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The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
322. "Pat Cloherty's version of The Maisie," Richard Murphy 323. "'Pensive, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,'" Walt Whitman 324. "Perfect," Hugh MacDiarmid 325. "Pheasant," Sylvia Plath 326. "Piano," D. H. Lawrence 327. "Pied Beauty," Gerard Manley Hopkins 328. "The Pig," Ogden Nash 329. "The Pilgrim," W. B. Yeats 330. "Ploughing on Sunday," Wallace Stevens 331. "Poem in October," Dylan Thomas 332. "A Poison Tree," William Blake 333. "Poor but Honest," Anon 334. "Poppies in July," Sylvia Plath 335. "Praise of a Collie," Norman MacCaig 336. "The Properties of a Good Greyhound," Dame Juliana Berners 337. "Raleigh Was Right," William Carlos Williams 338. "Range-Finding," Robert Frost 339. "The Rattle Bag," Dafydd ap Gwilym 340. "Reflection on Ingenuity," Ogden Nash 341. "'Repeat that, repeat,'" Gerard Manley Hopkins 342. "The Return," Ezra Pound 343. "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter," Ezra Pound 344. "'Running lightly over spongy ground,'" Theodore Roethke
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
Here is the translation of The Rattle Bag (poem) that I found on the internet.
The Rattlebag
As I was (easiest praise) one day of summer under trees between mountain and field awaiting my soft-spoken girl, she came (it's worthless to deny) to where she had promised, an undeniable moon. We sat together (splendid topic, a hesitant thing), the girl and I; I exchanged (before a claim should fail) words with an excellent girl.
And as we were thus (she was modest) the two of us understanding love, there came (a feebleness bereft of nurturing) with a cry (some stinking feat) a small ugly noisy (the bottom of a sack making a sound) creature in the guise of a shepherd.
And he had (hateful declaration) a rattle-bag, angry, with a withered cheek, harsh-horned. He sounded (yellow-bellied lodger) the rattlebag; woe to the scabby leg!
And then without gaining satisfaction the fair girl was frightened, woe me!
When she heard (breast made brittle by a wound) the winnowing of the stones, she would stay no more.
Under Christ, there was never a sound in Christendom (a sow's fame) as harsh: a bag sounding on the end of a stick, a bell's sound of small stones and gravel; a shaking vessel of English stones making a sound in a bullock's skin; a basket of three thousand beetles, a surging cauldron, a black bag; guardian of a meadow, cohabitor of grass, black-skinned, pregnant with dry wood-chips.
It's voice hateful for an old roebuck, a devil of a bell, with a pole in its crotch.
A scarred scab with a stone-bearing gravel-womb, may it be buckle-laces.
Coldness be on the shapeless churl, (amen) who frightened my girl !
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
Here is the translation in The Rattle Bag anthology.
The Rattle Bag
As I lay, fullness of praise, On a summer day under Trees between field and mountain Awaiting my soft-voiced girl, She came, there's no denying, Where she vowed, a very moon. Together we sat, fine theme, The girl and I, debating, Trading, while I had the right, Words with the splendid maiden.
And so we were, she was shy, Learning to love each other, Concealing sin, winning mead, An hour lying together, And then, cold comfort, it came, A blare, a bloody nuisance, A sack's bottom's foul seething From an imp in shepherd's shape, Who had, public enemy, A harsh-horned sag-cheeked rattle. He played, cramped yellow belly, This bag, curse its scabby leg. So before satisfaction The sweet girl panicked: poor me! When she heard, feeble-hearted, The stones whir, she would not stay.
By Christ, no Christian country, Cold harsh tune, has heard the like. Noisy pouch perched on a pole, Bell of pebbles and gravel, Saxon rocks making music Quaking in a bullock's skin, Crib of three thousand beetles, Commotion's cauldron, black bag, Field-keeper, comrade of straw, Black-skinned, pregnanat with splinters, Noise that's an old buck's loathing, Devil's bell, stake in its crotch, Scarred pebble-bearing belly, May it be sliced into thongs. May the churl be struck frigid, Amen, who scared off my girl.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
Interesting to compare the translations of the Rattlebag. I prefer the first version although I wonder about the bracketed phrases, perhaps these are more direct translations (literal) of the original which I suppose was in Gaelic. I thought the Rattlebag was something used by hunters to make noise and scare up game but the poem refers to shepherds, although it sounds like the shepherd is masquerading.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
The Return by Ezra Pound
Code:
See, they return; ah, see the tentative Movements, and the slow feet, The trouble in the pace and the uncertain Wavering!
See, they return, one, and by one, With fear, as half-awakened; As if the snow should hesitate And murmur in the wind, and half turn back; These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe," Inviolable.
Gods of the wingèd shoe! With them the silver hounds, sniffing the trace of air!
Haie! Haie! These were the swift to harry; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men!
Good poem. Not easy to understand in a literal sense, but the feel is vivid.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
"Hellhounds" came to mind when I read this poem so I looked them up on Wiki:
A hellhound is a supernatural dog, found in folklore. A wide variety of ominous or hellish supernatural dogs occur in mythologies around the world, similar to the ubiquitous dragon. Features that have been attributed to hellhounds include black fur, glowing red or sometimes glowing yellow eyes, super strength or speed, ghostly or phantom characteristics, foul odor, and sometimes even the ability to talk.
Legend says that if someone is to stare into its eyes three times or more, the person will definitely die. In cultures that associate the afterlife with fire, hellhounds may have fire-based abilities and appearance. They are often assigned to guard the entrances to the world of the dead, such as graveyards and burial grounds, or undertake other duties related to the afterlife or the supernatural, such as hunting lost souls or guarding a supernatural treasure. In European legends, seeing a hellhound or hearing it howl may be either an omen of death or even a cause of death.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
I'm not sure what attracts me to this poem, it's quite simple, but I read it a few times and there is something about the way she assembles the words, like; "It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head":
Pheasant
You said you would kill it this morning. Do not kill it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The tail-track, on the snow of our court-
The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid. It's a little cornucopia. It unclasps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
Quote:
I'm not sure what attracts me to this poem, it's quite simple, but I read it a few times and there is something about the way she assembles the words, like; "It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head":
'It startles me still' is interesting. Maybe a way of saying I haven't grown tired of it, there is still a newness and surprise to the meeting. I also like the lines, 'It is such a good shape, so vivid.' and 'Settles in the elm, and is easy.'
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The P & R Poems
A wistful, romantic poem? sad? cynical? realistic? or all thrown in together? I love the line "what can the small violets tell us" .. it's just .. poetic.
Raleigh Was Right
We cannot go to the country for the country will bring us no peace What can the small violets tell us that grow on furry stems and long grass among lance shaped leaves?
Though you praise us and call to mind the poets who sung of our loveliness it was long ago! long ago! when country people would plow and sow with flowering minds and pockets at ease- if ever this were true.
Not now. Love itself a flower with roots in a parched ground. Empty pockets make empty heads. Cure it if you can but do not believe that we can live today in the country for the country will bring us no peace.
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