#16
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Nantucket Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon— On the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying— And the immaculate white bed I can't believe I forgot to mention Williams. Up there with Plath as one of the great twentieth century American poets. Here's one of my favorites from him (and of course, having said what I did above, I actually had a relatively tough time finding this one online): The Poor It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements Or a cast iron balcony with panels showing oak branches in full leaf. It fits the dress of the children reflecting every stage and custom of necessity— Chimneys, roofs, fences of Wood and metal in an unfenced age and enclosing next to nothing at all: the old man in a sweater and soft black hat who sweeps the sidewalk— his own ten feet of it— in a wind that fitfully turning his corner has overwhelmed the entire city Wallace Stevens can be pretty wonderful, too. Here's an absolutely maddening poem of his: Sea Surface Full of Clouds I In that November off Tehuantepec, The slopping of the sea grew still one night And in the morning summer hued the deck And made one think of rosy chocolate And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green Gave suavity to the perplexed machine Of ocean, which like limpid water lay. Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude Out of the light evolved the morning blooms, Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm? C’était mon enfant, mon bijou, mon âme. The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green And in its watery radiance, while the hue Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue. II In that November off Tehuantepec The slopping of the sea grew still one night. At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck And made one think of chop-house chocolate And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay. Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen, Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms Of water moving on the water-floor? C’était mon frère du ciel, ma vie, mon or. The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms. The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread Its crystalline pendentives on the sea And the macabre of the water-glooms In an enormous undulation fled. III In that November off Tehuantepec, The slopping of the sea grew still one night And a pale silver patterned on the deck And made one think of porcelain chocolate And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green, Piano-polished, held the tranced machine Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds, Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms Unfolding in the water, feeling sure Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then, The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds? Oh! C’était mon extase et mon amour. So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds, The shrouding shadows, made the petals black Until the rolling heaven made them blue, A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth, And smiting the crevasses of the leaves Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue. IV In that November off Tehuantepec The night-long slopping of the sea grew still. A mallow morning dozed upon the deck And made one think of musky chocolate And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green Suggested malice in the dry machine Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem. Who then beheld the figures of the clouds Like blooms secluded in the thick marine? Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off From the loosed girdles in the spangling must. C’était ma foi, la nonchalance divine. The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing, Would—But more suddenly the heaven rolled Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green, And the nakedness became the broadest blooms, Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled. V In that November off Tehuantepec Night stilled the slopping of the sea. The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck, Good clown… One thought of Chinese chocolate And large umbrellas. And a motley green Followed the drift of the obese machine Of ocean, perfected in indolence. What pistache one, ingenious and droll, Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery And the sea as turquoise-turbaned Sambo, neat At tossing saucers—cloudy-conjuring sea? C’était mon esprit bâtard, l’ignominie. The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch Of loyal conjuration trumped. The wind Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue To clearing opalescence. Then the sea And heaven rolled as one and from the two Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue. Last edited by Jyqm; 01-27-2006 at 03:26 PM.. |
#17
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__________________
"Do not be afraid! I am Esteban de la Sexface!" "In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice" Whehyll I can do EHYT!! Wehyll I can make it WAHN moh thihme! (wheyllit'sA reayllongwaytogooo! To say goodbhiiy!) - |
#18
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My great-grandfather was a published poet in the early 20th century. I not all that big on "the written word" poetry as much as poetry that happens to be set to music (and by this I am not talking about something like "Listen to the Rain"....).
The Evening Primrose by Benjamin Britten When once the sun sinks in the West And dew drops pearl the evenings breast Almost as pale as moonbeams are Or its companionable star The evening primrose ope's anew Its delicate blossom to the dew And hermit-like, shunning the light Wakes its fair bloom upon the night Who blindfold to its fond caresses Knows not the beauty he possesses Thus it blooms on while night is by When day looks out with open eye Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun It faints and withers and is gone |
#19
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That was a nice poem, Towie.
I'm going to put Ferhill, in case no one has read it. "Time held me green and dying, though I sang in my chains like the sea" - oh, that line gets me every time. Why can't Stevie write a Fernhill based song??? This is like, my mind's theme poem. Geez, I knew I shouldn't have stopped to read it, now I'm crying. Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace. Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
__________________
"Do not be afraid! I am Esteban de la Sexface!" "In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice" Whehyll I can do EHYT!! Wehyll I can make it WAHN moh thihme! (wheyllit'sA reayllongwaytogooo! To say goodbhiiy!) - |
#20
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Nice! The second line in particular is just fantastic. I know there's other people around here who have written poetry of their own. Don't be shy, kids. |
#21
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I found this on postsecret.com and thought it was pretty interesting...
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#22
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My favorite poet is William Blake, and my favorite works of his are found in Songs of Innocence and Experience. http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext99/sinex10h.htm
I also enjoy Adrienne Rich, Walt Whitman, and Sylvia Plath. |
#23
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I have always thought Paul Simon was a poet. some of the imagery he evokes is just powerful:
hello darkness my old friend, Ive come to talk to you again..... ************ Its a still life watercolor....from a now late afternoon and the sun shines thru the curtain lace, and shadows wash the room ************** Old friends, old friends, Sat on their parkbench like bookends A newspaper blown through the grass Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends ************ They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town, With political connections to spread his wealth around. Born into society, a banker's only child, He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style. But I work in his factory And I curse the life I'm living And I curse my poverty And I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory. |
#24
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I think this thread should be kept going. Ideally, it should end up longer than the "This could get tricky" thread. Keep the poems comin', people!
Here's "Seascape," by Elizabeth Bishop (the way she constructs the scene, and the total control she has over her images, is just breathtaking): This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels, flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections; the whole region, from the highest heron down to the weightless mangrove island with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings like illumination in silver, and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower in an ornamental spray of spray; this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope: it does look like heaven. But a skeletal lighthouse standing there in black and white clerical dress, who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better. He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet, that that is why the shallow water is so warm, and he knows that heaven is not like this. Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare and when it gets dark he will remember something strongly worded to say on the subject. |
#25
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Down among the reeds and rushes A baby boy was found His eyes as clear as centuries His silky hair was brown Never been lonely Never been lied to Never had to scuffle in fear Nothing denied to Born at the instant The church bells chime And the whole world whispering Born at the right time Me and my buddies we are travelling people We like to go down to restaurant row Spend those Euro-dollars All the way from Washington to Tokyo I see them in the airport lounge Upon their mother's breast They follow me with open eyes Their uninvited guest Never been lonely Never been lied to Never had to scuffle in fear Nothing denied to Born at the instant The church bells chime And the whole world whispering Born at the right time Too many people on the bus from the airport Too many holes in the crust of the earth The planet groans Every time it registers another birth But among the reeds and rushes A baby girl was found Her eyes as clear as centuries Her silky hair was brown Never been lonely Never been lied to Never had to scuffle in fear Nothing denied to Born at the instant The church bells chime And the whole world whispering Born at the right time |
#26
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Margaret Atwood is probably my favorite, and this is my favorite piece by her:
Sekhmet, the Lion-headed Goddess of War He was the sort of man who wouldn't hurt a fly. Many flies are now alive while he is not. He was not my patron. He preferred full granaries, I battle. My roar meant slaughter. Yet here we are together in the same museum. That's not what I see, though, the fitful crowds of staring children learning the lesson of multi- cultural obliteration, sic transit and so on. I see the temple where I was born or built, where I held power. I see the desert beyond, where the hot conical tombs, that look from a distance, frankly, like dunces' hats, hide my jokes: the dried-out flesh and bones, the wooden boats in which the dead sail endlessly in no direction. What did you expect from gods with animal heads? Though come to think of it the ones made later, who were fully human were not such good news either. Favour me and give me riches, destroy my enemies. That seems to be the gist. Oh yes: And save me from death. In return we're given blood and bread, flowers and prayer, and lip service. Maybe there's something in all of this I missed. But if it's selfless love you're looking for, you've got the wrong goddess. I just sit where I'm put, composed of stone and wishful thinking: that the deity who kills for pleasure will also heal, that in the midst of your nightmare, the final one, a kind lion will come with bandages in her mouth and the soft body of a woman, and lick you clean of fever, and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck and caress you into darkness and paradise.
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#27
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That one is great, thanks for sharing.
Gosh, I love her. I might actually read more of her poetry b/c of this.
__________________
"Do not be afraid! I am Esteban de la Sexface!" "In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice" Whehyll I can do EHYT!! Wehyll I can make it WAHN moh thihme! (wheyllit'sA reayllongwaytogooo! To say goodbhiiy!) - |
#28
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I was completely unaware Margaret Atwood wrote poetry! That was great.
Here's something I've been playing with tonight, an untitled poem by Arno Holz: Sieben Septillionen Jahre zählte ich die Meilensteine am Rande der Milchstrasse. Sie endeten nicht. Myriaden Aeonen versank ich in die Wunder eines einzigen Thautröpfchens. Es erschlossen sich immer neue. Mein Herz erzitterte! Selig ins Moos streckte ich mich und wurde Erde. Jetzt ranken Brombeeren über mir, auf einem sich wiegenden Schlehdornzweig zwitschert ein Rotkehlchen. Aus meiner Brust springt fröhlich ein Quell, aus meinem Schädel wachsen Blumen. --- For seven septillion years I counted the milestones on the edge of Milk Street. They did not end. For myriads of æons I plunged into the wonders of a single tiny dewdrop. They unfolded ever anew. My heart did tremble! Enraptured in moss I stretched myself out and became earth. Now brambles entwine over me, on a swaying blackthorn branch twitters a robin. Out of my breast leaps gaily a spring, out of my skull grow flowers. Last edited by Jyqm; 01-28-2006 at 07:24 PM.. |
#29
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I'm also a big fan of Walt Whitman. Not because of Lindsey...my appreciation of Walt came way before his album based on the Walt poem "Out of the Cradle and Endlessly Rocking," which is wonderful. I fell in love with Leaves of Grass.
One of my favorite poems by Walt. Ever. I Sing The Body Electric 1 I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul? 2 The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect. The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and from the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horse-man in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hosing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd, The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv'd neck and the counting; Such-like I love - I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's breast with the little child, Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count. 3 I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons. This man was a wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, He drank water only, the blood show'd like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail'd his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him, When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other. 4 I have perceiv'd that to be with those I like is enough, To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea. There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well, All things please the soul, but these please the soul well. 5 This is the female form, A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable, Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious nice, Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn, Undulating into the willing and yielding day, Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day. This the nucleus - after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman, This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest, You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. The female contains all qualities and tempers them, She is in her place and moves with perfect balance, She is all things duly veil'd, she is both passive and active, She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters. As I see my soul reflected in Nature, As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty, See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see. 6 The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place, He too is all qualities, he is action and power, The flush of the known universe is in him, Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well, The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him, The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul, Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself, Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here, (Where else does he strike soundings except here?) The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred, No matter who it is, it is sacred - is it the meanest one in the laborers' gang? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession. (All is a procession, The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.) Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant? Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts, For you only, and not for him and her? |
#30
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But yeah, Leaves of Grass is pretty wonderful, though it's really something that's meant to be read while holding the big book in your lap, preferably outside somewhere. They print facsimiles of the first editions nowadays, but I think they can be expensive. The link that I included in my first post in this thread, though, is to a great Whitman site that has all the pages of the 1855 edition scanned in. If you've got to read Whitman online, it's easily the best way to go about it: http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/.../frameset.html |
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