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Boy, I love this poem. I am working on memorizing it, to have with me all the day. Now that I have the words down, I can share it with you.
Iambs for the Day of Burial
Thomas Lynch
Of all our private parts the heart knows best
that love and grieving share the one body
and keeps a steady iambic tally
of this life's syllables, stressed and unstressed.
Our pulse divided by our breathing equals
pleasure measured in pentameters,
pain endured in oddly rhyming pairs:
sadness, gladness, sex and death, nuptials,
funerals. Love made and love forsaken --
each leaves us breathless and beatified,
more than the sum of parts that lived and died
of love or grief. Both leave the heart broken.
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
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----Tonight I am trying to remember how to dance.
To be alive
by Gregory Orr
To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That's crudely put, but...
If we're not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
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Saffron wrote:
Boy, I love this poem. I am working on memorizing it, to have with me all the day. Now that I have the words down, I can share it with you.
Iambs for the Day of Burial Thomas Lynch
Of all our private parts the heart knows best that love and grieving share the one body and keeps a steady iambic tally of this life's syllables, stressed and unstressed. Our pulse divided by our breathing equals pleasure measured in pentameters, pain endured in oddly rhyming pairs: sadness, gladness, sex and death, nuptials, funerals. Love made and love forsaken -- each leaves us breathless and beatified, more than the sum of parts that lived and died of love or grief. Both leave the heart broken.
The 'oddly rhyming pairs' in this were so effective, combined with the two true rhymes in lines 1 & 4 and 10 & 11, and the internal rhymes. Yet it's all not obtrusive. Good find!
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I've known of Louise Gluck for sometime, but for reasons I can't quite figure, I resisted reading her poetry. A good friend took me in hand or more precisely, put into my hand Gluck's Pulitzer winning collection, Wild Iris and waited for me to read. I can only say I am sorry I waited so long!
Wild Iris
At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
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Well, I stand up next to a mountain
And I chop it down with the edge of my hand
Yeah
Well, I stand up next to a mountain
And I chop it down with the edge of my hand
Well, I pick up all the pieces and make an island
Might even raise a little sand
Yeah
'cause I'm a voodoo child
Lord knows I'm a voodoo child baby
I want to say one more last thing
I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time
I'll give it right back to ya one of these days
Hahaha
I said I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time
I'll give it right back one of these days
Oh yeah
If I don't meet you no more in this world then uh
I'll meet ya on the next one
And don't be late
Don't be late
'cause I'm a voodoo child voodoo child
Lord knows I'm a voodoo child
Hey hey hey
I'm a voodoo child baby
I don't take no for an answer
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Voodoo Child by Hendrix, go Grim! There is a thread for lyrics. We had fun with it for awhile dedicating song lyrics to one another. Tell you what, I'll post one for you. Now I've got to think of one.......
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
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For a couple of months, I've been reading Robt. Frost's Complete Poems and two biographies. It can be valuable to read everything an author wrote, and it's usually more possible to do this with poets than novelists. One thought that stikes me is whether a great writer might be at times much worse than a mediocre or minor writer. I mean the ability to carry both good insprirations and those that seem to be bad ones through to completion might be the mark of the great writer, while the mediocre writer occupies a narrower range and is more timid. And Frost has some poems, a number of his longer ones, that are just about unreadable for me. He seems to ask an awful lot of the reader's patience and indulgence in these poems that are philosophical and political.
Another thing I realize is about myself as a reader. Frost is not quite a modern poet, or has one foot in the pre-modern age and one in the modern. I can now admit that I like more traditional poets like Frost and don't like much of modern poetry. I like the forms traditional poets are likely to use and the connection to incantation that the older poems still have, which often is supplied by rhyme. A lot of modern poetry I just don't get, the experience or perception of the poet seeming to be so personal, idiosyncratic and oblique, and the language being not easily distinguishable from prose.
So what is the poem of the moment, if you're still reading? This one I picked because it shows Frost's interest in science. He took note especially of astronomy and evolution. Pehaps this poem and Frost's "Design" are the only sonnets ever written about natural selection?
On a Bird Singing in Its Sleep
A bird half wakened in the lunar noon
Sang halfway through its little inborn tune.
Partly because it sang ventriloquist
And had the inspiration to desist
Almost before the prick of hostile ears,
It ventured less in peril than appears.
It could not have come down to us so afar
Through the interstices of things ajar
On the long bead chain of repeated birth
To be a bird while we are men on earth
If singing out of sleep and dream that way
Had made it much more easily a prey.
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Re: Poem of the moment
This is not truly a poem of the moment. I was remiss and didn't note that Robert Burn's birthday was yesterday, Jan. 25. The year was 1759. I like Burns mainly for one reason: as I sat in my 11th grade English class back in the 60s, not into very much of anything at the time (to tell the truth), my teacher played a recording of Burns" "To a Mouse" (pronounced "moose") This unlikely poem caught me and I began to love poetry. It was that simple. I learned the poem as I remember the performer reading it, and today I can still inflict on an unlucky person a recital in an alarming Scots brogue.
While walking in Barre, VT one day, I came upon a statue of Burns on a square. No idea why it was there.
Here it is, first in Burns' language, then in an English version, much inferior!
Burns Original
To A Mouse
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't.
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld.
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!
Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!
Standard English Translation
Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast, O, what a panic is in your breast! You need not start away so hasty With hurrying scamper! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough-staff.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion And fellow mortal!
I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal; What then? Poor beast, you must live! An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request; I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it.
Your small house, too, in ruin! It's feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse grass green! And bleak December's winds coming, Both bitter and keen!
You saw the fields laid bare and wasted, And weary winter coming fast, And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel plough past Out through your cell.
That small bit heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble! Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding, To endure the winter's sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold.
But Mouse, you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew, And leaves us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy!
Still you are blest, compared with me! The present only touches you: But oh! I backward cast my eye, On prospects dreary! And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear!
Last edited by DWill on Tue Jan 26, 2010 8:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Poem of the moment
Hello! I've been a bit scarce of late, my computer is down indefinitely, so I have to get my 2 cent in while I can! I'm on my daughter's laptop pirating my neighbors wireless. Don't tell!
DWill wrote:
. . . I was remiss and didn't note that Robert Burn's birthday was yesterday, Jan. 25.
It just so happens I went to a Scottish tea at the Strathmore Music Center last week that was held to mark the birthday of Robert Burns.
Quote:
I learned the poem as I remember the performer reading it, and today I can still inflict on an unlucky person a recital in an alarming Scots brogue.
I volunteer to be that unlucky soul. I have a birthday coming up, it would make a swell birthday gift.
Quote:
While walking in Barre, VT one day, I came upon a statue of Burns on a square. No idea why it was there.
I found this on the Vermont Historical Society webpage --
Why a Burns Sculpture in Barre?
Beginning in 1880, Scottish granite workers arrived in Barre as the town’s granite industry burgeoned. By the turn of the century, Scots accounted for twenty-percent of Barre’s population. The Burns Club of Barre, founded in 1890, was a natural outgrowth of this influx.
On January 25, 1897, members of the Burns Club met and decided a commemorative statue should be erected in Barre in celebration of the 100th anniversary of Burns’ death. The statue was conceived and modeled by J. Massey Rhind. James B. King of Milford, N.H. modeled the four panels. Samuel Novelli carved the statue, and Elia Corti, considered one of the finest sculptors in Barre, carved the panels. In 1901, Novelli and Corti joined together to form a carving studio noted for its fine sculpture.
The unveiling ceremony was a dramatic affair on July 24, 1899. Miss Florence Inglis, dressed and crowned as the Scottish Muse, drew a cord and presented the statue to more than 10,000 people in attendance. The Burns monument, dedicated to the poet from Scotland, thus became the first civic monument in Barre.
The monument itself stands 22 feet and 4 inches above the foundation, and the statue is 9 feet 4 inches in height. The high- and low-relief panels on the sides, demonstrating the artists’ exemplary sculpting skills, depict scenes from three of Burns’ famous poems, “The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” “To a Mountain Day,” and “Tam O’Shanter’s Ride.” The fourth panel shows Burns’s cottage in Ayr, Scotland. According to a publicity pamphlet from the 1890s, the sculpture “is considered one of the world’s art treasures.”
The statue of Burns shows the poet returning from his day’s toil, dressed in the garb of a ploughman, sleeves rolled up, bareheaded, his coat on his arm, eyes on the ground and seemingly in thoughtful meditation.
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
Joined: Jan 2008 Posts: 3712 Location: Berryville, Virginia
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Re: Poem of the moment
You never cease to amaze me! I'm still, mentally, in a pre-internet frame myself. I had forgotten, but now I do remember the scenes carved in relief on the sides. I had wondered about the origin of the statue because Barre seems most known for its Italian stonecutters. The cemetery there, by the way, is a kick, with all the stonecutters around to do special things to the markers. One marker is a large headboard from a bed, for man and wife.
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Re: Poem of the moment
I am jumping threads a bit. This should really be posted on the 500 poems thread but, if I did it would be a plot spoiler. I looked ahead and this one hit the spot.
In a Dark Time
In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deeping shade; I hear my echo in the echoing wood -- A lord of nature weeping to a tree. I live between the heron and the wren, Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire! I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall. That place among the rocks -- is it a cave. Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
Theodore Roethke
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
The following user would like to thank Saffron for this post: oblivion
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Re: Poem of the moment
I'm not really sure where this poem belongs, but I will post it here. It is a love poem and it is Valentine's Day inspired.
I'm not sure who the poet is , but it was written for Sara.
You are the confectionery Dishing out your high caloric love On the tongue perfection Melting into all the words So much sweeter tasted than heard.
I know, I know in the first line it should be confectioner. However the poet explained to me that confectionery sounded better and was more interesting.
Happy Valentine's Day to everyone! <3 (one of my daughter's always puts <3 with her signature and for the longest time I couldn't figure out why she was sending me a fox or maybe mouse face ) xo
Edit: Poet is reconsidering that last word in line one. If confectioner is used it creates a rhyme with the last word in the poem, heard. Hmmmm.
_________________ Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads ~ Henry David Thoreau
“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” -Thich Nhat Hahn
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, but it was written for Sara.
)
