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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…
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A bit of fun from Brooke
Two of my favorites from Rupert Brooke: The Voice by Rupert Brooke 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…
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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,…
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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…
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Happy Birthday, Lawless
A poem in your honor:
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Unfortunate
Unfortunate by Rupert Brooke 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…
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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 by Me, Unfortunately Let us make haste, depart ; she will not dance. Let us quaff our drinks and leave for…
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A Last Word
A Last Word by Ernest Dowson 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…
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On being the more loving one
A couple of quick comments regarding The More Loving One before I go to bed: 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…
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Stars
Commentary? Stars by Robert Frost 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…