Poem of the moment

Saffron · Sun Aug 10, 2008 7:32 am

DWill, shall we take "Directives" over to the Favorite Poem tread? I know this one and count it among my favorites too. So many playful images in a rather somber poem. I especially like his made up word, belilaced.

Saff

Saffron · Sun Aug 10, 2008 8:46 pm

Will,
I've been thinking of the Frost poem you posted this morning, all day. I love that it is the first in a collection. With an invitation like that, I'd happily tag along for the read. For me the poem brought back memories of following along after my cousin, a year older than myself; especially while she did her chores (which included barn duty - she had a pony and I still have the scars from that pony).

Saffron

Chris OConnor · Sun Aug 10, 2008 9:58 pm

Hey guys. Both of you should check your private messages when you get a chance. :smile:

Indigo · Mon Aug 11, 2008 8:27 pm

Two poems of the moment, both from well-respected poets who I don't normally like, but have still written two poems I love.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

- - - -

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg

Saffron · Mon Aug 11, 2008 8:47 pm

This poem so reminds me of my daughter, with the wild hair, who I am missing because she is at the beach.

Soneto XIV (Sonnet 14) by Pablo Neruda

Me falta tiempo para celebrar tus cabellos.
Uno por uno debo contarlos y alabarlos:
otros amantes quieren vivir con ciertos ojos,
yo solo quiero ser tu peluquero.

En Italia te bautizaron Medusa
por la encrespada y alta luz de tu cabellera.
Yo te llamo chascona mia y enmara

DWill · Wed Aug 13, 2008 7:48 pm


	Quote: It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. Elizabeth Bishop

I ran into this somewhere else recently, can't recall where. I like its optimism and its jaunty approach to a serious and painful topic. I puzzled about the "Write It!" in the last line.
Yeah, I think the Ginsburg is worthy of the master who inhabits the poem.

DWill

DWill · Wed Aug 13, 2008 8:01 pm

[quote="]other lovers want to live with certain eyes,
whereas I wish simply to be your hairdresser.[/quote]

That's sweet! ISpeaking of love poems, I got thinking about gathering rosebuds/carpe diem poems on the Shropshire Lad thread. I think my favorite is Marvel's "To His Coy Mistress".

To his Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Pretty hard to withstand lines like that? Does anyone else have a favorite one in this same vein?

DWill

Saffron · Wed Aug 13, 2008 8:05 pm

DWill wrote:


	Quote: I puzzled about the "Write It!" in the last line.

Here is the line of poetry in question:
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

As I read this poem, I suspected that Bishop is trying to capture the feeling of being in such pain that you can not even say it; in this case write it. One must force oneself to confront it (the command). And at the same time it hints that in time even the most painful losses get easier.

Could be, right? Anybody have any other ideas?

Saffron · Thu Aug 14, 2008 1:18 pm

DWill wrote:


	Quote: ...I got thinking about gathering rosebuds/carpe diem poems on the Shropshire Lad thread. I think my favorite is Marvel's "To His Coy Mistress".

Here is my reply to his coy mistress and the Shropshire Lad.

Seduction Poem
Alison Croggon

I want the slew of muscle, a less
cerebral meeting place: no word
but your male shout, the shirred
unpublic face and honest skin
crying to me, yes
the mouthless, eyeless tenderness
crying to be let in.

Unbutton all your weight, like a bird
flying the night's starred nakedness:
put down your grammatical tongue, undress
your correct and social skin:
come white and absurd
all your language one word
crying to be let in.

Penelope · Thu Aug 14, 2008 2:11 pm

I'm just wild about Saffron.......

This poem you have posted - 'crying to be let in'

Reminds me so much of the barriers we put up between ourselves.

I remember seeing a play, sometime ago - about a 'very respectable' man who had been discovered 'in flagrante' with another man in a public lavatory.

He was asked, how he could have performed that act....in such a place.

His answer was - 'because just for that few moments....I don't feel lonely'.

I wonder if that is why sex is so powerful.....because we are trying to feel accepted, let in.....and not so lonely?

Saffron · Thu Aug 14, 2008 2:29 pm

Penelope wrote:


	Quote: I wonder if that is why sex is so powerful.....because we are trying to feel accepted, let in.....and not so lonely?

In your very own words, Spot on!

Penelope · Thu Aug 14, 2008 2:44 pm

But, when we get old, and sex is not quite such a preoccupation, we should be able to find another way.....to let one another in.

Shouldn't we?

Saffron · Thu Aug 14, 2008 2:52 pm

Penelope,
I am and maybe foolishly, hoping to never get to a point that I am no longer interested in sex. There must be ways other than sex to feel that close and connected.

Saffron

Penelope · Thu Aug 14, 2008 3:02 pm

Well - it makes for very good poetry...and very good designs on tee shirts.

Of course - if people don't want to listen to you....they're sure not going to listen to your tee shirt! :laugh:

DWill · Fri Aug 15, 2008 5:27 am


	Saffron wrote: Here is my reply to his coy mistress and the Shropshire Lad.

Heard, loud and clear. I was hoping someone would know where to find a cut-to-the-chase reply to Marvel from the female side.

DWill

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