The Top 500 Poems: 500-401

Saffron · Wed Mar 10, 2010 6:22 am


	oblivion wrote: So, Lowell's poem: was he, by any chance, a Zen Buddhist? The transcendence in this poem jumped out to me in a way Zen usually does. But I'll give it more thought.

I know what you mean. If I hadn't read that he was a Catholic, I'd have likely had the same thought.

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 8:38 am


	oblivion wrote: I'm back!! Still on some medication , so who knows if what I say here will be coherent (on the other hand, considering Lowell, maybe that will help somewhat). So, as to your question concerning Rilke and translations.....there is a huge difference. I enjoy German Expressionist poetry., The one thing that distinguishes this poetry from the previous is, other than the obvious content, the new invention of literally throwing words at each other so violently that they join together, form new words and carry along the dynamics at a furious pace. Translate this into English and well, it just doesn't work (as a matter of fact, I might just do that later this week to give you an example). As to Chaucer in translation: I had a course in Medieval English Literature at Oxford with Julia Cresswell--this woman actually speaks Middle English...fluently. And when she read to us in the original, it was one of the most exciting things I have ever experienced. No comparison to modern English translation. Translations into Modern English are a bit like eating a taco without the spices, salsa and guacamole--the meat and the shell are there and you recognize it as being a taco, but bite into it and wow! So, Lowell's poem: was he, by any chance, a Zen Buddhist? The transcendence in this poem jumped out to me in a way Zen usually does. But I'll give it more thought.

Ah, welcome back and stay healthy. That was a great analogy for the quality of translations from the ME. I had a guy for Chaucer (at Colo. State U., not Oxford!) who also would read to us out of the ME text, and we also had to memorize the first 25 lines of so of the Prologue and recite them in class. At the time, I was also taking French. I think that both helped me and got in the way at times.

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 8:47 am


	Saffron wrote: 439. "Mr. Edwards and the Spider," by Robert Lowell (1917-1977)........ Good luck with this. Let's hear some interpretations. Good luck is right. I can't tell if the spider is good or bad or Mr. Edwards or if he is good or bad. S.O.S. Maybe the spider is nature and nature can't help being nature, but humans must choose to be virtuous. I am stabbing in the near dark. Anyone else have any ideas?

I tried to cheat on this one and see what the "wise" people had to say, but I couldn't find anything free on the web that was helpful. About all I know is that one of the sermons Lowell borrowed from is "Sinners In the Hands of an Angry God." You read that one in American Lit survey courses. One memorable part has Edwards saying that God abhors you like a spider being held above the the fiery pit of Hell. Yeah, have a nice day.

I'd like to get to the bottom of this one, though.

It's my belief that Emerson and Thoreau so thoroughly avoided anything biblical in their writings (favoring Eastern religion instead) just to distance themselves from this legacy in New England.

Saffron · Wed Mar 10, 2010 8:57 am


	DWill wrote: I tried to cheat on this one and see what the "wise" people had to say, but I couldn't find anything free on the web that was helpful. About all I know is that one of the sermons Lowell borrowed from is "Sinners In the Hands of an Angry God." You read that one in American Lit survey courses.

When I got nowhere on my own, I tried the cheaters way too. No go for me either; other than, apparently the poem was pulled more from other sermons than the one you mention. Which, I have never read and never took American Lit survey. I took American drama.


	Quote: It's my belief that Emerson and Thoreau so thoroughly avoided anything biblical in their writings (favoring Eastern religion instead) just to distance themselves from this legacy in New England.

This makes sense to me! I'd want to distance my self from those Puritans too. These two couldn't have written what they did if they hadn't broken away from their New England religious heritage. These guys were way too touchy feely by traditional New England standards.

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 9:06 am

438. "In a Dark Time," by Theodore Roethke. Here you go, Saffron. Roethke had to be on fire (l.

when he wrote this.

In a Dark Time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening 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.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 9:11 am

Saffron wrote:


	DWill wrote: I tried to cheat on this one and see what the "wise" people had to say, but I couldn't find anything free on the web that was helpful. About all I know is that one of the sermons Lowell borrowed from is "Sinners In the Hands of an Angry God." You read that one in American Lit survey courses.

When I got nowhere on my own, I tried the cheaters way too. No go for me either; other than, apparently the poem was pulled more from other sermons than the one you mention. Which, I have never read and never took American Lit survey. I took American drama.


	Quote: It's my belief that Emerson and Thoreau so thoroughly avoided anything biblical in their writings (favoring Eastern religion instead) just to distance themselves from this legacy in New England.

This makes sense to me! I'd want to distance my self from those Puritans too. These two couldn't have written what they did if they hadn't broken away from their New England religious heritage. These guys were way too touchy feely by traditional New England standards.

Right! Nobody ever accused the Puritans of being touch-feely that I know of (well, there was Hester Prynne and her lover). Maybe we should find some good things to say about Puritans, have a Puritan appreciation day. And in fact it wouldn't surprise me if we're laboring under the delusion of one massive sterotype about Puritans.

Saffron · Wed Mar 10, 2010 9:20 am

Hey, Where'd those last 2 stanzas come from? They are not in my book and I don't remember ever seeing them before.

On fire!!! Yes.

Saffron · Wed Mar 10, 2010 9:28 am


	DWill wrote: Right! Nobody ever accused the Puritans of being touch-feely that I know of (well, there was Hester Prynne and her lover). Maybe we should find some good things to say about Puritans, have a Puritan appreciation day. And in fact it wouldn't surprise me if we're laboring under the delusion of one massive sterotype about Puritans.

Hester is fictional. I don't mean to deny all credit to the Puritans. There is a lot to be said for restraint and stoicism. We modern Americans could take a lesson. On the other hand, one can not deny the realities of the human body. Okay, so maybe I am a little guilty of holding a stereotyped view of the Puritans.

oblivion · Wed Mar 10, 2010 9:35 am


	DWill wrote: 438. "In a Dark Time," by Theodore Roethke. Here you go, Saffron. Roethke had to be on fire (l. when he wrote this. In a Dark Time In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening 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. A steady storm of correspondences! A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon, And in broad day the midnight come again! A man goes far to find out what he is-- Death of the self in a long, tearless night, All natural shapes blazing unnatural light. Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire. My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. The mind enters itself, and God the mind, And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

One of my favorites! I adore the sensuality, the ferocity, the timbre of the poem. In "My Father's Waltz", I enjoy the music he creates with waltzing tact and momentum, even in its violence, like a danse macabre. In this one, I think he switches from music to painting--a wonderful interior landscape painting of one's inner self! Roethke has a talent of pulling one from the exterior to the interior; from the distant to the near.
The lines in bold are some of my favorite lines in poetry.

This poem echoes a bit of:
"I am and am not,
Freeze and yet I burn,
Since from myself,
My other self I turn.
My care is like my shadow,
Shining like the sun--
follows me flying,
flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lives by me, does what I have done."

It would be an interesting endeavour tearing a theme or a word from poems by different poets or in different centuries and see how the theme/word has involved. (Okay, off on a tangent again, but the word "shadow" caught my interest and sparked this tangent).

oblivion · Wed Mar 10, 2010 10:04 am

Der Gott der Stadt von Georg Heym

Auf einem Häuserblocke sitzt er breit. a
Die Winde lagern schwarz um seine Stirn. b
Er schaut voll Wut, wo fern in Einsamkeit a
Die letzten Häuser in das Land verirrn. b
Vom Abend glänzt der rote Bauch dem Baal, c
Die großen Städte knien um ihn her. d
Der Kirchenglocken ungeheure Zahl c
Wogt auf zu ihm aus schwarzer Türme Meer. d
Wie Korybanten - Tanz dröhnt die Musik
Der Millionen durch die Straßen laut.
Der Schlote Rauch, die Wolken der Fabrik
Ziehn auf zu ihm, wie Duft von Weihrauch blaut.
Das Wetter schwält in seinen Augenbrauen.
Der dunkle Abend wird in Nacht betäubt.
Die Stürme flattern, die wie Geier schauen
Von seinem Haupthaar, das im Zorne sträubt.
Er streckt ins Dunkel seine Fleischerfaust.
Er schüttelt sie. Ein Meer von Feuer jagt
Durch eine Straße. Und der Glutqualm braust
Und frisst sie auf, bis spät der Morgen tagt.

The God of the City (1910)

He sits asprawl upon a block of houses,
his forehead ringed black by the gathered winds.
In rage he glares towards far lonelinesses
where the last houses straggle into the land.
Sunset’s light glows on the Baal’s red paunch.
About his feet great cities kneel and cower.
Unnumbered peals of bells from every church
surge around him from a black sea of towers.
Like a wild dance of Corybantes booms
the music of the millions through the streets.
The chimneys pour their smoke, the factories fumes
up to him as incense pours blue scents.
In his knitted brows the elements smoulder.
The dark evening is stunned now into night.
The tempests flutter as they stare like vultures
amidst his hair bristling with wrath and spite.
He thrusts his butcher’s fist into the dark.
He brandishes it. A sea of fire cracks
along a street. And the thick-glowing smoke
devours it until a late day breaks.

Poem extracted from:
Georg Heym, Poems
Northwestern University Press, Illinois 2006
First published by Libris, London 2004
Copyright © Libris 2004
Translation, introduction and notes copyright © Antony Hasler, 2004

So, here is the promised poem, albeit not my translation. In the original German, I’ve highlighted the last syllables in each line to show the basic rhyme scheme (which does not exist in the English translation) and have put single or pairs of consonants in bold in order to give you an idea of the hardness of these sounds, purposelly meant to underscore the fierceness of the god. This also is not rendered in English—the sounds are too soft, tzhus detracting from the fear and wrath in the poem. If you read the German poem aloud, it has a violent velocity and ist dynamics increase right up to the very last phrase. The English translation is in itself, a good translation of the content, but that, unfortunately is not all that a poem consists of.. And thus we have problems in translating a poem from one language to another.

Saffron · Wed Mar 10, 2010 10:10 am


	DWill, in the post that started this thread, wrote: I meant to talk about this idea with Saffron, but can't since her computer is down. I'll blunder ahead.

BTW You blunder beautifully!

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 11:04 pm


	oblivion wrote: Der Gott der Stadt von Georg Heym Auf einem Häuserblocke sitzt er breit. a Die Winde lagern schwarz um seine Stirn. b Er schaut voll Wut, wo fern in Einsamkeit a Die letzten Häuser in das Land verirrn. b Vom Abend glänzt der rote Bauch dem Baal, c Die großen Städte knien um ihn her. d Der Kirchenglocken ungeheure Zahl c Wogt auf zu ihm aus schwarzer Türme Meer. d Wie Korybanten - Tanz dröhnt die Musik Der Millionen durch die Straßen laut. Der Schlote Rauch, die Wolken der Fabrik Ziehn auf zu ihm, wie Duft von Weihrauch blaut. Das Wetter schwält in seinen Augenbrauen. Der dunkle Abend wird in Nacht betäubt. Die Stürme flattern, die wie Geier schauen Von seinem Haupthaar, das im Zorne sträubt. Er streckt ins Dunkel seine Fleischerfaust. Er schüttelt sie. Ein Meer von Feuer jagt Durch eine Straße. Und der Glutqualm braust Und frisst sie auf, bis spät der Morgen tagt. The God of the City (1910) He sits asprawl upon a block of houses, his forehead ringed black by the gathered winds. In rage he glares towards far lonelinesses where the last houses straggle into the land. Sunset’s light glows on the Baal’s red paunch. About his feet great cities kneel and cower. Unnumbered peals of bells from every church surge around him from a black sea of towers. Like a wild dance of Corybantes booms the music of the millions through the streets. The chimneys pour their smoke, the factories fumes up to him as incense pours blue scents. In his knitted brows the elements smoulder. The dark evening is stunned now into night. The tempests flutter as they stare like vultures amidst his hair bristling with wrath and spite. He thrusts his butcher’s fist into the dark. He brandishes it. A sea of fire cracks along a street. And the thick-glowing smoke devours it until a late day breaks. Poem extracted from: Georg Heym, Poems Northwestern University Press, Illinois 2006 First published by Libris, London 2004 Copyright © Libris 2004 Translation, introduction and notes copyright © Antony Hasler, 2004 So, here is the promised poem, albeit not my translation. In the original German, I’ve highlighted the last syllables in each line to show the basic rhyme scheme (which does not exist in the English translation) and have put single or pairs of consonants in bold in order to give you an idea of the hardness of these sounds, purposelly meant to underscore the fierceness of the god. This also is not rendered in English—the sounds are too soft, tzhus detracting from the fear and wrath in the poem. If you read the German poem aloud, it has a violent velocity and ist dynamics increase right up to the very last phrase. The English translation is in itself, a good translation of the content, but that, unfortunately is not all that a poem consists of.. And thus we have problems in translating a poem from one language to another.

That's a very valuable thing you've shown us, oblivion, and thanks so much for it. It really makes me think more about poetry being essentially untranslatable. I connect that also with the problems in translating the Bible, as I'm reading a translation in which the translator tells about the things going on in the Hebrew that he can't put into the English. One reason this could be so important in its effect is that translations remove much of the wordplay of the original, preserving only the content. Was the content all that mattered in the first place to the writers of the Hebrew? Of course not. So we come away with a distorted image of that text, thinking that it was all presented as unchallengeable fact...when that might not have been the case at all.

DWill · Wed Mar 10, 2010 11:09 pm

Would you all accept as a general gloss of the Roethke poem that it describes a descent into madness? Not that it's a necessary connection, but Roethle suffered from I guess Bipolar disorder as have many creative people and writers especially.

437. "The Groundhog," by Richard Eberhart (b. 1904) (and surely dead by now). In Harmon, there are no stanzas.

In June, amid the golden fields,
I saw a groundhog lying dead.
Dead lay he; my senses shook,
And mind outshot our naked frailty.

There lowly in the vigorous summer
His form began its senseless change,
And made my senses waver dim
Seeing nature ferocious in him.

Inspecting close maggots' might
And seething cauldron of his being,
Half with loathing, half with a strange love,
I poked him with an angry stick.

The fever arose, became a flame
And Vigour circumscribed the skies,
Immense energy in the sun,
And through my frame a sunless trembling.

My stick had done nor good nor harm.
Then stood I silent in the day
Watching the object, as before;
And kept my reverence for knowledge

Trying for control, to be still,
To quell the passion of the blood;
Until I had bent down on my knees
Praying for joy in the sight of decay.

And so I left; and I returned
In Autumn strict of eye, to see
The sap gone out of the groundhog,
But the bony sodden hulk remained

But the year had lost its meaning,
And in intellectual chains
I lost both love and loathing,
Mured up in the wall of wisdom.

Another summer took the fields again
Massive and burning, full of life,
But when I chanced upon the spot
There was only a little hair left,

And bones bleaching in the sunlight
Beautiful as architecture;
I watched them like a geometer,
And cut a walking stick from a birch.

It has been three years, now.
There is no sign of the groundhog.
I stood there in the whirling summer,
My hand capped a withered heart,

And thought of China and of Greece,
Of Alexander in his tent;
Of Montaigne in his tower,
Of Saint Theresa in her wild lament.

oblivion · Thu Mar 11, 2010 5:40 am

It's absolutely amazing that poetry--a poem--can put a rather disgusting physical picture with maggots and putrid smells, into a rather ethereal work of beauty, isn't it?

DWill · Thu Mar 11, 2010 6:09 am


	oblivion wrote: It's absolutely amazing that poetry--a poem--can put a rather disgusting physical picture with maggots and putrid smells, into a rather ethereal work of beauty, isn't it?

It seems as though the speaker's perpective becomes wider and wider as the groundhog recedes from his mind as a living thing. He at first has a kind of creaturely feeling for it, relating to it as his 'earth-bound companion, and fellow mortal' (Burns). But by the end, when no trace is left, he's arrived at the ethereal level, as you say. Do you think all the references at the end are to mutalbility in some way? I haven't looked up St. Theresa yet.

I found the diction of the poem to be about halfway between between Victorian formality and modernism. I can't say I like it a lot, but I do like the poem overall. It reminds me somewhat of MacLeish's "You, Andrew Marvel."

Harmon mentions other 20th Century poems in which "humble creatures" point the poet toward philosophical significance, such as Bishop's "The Fish," and Lowell's "Skunk Hour" (both in the volume). But my favorite in this class would be Frost's "The Ovenbird."

Forum rules

The Top 500 Poems: 500-401 Tweet This Topic

Who is online

Chat Room Always Open!