The Top 500 Poems: 200-101

Saffron · Sat Oct 23, 2010 8:20 pm

Poems 200-101

DWill · Sun Oct 24, 2010 6:33 am

I was going to remember to switch threads, I really really was. But better to be safe I suppose. I'm glad that the first poem in the "second century" of poems is this Robert Herrick piece. Hard to go wrong with Herrick. I even give "Corinna's Going a-Maying" 4 dings. Carpe diem at its best.

GET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air :
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east
Above an hour since : yet you not dress'd ;
Nay ! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair :
Fear not ; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you :
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ;
Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night :
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying :
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green and trimm'd with trees : see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch : each porch, each door ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't ?
Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May :
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream :
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth :
Many a green-gown has been given ;
Many a kiss, both odd and even :
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament ;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime ;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun ;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Beads-- prayers.
Left to dream,--ceased dreaming.
Green-gown-- tumble on the grass.

Saffron · Sun Oct 24, 2010 6:38 am


	DWill wrote: I was going to remember to switch threads, I really really was. But better to be safe I suppose. I'm glad that the first poem in the "second century" of poems is this Robert Herrick piece. Hard to go wrong with Herrick. I even give "Corinna's Going a-Maying" 4 dings. Carpe diem at its best. To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,

Agree, 4 dings! Only 200 more poems to go. I guess we will be going at this for awhile yet.

DWill · Sun Oct 24, 2010 7:59 am

Saffron wrote:


	DWill wrote: I was going to remember to switch threads, I really really was. But better to be safe I suppose. I'm glad that the first poem in the "second century" of poems is this Robert Herrick piece. Hard to go wrong with Herrick. I even give "Corinna's Going a-Maying" 4 dings. Carpe diem at its best. To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,

Agree, 4 dings! Only 200 more poems to go. I guess we will going at this for awhile yet.

But it's not a life sentence. I figure that we can wrap this up by next May, which is a bit longer than I'd projected, a little over budget. Maybe we'll get some others jumping in as we get into the poems with the higher polling numbers. Does quantity equal quality, though? Has there been any noticeable improvement in the quality, judging by your subjective reaction, after 300 poems? I think only by doing a ding survey of the past poems would I be able to say anything about that. I keep thinking that I really did like no. 500, "Luke Havergal," by Robinson, also the two Yeats poems at 499 and 498, plus actually quite a few more from the last 25. So I'm not sure!

Saffron · Sun Oct 24, 2010 9:06 am

DWill wrote:

Saffron wrote:


	DWill wrote: I was going to remember to switch threads, I really really was. But better to be safe I suppose. I'm glad that the first poem in the "second century" of poems is this Robert Herrick piece. Hard to go wrong with Herrick. I even give "Corinna's Going a-Maying" 4 dings. Carpe diem at its best. To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,

Agree, 4 dings! Only 200 more poems to go. I guess we will going at this for awhile yet.

But it's not a life sentence. I figure that we can wrap this up by next May, which is a bit longer than I'd projected, a little over budget. Maybe we'll get some others jumping in as we get into the poems with the higher polling numbers. Does quantity equal quality, though? Has there been any noticeable improvement in the quality, judging by your subjective reaction, after 300 poems? I think only by doing a ding survey of the past poems would I be able to say anything about that. I keep thinking that I really did like no. 500, "Luke Havergal," by Robinson, also the two Yeats poems at 499 and 498, plus actually quite a few more from the last 25. So I'm not sure!

I'm afraid for me poetry is a life sentence. :lol:

As for the Top 500, I think the title is somewhat misleading in that the pomes are the top 500 anthologized and not necessarily the best examples of poetic excellence. It has been an interesting trip so far, even if I have not enjoyed all the sites along the way. I think I have a much better understanding of form and how form is used in poetry, as a result of having read at least one poem a day for the past year. I have been thinking along the lines that you imply by stating that you liked #500 and #499 & #498. A few of my favoirte poems have appeared in the 400s and 300s. However, knowing some of the poems to come, I do think there is a great concentration of great poems in the last 100.

P.S. Anyone hear of the novel, The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/06/books ... Orr-t.html
Anyone interested in reading it?

froglipz · Sun Oct 24, 2010 11:30 pm

Three dings from me, anything that calls forth spring, gets a vote from me

Thanks Dwill for sharing all of these with us, it may not be a life sentence, but you have devoted part of each day to us for quite some time, and hopefully it wasn't punishment...

DWill · Mon Oct 25, 2010 6:48 am

And thank you for your attendance, froglipz. If just one other person is listening, it seems worthwhile to do. I know it's good for me--if I didn't think I had a commitment there isn't any way I'd manage to read even one poem every day.

199. "My Sweetest Lesbia," by Thomas Campion. More of the carpe diem, but here it doesn't seem that the poet is exactly maneuvering the lady with a pick-up line. He pictures himself as dead in the end but with his lover "crowning" his life with spiritual, not physical, love. The "ever-during night" that seemed so bleak a few lines before, now seems less so with the blessing of the lover. Wow, consecutive 4-dingers for me.

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armor should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love.
But fools do live, and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;
And Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.

oblivion · Mon Oct 25, 2010 12:52 pm

I have to give this one 3 1/2 dings. I especially like the flow and the lines:
"No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love."
And to Dwill, again a million thanks for taking on this endeavor!

oblivion · Mon Oct 25, 2010 12:55 pm


	Saffron wrote: P.S. Anyone hear of the novel, The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker? http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/06/books ... Orr-t.html Anyone interested in reading it?

Just looked it up. Sounds interesting, so I'll think about it!

giselle · Mon Oct 25, 2010 6:06 pm

oblivion wrote:


	Saffron wrote: P.S. Anyone hear of the novel, The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker? http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/06/books ... Orr-t.html Anyone interested in reading it?

Just looked it up. Sounds interesting, so I'll think about it!

I agree. Sounds interesting. I mean if this author can make installing flooring readable then kudos to him. And anyway, if one is interested in poetry then one should be interested in poets, right? Well, maybe.

DWill · Tue Oct 26, 2010 7:19 am

I noted that "The Wasteland" is coming up soon, so I'll double up on the Shakespeare sonnets to be able to spread the Eliot poem over two days.

198. Poor Soul, the center of My Sinful Earth

Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth,
[Thrall to] these rebel pow'rs that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

197. My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun. I had a prof who said that in Shakespeare's day, the words "wires" and "reeks" wouldn't have had the meanings they have for us. That makes the portrait of the lady less of a caricature. She could still be beautiful.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

froglipz · Tue Oct 26, 2010 10:07 am

She could, although her lips and cheeks are still pale, her skin is still too tanned.

I like what he is saying, although if you can be so objective about your beloved, the shiny has definitely worn off the relationship....which says much if you are still around.

DWill · Tue Oct 26, 2010 12:29 pm

I think the kicker is in the last line: "belied by false compare," as if to say, come on, we all know the poets get up this extravagant language when describing their beloveds, but it's obviously never a faithful description of any real person. My beloved is a real, beautiful woman.

This is a good pairing of Shakespeare sonnets because the second one is very plain & clear, while the first shows Shakespeare at his most "metaphysical" and difficult. What's the meaning of the "Pour soul" sonnet?

froglipz · Tue Oct 26, 2010 2:16 pm

"Poor Soul" seems to speak to the way we spend time and effort on our outer shells. We wear nice clothes, make up, jewels. Meanwhile our souls are relegated to a pine box (coffin)

The expense referred to is the immortality of our souls, or if you are not a religious type, the emptiness of living a shallow life. If we spend all our time seeming to be good or pious, being instead vain and shallow,we will surely pay a high price, so he entreats them to feed their souls. To start living and thinking more deeply.

Melanie Safka sang a song that I thought was highly profound in my early teens, about building the outer walls and then filling them.

"you're building the halls and the outer walls, but you haven't got a thing within"

She seems to be making fun of hypocritical people in the beginning of the song, poking at their beautiful walls of empty houses, but as the song progresses she realizes that that can also be a first step.

"eventually the whole facade becomes more than a whim by starting to build on the outside, we'll fill the walls within"

Shakespeare seems to be lamenting that all they have done is build the outer walls and is asking them to start filling them.

You could liken it to just being a good person in general, we all know people who seem nice, but when the moment of truth arrives, always does the dirty deed. Others who spend less time on telling everyone how nice they are, really make better friends, lovers and companions, because they are the genuine article.

Saffron · Tue Oct 26, 2010 5:23 pm

That first sonnet is tough. As I read it I think I'm getting the gist of it and then the last two lines throw me. What to make of them?

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

Here's what I'm getting, maybe someone else can help me tie it to the last two lines. Or maybe set me straight if I've missed the mark. The title suggests the struggle between the realities (needs, drives, sin, etc.) of our animal body and consciousness (soul). The middle of the poem seems to be questioning the point of such a large expendature of energy on a project that is doomed to failure (death).

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

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