Happy New Year!

The post title says it all. I'll be back to posting on Saturday. May 2010 begin in the best way for you!!

The Primer (Christina Davis)

Ouch. Someone was hurting while writing this poem. I feel the sting from the last line, the last stanza. It reverberates the whole poem and takes, takes, takes.

"The Primer" - a basic lesson. "the first obscenity was silence" In the beginning.....The variation is the one most cutting. You noticed it more, rationalize it - or try to. Say, you write a poem to rationalize it - to break it down into it's most basic parts - just the words, the phrases, no context. You turn a relationship and the history of all relationships into a simple 101 course.

Favorite line: "He said, Nothing."

A Visit from Saint Nicholas (Clement Clark Moore)

It's not quite Christmas, but only four days to go! Plus, I'm headed out of town and won't be able to update again until next Tuesday or Wednesday, so I figured I would put up the quintessential Xmas poem: A Visit from St. Nick! It's the poem that's important, I haven't a clue who the poet is - and poets.org doesn't give any hints.

This poem is everywhere at Christmas. I first learned it from a giant coloring book I had growing up. It was so big, I kept it underneath our large media-center. Every Christmas I would pull it out and color in a new page. A wonderful way to slowly learn, incorporate a poem into a life.

It's so well incorporated I cannot really disentangle it from my personal history with it. I can't think of it in terms of quality or dimensions or poetry. It simply is and it is tied up tight with the season for me.

So (to paraphrase), to all a good Christmas and good winter break. I'll see you at the close of the decade.

Favorite line: "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow"

The Mystic's Christmas (John Greenleaf Whittier)

One day closer to Christmas, one more Christmas poem. Today's is The Mystic's Christmas by John Greenleaf Whittier.

I don't know when Whittier lived and wrote (and yes, I know I could just read his profile, but roll with me), but I'm guessing the 1800s because of the rhyme and the evenness of lines and even the subject and the way it is approached. It's a religious poem, taken from a slightly 'off' angle. The pomp surrounding Christmas is not all needed if you truly are celebrating Jesus' birth. "judge not him who every morn/ Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"

It's interesting that that is the 'mystic's' message. Mystics are regarded as more in-touch spiritually/out-of-touch with reality. Mystics are always speaking truths that others haven't seen/grasped yet.

I guess the talk about the commercialization of Christmas is not at all new.

Favorite line: "Why sitt'st thou thus?"

Christmas Bells (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Hehe, his name is Wadsworth. Okay, done being 12. Tonight's poem is Christmas Bells by Longfellow.

I'm in a spirited mood; I just got back from seeing the Nutcracker. And this is definitely a song of spirit. I thought these words were set to music:

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Aren't they? Perhaps they are. If I were not so tired, I would talk a bit about the difference between lyrics and poetry, but another night, another night.

Favorite line: "The words repeat/Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

An Old Cracked Tune (Stanley Kunitz)

I can't sing along, but I swear I could, if not sing, lope along to this poem by Stanley Kunitz. I'm not sure where I know Stanley Kunitz's name from; I think he edited a book of poetry I used to like. I don't know if he's Jewish, but the poem sure is.

A desert people. Exodus. Extermination. Is it any wonder N ends the poem with "I dance, for the joy of surviving"? This is a short poem - only eight lines long - but it contains the history of the Jewish people in it. And that's pretty darn neat.

Favorite line: "The sands whispered, Be separate,/the stones taught me, Be hard."

A Christmas Carol (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

I don't really have the time to write post tonight. I'm going to cheat. It's not quite Christmas, but it is close enough. Only eight days to go. Let's all gather round to hear the tale of Christmases long ago: A Christmas Carol.

Favorite line: "Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn"

Light breaks where no sun shines (Dylan Thomas)

Light breaks where no sun shines by Dylan Thomas: HOPE.

Favorite line: "The secret of the soil grows through the eye"

The Savoir must have been a docile Gentleman (Emily Dickinson)

I put up my tree tonight (all 1 1/2 feet of it), so I figured that tonight must be a Christmas poem. Who knew that Emily Dickinson wrote seasonal poems? Maybe everyone. I don't know. She's just not my style, so this, lesser known one from her, is a new one to me.

It's short (which I love). It's only eight lines long. It talks about Jesus being born and being "docile" to be born down a rugged lane when it's so cold and so far. But for his birth, the way would have always been so rugged, cold, and lengthy.

I wonder why he is described as being docile. Maybe because why on earth would anyone choose to be born there (down a path a billion rugged miles long)? But no child chooses where to be born. All babies can be (and should be) described as docile. Perhaps, Emily Dickinson reflects the general consensus on his later life. After all, 'gentleman' doesn't refer to a child, but to an adult.

Favorite line: "To come so far so cold a Day"

A Far Cry From Africa (Derek Walcott)

I first found the poem by Walcott in college. It was an appropriate place to first read it. The poem is about living/being of two worlds and the unease and pain that causes. My school was very aware of this theme since it recruited students from all over the world.

I like that the majority of this poem is description about Africa. Clearly, N lives in the western world and yearns/is curious about life in Africa. How can N reconcile both parts of himself? By writing a poem, of course. This creative output makes clear his anguish and his process.

Favorite line: "The gorilla wrestles with the superman."

Danse Russe (William Carlos Williams)

Another William Carlos Williams' poem: Danse Russe.

What I like about this poem is that it makes the unusual seems normal, explainable. Why is N dancing naked about the room? What does it matter? All other members of the house are asleep, it's N's secret. The poem is a shared secret. Huh. Not that N needs our ears. N is perfectly content with his actions and his conclusion: "Who shall say I am not/the happy genius of my household?" Of course he is, there is no space for rebuttal or response, the poem ends immediately after asking the question.

Favorite line: "if I in my north room/dance naked, grotesquely/before my mirror"

Artichoke (Richard Foerster)

I don't know the poet (and can find nothing illuminating), but he did bring back memories of my first encounter with an artichoke. I don't know if the way described in this poem is the only way to each fresh artichoke, but it has been my sole experience. Chile, last days, chill, patio, plastic table, saucers of dipping oil and the gestured instructions for the proper way to eat artichoke. I love how someone else's experiences seen through short, descriptive phrasing can convey a certain feeling and mood that haven't enter my thoughts for years.

But, you see, it's this. Completely and utterly this: "For all the bother, it’s the peeling away/we savored, the slow striptease/toward a tender heart—/how each petal dipped in the buttery sauce/was raked across our lower/teeth"

It's the act of memory, of new experience, of freshness, and yes, Richard, ("we risked silence,/risked even/love") even love. The act of eating artichoke is all those things.

Favorite line: "its residue/less redolent of desire than sweet restraint"

Quotidian Poem (Patricia Fargnoli)

I figured this poem would be good for my quotidian task. I don't know much (anything) about the poet, so I'm not sure what war she is referencing. It doesn't matter for the poem, I'm just mildly curious, is all.

"I threw in onions, garlic,
parsley, cumin,
a couple of tomatoes--
whatever made sense.
Enough for an army."

The army's meal is full of sense. I'm thinking that N doesn't think the army, therefore the war, has any sense. Thus N makes them a meal chock full of it. It's all in the presentation. It's pretty ridiculous to make a trip to the action center and be a tourist at the onset of war, which exactly what N does and is.

Favorite line: "When I heard the bombing/had begun I drove down/to Keene and bought/a 3x magnifying glass,/a sketch book/and drawing pencils. "

The Rain (Robert Creeley) :: Post 100

This is my 100th post! And for this milestone, I have decided to enjoy myself. I found audio recordings of my favorite poem, The Rain by Robert Creeley. The first is of a poetry reading done by Creeley, but it ends funnily, so I have included a second, which may be by Creeley too, it doesn't indicate the speaker.

Just ♥. Love to the poet, the poem, and to POETRY.

The light of a candle (Yosa Buson)

Poets.org does not tell about Yosa Buson and I've never heard of him (her?) before this night. I wonder when Yosa lived and where. This is the only poem listed by him on the website. It's a haiku, which is a Japanese form of a strict number and patterns of syllables. 5, 7, 5 syllables.

This haiku does not follow that strict form. It is probably classified as such by poets.org because it is short, reads like haiku, and is concerned with nature. Of course, this is a translated poem. The original may very well have been in the proper syllabic counts.

What I like about this poem is that the last line throws you. The first two are extremely easy to understand, but that last takes a bit. I like that in the last line the word "springs" could have two meanings. It could be the verb, meaning jumps, or it could be the noun, being a season. I like it best as a verb, since it describes the action of passing on a flame from candle to candle.

Maybe it's the noun, though. In that case, I could see the transfer of fire being a birth of flame, a reiteration of fire. Birth and newcomings are very springlike.

Clever, clever. I like haiku for how condensed they are. It takes many paragraphs to (poorly) describe what happens in three lines of poetry. That's true great art.

Favorite line: "spring twilight"

I'm Nobody. Who are you. (Emily Dickinson)

I adore this poem by Emily Dickinson. It's such a witticism. I bet she wrote it in one go when she was feeling light. A happy poem from Emily? It be true.

The rhyme makes it light. As do the generic names for the two types of people in the world. For that matter, so does the exclamation point.

However, the lightness is belied by what must be a rather lonesome life-where for the first time, N has met a friend. The lightness takes on the ring of someone trying to rationalize the way their life is and that it is better, really, just find and dandy. Uh huh. *Nods*

Though, I am not sure I believe N. Too much pep in those words.

Favorite line: "I'm Nobody! Who are you?/Are you – Nobody – too?"

Because I could not stop for death (Emily Dickinson)

Because I could not stop for death by Emily Dickinson.

I like how calmly N says "he kindly stopped for me." Death practically provides a favor for N. Death is definitely written as gentlemanly. "his civility"

Death takes N through life. Childhood, adulthood, old age.

What I think is neat is how the last stanza is different than the rest. The whole poem through tends to use concrete nouns and images. 'school' 'grazing grain' 'carriage' However, in the last stanza, she switches to using words that don't mean much in actuality, but rather, they create a rounded image. You get what is being said, though it is not so direct as, say, in stanza three.

Favorite line: "Because I could not stop for Death,/He kindly stopped for me"

Because I could not stop for death (Emily Dickinson)

Make plans, but don't be rigid with them. Stuff happens. Shit happens, as was said in Forrest Gump. Or as Emily Dickinson says 'because I could not stop for death -- He kindly stopped for me.' Your plans may be great, but then again you never know when you'll be interrupted.

Wow, and um, sorry, but I am so tired and that is a terrible "talk" about this great poem. I'll try again later.

In the Library (Charles Simic)

In the Library by Charles Simic.

"I hear nothing, but she does." I don't believe N. N definitely hears the voices of the books. Else, N would not have taken the time to write this poem after finding a barely read tome. He listened to the unread book and chose to make it more well known, to bring it to our attention. He cares, just as Miss Jones does.

Lives devoted to little known pursuits. Hers to books that haven't been read in half a century. His to (some would say) esoteric poetry (though, not me. Keep it active and in your life!).

Favorite line: "She's very tall, so she keeps/Her head tipped as if listening."

Book of Nonsense (Edward Lear)

I haven't written in a while and sorry bout that. Thanksgiving is to blame as is wedding stuff. Today's poem is actually three snippets from the Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear. All three snippets are limericks. AABBA.

Limerick=Light Humor. It's practically a fact. I don't know of any limericks that have a harder or darker edge.

These poems don't mean much. They are, after all, nonsense. However, they do, at least, give mini portraits of three denizens of this nonsensical world (which may very well be our own).

Favorite line: "There was an Old Man in a tree,/Who was horribly bored by a Bee"

Happy Thanksgiving

No poem today, just a full belly. Happy Thanksgiving! I, for one, am thankful for this outlet and for all the new poetry I find through it!

The Orange Bears (Kenneth Patchen)

And I quote: "I remember you would put daisies/On the windowsill at night and in/The morning they'd be so covered with soot/You couldn't tell what they were anymore./A hell of a fat chance my orange bears had!"

Okay, so maybe that line doesn't make much sense without reading Kenneth Patchen's poem, but you should, because it's all contained in that line, those last two stanzas.

The poem starts so nicely. It begins like any poem about Nature. But then it turns and we learn that the bears don't win. And that daises lose to soot. Which expands to the nearby strikers who lose out to the ones with bayonets.

Everything is contained by the same threads. It's the same portal, only expanded from dust to mammals to people throughout history fighting for their rights.

Not bad for a poem that from its title and opening lines could have been a nature travelogue.

Favorite line: "What did he know about/Orange bears with their coats all stunk up with soft coal/And the National Guard coming over"

miss rosie (Lucille Clifton)

Oh my! I read this poem and got chills. I am extremely low on sleep, so emotions are therefore faster to breach, but ya know. It's a rich poem. It's also one I have vague memories of hearing before, though I do not recognize the poet's name.

I do love this descriptive phrase: "you wet brown bag of a woman". I mean, my gosh, what a fantastic way to describe a stranger. Just, love!

Ah right, all the other words: "through your destruction/I stand up" And what does that mean? Perhaps, nothing, just a pat on the back. Perhaps, it harkens back to the former relations N and the 'woman' had. It's a great ending because it add backbone to the whole poem. It's moving. It's adds definition to N even though this poem, from the title on, is about Miss Rosie.

Favorite line: "you wet brown bag of a woman"

On the Disadvantages of Central Heating (Amy Clampitt)

Aw. Nostalgia. It's strong in this poem by Amy C. It is, in part, what drives me home for Thanksgiving and my fiance home to his. Homes, once left, are forever in your heart. The memories become richer, the colors deeper, and even 'the disadvantages of central heating' ring clearer and become fuzzy with warmth and good feelings.

This poem is five snapshots, really. Blocks of text, listing memory-rich places and things. Maybe the poet wrote this poem in a a burst of homesickness.

I always forget that description alone can be a good poem. Thanks Amy C. for reminding me that you don't need "I" to make a poem personal, close, or specific.

Favorite line: "small boys and big eager sheepdogs/muscling in on bookish profundities"

A Song On the End of the World (Czeslaw Milosz)

This is a popular theme for movies these days. How will the world end? Vampires, disease, climate change, because the Aztecs predicted it so. Everyone's got an idea, a method. Milosz has no method, only reactions. And in his version, at least, no one is running, screaming from the horror. And no one acts the part of the triumphant savior.

Instead, he gives four stanzas describing what would be a pretty average day. That is, if the title and first line didn't change the poem's tone: "On the day the world ends..."

So, on this very last day, what details does the poet consider worthy of to draw our attention to out of all the going-ons? "A bee circles a clover,/A fisherman mends a glimmering net./Happy porpoises jump in the sea"

Nature. Nature is described first, maybe because it so shocking. People, like all species, will eventually cease to be, but to say that Nature will disappear seems ludicrous. How could water, land, and the millions of creatures stop being?

But again, that's the point. Things appear too big, too seemingly forever to cease being. So people put it out of their minds. Even with hours of life left, they will return to normal, quotidian tasks: "Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,/A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,/Vegetable peddlers shout in the street"

Even the only man who speaks 'the truth' keeps "busy" gardening his tomatoes even though he knows he and they will not be in only a few hours.

Knowledge is pretty useless if you cannot, like in a movie, act to prevent disaster. Perhaps, it is a wise old man (a prophet even) who says the world is ending, there is no second chance and then continues on with his work as if the days would stretch on to infinity like they always had.

Favorite line: "By the rainspout young sparrows are playing/And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be."

Out, Out -- (Robert Frost)

Out, Out-- by Robert Frost is the poem for today. Oops about not posting for days. I do mean for this to be a daily blog, but ya know, daily. And every day sure is one tall order.

So this poem is about the tragic death of a young boy. It reads like prose, only prettified into poetry. I think it's pretty clear about how the boy died. It's also pretty direct and unflinching as to how other people who are touched initially by his death will soon leave and forget him.

The title, I remember from HS, is from Hamlet, though I forget where and by whom the line was spoken. I'm sure it adds a neat level to this poem, though. Anybody wanna leave a comment and fill me in?

Favorite line: "Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—/He must have given the hand."

Too tired. We'll try this again later. See you tomorrow!

Nothing Gold Can Stay (Robert Frost)

Haha. This poem. I first heard of it from reading The Outsiders. I really thought that HS Hinton had composed the thing. It doesn't smack of Robert Frost. I get no sense of New England from this poem.

It's also very understandable. It's very middle school. Frost wrote better poems, I think. But I do like this poem, merely because my fiance loves to quote it. And that is a definite plus for the poem. It IS really easy to remember.

Favorite line: "Nothing gold can stay."

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (Robert Frost)

Hmm, I remember writing a blog posting referencing this poem by Frost back in day when I had an 'online journal' and not a blog. Let's see if I can find it:

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Summer passes on in lazy slow circles.

I was watching my first Oprah show the other day. She had a series of guests who had achieved incredible success from dire circumstances. Parents died, homeless, night classes, on to Harvard, and writing a best selling book on the subject kind of life stories. She had each guest tell about their struggle. She then showered them with praise and gave them a plaque.

The common thread through all of the stories was that they had no immediate family to depend on. They cited this as a source of pride--"And I had to do it alone. . ." But I think that their lack of family made it possible for them to achieve more than they could have if they had had a family.

I'm sure everyone has seen the movie It's a Wonderful Life. In the movie the main character continually gives up his aspirations to support his family at home. By giving up his dreams he is able to assure the dreams of his brother, father, and children.

Like in Frost's poem Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening I think the major issue is the conflict between serving others or serving yourself.

While not discounting the terrific struggles the women on Oprah's show went through to achieve what they did, I do think that their struggle was made easier because they only had to worry about themselves. They could spend all day studying because they didn't have a baby at home or a sick parent to take care of. Their energies could be intensely directed at their one goal. It wasn't split among a variety of causes or responsibilities. Their cause and responsibility were united.

The main character in It's a Wonderful Life (and let's just call him Jim because I've forgotten what he is called) sacrificed his wants for others. Is he nobler? At the end, we are to think that he is because he has friends and family and a wonderful life. But since it was not the life he had imagined for himself who is to say how things might have turned out if he had managed to pursue his own goals that he had at the start of the picture.

Is it better to chase down your own goals or to let them lie dormant if it means that others will be able to achieve theirs'?

Frost seemed to think so. The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I sleep.

The speaker in Frost's poem gives up his own desire to stay in the wood and watch the snow in order to fulfill his obligations, his promises to others.

I don't know which is the better path to take. But it seems to me that this issue is at the heart of so many unresolved issues today. The individual or the community? It's visible in homeland security. Personal freedoms or omnipresent surveillance? Medicine: Assisted suicides or no? It's at the bottom of soleada42's argument against the subservient position a woman is supposed to have in some wedding vows. It is the conflict between our valedictorian and salutatorian’s speeches
It is a matter of who deserves the priority: the individual or the community.

And right now at least, I think that this is the unresolvable issue. I don't see a way to compromise between the two.

Et tu?


Favorite line: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/ And miles to go before I sleep"

The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost)

I once had to memorize and then recite The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost for the stage. Ha! And doesn't that sound dramatic. And yes, if I were to be (un)fair, I would say that the most common reading of this poem is also pretty dramatic.

The pop reading is to say that the less-trodden path is the better one. That to be the odd kid out is the best way to go because you see more and see differently than most.

However, that is not at all what this poem is saying. I find that this line is forgotten in many people's analysis: "the passing there/Had worn them really about the same". The two paths are the same. They both take you far from your starting point and you know what they say about roads, they "go ever on and on". You'll be a different person whether you take one path or another and who can say what difference would have been made if you had selected the un-taken one.

Favorite line: "And sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler, long I stood"

Fire and Ice (Robert Frost)

Ah right, poetry. This thing is manual! Okay, so today's poem/poet is (drum roll please) Fire and Ice by Robert Frost.

Who doesn't love this poem. It's short. It's clever. It's truth-making. And it rhymes. What a clever, talented fellow Frost was.

And how staid, how New-England! The poem talks about the end of the world and yet it ends, not with a bang or a crash, but with the modest assessment: "ice/Is also great/ And would suffice."

Favorite line: "But if it had to perish twice,/I think I know enough of hate/To say that for destruction ice/Is also great"

To My Dear and Loving Husband (Anne Bradstreet)

I think Anne Bradstreet lived either during or right before the times of the American Revolution. She is one of the few pre-modernity female poets who is famous (in poetry circles). This, I have a vague recollection, is the poem for which she is particularly known. Or maybe I just selected it since I am newly engaged and a sap and wanted to hear her romantic words.

And they are romantic. Definitely so. I find it fun that her phrasing is unique. The lines seems clipped. For instance, while the second line reads "If ever man were loved by wife, then thee", however, surely the more common English reading would go 'if ever man were loved by wife, then you (thee) would be that man' - or something like that.

But, see, I love that she's written it in this manner. Love, as she presents it, is a reduction. Two become one. So, you don't need the full phrase. The words suddenly seem, well, extra.

Favorite line: "Thy love is such I can no way repay;/The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray."

Eating Poetry (Mark Strand)

I might know the poet, but not very well. He's modern and people always site him as beloved, but I don't know much (anything) more. I chose this poem to read first from his selected list because it sounded like an ars poetica and that's always good for a first look.

However, as I read it seemed like a it were written by a high schooler. I think I wrote a similar poem when I was in a hs creative writing class. But then it moves from the meaningless dribble ("I have been eating poetry") and goes to careful observations of the surroundings ("The librarian does not believe what she sees./Her eyes are sad/ and she walks with her hands in her dress."). That, I believe, is what elevates this from a clever hs poem to something worth something.

Oops, and I can't talk more about this poem. More later.

Favorite line: "She does not understand./When I get on my knees and lick her hand"

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock (Wallace Stevens)

Another poem by Wallace Stevens.

I am not bummed by what I have seen. His poem last night beckoned me to review my world to discover angles I had not known. This night's poem seems to say that most things are, indeed, just things and have no more stories or angles to discover. However, sometimes you find your "blackbird". You realize that "Only, here and there, an old sailor" waits to be found. The old sailor could be anybody, anything with stories that is hidden behind, in this case, a grizzled and sleeping, drunk face. Don't discount anybody or anything. Thinking on a blackbird could make you part of cannon. Considering suburbia could be the base of another meaningful poem.

Favorite line: "People are not going/To dream of baboons and periwinkles."

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird (Wallace Stevens)

Straightforward. Simple phrasing that belies deeper intentions. New eyes unto the world. I find this poem by Wallace Stevens to be breathtakingly beautiful, but it is the kind of beauty that does not allow for pictures, awes, or intakes of breath. Instead, the kind of beauty in this poem forces you to appreciate, nod, and lift your eyes to the things around you and see them, perhaps, for the first time. Their wholeness.

Favorite line: "A man and a woman/Are one./A man and a woman and a blackbird/Are one."

Ice Breaking (Ogden Nash)

Hee. A famous, pithy poem by Ogden (best, lamest first name ever) Nash.

Everyone has heard this, perhaps unlinked to its author. Although only seven words long, it has lasting power because it contains a truth. It might have conveyed that truth in harsh, damning language, but instead because it is written so briefly, it becomes funny with nary a word of judgment.

Who doesn't love this poem?

Favorite line: the whole darn thing.

Death, be not proud (John Donne)

This is another Donne poem that I came to through non-poetry means. I first heard of 'Death, be not proud' by reading the book by the same name. A great book about the terminal illness of a son through the eyes of the father. The poem was the epitaph.

It was a fitting epitaph. You fear death until you come into close contact and then you realize it's just a phase change and that "Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men." Death has no power by itself. Really it's so weak, a tool to be plied by others. And after all you can't fear a tool, only the wielder. So, sure, fear the 'desperate men', but death itself is pure fluff. Donne does a great job of powerfully uncovering this truth and ending with the a clear and loud deathly stroke. "And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die."

This poem is so empowering. I bet it was pure comfort to the author of the true-life novel "Death, Be Not Proud."

Favorite line: "Death, be not proud, though some have called thee/Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;/For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow/Die not, poor Death"

A Valediction: Forbidding Morning (John Donne)

Here is a super famous poem by John Donne. I remember seeing this poem as a question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? It was the most surreal thing. The question was: In the poem...to what object was a lover compared to? Or something like that. It was worth a lot of money, but the person got it wrong and acted like the question was ridiculous and "who would know this obscure piece of knowledge"?

Tonight, I recited this poem aloud, like I do with every poem I have talked about on here. However, unlike every other time I have read this poem I began to tear up. I'm a sap, and I am newly engaged and it just got to me. Even though this poem compares love to a mathematical tool, it totally works and plants the airy romance to the real and touchable world. Love. Love. Love.

Favorite line: "Our two souls therefore, which are one,/Though I must go, endure not yet/A breach, but an expansion./Like gold to airy thinness beat."

The Windhover (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

Another poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I just find such such joy in Hopkins' joy and his love and use of language. He's having fun and so I have fun. Squee!

This poem is about a bird, the windhover, that seems to pause in mid-flight as it hunts. Pauses perhaps like a person does when they read the obscene over-use of alliteration in this poem. Oh! Maybe that's why only the first stanza has so much alliteration. It's the skimming, the pause before the strike that occurs in the last stanzas.

The strike! The kill. In a way, it's about the bird killing its dinner. It could also be about any result after a long effort. Er, that is, if the result is a bloody and well-fought one.

This poem is a sonnet. For show, I guess. It's not romantic in the way Shakespeare's sonnets are. I don't really know why else the form would be used.

Favorite line: "Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion."

Spring and Fall: To a young child (Gerald Manley Hopkins)

Oh boy! I didn't know this poem was written by Gerald Manley Hopkins. I adore Hopkins. I knew this poem before tonight, but if asked, I would have said it were written by William Blake. It just seems more his style. This poem doesn't really have the flash that I normally associate with Hopkins.

Death comes to all, eh? An old poem, a universal truth. Funny how those two go together. Maybe there is no flash because the topic is so somber. Maybe Hopkins was in a depressive state.

Gleeful or somber, he's a talented guy. Who else would take the image of a child and an autumn tree and spin the whole of a human life and then reconnect it to the very basic, indivisible childlike self.

Gosh, I love Hopkins!

Favorite line: "Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving?"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I should talk about a poem tonight. I should have talked about a poem yesterday. I'm just not focused enough to do that though. My boyfriend proposed to me this weekend and while I looked (briefly) for an engagement poem, I could not find one. So, I will begin again with poetry tomorrow.

All the world's a stage (William Shakespeare)

I can't remember if I have seen Shakespeare's play, "As You Like It," but I definitely know this piece from it. I mean, who doesn't? It's part of cannon, poetry cannon, sure, but also just the general lit cannon.

I think the reason it's so well known is because it, like many older poems, contains a world view and synthesizes everything and everybody everywhere. Don't ask me how many iterations of world-wide truths can be written, but I kind of wonder if there is a limit to these types of topics and that's why poetry has turned from these broad, all-encompassing views to the narrow, I-format of modern poetry.

That said, cannon is cannon for a reason. Cannon exists because things ring true for people everywhere. So Will S. was brilliant, a keen observer ("second childishness and mere oblivion"), and lucky to have lived and been writing at the right time for his poetry.

When I Heard the Learned Astronomer (Walt Whitman)

When I Heard the Learned Astronomer by Walt Whitman is the poem for this evening's post.

This poem is pretty to the point. It's not difficult to understand it. Nature doesn't need explanation to be appreciated. In fact, it might even take away from it. Crap, maybe that can be expanded to poetry as a whole and thus this blog is the over-starched lecture that N walks away from. Hrmmm. Grumble.

I do love this poem though. I first read it back in middle school and felt that the whole truth of everything was in this poem. Because sometimes (that's my current voice, before, in high school, I would have said 'because it's always..') it's like that.

Information is golden. That is not the issue, I think. It's more needing to listen to your own intelligence and understand things in your own way. Taking things at your own pace and knowing how best you interact with the world. This poem tells how to approach the world. And ain't that a true old fashioned poetry concept? And it being a Whitman poem, it's written with such modern phrasing. Neat-o.

Favorite line: "Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself"

The Raven (Edgar Allen Poe)

It's a Halloween poem and post. So cute! How to be Edgar Allen Poe.

And for the poem. Uh, The Raven. It's very, very famous. I mean, there was even a Simpson's episode based on the poem. When the Simpson's covers you you know you're a part of pop culture.

Long lines. Rhyme. That dodding rhythm. It's creepers, for sure. It makes me anxious just to read it. Definitely apt for Halloween.

And this has been a long day full of challenges, so I think that will be it in terms of "talk" for this poem. See you tomorrow!

Favorite line: "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams (Kenneth Koch)

This poem I adore. It also gave me the idea to create my own 'Variation on a Theme' which has recently been published. I owe much hearty laughter and a published poem to this poem by Kenneth Koch.

This is the only poem (out of all the poems I have read) that I cannot read with a straight face. I laugh so deeply when I read this poem. Always have and I guess I always will. That is some crazy level of skill to create a joke that is hilarious every single time you hear it.

I just cannot read the second stanza without my smile breaking through."We laughed at the hollyhocks together/and then I sprayed them with lye./Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing." :) :) :) :)

Favorite line: "We laughed at the hollyhocks together/and then I sprayed them with lye."

This Is Just To Say (William Carlos Williams)

Sure, I like this poem, but really I love the poem that is a variation on this theme, that I will hopefully find and talk about tomorrow. But before I get to that one, I must talk about this original. I think I like William Carlos Williams because he boils down big, big ideas into a single example using concrete language.

What I love about this poem is that it is so simple. It seems as though this was the hastily written apology scribbled on scratch paper--perhaps the back of a receipt--and stuck to the front of the fridge. But in that haste, poetry emerges: "so sweet/and so cold".

It starts with a single fact. The plums that were there have been taken. N imagines the owner's intentions regarding the fruits. "and which/you were probably/saving for breakfast". N then describes why he has taken the plums. "Forgive me/they were delicious". He talks about how they filled a sense within him. "so sweet/and so cold"

Okay, so expand-->Things happen. Writers imagine how things came to be. Writers then act themselves; they write to fill a void either in themselves or in their world. All three of those together equal a poem. Or a story. Or a novel. Any act of creation, I'd think.

Favorite line: "Forgive me/they were delicious/so sweet/and so cold"

In the old days a poet once said (Ko Un)

The front page of poets.org still has the picture of transformed Mona Lisa. True. It also, in the far corner, has a link of poems for high schoolers. Yesterday's poem came from that collection. Clicking through that and finding myself in a section for ars poetica poems I found this post's poem: In the old days a poet once said by Korean poet Ko Un.

Poems of Nature give rise to poems of politics and space and boundaries. I can see that. I, however, do not share Ko Un's pessimistic view of the poetry and poets of tomorrow: "Tomorrow's poet will say/the mountains and rivers are destroyed/our nation is destroyed and Alas!/you and I are completely destroyed"

Though I guess I do believe that the next transformation of poetry (and I think it has already happened) is to be no more with the big topics of politics and nationalism, but rather a realignment with the personal. If I were to classify poetry today (gulp!), I would say it tends to be about people's personal problems and viewpoints. I happen to think that is a good thing. No more are poets speaking in generalities, for all humankind. Now, poems seem to be more rooted in what one person (the poet) is seeing and experiencing and they are rooted in their own backgrounds and experiences. Poetry today allows a glimpse of who the poet is which is something that cannot be said about earlier generations of poets. I (perhaps unlike Ko Un) don't find this progression to be narcissistic. Instead, I think it allows for greater compassion and connections to people who would otherwise be complete strangers.

Favorite line: "In the old days a poet once said/our nation is destroyed/yet the mountains and rivers survive"

Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry (Howard Nemerov)

Well, I didn't, actually. I have always thought that the difference between poetry and prose is akin to the difference between porn and erotica. "I know it when I see it." But, I wanted to hear another take, so I delved into this poem by (new-to-me poet) Howard Nemerov.

This short poem rhymes, which is totally a short-cut. You don't need rhyme to make a poem. It also talks about Nature. Another short-cut.

Okay, so how it does it right. This poem, like a book or an essay, uses long, full, grammatically correct sentences and grammar. This poem has interesting line breaks (ugh, I used the word interesting!). I don't mean that sarcastically. I find that this poem breaks the lines in places that are unique to poetry. Each line seems complete as it is, but when you read it as prose, you take breaths at completely different locations. Very neat.

Favorite line: "Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle"

Theme in Yellow (Carl Sandburg)

They still have the vampire Mona Lisa picture up on poets.org, but tonight I went for a seasonal poem rather than a Halloween one. I found Theme in Yellow by Chicago's own Carl Sandburg.

I love that Carl Sandburg managed to write a poem that conveys yellow, that is yellow, without having to repeat yellow or talk about burning suns and traffic lights. The scene is set with yellow, sure, the autumn-leaved trees on the hillside and the ready-for-harvest grain in the fields. But then he goes farther along the color wheel and pulls in shades of orange, black, smoke-white, and moldy green-yellow.

I think that if the general population were asked what color autumn is, they would name the colors that Carl Sandburg lists in this poem. They might even site examples that he includes himself--pumpkins, grain, the moon, and nighttime.

Personally, I think that this poem is a better portrait of fall than yesterday's was. Yes, Halloween is pretty much smack-dab in the middle of the season, but the essence has been distilled into this poem.

Favorite line: "I light the prairie cornfields/Orange and tawny gold clusters/And I am called pumpkins."

Lamia (John Keats)

How could I resist? I opened poets.org looking for a poem to talk about this evening. There on the home page was this funny picture:



Ha!

So I clicked the link and searched for poems dealing with vampires. I simply had to pick the poem titled Lamia since that's the name of my boyfriend's mother. And it was written by John Keats! Woah.

I don't know if Lamia is really about turning into a vampire. I don't see anything that specific in it. Clearly, someone is turning into something new. And what a transformation! It's so dramatic. So full of importance. Such old, poetic language. It even rhymes. I'm impressed. Wow-e.

Favorite line: "Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars"

Boa Constrictor (Shel Silverstein)

It's late. I have to get up early tomorrow. A light poem. Yup. This fits the bill. Shel Silverstein is a master of light verse.

It's funny. It's cute. It's long(ish) and skinny. Looks like a boa (a stunted one, maybe). It uses rhyme, true. But to such comedic effect that's it's perfect. Love.

And we're out. I do adore light verse for being so darn light. It makes you feel better and is so easy to read that you don't consider how hard it was to write, but in this one, due to the forethought required for the rhyme scheme to work, you can see the skill it took to compose. Way to go, Shel.

Favorite line: "Oh, gee,/It's up to my knee."

Why I Am Not a Painter (Frank O'Hara)

Today's poem is Why I Am Not a Painter by Frank O'Hara.

This poem came up, sort of, one evening in workshop. Someone mentioned hearing about a painting called Sardines that had not a single sardine in it. The conversation started when another person had apologized for bringing in a poem with a title that had nothing to do with the words that followed. It was the spark for the poem only, she had said. It was funny: the person who brought up the example of the sardines was not quoting this poem. She must have read or heard it before, but she had forgotten the true source and she gave the example disassociated from the work. And ain't that proof of the poem in real life?

Favorite line: "My poem/is finished and I haven't mentioned/orange yet. It's twelve poems"

The World is Too Much With Us (William Wordsworth)

The last poem was a disappointment, so, it's true, for today's post I found a universally respected and loved poet and poem. And yep, I find much to love in the poem.

One. I love the title/first line. I'm not sure how or when, but I know I have heard that phrase before. It really lays out the theme of the whole poem. I mean, how can the world be too much??? How can "us" be without the "world"??? It can't, or at least, it cannot naturally be true. You know something is amiss right from the start and that is true great talent.

Two. It's a sonnet! Although, I don't know what kind exactly. It's 14 lines, so that makes it a sonnet, but it does not have the rhyme scheme that is most common with sonnets. This poem rhymes abbaabbacdcdcd. So, it's definitely some scheme, I just don't know what kind.

Three. Nature is set up on the other side of the scale against humankind. They both react to the other. But wait, I guess Wordsworth is saying that Nature and humankind have fallen out of sync since it says, "Little we see in Nature that is ours". Later in the poem, N does wish, does cry out to be reconnected with the natural world. He wishes that being in Nature he'd "Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn." N is hoping that the two will be connected again in the future. Though, it doesn't indicate whether they ever do, so it seems Wordsworth is pretty pessimistic.

Favorite line: "For this, for everything, we are out of tune;/It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be/A pagan"

A Muse (Reginald Shepherd)

Oh, ick. I knew it would come to this. Browsing at random, I came across this poem by somebody I've never heard of. He's famous enough to be included on poets.org, but I swear, if I had run across this poem not attached to a site I respect I would have thought it were written by a teenager who was sick with love for the first time.

I'm not sure how to talk about this poem. I've always had positive, sometimes very positive, things to say about the quotidian poem. With this one, however, I'm at a dry spell. The phrasing I don't find original or moving. The concepts seem well, duh. Even the title bugs me.

Something nice......something nice......hmm, I like that the phrasing is controlled. That the 16 lines form couplets. 16 seems a likely age for the speaker and couplets seem to be N's ideal.

From that, it seems that this poem was probably constructed by someone with talent, not just a love-sick teen. Perhaps, I am not seeing the deeper side to the piece. Who knows? I could look again, but I am tired from a long day and week. So, I will let it be and if anyone sees more to this poem, please tell me how you read it.

Favorite line: "simple birds staking claims/on no sleep. Whatever they call those particular birds."

i sing of Olaf glad and big (e.e. cummings)

I swear, I think if you polled every high schooler in the U.S. their favorite poet would be e.e. cummings. Because his poetry is graspable. Because his poetry is unique in the sense that he uses little capitalization and hardly any punctuation. Which is not to say that is isn't great. He's not my personal favorite though I do like this particular poem even though it's not very pleasant.

It's the only political poem I know of. Like many e.e. cummings poems this poem uses parentheses creatively. It tells a story and I do love a good story. I wonder when this poem was published. It seems like a Vietnam War poem, though I don't have specifics why I think so. Something about the phrase "conscientious object-or."

Favorite line: "unless statistics lie he was/more brave than me:more blond than you."

Everything the Power of the World does is done in a circle (Black Elk)

Shortest title is quickly followed by the longest title I've ever had. Figure that. Not sure the title, Everything the Power of the World is done in a circle, counts since it's the first whole line though.

I like that this poem reads almost like prose. There are no "poetic" words. No sentence has poor grammar so as to fit meter or to be a smoother read. It is a marvel that this collection of eight sentences read like poetry. But I think that the power of language is on full display here. Eight complete sentences=a poem of great beauty, truth, and a complete world view.

Favorite line: "The sky is round/and I have heard that the earth is round/like a ball"

First winter rain (Matsuo Basho)

I am not in a peaceful, contemplative mood tonight. Poetry is not high on my list of things to do, but readtalkpoem I must. It's raining like woah here, so I searched for a poem about the rain. I was hoping for one that expressed how awful it can be as I have experienced it tonight. I found this poem by famous Japanese poet Basho.

And yep, this poem tells it like it is. Rain can suck sometimes and everyone, even the monkey, looks miserable and in need of protection. I like neat little truths like these.

The poem is not a quite a haiku, though I had at first thought it might be one. Instead, its syllable count is 4,5,6. And that's kind of neat. You do take small steps when it's wet outside.

Favorite line: "even the monkey/seems to want a raincoat."

Helen (H.D.)

Well, that's the shortest title I have probably ever written. And ouch, this poem is harsh. I found it listed under the category "Enemies", and I don't know if I would have expanded my reading of this poem that far if it had not been categorized like that. But now that I see that connection, I feel for H.D. and the situation she was in that made her recognize the strengths and the beauties of her enemy and yet feel no compassion, make no space or leeway for understanding and instead wished her dead. Ouch!

I don't have much more to say about this poem. It's good. I can tell that, but I don't really care about it. Perhaps because I have no enemy I wish to death. Or maybe because the story of the Trojan War never sparked my imagination. Ah well. Not all poems have to impress me. Do you like it?

Favorite line: "All Greece hates/the still eyes in the white face"

A Blessing (James Wright)

Sometimes luck and happenstance direct you to a gem. This poem was featured on the home page of Poets.org. I've never heard of the author, but I was immediately receptive to the poem because it mentioned a town I know in the first line. It then went on and expressed wonder at the natural world. And me, I'm a sucker for people who marvel and slow at the same types of things I do, so I read slower, knowing that I was going to like the poem.

And I like how the lines, which are so untidy, mirror the roughness and non-standard quality of the natural world. I like how the scene that is portrayed is done in such a way that I am right there with N.

I like how, when talking of the horses, N keeps referring to them as a pair and also as being so solitaire and lonely. Because that's how it always seems. You go into Nature to connect, but you go alone. You must love yourself before you can love anyone else. You write poems for an audience, but you need solitude to write them.

Ooooh! The last line! It's advice really, not just description. "Suddenly I realize/ That if I stepped out of my body I would break/Into blossom." Once you stop focusing inward great, beautiful things happen. You treat people as part of the whole they are and which you only discovered by entering Nature and learning its lessons. You love yourself and then you can form a lasting bridge to another person on Earth. You write and send out a poem so strangers can read it and understand and grow.

Favorite line: "And the eyes of those two Indian ponies/Darken with kindness."

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock (TS Eliot)

Okay, today is the day to talk about this wonderful, wonderful poem. I remember hearing that TS Eliot was not British (American) though he longed to be so and that he even adapted a British accent despite the fact that he was born and grew up in Missouri. For a man that seems to fit the caricature of the man portrayed in Miniver Cheevy, TS Eliot actually accomplished quite a bit. He wrote a number of ridiculously well-known poems. He even wrote the book of poems that was later used as the source material for the musical Cats. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature about mid-century. Anyways, he's a famous and grossly talented guy.

This poem was my first introduction to him. It has also been something of a cyclical poem for me, always re-entering my life when I thought I had read it/studied it enough. I first read it at home, then later read and studied it during high school and again in college. In college, I wrote a brief re-interpretation of Prufrock for an English class. Later, actually a few weeks ago, it was accepted for publication by a nationally distributed journal of short verse. (Yay! me.)

So, I have a long history with this poem and I hold great love and affection for it. This post would be too long if I were to talk about every angle of the poem, so I will mention just a few great things.

I love the opening of the poem. I once said I would memorize the whole poem, all the way through. While I know bits from the entire poem, the only stanza I have memorized in full is the first. "LET us go then, you and I,/When the evening is spread out against the sky...." I love how it sets the stage and then takes you away from the city you thought you were walking about and plants you in a crowded art museum. I love how this poem constantly does that; that it isn't linear; how it doesn't take place in a particular location (or maybe it really does, but I don't think N ever fully explains where that is); how the only constant thing that is given is a portrait of the titular character.

And what a picture that is! Prufrock, this poor, sad man, lost in the modern age; lost under the eyes of countless strangers; lost while he tries to make up his mind; lost while he gathers courage. Aw!!! My heart goes out to him even as I laugh at him and yet I marvel at his turns of phrase. Oh, Prufrock! An everyman and yet so singular!

And, oh my goodness, I have so many favorite lines. I have never before had this much difficulty in hi-lighting just one. Oh, um, hem-haw.........

Favorite line: "In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

If anyone should read this post, maybe, perhaps, you'll comment by hi-lighting your own favorite line?

There was a young person from Perth (Unknown)

Okay, so I lied again. Tonight is not the night for Prufrock. When will it come? Perhaps tomorrow. Who knows. This is the night for another light limerick. (Is there any other kind? Has someone subverted the style and made a tragic one?) Like the last time, I neither know who wrote the poem nor can I find it online. I will copy in full here and hope that Unknown never finds out.

There was a young person from Perth,
Who was born on the day of his birth.
He was married, they say,
On his wife`s wedding day
And died when he quitted this earth.

The two limericks that I have talked about are my favorites. In this one, I love the bright originality hiding in the uneducated speech of the last line. High-larious! I also love this poem for doing a common thing--telling the history of a person--with none of the usual turns of phrase.

Favorite line: "He was married, they say,/On his wife's wedding day"

National Poetry Day

Okay, so I lied. Tonight is not the night I talk about Prufrock. That poem is too great to be written about when I feel as I do. Today for the world of poetry is the National Poetry Day if you're in Great Britain. I wonder if the United States has a national poetry day. I really think that poetry needs to get back into common knowledge/pop culture. It used to be. Poetry has, overall, gotten easier to understand and read. Perhaps, that's just because because I fluently read modern English, whereas the English from the 1700s and earlier can be archaic. So, then why isn't poetry loved and recited by every person?

Poetry, yay!!!

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock (TS Eliot)

I have had a rough day, was up much too early, and am now up too late. I am not going to talk about a poem today. I am going to sleep and hope that tomorrow is a happier, better day. Though, I'm not going to leave this day poemless. Today's poem is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. I adore this poem. I will talk about it later, hopefully tomorrow. For now, I'll let it stand by itself.

One Art (Elizabeth Bishop)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night was the first and One Art is the other really famous villanelle, I think. From the little I know about Elizabeth Bishop's life this poem is pretty autobiographical. Not sure how she lost her love, if she ever did, but I do know that she did live and lose homes in many countries.

Villanelles are ridiculously complicated and difficult to write. Which is why, in canon, there are so few--two might be the official count. Wikipedia describes the form: "A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close." The rigidity of this form inspires greatness, I think, in equally great poets.

I like the attitude of N in the poem. The losing, the forgetting of things, even important things, is treated almost as a game. The process seems glib. So, it comes as a shock of human honesty when this line comes: "though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster." And suddenly, the rigid form makes perfect sense when compared to poem's content. N is holding back deep emotions and is probably seconds from crashing, from bawling. Forms like villanelle are best suited when they add to the poem's content, I believe.

Favorite line: "The art of losing isn't hard to master"

Ah Sunflower (William Blake)

I have a great fondness for sunflowers. I've started my own garden where I have grown four sunflowers all from seed. They are not so tall, and I have much to learn before they can reach their full potential. Seeing how much I adore sunflowers I simply had to read the poem I stumbled upon by William Blake called Ah! Sunflowers (I wasn't allowed an exclamation point in the title. Pout.).

The poem is only eight lines long--not much for a sunflower's grandness. However, the span that is in the poem makes up for the stubbiness of the poem itself. This small poem is about the life span of a sunflower. Or rather, it seems to be about the end of its life.

I think that this poem must have been written after Blake saw a sunflower in late September when sunflowers are waning and they do seem "weary of time". And then it says that sunflowers are wishing for youth and innocence as they lean towards an unseen entity. At the end of their life, similar to humans, they harken back to "the good old days" of "youth" and "pale virgin(s)".

Favorite line: "Ah! sunflower.../Seeking after that sweet golden clime"

The Creation (James Weldon Johnson)

You know what I love? A good story. Things are not read aloud much past childhood, but I first heard this poem by James Weldon Johnson at a high school assembly performed by another student. The most repeated comment about this poem that I have heard from other people is that this is a poem that is meant to be read aloud. While I think that all poems would benefit from being read aloud, it is true that this particular one shines when performed.

This poem is one of the longest poems that I have talked about. I think it reads quickly because the lines are not so long and because the story is so well known.

It is a wonder that this common story can be retold in a way that still strikes one (er, me) as new and original. I love that this common, old, white story is reinterpreted as being more regional and yet, also more universal.

Favorite line: "Darkness covered everything,/Blacker than a hundred midnights/Down in a cypress swamp."

Water Music (Robert Creeley)

I like the poet, so I picked a new poem of his at random. And, ha, what is with poets telling me that poems don't have meaning or rather that they don't have to. I don't think so. Maybe poems don't have to have a grand idea at their heart, but I do not agree with the claim that words mean nothing, which is what this poem is trying to do. It's just telling me that words sound good, like "water music", but that they do not have to hold greater importance than that.

But, you know, bosh! To say that words never mean anything is ridiculously unworldly. Words and images contain a great deal. Even if that 'deal' is simply the eating of lunch, I don't see how that statement is a zero-sum. It still means something. From the "nothing" in this poem I learn that words are like water. They bounce about through water making music. I learn that words are always on the search for a place to stop, rest, and replenish. That words are searching, and that through their searching they make "beautiful music."

Favorite line: "off the boats,/birds, leaves."

In a Station of the Metro (Ezra Pound)

It's been a long day. I was searching for short forms on poets.org when I discovered this famous poem by Ezra Pound listed under haiku. I had never considered this a haiku. Nor am I clear about how poets.org put it in that category. Haiku is a form that is three lines of certain metrical feet: 5, 7, 5. However, this poem is only two lines long. If I were to divide it into three line then the way I see it is as a mini-poem of 5, 7, 7 feet. So, almost a haiku, but not quite.

However, even if it's not a formal haiku there is no doubt that it is a great poem. I think poetry is about creating images. Images that ring very clear, but with words that no one has thought of before. It's also, of course, about economy of words. With those qualifications then this poem is pretty perfect poetry.

Favorite line: "Petals on a wet, black bough."

Hints on Pronunciation for Foreigners (Unknown)

I don't know who wrote this delightful poem. Through Google, it seems the options are Unknown, TSW, or George Bernard Shaw. So, that narrows it down.

What I think is kind-of grand in this poem is how it brings out and really emphasizes the non-standard-ness of English (kinda like that word I just used. Hee!). This poem is most definitely only for strong English speakers. And even as a native speaker I still could not read this poem fluidly. Whoever wrote this chose brilliantly for the word pairs. I always stumble here: "A moth is not a moth in mother,/Nor both in bother, broth in brother" because seriously, bother? both? "both"-er!

Favorite line: "A dreadful language? Man alive,/I'd mastered it when I was five!"

Facing It (Yusef Komunyakaa)

I first read this poem by Yusef K. before high school and again on either the ACT or SAT. Since it was on a standardized test it must then be considered graspable enough for 17-year-olds.

And it is definitely approachable. It begins almost prose-like. It's clear who is talking (a Vietnam veteran) and where he is (the Vietnam War Memorial) and how he is feeling (lost in a rush of memories and fighting against those feelings).

When I first read this poem I remember thinking that the last line fell flat. And I still think it sticks out. I now also think it's the man's purposeful re-entry into present time. No, not everything is in or about the Vietnam Memorial. Sometimes, it really is just a woman brushing a boy's hair.

I also think that by having that as the last line of the poem it makes the whole poem, full of death and memories of carnage, a hopeful one. It's realistic, but also ends on a hopeful note by having it end in reality. The current reality.

Although, how much has Yusef left his Vietnam past behind if after visiting the Memorial, almost drowning in memories, and managing to pull himself back into the present reality, he spends the hours and days to write this quality poem?

Favorite line: "My black face fades,/hiding inside the black granite./...I'm stone. I'm flesh."

The Man He Killed (Thomas Hardy)

Didn't Thomas Hardy write novels? Perhaps, he did, but he also wrote this poem. It rhymes. ABAB. It has a fairly obvious point. But despite these junior high poetic necessities, it is so well crafted that it just hits the spot and I don't think it has any weak spots.

I think it escapes Jr. High because the soldier who is the speaker is clearly defined without ever explicitly being talked about. It's not so direct because it wants and needs for the subject to be universal. It never gives the man a name or a side or a time period. However, it does gives him a human heart. It shows him attempting to rationalize the chaotic and nonsensical nature of war. "I shot him dead because--/Because he was my foe,/Just so: my foe of course he was;/That's clear enough; although"

That humanness of questioning, rationalizing, and empathizing is what raises this poem above the baseness it hints at.

Favorite line: "I shot him dead because--/Because he was my foe,/Just so"

The Something (Charles Simic)

I like Charles Simic. I do. I like the simplicity with which he writes. I like the 'woah, that's a big point' you get at the end of one of his poems which, of course, is written with such simple diction.

I like that he titled this poem The Something. It's emblematic of what I meant earlier. It's so simple. Perhaps, knowingly too simple. It seems false. It must be hiding something. You know to look for a deeper point. It's in there, you only have to find it.

Or is it? Haha, Mr. Simic. I see your game now. You, like that poem before, are challenging me by chiding me for seeing patterns and meaning where none are meant. Well, bosh. Humans hate chaos. We hate disarray. Looking at the universe and finding it "immense and incomprehensible" is it any wonder that we turn to poetry, "this fine old prop", and try to pull the edges together in order to form, well, "something"?

Favorite line: "What they thought about/Stayed the same,/Stayed immense and incomprehensible."

The Flea (John Donne)

It's late for me, having had the busiest weekend in a while, so this will be short. Today's poem will be The Flea by John Donne.

This is a poem that is a come-on by one sexual partner (at least he wants it be so) to another. It's very funny and it's very persuasive. It's also very smooth. Which again, is kind of funny. You would just not expect someone to make this kind of argument in a poem.

And not just any poem, but one that is this stylistically of quality. One that was written centuries ago. One that is this full of religious references. ("three lives in one flea spare" definitely refers to the Holy Trinity.)

It's one smooth, slick package.

Favorite line: "Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,/And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee"

O Captain, My Captain (Walt Whitman)

Okay, it's true. I have little time to write a post tonight since I am minutes from leaving and when I return I am seconds from sleeping. So, another truth, I don't really like this poem by Walt Whitman.

I remember reading once that the Captain was Abraham Lincoln and that this poem was written in response to his assassination. The metaphor just doesn't do much for me. Lincoln is not my Captain, after all.

And again, there is that pesky rhyme. Well, only in the last stanza. But the rhymes run so close together that they clang when they should be underlines for the sentiments. I think that rhyme scheme is much better suited to comedy.

Okay, so that's enough dissing of the poem. What I do like is how clear the feelings of loss are in this poem. And I always like Whitman poems for breaking with the standard nicety of clean cut lines and stanzas.

Favorite line: "My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,/My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will"

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)

This poem by Dylan Thomas is very famous. I also remember it being one of (the?) first poem I ever thought about beyond the words being used. This may have been the first poem I ever really talked about.

I remember my mom at the stove and I standing, leaning, in the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. I forget why I was reading this poem. It might have been assigned for homework (this takes place in middle school, maybe 7th grade). But anyway, I read the poem aloud, exclaiming over how it all sounded and the fact that lines are repeated and wasn't that cool?

After I had gone on for a while about the coolness of the poem, my mom asked me what I thought it meant, what it referred to. I paused. I hadn't considered that, the most basic of questions. "Death," I ventured.

So, now I'd say it's about death, sure. But more importantly, it's about how people want and need to live life grandly and that their life can hardly be said to have lived at all unless one has "raged against the dying of the light."

Favorite line: "Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,/And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way"

Departmental (Robert Frost)

This poem is great in comparison to other Frost poems. So, I should have, perhaps, talked about other, more famous Frost poems first, but I just adore this poem. It's such a story and then it ends in the delightful quip "It couldn't be called ungentle/But how thoroughly departmental."

This poem is gleeful. I bet Frost wrote it quickly when he was in a happy, light mood. This is an example of what I consider to be appropriate use of rhyme. It's not a skill of mine and it's so painfully awful when it's done poorly, which is pretty common. But here, the rhymes are AABBCC. They are so close together, which is so appropriate for humor.

This poem almost mislead me. I saw "Robert Frost" and thought it would be serious and snow-filled. But then, right away, the rhyme and the meter become apparent and set the stage for the delight that quickly comes. Without meaning it in a trite way, this poem is so cute!

Favorite line: "Go bring him home to his people./Lay him in state on a sepal./Wrap him for shroud in a petal./Embalm him with ichor of nettle./This is the word of your Queen."

The Moon Sails Out (Federico Garcia Lorca)

I've never read this poem by Federico Garcia Lorca in its original Spanish. I cannot find the original, but I love this translation. Looking for the poem online I ran across a number of different translations and it's so interesting to see how the same source material can end up sounding so different. It takes not only a fluidity with both languages, I think, but also an ear and a talent for poetry to be able to create quality translations.

I love this poem for creating truths that I would not have considered otherwise. It's true, no one does eat oranges at night. They are definitely daytime fruits. They're little suns.

Also, I think this line is extremely apt: "When the moon sails out/...the heart feels it is/a little island in the infinite." Nighttime is solitary. The world is so enormous with its unknown and unseen dimensions. It is fitting that one turns inward when confronted with that infinity. One might even...write this poem, say.

Favorite line: "No one eats oranges/under the full moon."

Fame is a bee (Emily Dickinson)

As much as I have read and loved poetry I have never really gotten into Emily Dickinson. I need a class full of people exclaiming over her. I mean, I think she's fine, but I don't get her genius. This poem, however, is fine, true, but it's also short and to the point and thus biting and acidic.

I like poems that fill a void in English and clearly give definition to a word, a feeling, or an experience. This poem manages to do all three, I think. This poem also mimics fame (the fame it gave to Dickinson?) in that it also has "song" and it's barbed and sharp and therefore has "sting," and since it is so tiny it, too, has "wing."

Favorite line: "Ah, too, it has wing."

A Poison Tree (William Blake)

Yeah, yeah, this poem, too, rhymes. Okay, so maybe I don't dislike rhyme. Or I do, rather, when it is poorly done, which so easily happens. William Blake is a talented guy. He write in rhyme. AABB. He writes pretty even lines too. Neat-o.

And not only that, he writes a poem that seems to summarize human relations. You can be angry with a friend, but it doesn't matter. You're friends. You talk it out. You're angry with your enemy, and because they are your enemy you keep hold of your anger until it grows into hatred and at that point you're both destroyed.

In the poem, all it says is that the friend is "outstretched", but N also has destroyed himself. He has spent all his hours growing this poison tree, and at the end all he has done is lay low the enemy and that brings a smile to his face since he is "glad", but what is next step, I wonder. He has spent days and nights, days and nights perfecting this poison tree. And to what purpose? But, that I suppose, is the point. There is no purpose.

Jabberwocky (Lewis Carroll)

This is a much loved poem. Lewis Carroll displays so much creativity in this poem as he does is all his work. He must have been a terribly interesting person.

I adore (as I imagine everyone does) the first and last stanza of the poem where the majority of words are total nonsense. I also adore how despite the uniformity of the words the stanzas read differently. The first is all set-up. It's full of anticipation. Whereas the last is quiet, a stealthy exit from the scene.

I also love the story, the plot contained between the nonsensical lines. I love how this poem is almost an ethnography of a foreign culture. They have a different language. They have different flora. They hunt with blades. They have strange creatures. And yet, I am not confused by this poem. Even with 30% of the poem written in not-English I am not confused. True, a reader is just dropped into the poem and its world, but Carroll is so sure with how he presents this new place that you're okay and you even enjoy it.

Favorite line: "'Come to my arms, my beamish boy!/O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'/He chortled in his joy."

Richard Cory (Edwin Arlington Robinson)

Okay, so this is another cannon poem of Edwin Arlington Robinson (before I had talked about his Miniver Cheevy).

What I love about this poem is how I am reminded of the age I was when I first read it. I was in middle school and I was skimming along and was really stopped short by the last line which I had not foreseen. This poem is almost cliche by now it's so entrenched in common thought. It was even the source material for the same-named Simon and Garfunkel song. When I read this poem I am reminded of how dramatic reversals would always shock me, before I had read countless examples of this kind of twist.

So yeah, this poem is about how every single person on earth has troubles, but for me it's very reminiscent of the innocence of childhood.

Favorite line: "And he was always quietly arrayed,/And he was always human when he talked"

Acquainted with the Night (Robert Frost)

I love this poem by Robert Frost because of how it feels. It moves slowly with most lines being full, complete sentences. That slow gentleness is descriptive of how night itself feels. The wind drops. The day is done. Sleep is eminent.

Also, looking at the Wikipedia page where the poem is posted in its entirety, I learned that this poem is written in a particular form. From just reading I could tell that it was in iambs and that there was a rhyme pattern. But not only that, he wrote "Acquainted with the Night" in terza rima. Terza rima requires iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme aba bcb cdc dad aa. It's very difficult and so I am in awe now that I have learned he wrote a poem I love for its content and feel in one of the most difficult forms there is. Wow.

Favorite line: "I have passed by the watchman on his beat/and dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain."

Aside: I will be attending an orientation for my job for the rest of this week, so I don't believe I will be able to post again until Saturday. See you later!

My Son, My Executioner (Donald Hall)

I didn't know before I saw his profile that Donald Hall is a modern writer. While the themes in this poem are modern-sounding, they seem so timeless and universal that it could have been written in any age.

I have never had a child, so I can't appreciate this poem directly, but I can still infer the truth that it expresses. To have a child is to start your line in perpetuity. True. But it also must conjure thoughts of mortality. A child, so defenseless, probably kick-started Donald Hall's thoughts that led to this poem--this realization that 1.) the parents' lives are biologically non-important once they have created life and 2.) that they are now more like their own parents than they were a few hours before and must therefore be that much closer to their own old age.

I think it's kind of wonderful that this poem about a just-born baby can have this dark quality to it. And while I get why the son is called an executioner (it automatically puts the reader in the proper frame of mind), I don't really see the son as being active in ending his father's life. I don't have a better term in mind, but it's my one eh? moment.

Favorite line: "We/...observe enduring life in you/and start to die together."

Technical note: The three radio buttons below are Blogspot's newest add-on called Reactions. It's a new feature they are offering and it seems they haven't fully thought it out. Apparently, for your vote to be counted you have to actually be logged into Blogger. I hope they will change that aspect soon, but until then if you have read and clicked a response button then Thank You!

The Negro Speaks of Rivers (Langston Hughes)

What I love about this poem by Langston Hughes is how slowly it reads. I mean the second line is an eighteen word sentence that wouldn't be out of place in a (lovely and rather poetic) school essay. And later on there is a twenty-eight word sentence. How can one not read the poem majestically and slowly?

What I also love in this poem is how it paints in broad brush strokes the history of African-Americans. And for such a complicated past it is a marvel that Hughes is able to do so in only ten lines with such slow, deep, and still beauty.

Favorite line: "My soul has grown deep like the rivers."

The Dance (William Carlos Williams)

On a bit of a WCW kick. Today's poem is The Dance.

It's a technically neat poem. I don't see a meter (but I tend to be bad at that kind of thing), but it does have a dance-like rhythm. It also has, of course, the same line for the opening and the close of this twelve liner. Neat-o.

And maybe since I have never seen the painting, The Kermess, in real life, I have no real connection to this poem. I can like it for its technical merit, but I stop soon after that. I get no deep meaning, nothing applicable to all. Ah well. It's better to admire something for what it sets out to do than to look for what it doesn't strive to contain.

Favorite line: "the squeal and the blare and the/tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles/tipping their bellies"

The Red Wheelbarrow (William Carlos Williams)

Can you tell that I like short poems? That I am often so tired that talking through the density of a many-stanza-ed verse is daunting. Given time I may feel more rested and willing to take on a lengthy poem, but today is not that day. Today is for a poem that I remember talking about in high school. Today's poem is by William Carlos Williams.

What I remember saying in that English class is that this poem is pretty nifty since each line is not a complete thought. You need the whole stanza (or even a couple stanzas) for any of the words to make any sense or to paint any kind of picture. Sure, whatever, it all depends on the red wheelbarrow, but the poem always depends on the following line. Everything is dependent on that that is coming up next, the unforeseen. It all matters.

Favorite line: "so much depends/upon/a red wheel/barrow"

A Birthday (Christina Rossetti)

Today was my first day at my new job (sort of, just training), so I was looking for a poem about jobs or first days. Wasn't able to locate one and though Adam's Task would have been perfect, I have already talked about it. I kept browsing though and I found this short poem by Cristina Rossetti.

Normally, I like more modern sounding poetry and themes, but I really admire Rossetti's poetry and her talent. For instance, this poem creates a new definition for birthday in two short stanzas. And not only that, but she manages to have rhythmic lines that are uniform in meter. Pretty nifty.

And pretty nifty for me that I was able to see that it was uniform. I always seem to have trouble seeing meter. I just don't hear soft and strong syllables well. Maybe I like her poetry because it is so regular and I can learn from it and gain greater skills at scansion.

Favorite line: "My heart is like an apple-tree/Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit"

The Lesson of the Moth (archy--->Don Marquis)

I brought this poet to workshop tonight. I made certain that we read this one poem and then let people pick at random. Since all of his stuff is great it was a very enjoyable evening.

What I (and I imagine every single person who reads an archy poem) love(s) is that Marquis' lines and phrasing are so well constructed that you don't need capitals or punctuation to lead you through a proper reading. For instance, at poetry tonight the poems were all new to most people and yet no one ever stumbled. That's true great poetry. Words are all you need. Funny that you need a cockroach (which is what archy is) to bring that truth out into the open and really drive it home.

As for the poem, it's wonderful too. That intense desire for beauty, even though it means destruction, is reminiscent of almost all addictions--be it through art or heroin. archy is so conservative with his "i would rather have/half the happiness and twice/the longevity" and yet, even he, like perhaps the majority of mankind, wishes for understanding and knowledge of what that desire must be like (but only for a moment and never to its destructive end). Yay! to archy and to Marquis for bringing that truism to light.

Favorite line: "so we wad all our life up/into one little roll/and then we shoot the roll"

Pelican (Anonymous)

I made up the title of this poem for the title of the post. I don't know what it is really. I don't know the author. I know what sort of poem it is though. (Clap on the back) It's a limerick. And since I know nothing about it I cannot find it online to share. So, I will copy it here. Hopefully, Mr. (Ms?) Anonymous will never find out and sue me. Here we go:

"A wonderful bird is the pelican.
His mouth can hold more than his belican.
He can take in his beak
Enough food for a week.
I'm darned if I know how the helican."

Okay, disclosure: I picked this ditty because I have had a long, long day and am extremely tired and close to crashing. So, to talk. Um, it's funny. I love how the poet made up two words and they totally don't sound false or cheap in the poem. They are simply funny.

Yep, that about does it. I'm off to bed now. Tomorrow, I am going on vacation for two days. I don't know what my internet situation will be like, but let's assume the worst and say I will write again on Tuesday. Ciao.

Favorite line: "His mouth can hold more than his belican."

Miniver Cheevey (Edwin Arlington Robinson)

Oh, I do not like rhyme. I find it's fine for humor, but little else. And yet I like this poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Looking at his profile and a selection of his poetry I have to say that I am mildly in awe since he wrote three poems I consider part of cannon and all of them rhyme.

I think the type of person described in the poem exists. It is (perhaps unfairly) who I imagine to be typing rants in internet forums. Lusting after a past age where they are sure they could have been wonderful, brave, a stand-out, everything they are not currently.

Of course, with that kind of pressure on the perfection of days long past and allowance for not accomplishing anything in the present times it's no wonder that Miniver drinks and does nothing (in the same way that those internet posters merely rant online and yet enact no change in the real world).

Favorite line: "Miniver loved the Medici,/Albeit he had never seen one;/He would have sinned incessantly/Could he have been one."

An aside: "Miniver Cheevey" is a hilarious name and a near perfect one for a sniveling, wimpy, dreamy drunk.

Ode to My Socks (Pablo Neruda)

This poem by Pablo Neruda may be the longest poem I have talked about. Perhaps, not in total number of words since each line is only a few words long, but definitely in total length. I first knew it with a different translation and while this one is fine, it lacks an added layer of finish that the other had.

I think the skinniness of these lines is both reminiscent of hand-made socks and the simplicity of the woolen gift.

Can you imagine being Maru Mori and getting this reaction and this praise to your gift? Maru Mori probably just thought, "It's winter. I bet his feet are chilled." This poem expresses N's utter joy at the simple happiness of wool socks in winter, but the gift was (most probably) also given with that same simple observation-->action. In her case, the resultant action was to knit a pair of socks for a neighbor in winter. In his, to write a poem that would stir people generations and continents away. Should I then write a response poem to him, "Ode to Neruda", as a thank you for this beautifully simple and perfect and warming poem?

Favorite line: "resistí/el impulso furioso/de ponerlos/en una jaula/de oro/y darles cada día/alpiste/y pulpa de melón rosado."

Favorite line (in English, better translation): "I resisted/the mad impulse/to put them/in a golden/cage/and each day give them/birdseed/and pieces of pink melon."

Will, lost in a sea of trouble (Archilochus)

Reaching way back..... Today's poem has no title, but the first line is "Will, lost in a sea of trouble" and it's by the ancient Greek poet Archilochus.

I first read this poem in that anthology I mentioned before. What I like in this one is that it's a terse summation of how to live life. In eight lines it tells how to be good and remain good in all situations and for always. It has taken countless people countless pages to do the same with less clarity and honesty than this poem possesses.

The only piece of advice that gives me pause is the line "Bend before evil." That sounds like good advice for self-preservation, but what good is that if evil has run rampant over everything else? Perhaps, this poem still has much to teach me.

Favorite line: "Will, lost in a sea of trouble,/Rise, save yourself"

Ave Maria (Frank O'Hara)

This poem by Frank O'Hara is hilarious. It also has a deeper, scarier edge.

What I like is how this poem is such a poem of the 20th century. Sure, whatever, it's about movies, of course, it's about the 1900s. But no, what I mean, is that this poem reads like the slick movies that it talks about. It is that easy to understand, that well put together, that glib, but wait are we really talking about erm, that???

You're reading along, skimming, when you come to the line "they may even be grateful to you/for their first sexual experience/which only cost you a quarter/and didn't upset the peaceful home" and you're stopped short with a puzzled expression on your face. After all, what is a statement of that gravity doing in a glib poem about the joy of going to the movies? But, that's what is wonderful about this poem. It's totally about both sides of the modern age. It's not all glitzy. It's almost a cliche by now--the dark side of Hollywood, but this poem is definitely not cliche. It's brilliantly funny and scary--all the more scary for how amusing and fun it is.

Favorite line: "Mothers of America/let your kids go to the movies!"

Question: Can anyone fill me in as to what the title is doing for this poem?