DWill
Please yell at me when you see typos.

As a person who once typed:

All Engineers must copy the attached information onto their hard dics.....

I have absolutely no room to talk.

O.K. caught up but confused. The poem you submitted, Penelope, is not one of the best poems is it? Beautiful photo you have posted, beautiful area.

I never had read the Emily Dickinson, but yes, that is a snake and a very good poem. Makes me think of a personal story. My then say 12 year old grandson was (after seeing a movie of a boy's bravery. . . think maybe Master & Commander) was questioning his own ability to "measure up" My husband then quoted to him:

We never know how tall we are
till we are called to rise
and then if we are true to form
our stature reaches the sky (its probably statures reach)

Think that is it . . . also Emily and lovely, isn't it and how appropriate to his question! That's the great thing about poetry.

LofS wrote:

The poem you submitted, Penelope, is not one of the best poems is it?

I don't know which poem you mean LofS, but I'm not sure what a 'best' poem might mean. I just like some, because they give me a buzz, but I don't know why. I don't know how to judge literary merit like Saffron and DWill, but I just try to be honest about what I like and dislike.

I have been being very silly just recently on these threads....a reaction, I think to the more serious topics elsewhere. I think its hysteria.

Penelope wrote:

LofS wrote:

The poem you submitted, Penelope, is not one of the best poems is it?

I don't know which poem you mean LofS, but I'm not sure what a 'best' poem might mean. I just like some, because they give me a buzz, but I don't know why. I don't know how to judge literary merit like Saffron and DWill, but I just try to be honest about what I like and dislike.

I have been being very silly just recently on these threads....a reaction, I think to the more serious topics elsewhere. I think its hysteria.

I think we have an oopsie here. I think what LofS meant was the poem you posted Penny was not from the Top 500, not that it was not very good.

Saffron wrote:

Penelope wrote:

LofS wrote:

The poem you submitted, Penelope, is not one of the best poems is it?

I think we have an oopsie here. I think what LofS meant was the poem you posted Penny was not from the Top 500, not that it was not very good.

This 'oopsie' gave me such a laugh. This is a delightful thread to follow. Just getting on board (and caught up) here. the D.H. Lawrence was mesmerizing (even if it wasn't in the top 500). Unforgettable scene! Your pic Penelope is like out of a storybook. A wonderful sort of picturesque bleak, nicest if you can't feel the chill of it I suppose. I do weary of overcast and gloomy weather.

Dawn wrote:

This 'oopsie' gave me such a laugh. This is a delightful thread to follow. Just getting on board (and caught up) here.

It is a lovely thread, I do agree. And having you along makes it all the more delightful.

Penelope, beautiful and serene photo. Thank you! I have only been around the Oxford /Cotswolds area, I'm afraid.
Lady of Shallot, what exactly does "ding" mean in the area of antiques? In German, it is the word for "thing", btw.
Dawn, nice to have you on board here. Poetry is very subjective.....whilst one may apprecaite the handicraft, so to speak, of a certain poem, the content may or may not do anything for you. And, sometimes reading the rhythm, the flow, the music of a poem out loud can do something for you whilst the content doesn't. And then there is the occasional one that bring both together. Or again the occasional one that mess up in both areas.

95. "Ulysses," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. This may seem condescending, but I think of "Ulysses" as a "starter" poem. I mean that it's a very good one for younger people just being introduced to poetry. Because it's a dramatic monologue, it's easy to follow. I was impressed by it and inspired by its final lines when I encountered it. Now, I see its pompousness and bombast, but these qualities can also be present in Shakespeare, who is the model for this kind of poem. Gender question: Is this so full of testosterone and male illusions that females are likely to say, "Whatever, Lord T."?

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Summary

Ulysses (Odysseus) declares that there is little point in his staying home “by this still hearth” with his old wife, doling out rewards and punishments for the unnamed masses who live in his kingdom.

Still speaking to himself he proclaims that he “cannot rest from travel” but feels compelled to live to the fullest and swallow every last drop of life. He has enjoyed all his experiences as a sailor who travels the seas, and he considers himself a symbol for everyone who wanders and roams the earth. His travels have exposed him to many different types of people and ways of living. They have also exposed him to the “delight of battle” while fighting the Trojan War with his men. Ulysses declares that his travels and encounters have shaped who he is: “I am a part of all that I have met,” he asserts. And it is only when he is traveling that the “margin” of the globe that he has not yet traversed shrink and fade, and cease to goad him.

Ulysses declares that it is boring to stay in one place, and that to remain stationary is to rust rather than to shine; to stay in one place is to pretend that all there is to life is the simple act of breathing, whereas he knows that in fact life contains much novelty, and he longs to encounter this. His spirit yearns constantly for new experiences that will broaden his horizons; he wishes “to follow knowledge like a sinking star” and forever grow in wisdom and in learning.

Ulysses now speaks to an unidentified audience concerning his son Telemachus, who will act as his successor while the great hero resumes his travels: he says, “This is my son, mine own Telemachus, to whom I leave the scepter and the isle.” He speaks highly but also patronizingly of his son’s capabilities as a ruler, praising his prudence, dedication, and devotion to the gods. Telemachus will do his work of governing the island while Ulysses will do his work of traveling the seas: “He works his work, I mine.”

In the final stanza, Ulysses addresses the mariners with whom he has worked, traveled, and weathered life’s storms over many years. He declares that although he and they are old, they still have the potential to do something noble and honorable before “the long day wanes.” He encourages them to make use of their old age because “ ’tis not too late to seek a newer world.” He declares that his goal is to sail onward “beyond the sunset” until his death. Perhaps, he suggests, they may even reach the “Happy Isles,” or the paradise of perpetual summer described in Greek mythology where great heroes like the warrior Achilles were believed to have been taken after their deaths. Although Ulysses and his mariners are not as strong as they were in youth, they are “strong in will” and are sustained by their resolve to push onward relentlessly: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
Form

This poem is written as a dramatic monologue: the entire poem is spoken by a single character, whose identity is revealed by his own words. The lines are in blank verse, or unrhymed iambic pentameter, which serves to impart a fluid and natural quality to Ulysses’s speech. Many of the lines are enjambed, which means that a thought does not end with the line-break; the sentences often end in the middle, rather than the end, of the lines. The use of enjambment is appropriate in a poem about pushing forward “beyond the utmost bound of human thought.” Finally, the poem is divided into four paragraph-like sections, each of which comprises a distinct thematic unit of the poem.

DW wrote: Gender question: Is this so full of testosterone and male illusions that females are likely to say, "Whatever, Lord T."?

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

Lord T. loses me with the first stanza! Aged wife indeed, what does he think he is?! I guess I still have to give a ding or two. This is one of those poems I like much better read aloud. I can focus on the language rather than the meaning.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.

DING!!!!

And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

DING!!

Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

He attributes these duties to his Son, the bounder, he should attribute them to his aged wife!!! Not Jewish is he?

Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

DING, DING, DING!

We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

OH, BIG BANGING BONGS......

This is as inspiring to an elderly lady with big ideas....as 'Once More into the Breach'.....from Henry V......was to those English soldiers.

I'll just have a quick burst on my banjo......By Jove, I needed that.

Thank you!!

5 dings and a Bong - Big ideas is how I like my poetry!