est poems ever, and was shocked to not find it there. Had to dig out my paperback book... in this day and age... *sigh* The reason I love this poem is that I love the knight-in-shining-armour spirit of the poet. A perfect gentleman, and every woman's dream man! That's on the surface... Lemme not go deeper! Anagha [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com83tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3138327498205434204.post-74061267767455323232006-12-05T03:56:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:09:13.368-08:00Simplify Me When I'm Dead -- Keith Douglas <pre class=beforeafter>Guest poem sent in by <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20Swati%20Chaudhary">Swati Chaudhary</A> </pre> <table class=poembox><tr><td><div class=poembox> (<b><A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://wonderingminstrels.appspot.com/poems/1945.html">Poem #1945</A></b>) <b>Simplify Me When I'm Dead</b> <pre class=poembox> Remember me when I am dead Simplify me when I am dead. As the process of earth strip off the colour and the skin take the brown hair and the blue eye and leave me simpler than at birth, when hairless I came howling in as the moon came in the cold sky. Of my skeleton perhaps so stripped, a learned man may say "He was of such a type and intelligence," no more. Thus when in a year collapse particular memories, you may deduce from the long pain I bore the opinion I held, who was my foe and what I left, even my appearance but incidents will be no guide. Time's wrong way telescope will show a minute man the years hence and by distance simplified. Through the lens see if I seem substance or nothing: of the world deserving mention or charitable oblivion not by momentary spleen or love into decision hurled leisurely arrive at an opinion. Remember me when I am dead and simplify me when I am dead. </pre> <center>-- <a class="underlined" href="/search/label/Poet%3A%20Keith%20Douglas">Keith Douglas</a></center> </div></td></tr></table> <pre class=beforeafter>Here's a poem that I first read in high school and which spurred my consequent obsession with poetry. The reason I really like Keith Douglas is because of his rawness of emotion. It is almost as if his poems document the very moment when a truth must have become evident to him. It is possible that this is so because all we have are his early works -- lacking the maturity or perhaps, the practice that comes with age, due to his untimely death. best <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="/search/label/Submitted%20by%3A%20swati%20chaudhary">swati chaudhary</A> [Links] Biography: <A CLASS="underlined" HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith_Douglas" target#61;_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith_Douglas</A> </pre>Sitaramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021221713782825050noreply@blogger.com117