Poem of the Day > Likes and Comments
Archibald Macleish's words link a poem to the very crux of our existence. It exists , as we exist. It can encompass the different moments of life. Beautiful imagery:' Leaving, as the moon releasesTwig by twig the night-entangled trees.
I really like Li Bai's poems. Writing in the Tang Dynasty, he is a poet who vaults the centuries. This poem was forwarded to me the other day when it featured in The Atlantic's choice of poems to get us through a tough winter:Seeing off Meng Haoran for Guangling at Yellow Crane Tower
You left me, old friend of the West, at the Yellow Crane Tower,
in Spring, going to Yangzhou, in a cloud of flowers;
Your lonely sail, a speck against blue sky disappearing
until now I only see the Yangtze and the sky.
I have started reading Geoffrey Hill again. Along with Ted Hughes and Philip Larkin, I believe Hill to be the best of the post World War 2 poets. I think his early work is his best. This early poem is an example of brilliant rhyming talent.In Memory of Jane Fraser
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And winds went begging at each door,
And the far hills were blue with cold,
And a cold shroud lay on the moor,
She kept the siege. And every day
We watched her brooding over death
Like a strong bird above its prey.
The room filled with the kettle’s breath.
Damp curtains glued against the pane
Sealed time away. Her body froze
As if to freeze us all, and chain
Creation to a stunned repose.
She died before the world could stir.
In March the ice unloosed the brook
And water ruffled the sun’s hair.
Dead cones upon the alder shook.
I really am struck and held by "Ars Poetica" -- the ambiguity and the way it fires my imagination. I love the idea of poetry as timeless and slices of time. Here is a portrait of Archibald Macleish (1892- 1982) provided by the Poetry Foundation.https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...
That portrait of Archibald Macleish is so excellent ... I started reading it and couldn't stop. He had so many positions, including the professorship at Harvard. It is so hard to survive in modern times if your only income is derived from poetry. Billy Collins is one exception who comes to mind.
An old favorite of mine by Shelley.OZYMANDIAS
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
One of the strange things for me about Ozymandias is that it's probably the only poem that I can remember reading in high school English and then again in English Lit in college. I think that it's the image it leaves you with that made it stick in my mind.
Carol wrote: "I really like Li Bai's poems. Writing in the Tang Dynasty, he is a poet who vaults the centuries. This poem was forwarded to me the other day when it featured in The Atlantic's choice of poems to g..."This is quite good. By the way, Carol, I have had no response to my membership request for the poetry group.
John wrote: "Carol wrote: "I really like Li Bai's poems. Writing in the Tang Dynasty, he is a poet who vaults the centuries. This poem was forwarded to me the other day when it featured in The Atlantic's choice..."Nor have I. Will never find out more about the man with the bees!
I'd like to share w.s. Merwin's "Leviathan" 1956I've now read more about this poem, but my first response was an appreciation for it raw physical power and the sense of vastness (like the ocean) and movement. Many images I find compelling even without looking at the Biblical references.
Leviathan
This is the black sea-brute bulling through wave-wrack,
Ancient as ocean's shifting hills, who in sea-toils
Travelling, who furrowing the salt acres
Heavily, his wake hoary behind him,
Shoulders spouting, the fist of his forehead
Over wastes gray-green crashing, among horses unbroken
From bellowing fields, past bone-wreck of vessels,
Tide-ruin, wash of lost bodies bobbing
No longer sought for, and islands of ice gleaming,
Who ravening the rank flood, wave-marshalling,
Overmastering the dark sea-marches, finds home
And harvest. Frightening to foolhardiest
Mariners, his size were difficult to describe:
The hulk of him is like hills heaving,
Dark, yet as crags of drift-ice, crowns cracking in thunder,
Like land's self by night black-looming, surf churning and trailing
Along his shores' rushing, shoal-water boding
About the dark of his jaws; and who should moor at his edge
And fare on afoot would find gates of no gardens,
But the hill of dark underfoot diving,
Closing overhead, the cold deep, and drowning.
He is called Leviathan, and named for rolling,
First created he was of all creatures,
He has held Jonah three days and nights,
He is that curling serpent that in ocean is,
Sea-fright he is, and the shadow under the earth.
Days there are, nonetheless, when he lies
Like an angel, although a lost angel
On the waste's unease, no eye of man moving,
Bird hovering, fish flashing, creature whatever
Who after him came to herit earth's emptiness.
Froth at flanks seething soothes to stillness,
Waits; with one eye he watches
Dark of night sinking last, with one eye dayrise
As at first over foaming pastures. He makes no cry
Though that light is a breath. The sea curling,
Star-climbed, wind-combed, cumbered with itself still
As at first it was, is the hand not yet contented
Of the Creator. And he waits for the world to begin.
I needed to look up herittransitive verb. 1a : to receive from an ancestor as a right or title descendible by law at the ancestor's death. b : to receive as a devise or legacy. 2 : to receive from a parent or ancestor by genetic transmission inherit a defective enzyme. merriam webster
I have liked Merwin’s work for many years. One of these days, I would like to get to his collection of reminiscences Summer Doorways: A Memoir.Merwin started out by tutoring Robert Graves’ kids, as I recall.
I came to the poem below by reputation, not by having read it. I was looking at the biography of poet Billy Collins on Wikipedia, which indicated that this poem was included in the American National Registry as being culturally significant. I thought that is a pretty good accolade and must read it. I must say, I liked it.FISHING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA IN JULY
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one—
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table—
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia
when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna
sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
John,'When was this poem written? 1980s? or...Would we call it post-modern?
Billy Collins's work gives me a deep smile. I like this poem because it covers so many possibilities-- could fish, but really fishing isn't what I do, here's what I do, and wow check out that alert rabbit- it's likely to jump off the canvas! Really fun, creative whimsical... very nice...
Sher wrote: "John,'When was this poem written? 1980s? or...Would we call it post-modern?
Billy Collins's work gives me a deep smile. I like this poem because it covers so many possibilities-- could fish, bu..."
Sher, it was published in 1998. I would say it is post modern. It would seem that a key feature of modernism and post modernism is irony. Thomas Hardy started writing ironic poems about World War 1. He used traditional form, though, which came to be rejected by the Modernists like Pound or Williams.
Collins seems to take irony with him as a way of writing. The irony of a poem about fishing that has no direct experience with fishing. Or, perhaps more aptly, a poem that uses irony as an interpretative means.
John & Sher,Billy Collins is the poet who brought me back to reading poetry. It is the simplicity of his poetry which often conceals deep meaning that I like so much.
Billy Collins addressed the problem that poets face when it comes to ebooks. He argues--I think totally successfully--that ereaders can screw up the line spacing of individual poems and that poets almost always take great care in how the lines are laid out in their poems. Ebooks have gotten better, but can still be a problem.
My favorite reading of a Billy Collins poem is this three year old boy reading "Litany."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVu4M...
John wrote: "Sher wrote: "John,'When was this poem written? 1980s? or...Would we call it post-modern?
..."
I sometimes argue that we are living in a post-postmodern world ... but no one is listening to me. :-) ... But we haven't gotten to the post-ironic stage yet. :-) :-)
Ozymandias is also one of my favourites. I believe the feet of Ozymandias were on their way to the British Museum at the time the English Romantic poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, wrote and so he presumably had inspiration from them. His friend, Horace Smith also wrote an Ozymandias poem at the same time (was it for a bet?). A beautiful poem with an universal, timeless appeal.
Good Heavens! What an incredible outpouring of description is Leviathan. Have never read it before. Am 'blown away' as they say! I hadn't realised Jonah had been eaten by a creature that was not a whale. I presume a leviathan is nowadays also a whale, but the original creature was evidently not, more like a sea serpent, I gather.
A more peaceful poem 'Fishing on the Susquehanna in July', the idea taken from looking at a painting and then from other American scenes. Like the poet, I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna and am never likely to. However, I have crossed it and was amazed by its size and also the size of other American rivers I have crossed. Our European rivers seem so small by comparison, even the Thames and the Seine.
I have been to the Philadelphia Art Museum, which is where Collins saw this painting. Some very fond memories of this museum and I was pleasantly surprised and rather captivated by the way Collins used a museum for his poem.
Theodore Roethke is another favorite of mine. One of the best post World War 2 poets. Sometimes I feel we just don’t have poets like him today. Here’s a short one, endlessly complex.MEMORY
In the slow world of dream,
We breathe in unison.
The outside dies within,
And she knows all I am.
She turns, as if to go,
Half-bird, half-animal.
The wind dies on the hill.
Love’s all. Love’s all I know.
A doe drinks by a stream,
A doe and its fawn.
When I follow after them,
The grass changes to stone.
My understanding of the poem is that Roethke is dreaming about his love. The grass changing to stone perhaps suggests a fear of the future, or a feeling of dread. Love is often bitter-sweet and can often bring great anxiety that we will lose the one we love. It is a complicated poem, and can perhaps have various interpretations, but which is correct can only be told us by the poet.
In the last two years of his life, when he lived in France, the novelist Richard Wright started writing haiku. I encountered several this morning and thought they were outstanding. I never knew. I will have to see if a book length collection of his haiku is available. Here is one.A descending fog
Is making an autumn day
Taste of buried years.
I was looking at Haiku books last night, and I do believe I saw a collection by Richard Wright , John. Look up Writing Haiku on Amazon' it should bring up for the book for you--
"Memory" grabs me on several levels, and I have to sit with this one and re-read and read outloud and just be with it... hmmOne of the first hits has to do with hunter/hunted - predator/ prey and woman/man, nature/development
Thanks John.
I don't have time to listen most days, but Billy Collins does a reading almost every day on Facebook. I subscribe (it's free) to it. Here's a link that might help: https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q...
Larry wrote: "I don't have time to listen most days, but Billy Collins does a reading almost every day on Facebook. I subscribe (it's free) to it. Here's a link that might help: https://www.facebook.com/search/t..."I will have to check that out. In the Collins book I have, he writes in the preface about his first editor, Miller Williams. Williams was a pretty good poet in his own right and also the father of musician and songwriter Lucinda Williams.
Sher and I discussed the most recent poem by Louise Gluck in The New Yorker. I cannot recall if we posted it here, but here it is.SONG
Leo Cruz makes the most beautiful white bowls;
I think I must get some to you
but how is the question
in these times
He is teaching me
the names of the desert grasses;
I have a book
since to see the grasses is impossible
Leo thinks the things man makes
are more beautiful
than what exists in nature
and I say no.
And Leo says
wait and see.
We make plans
to walk the trails together.
When, I ask him,
when? Never again:
that is what we do not say.
He is teaching me
to live in imagination:
a cold wind
blows as I cross the desert;
I can see his house in the distance;
smoke is coming from the chimney
That is the kiln, I think;
only Leo makes porcelain in the desert
Ah, he says, you are dreaming again
And I say then I’m glad I dream
the fire is still alive
Not the Howl I was expecting! 🙂"Howl
Eileen Myles
a refrigerator
makes a lot
of sound
so does a bird
people are
always talking
full of love
& pain
we started
a fund
and the dogs
are needing
some money &
I don’t know
how to do
it & I’ll
learn from
one of them
Tom’s blue
shirt & glasses
are perfect.
My teeshirt
is good
my pen
works
I breathe."
SOURCE:poets.org
Song by Louise Gluck echoes with sadness. No longer can the desert be walked, the grasses trodden, the smoke from Leo's house be seen. We don't know why. Is it our present pandemic? Is it some other disaster which has struck? The last two lines give hope, but it is a muted hope, I feel. Reality and dreaming are blurring but the poet knows her friend is alive. Much thought in these lines.
John,Thanks posting "The Song" --we have posted elsewhere I am not sure, but this is an example of one her works I like very much. Lots of room for own imagination in this poem, and it's so multi-layered.
I am surprised at how well I like "Howl." I like how she uses punctuation - two periods. I also like tone in this poem, Very much - this is how it is - and I'm okay with it.Need to look this poet up. And now I find I need to be writing "they" who "They " is.
Another wonderful portrait and photograph of a poet-- Eileen Myles
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...
'Howl' is a snapshot, a glimpse, of someone's life. (Presumably the poet's, as Eileen writes;'I'll learn from one of them' , 'they' being Eileen, I think. The poet is content:' the tee shirt is good; the pen works; 'I breathe'.An interesting poem although I prefer a poem to be more descriptive.
Always liked the short section of a tribute Lord Byron wrote about his dog. The poem is longer, but the best and strongest part is just these words.Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808.
I believe Byron loved animals and had many including a badger and a bear. His love of Boatswain is very clear in these lines- he even knew the month in which he was born in Newfoundland, although not the day.
John wrote: "Always liked the short section of a tribute Lord Byron wrote about his dog. The poem is longer, but the best and strongest part is just these words.Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one..."
Byron was much kinder toward animals than he was toward people.
Edna St. Vincent Millay 1931 (title means Memory)Recuerdo
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
And John, Loved the Byron poem about Boatswain. I forwarded that to several of my dog loving friends. I wonder what breed of dog this was...
Recuerdo reads like a song. I can imagine a folk group singing this. In fact, it reminds me of the song' The day we went to Bangor' by Fiddlers Dram. 'Occasionally the rhythm seems to stumble and there is an extra beat to the one expected, as, I feel, with 'all' in the last line.
Sher wrote: "And John, Loved the Byron poem about Boatswain. I forwarded that to several of my dog loving friends. I wonder what breed of dog this was..."Sher, his dog was a Newfoundland.
Carol wrote: "Recuerdo reads like a song. I can imagine a folk group singing this. In fact, it reminds me of the song' The day we went to Bangor' by Fiddlers Dram. 'Occasionally the rhythm seems to stumble and t..."Hi Carol:
We play a fiddle tune called "Give the Fiddler a Dram." That stumbling of beat - we call a crooked tune. It is harder to follow, but it can make for an unforgettable piece in music.
I wanted to share the link to her life and another fine portrait from Poetry Foundation
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...
John wrote: "Sher wrote: "And John, Loved the Byron poem about Boatswain. I forwarded that to several of my dog loving friends. I wonder what breed of dog this was..."Sher, his dog was a Newfoundland."
Same breed that Merriwether Lewis had... well loved. These days I only get to see the Newfoundland in show arena - seem very slow and heavy --not animated - and not at all like the dog Seaman and Byron's Boatswain.
When I was growing up, we had an Old English Sheepdog. Patches was her name. Lovable and especially great with children.
John wrote: "When I was growing up, we had an Old English Sheepdog. Patches was her name. Lovable and especially great with children."That's fantastic John. Wow. And I love the name too.... My dog growing up was Sugar, and she was a beagle. Mom gave her to me when I was 5 years old, and that wonderful alive gift started it all.
Sher wrote: "John wrote: "When I was growing up, we had an Old English Sheepdog. Patches was her name. Lovable and especially great with children."That's fantastic John. Wow. And I love the name too.... My do..."
That’s a nice memory, Sher. We lived on an acre plot, so Patches had room to romp. She also used to pull me around the neighborhood on my skateboard, trotting like a Clydesdale.
Oh my gosh -- I love this image John! How fun -- what a dog! I can see it now. When I was 12, I got to ride a Clydesdale bare back. So high up and on such a broad back. It was unforgettable for me... when I was 50, I rode a camel, and this brought me right back to the Clydesdale memory -- so high up. But, the gait was quite different.
Re: childhood pets. Our dog was called Patch. She was a mongrel and had a very fat body somewhat resembling a sausage dog (dachshound), with short legs and a face like a spaniel. She had a beautiful temperament and was always gentle and happy. Our black cat was called Dinky and she dominated Patch, although Patch was so much bigger. Dinky used to groom Patch and use her as a cushion to lie on and when we took Patch for a walk Dinky generally came too and ran up and down all the trees she came to.
So is poetry fiction or nonfiction? I'm not sure that I know ... I just know what Archibald MacLeish asserted in his Ars Poetica, "A poem should not mean but be."
Here's the whole poem ... the first poem of the day:
Ars Poetica
Archibald MacLeish - 1892-1981
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
SOURCE: https://poets.org/poem/ars-poetica