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william-
Your poem is beautiful. It reminds me of the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. Pygmalion created a statue of the perfect woman, then fell in love with her. Aphrodite brought her to life for him (more details can be found online). I was curious - is your poem related to this story? I really enjoy the imagery, especially the second stanza.
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enthusiast
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enthusiast
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francais,
thank you very much for you comments.
actually i didn't know the story of pygmalion.
from memory, i wrote that quite a few years ago after seeing
the face of a statue and thinking how sad it would
be to fall in love with something not living
(or not living anymore).
had a similar feeling when i met the bust of nefertiti, too.
on the other hand, the only thing you can really worship is perfection, is it not?
if i'm asked again about the poem
i'll whip out the ol' pygmalion story, though...
thank you.
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old hand
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old hand
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Posts: 724 |
>the only thing you can really worship is perfection, is it not?
Or the little perfections in the whole.
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enthusiast
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Or the little perfections in the whole.
avy,
well put.
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Pooh-Bah
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Pooh-Bah
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Sir William, I'm with Frankie-Pie; when I read your poem, I immediately thought of Pygmalion. Nice work, Sir!
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Pooh-Bah
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Pooh-Bah
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Perhaps we want most those things which are not within our grasp?
I think that is part of it, Francais. But also, that our capacity for certain treasured aspects of life - small joys, deep affections, trust and love, to name a few - can be killed if not nurtured. A cold childhood can raise a barren adult.
For a more self-induced regret, here is:
Days
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Anonymous
Unregistered
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Anonymous
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It was a Maine lobster town--
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time,
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,
but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.
One night you dreamed
You were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.
--Robert Lowell
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Posts: 11,613
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 11,613 |
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
--Carl Sandburg
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
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Sea-Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like
a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
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enthusiast
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I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-- and gazed-- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Wordsworth (an aptronym if there ever was one)
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