Anyone want to talk poetry this weekend?

Here’s my thinking. I will be talking poetry this weekend. I am perfectly happy to talk with myself, as I have begun to do on my morning Metro commute, but I would also enjoy discussions involving other, actual people. If anyone else is interested in talking poetry, I’d be happy to participate. I am far too tired to dig up good suggestions for specific poems, but I’m not picky. I’ve been reading some Swinburne, which I realize may not appeal to anyone else, but I’ve also been having real trouble with Mallarmé (a lot of trouble), and I always enjoy some Yeats… Then again, Brian posted a couple of very nice poems not all that long ago as well. I just noticed a few days ago that I had completely misread “The Illiterate” the first time through. I’m pretty lazy on first reading, and I failed to notice that it’s not actually about someone who can’t read. It’s a big, long similie. Pretty obvious to everyone else, I suppose, but I’m a little slow sometimes.

So, yeah. I’ll be talking poetry. Anyone else interested?

A bit of fun from Brooke

Two of my favorites from Rupert Brooke:

The Voice

Safe in the magic of my woods
  I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
  And washed with rain and veiled by night,

Silver and blue and green were showing.
  And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
  And quietness crept up the hill;

And no wind was blowing…

And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me—
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.

And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you——

And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.

The spell was broken, the key denied me,
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.

You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, ‘The view from here is very good!’
You said, ‘It’s nice to be alone a bit!’
And, ‘How the days are drawing out!’ you said.
You said, ‘The sunset’s pretty, isn’t it?’

By God! I wish—I wish that you were dead!

Dawn

(From the train between Bologna and Milan, second class)

Opposite me two Germans snore and sweat.
  Through sullen swirling gloom we jolt and roar.
We have been here forever: even yet
  A dim watch tells two hours, two æons, more.
The windows are tight-shut and slimy-wet
  With a night’s fœtor. There are two hours more;
Two hours to dawn and Milan; two hours yet.
  Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore…

One of them wakes, and spits, and sleeps again.
  The darkness shivers. A wan light through the rain
Strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere
  A new day sprawls; and, inside, the foul air
Is chill, and damp, and fouler than before….
  Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore.

L’Invitation au voyage

Laura reminded me that a CD I was listening to quoted this poem in the liner notes. I believe it was originally published in Les Fleurs du mal. As it is simple enough for me to understand, even with my weak French, I thought I’d post it. I’m working on torturing my translation into rhyme, and am meeting with some success—it is tortured, to be sure. I’m not proposing this for a Sunday session, necessarily… just for our enjoyment.

L’Invitation au voyage

Mon enfant, ma sœur,
Songe à la douceur,
D’aller là-bas, vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir,
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés,
De ces ciels brouillés,
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes,
Si mystérieux,
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l’ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
A l’âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l’humeur est vagabonde;
C’est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.
—Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs
Les canaux, la ville entière
D’hyacinthe et d’or;
Le monde s’endort
Dans une chaude lumière

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Continue reading “L’Invitation au voyage”

Silence and the Bogey of the Ideal

There were two points of discussion today (neither drawing directly from the poems we discussed, unfortunately) that I’d like to ruminate for a bit. We ate together—I hope you’ll pardon me this bit of public digestion. The first was Alan’s suggestion that some people believe poetry to be handicapped as a form of expression because its aim lies chiefly in avoiding a plain and clear articulation of the ideas it is used to express. I was for some time an adherent of a similar position, and I think it may still be at the root of my resistance to modern non-representational art (if an artist is trying to convey something to me, why can’t he articulate it in a way that I might more clearly understand?). The second is the idea that only the permanent is valuable; that the prospect of death might indict our attempts to achieve happiness as ultimately futile. I’m having difficulty with both of these ideas (and the difficulty will be apparent in what I write, I’m sure), so I’m going to “think aloud” a bit to see if I can begin to make sense of some vague notions that have been clouding my brain since this afternoon.

Continue reading “Silence and the Bogey of the Ideal”

Unfortunate

Unfortunate

Heart, you are as restless as a paper scrap
  That’s tossed down dusty pavements by the wind ;
  Saying, ‘She is most wise, patient and kind.
Between the small hands folded in her lap
Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,
  And find forgiveness where the shadows stir
About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,
  Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her !’ …

She will not care. She’ll smile to see me come,
  So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.
  She’ll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
    And open wide upon that holy air
The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,
    Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.

Snippets

From my law school applications:

Lines Written Upon Reading the Caption Below a Picture of Natalie Portman with Her Hand Down the Back of Her Jeans, which Said Something about Ants in Her Pants

Let us make haste, depart ; she will not dance.
Let us quaff our drinks and leave for France.
She would not pluck the fruit from off the vine,
Nor help our Bacchanal one step advance.
How humourless she is ! like hemlock wine ;
Yea, though we poured a thousand ants into her pants,
   She would not dance.

To atone for the assault on your sensibilities that must have been, I offer also a snippet from a poem by Swinburne called “Félise,” which I was reading on the Metro coming home. It’s a longer piece, quite beautiful in places, but in the latter half he decries the godless world at some length. The stars make an indifferent appearance:

from Félise

Do the stars answer ? in the night
  Have ye found comfort ? or by day
Have ye seen gods ? What hope, what light,
  Falls from the farthest starriest way
  On you that pray?

Are the skies wet because we weep,
  Or fair because of any mirth ?
Cry out ; they are gods ; perchance they sleep ;
  Cry ; thou shalt know what prayers are worth,
  Thou dust and earth.

A Last Word

A Last Word

Let us go hence: the night is now at hand ;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown ;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown ;
Despair and death ; deep darkness o’er the land,
Broods like an owl: we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.

Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where’s rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

On being the more loving one

A couple of quick comments regarding The More Loving One before I go to bed:

  1. Brian, I think, was right to insist that ‘sublime’ is not a noun in this poem. I was perhaps overly enthusiastic about my misreading. Had he felt “the total dark sublime” I would have maintained my case, but the word in the poem is ‘its.’ That little pronoun seems to demand that the object be an attribute or quality of the empty sky, and ‘sublime’ just doesn’t work that way. I still want to believe that the sublime dark is not a substitute for the stars, and that the affection is not preserved through some transference, but rather the appreciation of the absence of the object is itself is in some way just a sublimation, so to speak, of the original sentiment. I’m certain, though, that ‘sublime’ can be used as a noun in other circumstances.
  2. In reading this poem, I was reminded of a passage from one of my favorite novels (my appreciation is somewhat idiosyncratic, and I’m not sure I’d recommend the book to anyone else):

    It’s very odd, my dear Lewis, how being loved brings out the worst in comparatively amiable people. One sees these worthy creatures lying at one’s feet and protesting their supreme devotion. And it’s a great strain to treat them with even moderate civility. I doubt whether anyone is nice enough to receive absolutely defenceless love.

    —C.P. Snow, The Light and the Dark

    I took it to mean that the speaker agrees: “If equal affection cannot be,” she’d rather not be on the receiving end. Of course, she also says, “If a love affair has come to the point when one needs to get things straight, then…it’s time to think a little about the next.” Perhaps it’s best not to pay too close attention to what she says…

  3. I keep wanting to skip the word ‘me’ in the last line. Without it, the line is iambic and comfortable; with it, I am forced to pay attention to what the line actually says.

Stars

Commentary?

Stars

How countlessly they congregate
O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!—

As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,—

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.