#81655
09/24/2002 4:27 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
Well, we haven't had a poetry thread in awhile (hi Jazzo!), and the fall provides some good themes for digging up material...Halloween, foliage...spooky, colorful...and all the nuances in between...I'll kick it off with this classic of childhood fright:
LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
by James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)
INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION
To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
.. An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
.... Ef you
...... Don't
........ Watch
.......... Out!
Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, --
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: --
.. An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
.... Ef you
...... Don't
........ Watch
.......... Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
.. An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
.... Ef you
...... Don't
........ Watch
.......... Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, --
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
.. Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
.... Ef you
...... Don't
........ Watch
.......... Out!
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#81656
09/24/2002 8:46 PM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872 |
Hurry, hurry, little fingers, let me be the first to quote a poem by Poe...Hurry.
THE CONQUEROR WORM
~ Edgar Allan Poe (1843)
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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#81657
09/24/2002 8:56 PM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296 |
Ode to Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease; 10
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats
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#81658
09/24/2002 9:17 PM
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Joined: Jul 2002
Posts: 742
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jul 2002
Posts: 742 |
I could go all archaic on y'all, but since I ain't no fan of cuckoo song , I'll settle for a work often attributed to a modern Irish bard:
Spring is sprung, the grass is riz
I wonder where the birdies is?
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#81659
09/24/2002 10:30 PM
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Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 10,542
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 10,542 |
>Spring is sprung...
tis like beatin' yer head agin the wall, ain't it?!
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#81660
09/24/2002 11:32 PM
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Joined: Jul 2002
Posts: 742
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jul 2002
Posts: 742 |
>tis like beatin' yer head agin the wall, ain't it?!
Waaay more fun, and now a custom. What would the change of seasons be without a diatribe on hemispherism? 8^)
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#81661
09/25/2002 10:23 AM
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Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 1,156
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 1,156 |
I've always wondered - did you (sjm or CK or any other antipodean) have to study English (as in Britain) poems in school? And did you get all confused - or at least offended - when you read things like "May, sweet May" or poems about flowers in April or the loveliness of June? (Although from what I gather your winters may not be as wintry as those I know.)
I personally always found those confusing for a different reason, mostly because spring happens much later (and winter much earlier) where I come from. April is really nothing to scream about, for example - cold and muddy and not at all poem-worthy. And reading poems about brilliant fall colours is funny on the Prairies, where there are no maple trees and thus none of the brilliant reds that the rest of the country raves about, and puts on the flag.
Anyway, I'd love to read some antipodean poetry extolling the wonders of say, daffodils in September (if you have daffodils there), or hot December days, or the chills of late June, that sort of thing.
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#81662
09/25/2002 11:30 AM
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Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346
veteran
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veteran
Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346 |
daffodils in September..or hot December days, or the chills of late JuneReally good point, Bean. A nice challenge to hemispherist preconceptions. OTOH what do we care about sinister denizens of the underworld? 
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#81663
09/25/2002 11:32 AM
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Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346
veteran
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veteran
Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346 |
Forever AutumnThe summer sun is fading as the year grows old, And darker days are drawing near, The winter winds will be much colder, Now you're not here. I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky, And one by one they disappear, I wish that I was flying with them, Now you're not here. Like the sun through the trees you came to love me, Like a leaf on the breeze you blew away. Through autumn's golden gown we used to kick our way, You always loved this time of year, Those fallen leaves lie undisturbed now, 'cause you're not here, 'cause you're not here, 'cause you're not here. Like the sun through the trees you came to love me, Like a leaf on the breeze you blew away. A gentle rain falls softly on my weary eyes, As if to hide a lonely tear, My life will be Forever Autumn, 'cause you're not here, 'cause you're not here, 'cause you're not here. 
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#81664
09/25/2002 1:25 PM
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Joined: Jul 2000
Posts: 3,467
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Jul 2000
Posts: 3,467 |
I know where the birdies is --
They're eatin' all my radishis.
(A TEd original)
TEd
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#81665
09/25/2002 1:41 PM
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Joined: Dec 2000
Posts: 13,803
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Dec 2000
Posts: 13,803 |
What would the change of seasons be without a diatribe on hemispherism?
Oh, what!? We're sposed to cain't revel in the most bittersweet of all seasonal changes jus cuz some a y'all choose to live hanging upside down by yer feet from the wrong side of the world?
BTW, we used to rib a transplanted Ozzie friend about celebrating Christmas in summer. We asked her what her favorite Christmas custom was and she replied, "Sitting by the pool drinking gin'n'tonics
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#81666
09/25/2002 2:02 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
Forever AutumnIs that a shona original? 
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#81667
09/25/2002 2:04 PM
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Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 1,819
Pooh-Bah
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Pooh-Bah
Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 1,819 |
Gold and red leaves fall
I don't like raking at all
But the air smells good
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#81668
09/25/2002 2:05 PM
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Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346
veteran
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veteran
Joined: Oct 2000
Posts: 1,346 |
Is that a shona original?My writing isn't quite that bad. Well, it is, actually.  But it's a song from Jeff Wayne's famous double album War Of The Worlds, based on the H.G. Wells book, sung by Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues. c.1976 I think.
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#81669
09/25/2002 2:28 PM
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Joined: Jan 2002
Posts: 320
enthusiast
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enthusiast
Joined: Jan 2002
Posts: 320 |
I know where the birdies is --
They're eatin' all my radishis.
Birdies? Not.
It's gotta be that cat. Anything that size is eatin' whatever it can find.
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#81670
09/25/2002 3:08 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
AFTER APPLE-PICKING
by Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
©1914 by Robert frost
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#81671
09/25/2002 6:40 PM
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Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 6,511 |
Gold and red leaves fall
I don't like raking at all
But the air smells goodNice one, Alex. You've even introduced rhyme into the scheme.
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#81672
09/25/2002 7:04 PM
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Joined: Aug 2001
Posts: 11,077 Likes: 2
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Aug 2001
Posts: 11,077 Likes: 2 |
...and even has the nature theme, as a true haiku should :-)
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#81673
09/26/2002 3:16 PM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872 |
Now boys and girls a poem to be read when the wolfbane is in bloom that is guaranteed to give as much pleasure to the reader as to those who listen...
DREAMLAND
~ Edgar Allan Poe (1844)
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
_____The End_____
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#81674
09/26/2002 3:49 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
Not a poem, but. What autumnal perusal of literature would be complete without this? THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
by Washington Irvinghttp://www.bartleby.com/310/2/2.html
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#81675
09/26/2002 5:14 PM
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Joined: Feb 2002
Posts: 833
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Feb 2002
Posts: 833 |
The Spring and The Fall
by Edna St Vincent Millay
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurts my days,
But that it went in little ways.
Gad, I love poetry. It says it all, don't it?
If you can't see the bright side, polish the dull side.
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#81676
09/27/2002 10:58 PM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296 |
These are really lyrics, but what the heck. It's autumnal:
The Autumn Leaves
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold....
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hands, I used to hold
Since you went away, the days grow long
And soon I'll hear ol' winter's song.
But I miss you most of all my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
Since you went away, the days grow long
And soon I'll hear ol' winter's song.
But I miss you most of all my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
(French Lyrics by Jacques Prévert, English Lyrics by Johnny Mercer, Music by Joseph
Kosma)
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#81677
09/28/2002 1:27 AM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
(from a "weird poetry" site)
GRAVEYARD ZOMBIE
We were partying at the graveyard
like we do every Saturday night
We were partying exceptionally hard
Drinking Mad Dog and Milwaukee Light
From out in the darkness we heard
Sounds from behind a tombstone
We thought it was just some birds
But who ever heard a bird moan?
The hideous creature approached us
It was all covered in blood
I then looked at my friend Gus
He ran but fell in the mud
The monster began walking toward me
But I couldn't move an inch
There were gaping holes in it's body
And it had a terrible stench
I saw a hatchet buried in it's head
It's clothes unfashionable and torn
It not only looked like it should be dead
It looked like it should've never been born
As the horrifying creature approached
I stood as brave as a chickenshit could
It reached and grabbed me by the throat
And said,"You know I don't feel so good
I've got worms crawling out of my head
and numerous wounds on my torso
I just found out that I am dead
But what hurts even more so
Is that people still drink Old Milwaukee
It makes me grateful that I am dead
Take a tip from a graveyard zombie
Drink Molson Golden Ale instead"
Haji O'Brien
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#81678
09/28/2002 8:54 AM
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Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 161
member
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member
Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 161 |
Hopefully, this is not a rude irrelevant intruding to this wonderful thread (that somehow reminded me of the film "The dead poets society"). If it is, tell me and I’ll withdraw with apologies.
There is an ad on Classic FM here in Britain. It starts from a poem describing the value of photographs in people’s lives. The first line is
Photographs are smiles that last forever
The last two lines haunt me
If you ever see my house on fire
Leave the silver, save the photographs
I would be happy if somebody can tell me who is the author of the poem.
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#81679
09/28/2002 10:48 AM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296 |
Vika,
I just googled each of the lines, but no hits.
Wish you luck in finding the author.
WW
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#81680
09/28/2002 10:59 AM
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Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 161
member
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member
Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 161 |
can one google poetry? i hope that this area is one where humans still do better than robots even if we are loosing in chess TA for trying anyway
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#81681
09/28/2002 12:41 PM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 6,296 |
Yes, Vika, you can google lines of poetry. Let's say you're alone one night and cannot remember the author of a poem, but you distinctly remember a line from the poem. You just put the line into quotation marks in Google and, if the poem is lurking about somewhere, you'll get a hit...or lots of hits.
The two lines from your poem didn't bring up any hits on Google at least.
If you have a word out of place, that could make all the difference in getting a hit.
This method works for finding song titles, too.
Happy Googling when your human brain can benefit from the help of bots!
WW
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#81682
09/28/2002 2:53 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
vika, the graveyard poem is just a humorous piece for fun, if that's what you're asking about. Here's a poem you might like : WINTER APPROACHES
by Boris Pasternak (1890-1960)
Winter approaches. And once again
The secret retreat of some bear
Will vanish under impassable mud
To a tearful child's despair.
Little huts will awaken in lakes
Refelcting their smoke like a path.
Encircled by autumn's cold slush,
Life-lovers will meet by the hearth.
Inhabitants of the stern North,
Whose roof is open to air,
'In this sign conquer' is written
On each inaccesible lair.
I love you, provincial retreats,
Off the map, off the road, past the farm.
The more thumbed and grubby the brook,
The greater for me its charm.
Slow lines of lumbering carts,
You spell out an alphabet leading
From meadow to meadow. Your pages
Were always my favorite reading.
And suddenly here it is written
Again, in the first snow -- the spidery
Cursive itlaic of sleigh runners --
A page like a piece of embroidery.
A silvery-haze October.
Pewter shine since the frosts began.
Autumnal twilight of Chekhov,
Tchaikovsky and Levitan.
©1943 by Boris Pasternak
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#81683
09/29/2002 12:38 AM
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Joined: Aug 2001
Posts: 11,077 Likes: 2
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Aug 2001
Posts: 11,077 Likes: 2 |
re: If you ever see my house on fire
Leave the silver, save the photographsI can't help much, but the folks at http://www.emule.com/poetrydo a pretty good job - you might give them a try !
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#81684
09/30/2002 7:03 PM
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Joined: Feb 2002
Posts: 833
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Feb 2002
Posts: 833 |
And suddenly here it is written
Again, in the first snow -- the spidery
Cursive itlaic of sleigh runners --
A page like a piece of embroidery.
ahhhh....
If you can't see the bright side, polish the dull side.
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#81685
10/02/2002 1:40 AM
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Joined: Jul 2000
Posts: 1,094
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jul 2000
Posts: 1,094 |
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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#81686
10/02/2002 2:12 AM
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Joined: Sep 2002
Posts: 15
stranger
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stranger
Joined: Sep 2002
Posts: 15 |
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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#81687
10/02/2002 3:32 AM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
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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#81688
10/03/2002 3:52 AM
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 1,289
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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#81689
10/04/2002 2:38 AM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
(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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#81690
10/04/2002 12:31 PM
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Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 771
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 771 |
Thank you Juan! I liked that piece even before I was a ghoul!
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#81691
10/04/2002 12:56 PM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
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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#81692
10/07/2002 12:10 AM
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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872 |
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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#81693
10/07/2002 2:08 AM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
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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#81694
10/07/2002 2:29 AM
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Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
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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