[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3esjTgR2W2E"]YouTube- "The Road not Taken" by Robert Frost[/ame]
I've been into trees lately, for whatever reason, so here are a couple of my current favorites. I'm glad to have found this thread, and I'll be back with more later. Sonnet 73 William Shakespeare That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare, ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the dawning of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, which seals up in rest. In me thou see'st the burning of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed by that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. Loveliest of Trees A.E. Housman Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands along the woodland ride, Wearing white for Eastertide. Now of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again. And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom, Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
The Garden (Louise Gluck) I couldn’t do it again, I can hardly bear to look at it— in the garden, in light rain the young couple planting a row of peas, as though no one has ever done this before, the great difficulties have never as yet been faced and solved— They cannot see themselves, in fresh dirt, starting up without perspective, the hills behind them pale green, clouded with flowers— She wants to stop; he wants to get to the end, to stay with the thing— Look at her, touching his cheek to make a truce, her fingers cool with spring rain; in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus— even here, even at the beginning of love, her hand leaving his face makes an image of departure and they think they are free to overlook this sadness.
I just discovered this today, in a 10th grade lit book. Fifteen South of the bridge on Seventeenth I found back of the willows one summer day a motorcycle with engine running as it lay on its side, ticking over slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen. I admired all that pulsing gleam, the shiny flanks, the demure headlights fringed where it lay; I led it gently to the road, and stood with that companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen. We could find the end of a road, meet the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about hills, and patting the handle got back a confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen. Thinking, back farther in the grass I found the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale- I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand over it, called me good man, roared away. I stood there, fifteen. ---William Stafford
I love that Shakespeare sonnet as well. In fact, it may be my favorite of the sonnets. Just the idea of beholding a season in someone is pretty cool. If you're into trees lately, you may like this poem by Linda Pastan. The poetic form is a pantoum, which I think is pretty cool. Something About The Trees by Linda Pastan I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most yourself. He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees that make him speak? There is an age when you are most yourself. I know more than I did once. Was it something about the trees that make him speak? Only a single leaf had turned so far. I know more than I did once. I used to think he'd always be the surgeon. Only a single leaf had turned so far, Even his body kept its secrets. I used to think he'd always be the surgeon, My mother was the perfect surgeon's wife. Even his body kept its secrets. I thought they both would live forever. My mother was the perfect surgeon's wife, I can still see her face at thirty. I thought they both would live forever. I thought I'd always be their child. I can still see her face at thirty. When will I be most myself? I thought I'd always be their child. In my sleep it's never winter. When will I be most myself? I remember what my father told me. In my sleep it's never winter. He was just past fifty then.
From Scotland's favourite bard - "By yon Castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing tho' his head it was grey; And as he was singing, the tears doon came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars: We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o' my faithful auld Dame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." The Jamie mentioned in the poem is James 1st of Scotland
I was not familiar with Linda Pastan until recently. A couple kids in my AP lit class picked out a poem by her, pretty randomly, "Pass/Fail." I wanted to show them what I saw and thought about when I saw a poem for the first time. One of the best examples of the use of enjambment I've seen. Oddly, she had another poem that pretty much looked at the world through academic terms, "Marks" so I had them write an essay discussing how she uses various poetic devices to discuss life in academic terms, thinking they could relate as they're.... umm.... students. Gee, they did greeeeaaaat. But I liked the poems anyway.
Cool! I don't know those poems of hers, and I'll have to check them out. I think my favorite Linda Pastan poem is Prosody 101: Prosody 101 by Linda Pastan When they taught me that what mattered most was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping over the page but the variations in that line and the tension produced on the ear by the surprise of difference, I understood yet didn't understand exactly, until just now, years later in spring, with the trees already lacy and camellias blowsy with middle age, I looked out and saw what a cold front had done to the garden, sweeping in like common language, unexpected in the sensuous extravagance of a Maryland spring. There was a dark edge around each flower as if it had been outlined in ink instead of frost, and the tension I felt between the expected and actual was like that time I came to you, ready to say goodbye for good, for you had been a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in you laughed and lifted me up in your arms as if I too were lacy with spring instead of middle aged like the camellias, and I thought: so this is Poetry!
Elegy 1. To be at home on its native ground the mind must go down below its horizon, descend below the lightfall on ridge and steep and valley floor to receive the lives of the dead. It must wake in their sleep, who wake in its dreams. “Who is there?” On the rock road between creek and woods in the fall of last year, I stood and listened. I heard the cries of little birds high in the wind. And then the beat of old footsteps came around me, and my sight was changed. I passed through the lens of darkness as through a furrow, and the dead gathered to meet me. They knew me, but looked in wonder at the lines in my face, the white hairs sprinkled on my head. I saw a tall old man leaning upon a cane, his open hand raised in some fierce commendation, knowledge of long labor in his eyes; another, a gentler countenance, smiling beneath a brim of sweaty felt in welcome to me as before. I saw an old woman, a saver of little things, whose lonely grief was the first I knew; and one bent with age and pain, whose busy hands worked out a selflessness of love. Those were my teachers. And there were more, beloved of face and name, who once bore the substance of our common ground. Their eyes, having grieved all grief, were clear. 2. I saw one standing aside, alone, weariness in his shoulders, his eyes bewildered yet with the newness of his death. In my sorrow I felt, as many times before, gladness at the sight of him. “Owen,” I said. He turned – lifted, tilted his hand. I handed him a clod of earth picked up in a certain well-known field. He kneaded it in his palm and spoke: “Wendell, this is not a place for you and me.” And then he grinned; we recognized his stubbornness – it was his principle to doubt all ease of satisfaction. “The crops are in the barn,” I said, “the morning frost has come to the fields, and I have turned back to accept, if I can, what none of us could prevent.” He stood, remembering, weighing the cost of the division we had come to, his fingers resting on the earth he held cupped lightly in his palm. It seemed to me then that he cast off his own confusion, and assumed for one last time, in one last kindness, the duty of the older man. He nodded his head. “The desire I had in early morning and in spring, I never wore it out. I had the desire, if I had had the strength. But listen – what we prepared to have, we have.” He raised his eyes. “Look,” he said. 3. We stood on a height, woods above us, and below on the half-mowed slope we saw ourselves as we once were: a young man mowing, a boy grubbing with an axe. It was an old abandoned field, long overgrown with thorns and briars. We made it new in the heat haze of that midsummer: he, proud of the ground intelligence clarified, and I, proud in his praise. “I wish,” I said, “that we could be back in that good time again.” “We are back there again, today and always. Where else would we be?” He smiled, looked at me, and I knew it was my mind he led me through. He spoke of some infinitude of thought. He led me to another slope beside another woods, this lighted only by stars. Older now, the man and the boy lay on their backs in deep grass, quietly talking. In the distance moved the outcry of one deep-voiced hound. Other voices joined that voice; another place, a later time, a hunter’s fire among the trees, faces turned to the blaze, laughter and then silence, while in the dark around us lay long breaths of sleep. 4. And then, one by one, he moved me through all the fields of our lives, preparations, plantings, harvests, crews joking at the row ends, the water jug passing like a kiss. He spoke of our history passing through us, the way our families’ generations overlap, the great teaching coming down by deed of companionship: characters of fields and times and men, qualities of devotion and of work – endless fascinations, passions old as mind, new as light. All our years around us, I saw him furious and narrow, like most men, and saw the virtue that made him unlike most. It was his passion to be true to the condition of the Fall – to live by the sweat of his face, to eat his bread, assured that cost was paid. 5. We came then to his time of pain, when the early morning light showed, as always, the sweet world, and all an able, well-intentioned man might do by dark, and his strength failed before the light. His body had begun too soon its earthward journey, filling with gravity, and yet his mind kept its old way. Again, in the sun of his last harvest, I heard him say: “Do you want to take this row, and let me get out of your way?” I saw the world ahead of him then for the first time, and I saw it as he already had seen it, himself gone from it. It was a sight I could not see and not weep. He reached and would have touched me with his hand, though he could not. 6. Finally, he brought me to a hill overlooking the fields that once belonged to him, that he once belonged to. “Look,” he said again. I knew he wanted me to see the years of care that place wore, for his story lay upon it, a bloom, a blessing. The time and place so near, we almost were the men we watched. Summer’s end sang in the light. We spoke of death and obligation, the brevity of things and men. Words never moved to heavily between us, or cost us more. We hushed. And then the man who bore his death in him, and knew it, quietly said: “Well. It’s a fascinating world, after all.” His life so powerfully stood there in presence of his place and work and time, I could not realize except with grief that only his spirit now was with me. In the very hour he died, I told him, before I knew his death, the thought of years to come had moved me like a call. I thought of healing, health, friendship going on, the generations gathering, our good times reaching one best time of all. 7. My mind was overborne with questions I could not speak. It seemed to me we had returned now to the dark valley where our journey began. But a brightening intelligence was on his face. Insight moved him as he once was moved by daylight. The best teachers teach more than they know. By their deaths they teach most. They lead us beyond what we know, and what they knew. Thus my teacher, my old friend, stood smiling now before me, wholly moved by what had moved him partly in the world. Again the host of the dead encircled us, as in a dance. And I was aware now of the unborn moving among them. As they turned I could see their bodies come to light and fade again in the dark throng. They moved as to a distant or a hovering song I strained for, but could not hear. “Our way is endless,” my teacher said. “The Creator is divided in Creation for the joys of recognition. We knew that Spirit in each other once; it brings us here. By its divisions and returns, the world lives. Both mind and earth are made of what its light gives and uses up. So joy contains, survives its cost. The dead abide, as grief knows. We are what we have lost.” There is a song in the Creation; it has always been the gift of every gifted voice, though none ever sang it. As he spoke I heard that song. In its changes and returns his life was passing into life. That moment, earth and song and mind, the living and dead, were one. 8. At last, completed in his rest, as one who has worked and bathed, fed and loved and slept, he let fall the beloved earth that I had brought him. He raised his hand, turned me to my way. And I, inheritor of what I mourned, went back toward the light of day. - Wendell Berry
Gabriele D'Annunzio - La pioggia nel pineto Taci. Su le soglie del bosco non odo parole che dici umane; ma odo parole più nuove che parlano gocciole e foglie lontane. Ascolta. Piove dalle nuvole sparse. Piove su le tamerici salmastre ed arse, piove su i pini scagliosi ed irti, piove su i mirti divini, su le ginestre fulgenti di fiori accolti, su i ginepri folti di coccole aulenti, piove su i nostri volti silvani, piove su le nostre mani ignude, su i nostri vestimenti leggieri, su i freschi pensieri che l'anima schiude novella, su la favola bella che ieri t'illuse, che oggi m'illude, o Ermione. Odi? La pioggia cade su la solitaria verdura con un crepitío che dura e varia nell'aria secondo le fronde più rade, men rade. Ascolta. Risponde al pianto il canto delle cicale che il pianto australe non impaura, nè il ciel cinerino. E il pino ha un suono, e il mirto altro suono, e il ginepro altro ancóra, stromenti diversi sotto innumerevoli dita. E immersi noi siam nello spirto silvestre, d'arborea vita viventi; e il tuo volto ebro è molle di pioggia come una foglia, e le tue chiome auliscono come le chiare ginestre, o creatura terrestre che hai nome Ermione. Ascolta, ascolta. L'accordo delle aeree cicale a poco a poco più sordo si fa sotto il pianto che cresce; ma un canto vi si mesce più roco che di laggiù sale, dall'umida ombra remota. Più sordo e più fioco s'allenta, si spegne. Sola una nota ancor trema, si spegne, risorge, trema, si spegne. Non s'ode voce del mare. Or s'ode su tutta la fronda crosciare l'argentea pioggia che monda, il croscio che varia secondo la fronda più folta, men folta. Ascolta. La figlia dell'aria è muta; ma la figlia del limo lontana, la rana, canta nell'ombra più fonda, chi sa dove, chi sa dove! E piove su le tue ciglia, Ermione. Piove su le tue ciglia nere sìche par tu pianga ma di piacere; non bianca ma quasi fatta virente, par da scorza tu esca. E tutta la vita è in noi fresca aulente, il cuor nel petto è come pesca intatta, tra le pàlpebre gli occhi son come polle tra l'erbe, i denti negli alvèoli con come mandorle acerbe. E andiam di fratta in fratta, or congiunti or disciolti (e il verde vigor rude ci allaccia i mallèoli c'intrica i ginocchi) chi sa dove, chi sa dove! E piove su i nostri vólti silvani, piove su le nostre mani ignude, su i nostri vestimenti leggieri, su i freschi pensieri che l'anima schiude novella, su la favola bella che ieri m'illuse, che oggi t'illude, o Ermione.
They were his last words, because Maurice had disappeared thereabouts, leaving no trace of his presence except a little pile of the petals of the evening primrose, which mourned from the ground like an expiring fire. To the end of his life Clive was not sure of the exact moment of departure, and with the approach of old age he grew uncertain whether the moment had yet occurred. The Blue Room would glimmer, ferns undulate. Out of some eternal Cambridge his friend began beckoning to him, clothed in the sun, and shaking out the scents and sounds of the May Term. from E. M. Forster Maurice it's not a poem yet more beautiful than most poems, i believe.
What I Love About You I love the way you look at me, Your eyes so bright and blue. I love the way you kiss me, Your lips so soft and smooth. I love the way you make me so happy, And the ways you show you care. I love the way you say, "I Love You," And the way you're always there. I love the way you touch me, Always sending chills down my spine. I love that you are with me, And glad that you are mine. - Crystal Jansen - _______________ buy steroids vibrationsplatte
This is one of my favorites: Late October by Maya Angelou Carefully the leaves of autumn sprinkle down the tinny sound of little dyings and skies sated of ruddy sunsets of roseate dawns roil ceaselessly in cobweb greys and turn to black for comfort. Only lovers see the fall a signal end to endings a gruffish gesture alerting those who will not be alarmed that we begin to stop in order simply to beginagain.
A saucy little villanelle by Donald Hall: Katie could put her feet behind her head Or do a grand plié, position two, Her suppleness magnificent in bed. I strained my lower back, and Katie bled, Only a little, doing what we could do When Katie tucked her feet behind her head. Her torso was a C-cup'd figurehead, Wearing below its navel a tattoo That writhed in suppleness upon the bed. As love led on to love, love's goddess said, "No lovers ever fucked as fucked these two! Katie could put her feet behind her head!" When Katie came she never stopped. Instead, She came, cried "God!," and came, this dancer who Brought ballerina suppleness to bed. She curled her legs around my neck, which led To depths unplumbed by lovers hitherto. Katie could tuck her feet behind her head And by her suppleness unmake the bed.
Epistle to a Young Friend - Bobby Burns I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, Och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still, th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel', Ye scarcely tell to ony: Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause- Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n- A conscience but a canker- A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor! Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser!
Olson always reminded me of baseball players like Dave Kingman back in the day... either a strike out or a 475 foot home run. Here's a poem by more of a singles hitter, ["Popcorn-can cover"] By Lorine Niedecker 1903–1970 Popcorn-can cover screwed to the wall over a hole so the cold can’t mouse in
See, I've never been a big fan of these. William Carlos Williams tends to be a good exception, but some of these are a bit... umm... simple. I can make one in 5 seconds and no average person would be the wiser to which was different. Deer-hide leather in the shape of a foot that made a print which lasted for centuries
Faint catchup stain on the kitchen counter reminds us how bad a cook Aunt Meg was but she could dance.
I may have posted this before... but maybe not... Anyway, Betjeman's 'Slough' is always worth a read. Slough Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. And, in a rather different vein, 'Auden's Stop All The Clocks'. W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Another from 'A Shropshire Lad' which I've always read as an anti-war poem, although Housman denied it. 1887 From Clee to heaven the beacon burns, The shires have seen it plain, From north and south the sign returns And beacons burn again. Look left, look right, the hills are bright, The dales are light between, Because 'tis fifty years to-night That God has saved the Queen. Now, when the flame they watch not towers About the soil they trod, Lads, we'll remember friends of ours Who shared the work with God. To skies that knit their heartstrings right, To fields that bred them brave, The saviours come not home tonight: Themselves they could not save. It dawns in Asia, tombstones show And Shropshire names are read; And the Nile spills his overflow Beside the Severn's dead. We pledge in peace by farm and town The Queen they served in war, And fire the beacons up and down The land they perished for. 'God save the Queen' we living sing, From height to height 'tis heard; And with the rest your voices ring, Lads of the Fifty-third. Oh, God will save her, fear you not; Be you the men you've been, Get you the sons your fathers got, And God will save the Queen. I know the places in the poem very well having lived in Shropshire for 40+ years. Mind you, Housman was from Worcester, so quite what he knew about them I DON'T know. The little woman used to go UFO spotting on Wenlock Edge back in the day although I believe the consumption of cider MAY have been an attraction too... although she denies it. I can see The Wrekin, (also mentioned), out of my window but then, so can lots of people. Also another with a similar theme to Betjeman's Slough, above. This time from 'The Bard of Salford', John Cooper Clarke... [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGWhjojt5dw"]John Cooper Clarke - Chickentown - YouTube[/ame]