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old hand
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old hand
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Well, the alphatist of this thread has pressured me, so here goes:
We just knew the original Whitman would have something to say about this fine season, didn't we?
from Calamus, Leaves of Grass
When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd
with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for
me that follow'd,
And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still
I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the
morning light,
When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way
coming, O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food
nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came
my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me
whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in
the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast--and that night I was happy.
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stranger
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stranger
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This is more for late fall, but I love it too much to wait.
The night is freezing fast,
Tomorrow comes December;
And winterfalls of old
Are with me from the past;
And chiefly I remember
How Dick would hate the cold.
Fall, winter, fall; for he,
Prompt hand and headpiece clever
Has woven a winter robe,
And made of earth and sea
His overcoat forever,
And wears the turning globe.
--A.E. Housman
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Carpal Tunnel
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OP
Carpal Tunnel
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Posts: 4,189 |
Okay, Jazzo...I'll see your Walt, and raise you one!  AUTUMN RIVULETS
As Consequent, Etc.
As consequent from store of summer rains,
Or wayward rivulets in autumn flowing,
Or many a herb-lined brook's reticulations,
Or subterranean sea-rills making for the sea,
Songs of continued years I sing.
Life's ever-modern rapids first, (soon, soon to blend,
With the old streams of death.)
Some threading Ohio's farm-fields or the woods,
Some down Colorado's cañons from sources of perpetual snow,
Some half-hid in Oregon, or away southward in Texas,
Some in the north finding their way to Erie, Niagara, Ottawa,
Some to Atlantica's bays, and so to the great salt brine.
In you whoe'er you are my book perusing,
In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing,
All, all toward the mystic ocean tending.
Currents for starting a continent new,
Overtures sent to the solid out of the liquid,
Fusion of ocean and land, tender and pensive waves,
(Not safe and peaceful only, waves rous'd and ominous too,
Out of the depths the storm's abysmic waves, who knows
whence?
Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter'd
sail.)
Or from the sea of Time, collecting vasting all, I bring,
A windrow-drift of weeds and shells.
O little shells, so curious-convolute, so limpid-cold and
voiceless,
Will you not little shells to the tympans of temples held,
Murmurs and echoes still call up, eternity's music faint and
far,
Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica's rim, strains for the soul
of the prairies,
Whisper'd reverberations, chords for the ear of the West
joyously sounding,
Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable,
Infinitesimals out of my life, and many a life,
(For not my life and yours alone I give — all, all I give,)
These waifs from the deep, cast high and dry,
Wash'd on America's shores?
--Walt Whitman
1881
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veteran
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veteran
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 1,289 |
And I'll raise 1 Walt.
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns--O grass of graves--O perpetual transfers and
promotions,
If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing
twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk--toss on the black stems
that decay in the muck,
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.
I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams
reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring
great or small.
Song of Myself, Canto 49
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Carpal Tunnel
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OP
Carpal Tunnel
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(especially dedicated to Fiberbabe, in the true spirt of the season )
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
by Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
'The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
--Thomas Gray
-----------------------
Why visit a grave?
(The Cemetaries of Christchurch)
European ancestors, who often saw their small children predecease them and their siblings and contemporaries die in what should have been the prime of life, were frequent visitors to graveyards.
My maternal grandmother, Hilda Jane Gapes, was brought up in Willow Street, across the river from the Barbadoes Street Cemetery. She and her siblings frequently swung across the river on willow trees, fell in and had to scramble out to get to the burial place. Once there they played about the tombstones. On one occasion, Hilda's brother, Reg, climbed into a freshly dug burial plot in an attempt to retrieve a rabbit. He was unable to scramble out and had to be assisted from his place of imprisonment.
My grandmother's grandmother, Elizabeth Swindell, used to clean the younger generation's wounds with salt. This was a very efficient and very painful means of getting children's scratches to heal. In a politically incorrect manner, my grandmother spoke to a cousin about their mutual grandmother being an "old bitch". News got back to the venerable grandparent. As she lay dying, she made my grandmother swear that, once a week, she would lay flowers on the old lady's grave. My grandmother carried out this duty faithfully and, for a decade, visited Elizabeth's resting place at Barbadoes Street. Then, as her wedding day approached, she decided to put aside the childish promise.
Our ancestors' experiences and opinions were picked up by the greatest of writers . Shakespeare described how the gravediggers, at work at Elsinore, unearth the remains of Hamlet's acquaintance from childhood, Yorick. The prince picks up Yorick's skull and muses on the personality of his erstwhile companion.
A famous 18th century poem is Thomas Gray's "Elegy written in a country churchyard". The poem begins at twilight when "the ploughman homeward plods his weary way". He leaves the world to darkness and to Thomas Gray who sits in the country churchyard at Stoke Poges musing over the gravestones and contemplating "the short and simple annals of the poor". A well-known 19th century poem on death and burial is Lord Tennyson's "Ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington".
In Great Expectations Dickens has the young Pip pondering over the gravestones of his parents and tiny siblings. It is there that the boy is seized by the convict, Magwitch, who is later to become his anonymous benefactor.
In Victorian times - and later- Christchurch newspapers carried detailed and often graphic descriptions of deaths, inquests and funerals. Examples of this type of journalism appear in this text.
A visit to a New Zealand graveyard can show us the burial place of our antecedents. A study of the inscriptions on tombstones gives us an idea of how fragile life was among earlier generations in this country. The grand resting places of Richard John Seddon, William Ferguson Massey and Michael Joseph Savage show how, in a previous age, political heavyweights were honoured.
http://library.christchurch.org.nz/Guides/Cemeteries/whyvisit.asp
(just as I was finising this post someone on the TV said, "We are in a grave situtation"!...I swear!  )
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Posts: 771
old hand
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old hand
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Thank you Juan! I liked that piece even before I was a ghoul!
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Carpal Tunnel
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OP
Carpal Tunnel
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This passage from gray's "Elegy" is one of my all-time favorite quatrains:
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
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old hand
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old hand
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Sad, sad, Whitman. True. But not true.
Someone knows... He knows.
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Carpal Tunnel
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OP
Carpal Tunnel
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Sad, sad, Whitman. True. But not true.
Someone knows... He knows.So does this mean, milum, that you'll be breaking out the scuba gear for some undersea caving? (or that you've already been on such expeditions?...if, so please report!)
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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LADY LAZARUS
by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr god, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
23-29 October 1962
From The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath
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