Poem of the moment

Saffron · Posted: Mon Sep 15, 2008 7:42 pm Post subject:

Hey, I know you're out there. Somebody want to post a poem?

Here are a few lines of Whithman that capture this particular moment for me:

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw patches down upon me also;
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious;
My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? would not people laugh at me?

Excerpt from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

Saffron · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 5:45 am Post subject:

Still on a melancholy jag. The following is a few lines from Izumi Shikibu translated by Jane Hirshfield.

Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roofplanks
of this ruined house.

For further information on Izumi Shikibu:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Izumi_Shikibu

Thomas Hood · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 7:25 am Post subject:

Saffron · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 8:11 pm Post subject:

DWill · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 8:38 pm Post subject:

I've said before I tend to like an extravagance of language in poetry, poems in which, as Keats said, every rift is loaded with ore (or something like that). So I offer another sonnet by G.M. Hopkins.

The Windhover

To Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 5
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion 10
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

What flight!

DWill

Saffron · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 8:47 pm Post subject:

DWill, I believe you've post a G.M. Hopkins poem awhile back. Which one was it, hum? This one is a beauty. I'd love to hear it read aloud!

Saffron · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 9:22 pm Post subject:

DWill

DWill · Posted: Wed Sep 17, 2008 10:16 pm Post subject:

Oh, yeah, it has fireworks. It helped me once to have a college teacher elucidate some of the language in this.

Saffron · Posted: Thu Sep 18, 2008 4:53 am Post subject:

DWill · Posted: Thu Sep 18, 2008 8:22 am Post subject:

Okay, Saffron. Thanks for the invitation. Be warned that I can't do this briefly. (I apologize for the totally inappropriate smiley faces in the post. I can't get rid of them!)

The Windhover

(To Christ our Lord )

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 5
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion 10
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Hmmm. You know what, looking at this, I find that it's the last three lines that are a puzzle. For some of the rest, I don't have (or don't remember) a handy gloss. But it all works for me anyway.

This starts off well just by virtue of the word "caught", such a strong and more concrete word for the experience of seeing. In the description of the falcon, sound and the rhythm of the lines are as important as the sense of the words, with exceptionally heavy alliteration (something Hopkins borrowed from Anglo-Saxon poetry).

What is it about the simple near-repetition "morning morning's " that is so effective in line 1? The bird is called "morning's minion," literally a follower or servant of morning. With Hopkins, though, we can never rule out his taking advantage of word echoes, in this case "pinion," or the outer part of a bird's wing that has the flight feathers.

The falcon continues to be praised in yet more elevated terms as the prince (dauphin) of the kingdom of daylight. The bird is "drawn" to the "dapple-dawn." There follow the lines that convey so well the feeling of the bird's flight. I have no gloss for "rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing," but can't you see it? "Wimpling" may be a coinage of Hopkins'; of course, it brings to mind the shape of a nun's wimple.

The syntax is not standard in places; it is even peculiar, as in "then off, off forth on swing," ( 5) and "the achieve of" ( Cool

--using a verb in place of the expected noun. Line 6 uses a precise simile of a skate on ice to depict the bird's aerial maneuver. And how the bird skillfully plays with and escapes from (rebuffs) the "big wind."

Then the speaker comes out of "hiding" and declares his love of the falcon: "My heart in hiding/Stirred for a bird, --the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!" ( 7- Cool

.

And all of the elements involved "BUCKLE" in lines 9-11, which can convey both a joining and a breaking or rending, as an intense aesthetic experience becomes one of ecstasy. The bird is now the speaker's exalted "chevalier," or knight, no longer "Brute."

But how is this transformation possible, from "Brute beauty, valor, and act" ( 9) to something fully humanized? "No wonder of it," the poet tells us. The final three lines present the parallel of a plow cutting through the dead earth. When you plow, apparently (according to my teacher), you see this phenomenon of the "sheer plod," or force, of the blade almost miraculously creating these momentary flashes of brilliant color in the furrow ("sillion"), something so reminiscent of a higher existence right there in the dirt, even in the dirt. So why should it be a surprise to find even a greater revelation in the kingdom of the sky?

Everyone will note the Christian symbolism and even allegory in the poem. I will not attempt to deal with that.
DWill

Saffron · Posted: Thu Sep 18, 2008 8:50 pm Post subject:

Thank you, DW. Wonderfully done! I think you should help us out more often. Now, I've only to hear you recite it!

Here's one little addendum to DWill's post on The Windhover

www.farm-direct.co.uk/farming/procedures/ploughing/gmh.html

DWill · Posted: Thu Sep 18, 2008 9:23 pm Post subject:

Thanks for the addendum, Saffron. I'm glad my teacher wasn't making the whole thing up.

DWill

Saffron · Posted: Sun Sep 21, 2008 8:55 pm Post subject:

MESSENGER
Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Saffron · Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2008 9:02 pm Post subject: James Wright

It is the last line of this poem that I love.

A Blessing
by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

DWill · Posted: Fri Sep 26, 2008 9:56 pm Post subject:

Saffron,
That is a wonderful poem. I don't know if James Wright is still active or even living, but the man could write. Welcome back from the Poetry Fest(if you are indeed back). I was very bummed for you that you must have had rain the whole time. I hope it was worthwhile despite that.
DWill


	FORUMS	ABOUT	BOOKS	VIDEOS	ADVERTISE	LINKS	BLOGS	DONATE	CHAT	CONTACT