nobody loses all the time -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Lisa

(Poem #1696) nobody loses all the time nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol's farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my Uncle Sol and started a worm farm) -- e e cummings

I knew if I thought long enough I'd come up with a poem I've been moved to
memorize that isn't (insha'allah) on the Minstrels all ready.

I love e.e. cummings.  My favorite poem is "Anyone lived in a pretty how
town" (Poem #1260) which has the most beautiful melody of any poem I've ever
encountered.  But this is my second favorite.  How charming, the description
of Uncle Sol; how fitting and even touching that he won at last.  And as I
contemplate my occasional wins and my frequent losses in this world, it is
comforting to realize that no one can lose all the time.  Is it symbolic
that this perpetual loser is named after the sun -- and if so, how?  Or is
the poem merely straightforward?  Whatever else it does, it shows us a side
of cummings we rarely see -- his frivolous side.

Lisa

Shawondasee -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem submitted by Lisa:

(Poem #1669) Shawondasee Shawondasee, fat and lazy, Had his dwelling far to southward In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, In the never-ending Summer. He it was who sent the wood-birds, Sent the robin, the Opechee, Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, Sent the melons and tobacco, And the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending Filled the sky with haze and vapor, Filled the air with dreamy softness, Gave a twinkle to the water, Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, Brought the tender Indian Summer To the melancholy north-land, In the dreary Mood of Snow-shoes. Listless, careless Shawondasee! In his life he had one shadow, In his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward, Far away upon a prairie He beheld a maiden standing, Saw a tall and slender maiden All alone upon a prairie ; Brightest green were all her garments, And her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her, Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him Grew more hot with love and longing For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her. Yes, too indolent and easy To pursue her and persuade her; So he only gazed upon her, Only sat and sighed with passion For the maiden of the prairie. Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. "Ah! my brother from the North-land, From the kingdom of Wabasso, From the land of the White Rabbit! You have stolen the maiden from me, You have laid your hand upon her, You have wooed and won my maiden, With your stories of the North-land!" Thus the wretched Shawondasee Breathed into the air his sorrow; And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee, Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, Full of thistle-down the prairie, And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished from his sight forever; Never more did Shawondasee See the maid with yellow tresses! Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'Twas no woman that you gazed at, 'Twas no maiden that you sighed for, 'Twas the prairie dandelion That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever, Blown into the air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee! -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Other exerpts from the epic poem "The Song of Hiawatha" have appeared here
before.  But I adore this little vignette about the South Wind.  Such a
wonderful description, and such a tragic (yet humorous) romance too!  Plus,
the meter is amazing.  This poem begs to be read aloud.  I've read this
particular passage to my husband three times this evening.

Okay, I admit, I was led here by the reference to it in Spiderman 2.  But it
fits well with my latest interest in epic poetry, and now I'm in the middle
of Hiawatha, enjoying every syllable.

Lisa.

Shijo -- Chong Chol

Guest poem submitted by Lisa:

(Poem #1503) Shijo The rise and fall of nations are myriad; Taebang Fortress is covered with autumn grass. To the herdsman's pipes I'll leave my ignorance of the past and I'll drink a cup to this great age of peace. -- Chong Chol

This poem appeared today in the Korean Herald, in their "A Poem for
Breakfast" feature.  I was struck by the first line, pointing to the
ephemeral nature of even great nations, as they rise, fall, and are
eventually become covered over with grass.  In the midst of daily bad news
from all corners of the world, much of it caused by nations attempting to
create some sort of permanence for themselves and their ideologies, a
sentiment such as this strikes me as, bizarrely, hopeful.  Nations come and
go, always.  I think I'll join Chong Chol in leaving my ignorance and
drinking a cup -- though I wonder if the age he lived in was really the
great age of peace!

The poem appeared here:
http://www.koreaherald.co.kr/SITE/data/html_dir/2004/04/15/asp

The Korean Herald had this to say about the poem:
Chong Chol, the great poet-bureaucrat of the mid-Joseon period, treats one
of the great themes of literature, the ephemeral nature of human existence.
His stance is typically Korean. He says, concentrate on how good things are
now and forget the turbulence of the past! Taebang Fortress is today's
Namwon in North Jeolla Province, Chunhyang's town.

More information about the Joseon period can be found here:
[broken link] http://www.korea.net/learnaboutkorea/history/earlyjoseon.html
[broken link] http://www.korea.net/learnaboutkorea/history/latejoseon.html

More information on the Taebang Fortress (today the Namwon Castle) can be
found here:
[broken link] http://namwon.jeonbuk.kr/eng/sub/usan/nam.htm

--Lisa

The Aeneid: I, 1-7 -- Virgil

Guest poem submitted by Lisa, the opening lines of:

(Poem #1480) The Aeneid: I, 1-7 War tales and heroes frame my song. A man -- refugee from Troy -- pushed by fate from Illium to Italy. O, but the troubles all he bore, tossed across seas, and in foreign lands blown like a leaf on the breath of the gods. (Cruel Juno's wrath, smoking slow, here the chief cause.) And the troubles he bore, the tests, the tricks, the battles, that he might raise up a city, that the gods might live in Italy; the Latin clan, the seeds of our race, the mighty walls of Rome. -- Virgil

        Translated by Rondo Keele.

As adventure stories go, Virgil's Aeneid is among the best;  the fact
that the entire epic is written in poetry only heightens the
accomplishment, making Virgil himself as legendary as his characters.

These opening lines beautifully and dramatically frame Aeneas's entire
journey;  tossed by the sea, blown by the gods, pushed by fate, Aeneas
has no choice but to fulfill his destiny -- the foundation of the future
Roman empire.

Lisa.

[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]