The Top 500 Poems: 300-201

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 8:56 am

DWill:
July 12, 2010 2:20 pm

Thank you froglipz, Seraphim, and Saffron for the encouraging feedback!
_________________
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.----Tennessee Williams

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 8:58 am

Bleachededen:
July 12, 2010 3:49 pm

I agree, but am too tired to go into much detail. I'm still here, lurking in the shadows. I'll come out when something really strikes my fancy. But I'm always here.
_________________
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.
-Rosencrantz, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

listen,there's a hell of a good universe next door:
let's go.
-e.e. cummings

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:00 am

Oblivion:
July 13, 2010 7:58 am

I, too, have been lurking in the shadows, albeit not online--just trying to find some respite from the heatwave we are having here in Europe. France was lovely but exceedingly hot and we returned to an even hotter Germany (highly unusual). And few places here have air-conditioning as it is usually not needed.
So, back at the desk, ready to go! Bring on the poems!

(And dwill, once again, 1000 thanks for taking on this project).
_________________
Gods and spirits are parasitic--Pascal Boyer

What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone. --Alexander Pope

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:02 am

DWill:
July 13, 2010 9:15 am

Lurkers are quite important always. Welcome back, oblivion. We were up from Virginia to Massachusetts last week, and there the temps were over 100 as well. As in Germany, many in New England don't bother with cooling their homes because the hot season isn't usually extreme. Down here, air conditioning seems like a necessity (whether it really is or not).

I'm watching the Tour de France on TV, and feeling a little cooler just by watching the riders pound the cobblestones and climb the hills in 95-degree heat.

295. "My True Love Hath My Heart," by Sir Philip Sidney. I suppose the first question is whether the poet is assuming a female persona or is writing to another man. I would guess from a similar situation in Shakespeare's sonnets that this is man-to-man.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
_________________
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.----Tennessee Williams

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:03 am

Bleachededen:
July 13, 2010 5:15 pm

I believe this poem, or at least part of it, was put to music in The Wedding Cantata by Daniel Pinkham. I will try to dig up the video I saw on YouTube of a concert of this piece, because it's absolutely gorgeous, and so is the poetry.

I should also point out that I sang this piece in a choir once, which is why I remember it so well. I'm searching now, if the poem is not in this specific piece, I definitely sang it as some point, because I remember the words as being sung, and I wouldn't have seen this poem otherwise.
_________________
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.
-Rosencrantz, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

listen,there's a hell of a good universe next door:
let's go.
-e.e. cummings

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:04 am

Bleachededen:
July 13, 2010 5:27 pm

This is going to kill me because I can't figure out which musical setting I once knew! I know the poem really well, and have "I sung it" lingering on my tongue, but I can't seem to find the setting I sang!

Alas, poor me, this will drive me to insanity!
_________________
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.
-Rosencrantz, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

listen,there's a hell of a good universe next door:
let's go.
-e.e. cummings

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:06 am

DWill:
July 15, 2010 8:05 am

Sorry for the skipped day again. My computer got a worm and had to go away to have its hard-drive scrubbed. So I'll post from work.

294. "The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage, " by Sir Walter Raleigh. It must have been quite a sensation to once have been able to believe so whole-heartedly that such a fate awaited us.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage ;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
No other balm will there be given ;
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven ;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains :
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss ;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill :
My soul will be a-dry before ;
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy blestful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first
To quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar suckets,
At those clear wells
Where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel ;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to heavens's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl ;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey ;
For there Christ is the King's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.

Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms ;
Not with a bribèd lawyer's palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit ;
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
_________________
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.----Tennessee Williams

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:07 am

July 15, 2010 8:25 am


	Quote: DWill wrote: Sorry for the skipped day again. My computer got a worm and had to go away to have its hard-drive scrubbed. So I'll post from work. 294. "The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage, " by Sir Walter Raleigh. It must have been quite a sensation to once have been able to believe so whole-heartedly that such a fate awaited us.

*My bold

Too bad about your computer. Not just sensational, but comforting. Having just been to the funeral of a friend, who was not religious, I was struck by how much time was spent describing heaven. I realize that it is for the solace of the left behind. It seemed a bit crazy to me at the time. When I spend time thinking about the void I really get why there seems to be such a drive to believe in something bigger and better than a human.

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:09 am

DWill:
July 15, 2010 8:38 am

Very true. It seems to many people that at such times one just has to talk about the "better place" the person has gone to, to ease the sting of the world-without-him/her feeling. But I'm like you and would like to issue instructions that this not be done at my own funeral.
_________________
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.----Tennessee Williams

Last edited by DWill on Thu Jul 15, 2010 8:43 am, edited 1 time in total.

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:10 am

Oblivion:
July 15, 2010 11:15 am

Oh my goodness.....just look at all of the drinking/liquid/thirst similies, metaphors, images. And that in this heat over here! Interesting that we go from heavy liquid imagery to dryness to bliss. Interesting poem but can't say I like it.
_________________
Gods and spirits are parasitic--Pascal Boyer

What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone. --Alexander Pope

Saffron · Fri Jul 16, 2010 9:14 am


	Oblivion wrote: Oblivion: July 15, 2010 11:15 am Oh my goodness.....just look at all of the drinking/liquid/thirst similies, metaphors, images. And that in this heat over here! Interesting that we go from heavy liquid imagery to dryness to bliss. Interesting poem but can't say I like it. _________________

We here in Virginia are back into the heavy moist heat that the DC area is known for -- all I can say is, "yuck!"

Saffron · Sun Jul 18, 2010 6:22 am

DWill: I meant to fix this post when we both in the office at the same time -- it would have been easier, but alas, I forgot.

DWill:
July 17, 2010 11:55 am

Mu computer is still having the demons cast from it, so the poem postings could be sporadic until I get it back.

293. Psalm 23, by...I guess, King David? I'll start with the most famous translation, King James, and add a couple of the countless other translations out there.

THE LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2 He makes me to lie down in agreen pastures: he leadeth me beside the bstill waters.
3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for
thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my
head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell
in the house of the LORD for ever.

New Revised Standard

1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
3 he restores my soul.
He leads me in right pathsc
for his name’s sake.
4 Even though I walk through the darkest valley,d
I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff—
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surelye goodness and mercyf shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD
my whole life long.

Rheims-Douay (Catholic)

THE Lord ruleth me: and I shall want nothing. 2 He hath set me in a place of pasture.
He hath brought me up, on the water of refreshment: 3 he hath converted my soul.
He hath led me on paths of justice, for his own name’s sake.
4 For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils, for
thou art with me.
Thy rod and thy staff, they have comforted me.
5 Thou hast prepared a table before me, against them that afflict me.
Thou hast anointed my head with oil; and my chalice which inebriateth me, how goodly
is it!
6 And thy mercy will follow me all the days of my life.
And that I may dwell in the house of the Lord unto length of days.

292. "The Cherry Tree-Carol," by anonymous. This is an early religious folk song.

JOSEPH was an old man,
and an old man was he,
When he wedded Mary,
in the land of Galilee.
Joseph and Mary walked
through an orchard good,
Where was cherries and berries,
so red as any blood.
Joseph and Mary walked
through an orchard green,
Where was berries and cherries,
as thick as might be seen.
O then bespoke Mary,
so meek and so mild:
‘Pluck me one cherry, Joseph,
for I am with child.’
O then bespoke Joseph,
with words most unkind:
‘Let him pluck thee a cherry
that brought thee with child.’
O then bespoke the babe,
within his mother’s womb:
‘Bow down then the tallest tree,
for my mother to have some.’
Then bowed down the highest tree
unto his mother’s hand;
Then she cried, See, Joseph,
I have cherries at command.
O then bespake Joseph:
‘I have done Mary wrong;
But cheer up, my dearest,
and be not cast down.’
Then Mary plucked a cherry,
as red as the blood,
Then Mary went home
with her heavy load.
Then Mary took her babe,
and sat him on her knee,
Saying, My dear son, tell me
what this world will be.
‘O I shall be as dead, mother,
as the stones in the wall;
O the stones in the streets, mother,
shall mourn for me all.
‘Upon Easter-day, mother,
my uprising shall be;
O the sun and the moon, mother,
shall both rise with me.’
_________________
Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.----Tennessee Williams

Last edited by DWill on Sat Jul 17, 2010 11:56 am, edited 1 time in total.

Saffron · Sun Jul 18, 2010 6:24 am

Oblivion:
July 17, 2010 1:37 pm

With especially the last poem, I am trying to ignore content I don't much care for and find style, composition, etc that could be saving for the poem--but I just can't!
And dwill, don't worry about your computer: think of it as a well-deserved break!
_________________
Gods and spirits are parasitic--Pascal Boyer

What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone. --Alexander Pope

Saffron · Sun Jul 18, 2010 6:45 am

#291 is long, to start I will post what amounts to the first 3 stanzas. If we want more, I'll post as requested. I think I will add a bit of Harmon for those of you international readers.


	Harmon wrote: ...Tate was a Tennessean associated with Vanderbilt University and the magazine called The Fugitive. He wrote studies of Confederate leaders "Stonewall" Jackson and Jefferson Davis... For people from the souther United States, at least, the Civil War remains the great defining event. In some ways, as Mark Twain suggested, the war called chivalry's bluff (not entirely in jest, Mark Twain blamed the war on Sir Walter Scott). Southern writers still feel called on to address the Confederate dead, and courthouse lawns across eleven states have monuments to those who died between 1861 and 1865.

Saffron: Living in the state of Virginia where we celebrate Lee, Jackson, King Day (yes, believe it or not we do), I can vouch for the still lingering smell of the Civil War.

Ode to the Confederate Dead
by Allen Tate

Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angel's stare
Turns you, like them, to stone,
Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.

Dazed by the wind, only the wind
The leaves flying, plunge

You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire

oblivion · Sun Jul 18, 2010 2:08 pm

"Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire".....

......Saved the poem, redeemed it a bit, although I agree with you Saffron, the battlefields at Yorktown or Fredericksburg are evoked as are the other horrors of the Civil War.
Sometimes it absolutely amazes me that a form, a means, such as a poem (which is sometimes intrinsic beauty in and of itself, simply by being a poem) can evoke horror, hideousness, and disgust better than other literary forms. The sheer conciseness of a poem presses the content (albeit, only if well written) in its horrible essence as an injection into your nearest vein.

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