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Psycholophon -- Gelett Burgess

Since Thomas mentioned translated poetry...
(Poem #334) Psycholophon
(Supposed to Be Translated from the Old Parsee)

Twine then the rays
  Round her soft Theban tissues.
All will be as She says,
  When the dead Past reissues.
Matters not what nor where,
  Hark, to the moon's dim cluster!
How was her heavy hair
  Lithe as a feather-duster!
Matters not when nor whence;
  Flittertigibbet!
Sound make the song, not sense,
  Thus I inhibit!
-- Gelett Burgess
Notes:

Parsee: The language of Persia under the Sassanian kings

It was to Burgess's great annoyance that his 'Purple Cow' grew to eclipse
all his other work, and in a spirit of fairness I decided to run at least
one other poem of his. However, most of what I've read of his has been
rather weak children's poetry, nowhere near as good or as whimsical as the
purple cow pair.

Today's poem is not quite what I'd call whimsical either, but it's certainly
strange. The semimystical vagueness and the twisted grammar are of course a
parody on translated poetry, but not a particularly well-done one. And the
poem doesn't make enough sense to justify its failure as nonsense. On the
other hand, though, I couldn't really resist a poem that used the word
'flittertigibbet' [1]<g>.

[1] proper spelling 'flibbertigibbet', a flighty or frivolous woman

Links:

The Purple Cow, and a biography of Burgess, can be found at poem #120

m.

p.s. Does anyone know what the title refers to?

Gnomic Stanzas -- Anonymous

       
(Poem #333) Gnomic Stanzas
Mountain snow, everywhere white;
A raven's custom is to sing;
No good comes of too much sleep.

Mountain snow, white the ravine;
By rushing wind trees are bent;
Many a couple love one another
Though they never come together.

Mountain snow, tossed by the wind;
Broad full moon, dockleaves green;
Rarely a knave's without litigation.

Mountain snow, swift the stag;
Usual in Britain are brave chiefs;
There's need of prudence in an exile.

    Mountain snow, hunted stag;
Wind whistles above the eaves of a tower;
    Heavy, O man, is sin.

    Mountain snow, leaping stag;
Wind whistles above a high white wall;
    Usually the calm are comely.

Mountain snow, stag in the vale;
Wind whistles abowe the rooftop;
There's no hiding evil, no matter where.

Mountain snow, stag on the shore;
Old man must feel his loss of youth;
Bad eyesight puts a man in prison.

Mountain snow, stag in a ditch;
Bees are asleep and snug;
Thieves and a long night suit each other.

Mountain snow, deer are nimble;
Waves wetten the brink of a shore;
Let the skilful hide his purpose.

Mountain snow, speckled breast of a goose;
Strong are my arm and shoulder;
I hope I shall not live to a hundred.

Mountain snow, bare tops of reeds;
Bent tips of branches, fish in the deep;
Where there's no learning, cannot be talent.

Mountain snow, red feet of hens;
Where it chatters, water's but shallow;
Big words add to any disgrace.

Mountain snow, swift the stag;
Rarely a thing in the world concerns me;
To warn the unlucky does not save them.

    Mountain snow, fleece of white;
It's rare that a relative's face is friendly
    If you visit him too often.

    Mountain snow, white house-roofs;
If tongue were to tell what the heart may know
    Nobody would be neighbours.

    Mountain snow, day has come;
Every sad man sick, half-naked the poor;
    Every time, a fool gets hurt.
-- Anonymous
Translated by Anthony Conran.

I have been accused (not without cause, it must be said) by various
members of the list (Hi Vikram!) of having 'a passion for obscure Celtic
twilight thingies'. While I think that that particular characterization
is a bit harsh, I must confess to a soft corner for balladry and
alliterative verse, chansons de geste and Homeric epics - in short, the
repertoire of the archetypal wandering minstrel.

I also like today's offering for its demonstration of 'how poetry
began', so to speak. Think about it: what was originally just a
collection of proverbs [1] is cast into a specific form to aid
memorization [2]; structure and pattern follow, and before you know it,
you have a poem.

thomas.

[1] The word 'gnome' means aphorism or saying; etymologically, it's
related to 'gnostic' and even 'know'.
[2] Keep in mind that Northern poetry (by which I mean both Germanic and
Celtic verse) remained an exclusively oral tradition until the early
Middle Ages, by which time it was already dying out.

Delight In Disorder -- Robert Herrick

Guest poem sent in by Jennie Godden
(Poem #332) Delight In Disorder
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction :
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher :
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly :
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat :
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
-- Robert Herrick
This has always been one of my favourites. I could talk about its beauty,
or that its one of the most sensual poems I know, but I think I really like
it because it makes a perfect excuse for slightly untidy people like me!

Jennie

from An Essay on Man -- Alexander Pope

       
(Poem #331) from An Essay on Man
     Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate,
 All but the page prescrib'd, their present state:
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
 Or who could suffer being here below?
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
 Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
 And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
 Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

     Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
 Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
 What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
 Man never is, but always to be blest:
 The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

      Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
 His soul, proud science never taught to stray
 Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
 Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n,
 Behind the cloud topp'd hill, an humbler heav'n;
 Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
 Some happier island in the wat'ry waste,
 Where slaves once more their native land behold,
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
 To be, contents his natural desire,
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
-- Alexander Pope
Pope is one of those poets I enjoyed a lot more when I was younger - now I
find his poetry a trifle brittle, albeit beautifully polished. However, at
his best he has a highly memorable turn of phrase and an unmistakeable
elegance that set his work apart. If Pope is chiefly a stylist, he is at
least a brilliant one.

An excellent Pope site (from which I have quoted extensively, and which I urge
you to read in its entirely) may be found at
http://landow.stg.brown.edu/c32/pope/popeov.html

To begin with, here's a nice overview of the Essay on Man...

  Pope intended it as the centerpiece of a proposed system of ethics to be
  put forth in poetic form: it is in fact a fragment of a larger work which
  Pope planned but did not live to complete [a familiar occurrence - m].
  It is an attempt to justify, as Milton had attempted to vindicate, the
  ways of God to Man, and a warning that man himself is not, as, in his
  pride, he seems to believe, the center of all things. Though not
  explicitly Christian, the Essay makes the implicit assumption that man is
  fallen and unregenerate, and that he must seek his own salvation.

  ...

  Considered as a whole, the Essay on Man is an affirmative poem of faith:
  life seems chaotic and patternless to man when he is in the midst of it,
  but is in fact a coherent portion of a divinely ordered plan. In Pope's
  world God exists, and he is benificent: his universe is an ordered place.
  The limited intellect of man can perceive only a tiny portion of this
  order, and can experience only partial truths, and hence must rely on
  hope, which leads to faith. Man must be cognizant of his rather
  insignificant position in the grand scheme of things: those things which
  he covets most -- riches, power, fame -- prove to be worthless in the
  greater context of which he is only dimly aware. In his place, it is man's
  duty to strive to be good, even if he is doomed, because of his inherent
  frailty, to fail in his attempt.

        -- http://landow.stg.brown.edu/c32/pope/man.html

Pope was the leading poet of the Augustan Age, that portion of the
Neoclassicist period extending from roughly 1700 to 1750. The above site has
this to say about Neoclassicism...

  To a certain extent Neoclassicism represented a reaction against the
  optimistic, exuberant, and enthusiastic Renaissance view of man as a being
  fundamentally good and possessed of an infinite potential for spiritual
  and intellectual growth. Neoclassical theorists, by contrast, saw man as
  an imperfect being, inherently sinful, whose potential was limited. They
  replaced the Renaissance emphasis on the imagination, on invention and
  experimentation, and on mysticism with an emphasis on order and reason, on
  restraint, on common sense, and on religious, political, economic and
  philosophical conservatism. They maintained that man himself was the most
  appropriate subject of art, and saw art itself as essentially
  pragmatic--as valuable because it was somehow useful--and as something
  which was properly intellectual rather than emotional.

(It is probably this attitude, rather than any inherent flaw in Pope's work,
that I react negatively to.) Illustrative is the look at Augustan poetic
diction...

  Poetic diction can also mean the sum of the favorite words used by a
  particular poet. Tillotson points out that various periods have favored
  different sets of words, which then become characteristic of one group or
  age of poets (and also a way that later ones can allude to them).

  Augustan (or neoclassical), 1650-1750:

  sad, pensive, anxious, purple (usually in the snese it has in Latin poetry
  of 'very bright'), various, refulgent, . . . num'rous, glitte'ring,
  beauteous, promiscuous, trembling, plae, British (a glorious word in the
  eighteenth century), harmonious, easy, opening, emulate, yielding,
  conscious (usually with some taint of its Latin sense of guiltily
  conscious).

        -- http://landow.stg.brown.edu/c32/tech/diction.html

Pope's brand of Neoclassicism was apparently unpalatable to later poets...

  Pope had few poetical heirs of any consequence. His popularity gradually
  declined after his death in 1744, as his themes and his style went
  gradually out of fashion. In a sense his true heirs were those who reacted
  against him most strongly. Samuel Johnson noted in his Life of Pope that
  it would be useless to attempt to write better couplets than Pope had
  produced, but he suggested, too, that new poets would emphasize new images
  and new sentiments, and by the early nineteenth century the English
  Romantics, reacting against Neoclassicism and exalting Nature, had, with a
  few notable exceptions -- Byron, for example, proclaimed his admiration of
  Pope's accomplishments -- come to look upon him as a decorous and perhaps
  a brilliant artist who was also a Roman Catholic and a crabbed dwarf; as
  an artist whose work, unfortunately, not only reflected but examplified
  the deadening artificiality of his age.

        -- http://landow.stg.brown.edu/c32/pope/litrel2.html

though on the other hand

  He was never without adherents -- Isaac D'Israeli defended The Rape of the
  Lock by insisting that the best
  poetry reflected the spirit of the age that had produced it, and that,
  judged by that standard, the poem was a work
  of genius -- Ibid.

Formwise, Pope's verse consisted mainly of heroic couplets...

  this verse form consists of iambic pentameter lines with rhymed couplets.
  in the eighteenth century, when this verse form was most popular, poets
  tended also to write in closed couplets, which is to say that the end of
  each couplet, and even each line, tended to coincide with the end of a
  sentence or a self-sufficient unit of syntax. the form is in some ways
  reflective of eighteenth-century ideals of order, balance, and closure

        -- http://icdweb.cc.purdue.edu/~felluga/guide.html#heroic

a form first introduced by Chaucer (see Minstrels poem #327) and perfected
by Pope.

More on the Augustans...

18th century: the Augustan age

  alexander pope developed the poetic technique of dryden; in prose richard
  steele and joseph addison evolved the polite essay, jonathan swift used
  satire, and daniel defoe exploited his journalistic ability. this century
  saw the development of the novel, through the epistolary style of samuel
  richardson to the robust narrative of henry fielding and tobias smollett,
  the comic genius of laurence sterne, and the gothic 'horror' of horace
  walpole. the neo-classical standards established by the augustans were
  maintained by samuel johnson and his circle - oliver goldsmith, edmund
  burke, joshua reynolds, richard sheridan, and others - but the romantic
  element present in the poetry of james thomson, thomas gray, edward young,
  and william collins was soon to overturn them.

    -- [broken link] http://ukdb.web.aol.com/hutchinson/encyclopedia/71/m0001171.htm

  inaugurating a new poetics, john dryden (1668) derides his predecessors, the
  metaphysical poets, in a telling manner: these "have debauched the true old
  poetry so far, that nature, which is the soul of it, is not in any of your
  writing" -- http://www.zbi.ee/~kalevi/construc.htm

And for an essay on the 'Purpose and Method of Satire' :

  http://www.sccu.edu/Faculty/R_Harris/satire.htm

See also the previous poem by Pope run on Minstrels... poem #39

which includes a biography and some nice notes on Pope's use of satire.

m.

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning -- John Donne

Returning to our chronology of English poetry...
(Poem #330) A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
     And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
     The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
     No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
'Twere profanation of our joys
     To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
     Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
     Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
     (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
     Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined
     That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assur'd of the mind,
     Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
     Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
     Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
     As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
     To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
     Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
     And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
     Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
     And makes me end where I begun.
-- John Donne
1633.

Although as a rule I try to avoid dissecting poems on the Minstrels,
today I'll make an exception: I find it a fascinating exercise to
analyse the construction of this wonderful poem.

'Valediction' begins quietly, at the deathbed of a 'virtuous man'. The
scene reminds Donne of the familiar Petrarchan conceit of a parting
between lovers being like death; he hopes that when the time comes for
him to be parted from his love, he too will bear it with the quiet
dignity of the dying man - no floods of tears, no tempests of sighs. The
imagery of the weather leads into the motion of the Earth and and the
'trepidation of the spheres'; the scientific and astrological element
grows until we reach the central word of the poem, 'refined'.
    But we by a love so much refined
        That our selves know not what it is,
    Inter-assur'd of the mind,
        Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
(It's stanzas like this which account for Donne's place as possibly the
greatest love poet in the English language).

'Refined' suggests to Donne the practice of alchemy (a favourite poetic
subject of his, and the source of much of his finest imagery), which in
turn leads to the picture of beaten gold; when a ring is heated, there
is no breach, only an expansion (this ties in with the dignity with
which the lovers part). The ideas of 'breach' and 'gold' then combine to
form the most famous metaphor in all of poetry, that of the compasses.

Note that the 'Valediction' is not so much an exploration of feeling as
an enactment of it; the range of Donne's poetic reference is incredibly
wide, yet the images merge and fuse into a whole that is greater than
the sum of its parts. Again, although the construction of the poem
_seems_ logical, in truth it is not; Donne merely uses the idea of
logic, of logical sequentiae, to tie together the complexities of his
emotion. The poem as a whole is a torrent of ideas and associations,
dazzlingly complex, densely intellectual; at the same time, it remains,
fundamentally, a love poem, and a deeply touching one at that.

thomas.

Brittanica has this to say on the Metaphysical Poets:

 - Any of the poets in 17th-century England who inclined to the personal
and intellectual
complexity and concentration that is displayed in the poetry of John
Donne, the chief of the Metaphysicals. Others include George Herbert,
Henry Vaughan, Richard Crashaw, Andrew Marvell, John Cleveland, and
Abraham Cowley.

Their work is a blend of emotion and intellectual ingenuity,
characterized by conceit or "wit" -- that is, by the sometimes violent
yoking together of apparently unconnected ideas and things so that the
reader is startled out of his complacency and forced to think through
the argument of the poem. Metaphysical poetry is less concerned with
expressing feeling than with analyzing it, with the poet exploring the
recesses of his consciousness. The boldness of the literary devices used
-- especially obliquity, irony, and paradox -- are always reinforced by
a dramatic directness of language, whose rhythm is derived from that of
living speech.

Esteem for Metaphysical poetry never stood higher than in the 1930s and
'40s, largely because of T.S. Eliot's influential essay "The
Metaphysical Poets" (1921). In this essay Eliot pointed out that the
works of these men embody a fusion of thought and feeling that later
poets were unable to achieve because of a "dissociation of sensibility,"
which resulted in works that were either intellectual or emotional but
not both at once. In their own time, however, the epithet "metaphysical"
was used pejoratively: in 1630 the Scottish poet William Drummond of
Hawthornden objected to those of his contemporaries who attempted to
"abstract poetry to metaphysical ideas and scholastic quiddities." At
the end of the century, John Dryden censured Donne for affecting "the
metaphysics" and for perplexing "the minds of the fair sex with nice
speculations of philosophy when he should engage their hearts ... with
the softnesses of love." Samuel Johnson, in referring to the learning
that their poetry displays, also dubbed them "the metaphysical poets,"
and the term has continued in use ever since. For an attempt to
establish the justice of this term in relation to their work, Sir
Herbert Grierson's Metaphysical Poems and Lyrics of the 17th Century
(1921) and James Smith's essay "On Metaphysical Poetry" in
Determinations (ed. F.R. Leavis, 1934) are of interest.

And this on Donne:

Donne has been taken to be the apex of the 16th-century tradition of
plain poetry, and certainly the love lyrics of his that parade their
cynicism, indifference, and libertinism pointedly invert and parody the
conventions of Petrarchan lyric, though no less than the Petrarchans he
courts admiration for his poetic virtuosity. A "great haunter of plays"
in his youth, he is always dramatic; his verse cultivates "strong
lines," dissonance, and colloquiality. Thomas Carew praised him for
exiling from poetry the "train of gods and goddesses"; what fills it
instead is a dazzling battery of language and argument drawn from
science, law and trade, court and city. Donne is the first London poet:
his early satires and elegies are packed with the busy metropolitan
milieu, and the songs and sonnets, which include his best writing, with
their kaleidoscope of contradictory attitudes, ironies, and
contingencies, are authentic to the modern phenomenon of urban living.
Donne treats experience as relative, a matter of individual point of
view; the personality is multiple, quizzical, and inconsistent, eluding
definition. His love poetry is that of the frustrated careerist. By
inverting normal perspectives and making the mistress "all states, and
all princes, I, nothing else is," he belittles the public world,
defiantly asserting the superior validity of his private experience, and
frequently he erodes the traditional dichotomy of body and soul,
outrageously praising the mistress in language reserved for platonic or
religious contexts. The defiance is complicated, however, by a recurrent
conviction of personal unworthiness that culminates in the Anniversaries
(1611-12), two long commemorative poems written on the death of a
patron's daughter. These expand into the classic statement of Jacobean
melancholy, an intense meditation on the vanity of the world and the
collapse of traditional certainties. Donne would, reluctantly, find
respectability in a church career, but even his religious poems are torn
between the same tense self-assertion and self-abasement that mark his
secular poetry.

    -- EB