Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
here is one of my favorites. I have not thought about it in a long time.'pity this busy monster, manunkind'
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
e. e. cummings
Mod
Susinok wrote: "here is one of my favorites. I have not thought about it in a long time.'pity this busy monster, manunkind'
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victi..."
I think I could get to like e e cummings based on this especially
a world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
So this week's offering from me is Sleeping Hermaphrodite the first poem in John McCullough's The Frost Fairs. Go here if you'd like to hear him read it. Sleeping Hermaphrodite
Asleep? I’m watching you through my lids.
This isn’t easy, tracking your nebulous shape
while you assess my neck’s turn, slide
down to smooth cleavage, tummy, waist
then encounter what’s stashed below my thigh.
Here I am, unveiled as arguable,
a mishmash of harbour and ship—the stay
in thought when all ideas are possible.
I’m everything yet deeply ill-equipped
for solitude. What I need to know
is whether you ache to prise free
the ankle I’ve left loosely wrapped
in a sheet. Singlespeak is boring. Let’s talk toes
and honey. Come on, nosey boy. Surprise me.
Mod
Caroline wrote: "So this week's offering from me is Sleeping Hermaphrodite the first poem in John McCullough's The Frost Fairs. Go here if you'd like to hear him read it. Sleeping Hermaphrodite
Asleep? I’m wa..."
I love the line "Let's talk toes and honey." :)
Juthi wrote: "Would anyone mind explaining this one for me? "To me it seems he's protesting the increasing modernization of things.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence
Pity things that are alive, not machines. At least that's my initial impression.
Anne I hope you don't mind but I've been playing with the poem det er den draumen that you gave us by Olav H Hauge and here's what I've come up with. Strictly speaking it's no longer a translation like your version as it has gone off in it's own direction. Dream
After Olav H Hauge
We carry our sleeping dream
that a miracle will happen
that it must happen
time will open
our hearts will open
all doors will open.
The mountains will surrender
flow with spring water
and our dream will come true.
At dawn we will glide home
on a wave we did not imagine.
Caroline wrote: "Anne I hope you don't mind but I've been playing with the poem det er den draumen that you gave us by Olav H Hauge and here's what I've come up with. Strictly speaking it's no longer a translation ..."Oh, Caroline, it is lovely and captures the emotion of the poem much better than my translation. Thank you so much for this.
Mod
'pity this busy monster, manunkind'
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victi..."
So incredibly, wonderfully visual. And, weirdest of all, I see it all in a kind of steampunk universe.
Mod
and honey. ..."
:-D Delightful.
Mod
'pity this busy monster, manunkind'
"
Would anyone mind explaining this one for me?"
You see the rush and bustle. The conveyor belts, the automated everything, the whirring, grinding, flashing, smashing...automation of everything. Everyone rushing to be somewhere, to DO something. Deadlines and graphs and sales charts and trends.
Yikes. My blood pressure just rose four points. :-D
Mod
Lovely. I feel it all pouring through those gates...
Josh wrote: "You see the rush and bustle. The conveyor belts, the automated everything, the whirring, grinding, flashing, smashing...automation of everything. Everyone rushing to be somewhere, to DO something. Deadlines and graphs and sales charts and trends.Yikes. My blood pressure just rose four points. :-D ..."
If you want to read a BOOK that brings this imagry to mind, check out The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez. It is a whodunnit set in a future world as imagined in the 1930s. It is amazing in it's detail. And yes, there are conveyor belts!
I can't get the book to link. Go here for the Goodreads entry.
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12...
Since we are talking Shakespeare in the other thread, here is my favorite of all favorite sonnets. This man was not blinded by love. He tells it like it is.Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
–William Shakespeare
Susinok wrote: "Since we are talking Shakespeare in the other thread, here is my favorite of all favorite sonnets. Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing..."
That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman reading it.
Anne wrote: "I was in the car yesterday and this poem was read on the radio. It is by Norwegian poet Olav H Hauge who is known for his short, almost simplistic poetry, but in my opinion those little verses are ..."Meanwhile I'm still finding out more about Olav H Hauge who is also on youtube with two other poems as well as Det er den daumen. You have to like someone who didn't start being published until he was thirty eight. I see he's been translated by Robert Bly and Robin Fulton.
I have a question for the Scandinavians in the group - who are the contemporary poets from your countries who are writing now that we should also be reading?
Caroline wrote: "Anne wrote: "I was in the car yesterday and this poem was read on the radio. It is by Norwegian poet Olav H Hauge who is known for his short, almost simplistic poetry, but in my opinion those littl..."You might try Jon Fosse, Norwegian poet and writer, he also writes scene-plays, one of our most well-known today I think.
Caroline wrote: "Susinok wrote: "Since we are talking Shakespeare in the other thread, here is my favorite of all favorite sonnets. Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing..."
That has been my favorite sonnet si..."
OH MY GOD you just KILLED ME! And that was listening on a crappy work computer speaker.
Susinok wrote: "Caroline wrote: "That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman reading it. "That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman reading it. "
Ooooh, so lovely. *swoones* One commenter on youtube put it into words "My ears just lost their virginity."
Mod
Hmm, I was about to post one of Risto Rasa's (1954-) tiny, summery poems on this topic, so maybe you might want to try him. His poems aren't exactly haikus, but they have a very haiku-ish feel to them. Risto Rasa writes short poems about nature and every-day-stuff. Nice thing about his poems is also the fact that people who usually don't care for poetry, seem to enjoy his naivistic poems. Probably because they are more like aphorisms and there is nothing fancy about them?
Kesä.
Hyttynen hoitaa
heinänuhaani akupunktiolla.
Summer.
The mosquito treats
My hayfever with acupuncture.
One of my absolute favorites of the contemporary Finnish poets is Heli Laaksonen (1972-), a woman who writes joyful poems in southwest dialect of Finnish. She is an extremely charismatic and cheerful performer, too. Since that specific dialect is the "catch" in many of her poems, I'm not sure if they translate well to other languages — or even into Finnish literary/standard language. ;-) Anyway, here is one of her summer poems. You can find a few more of her laid-back poems in English here.
ENNUSTUS by Heli Laaksonen
Talo ylitte lens
joutsen
see tiäs suve.
Kurki tiäs onne
korppi kotoikävä
kana kyntömurhei
peippo keitto
pirjosiappo poutapilvi.
Haahka tiäs vanhoipoikki
pulu pulla
tikka surma
naakka nauru.
Ja melkken kaikki saatti syksy mennes.
Luanto o viisas!
Jala juurest men sorsa ja morjenst.
FORECAST
Over the house flew
a swan
that meant summer.
A crane meant luck
a crow home-sickness
a hen difficulties in sowing
a scaup rain
a chaffinch soup
a pie-eyed flycatcher light summer cloud.
An eider duck meant bachelors
a pigeon, a bun
a woodpecker, death
a jackdaw, laughter.
And we got almost all of them by autumn.
Nature is wise!
Past my foot
went a mallard
and said hi.
I realize that this post is going to be waaaay too long, but I'm still going to add another Finnish poet to it. Tommy Tabermann died (rather suddenly) a couple of years ago, but he was a well-known and a well-liked media person, a writer and a poet. His poems are very sensual, erotic and beautiful.
PLEA by Tommy Tabermann
Come to me as rain
Come as swift, swooshing,
chinkling like the bells
of an invisible cattle
Come to me as the rain of May.
And from the fissures of my rock
the grass and the onion will swoop
out of their cell, they will plead to
be a pillow under your ear,
a gipsy camp on your tongue.
Come to me as snow
Come as the freezing, slowly
trudging flakes of November
The raging, draughty rifle
of your last words on your shoulder.
Not in me to be a lint,
not in you to be the wind.
Come to me, but
now already I will ask,
now already
I will ask, staring into
the cerulescent of my anticipation,
spare me of sleet.
You also might want to try Jenni Haukio (1977-), because she is both the spouse of our president Sauli Niinistö and a poet. :-) Her poems are usually about nature and relationships.
And Caroline! Thank you for posting the Alan Rickman reading Shakespeare link. It's wonderful!!! It really made my day.
Mod
That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman reading it. "
Ooooh, so lovely. *swoones* One commenter on youtube put it into words "My ears just lost their virginity."
Oh, LOL. That's spot on. I'm afraid that's exactly what happened with my quite innocent and unsuspecting ears... ;-)
Johanna wrote: "Calathea wrote: "Susinok wrote: "Caroline wrote: "That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman reading it. "That has been my favorite sonnet since I came across Alan Rickman ..."
It wasn't harsh on the eyes to watch the pictures either :)
Mod
GIVING THANKS by Anne K. Smith
You would not believe it; I sat
at the table with my family,
with my father saying grace, then
solemnly passing the bowls of
corn, of beans, the heavy
platter of turkey and dressing.
I filled my plate and lifted
my fork to my mouth,
but no matter what I put in,
it wasn’t what I tasted,
not the creamed potatoes,
not the smooth brown crust
of bread. It was you my mouth
remembered, the familiar musk
of your sex, its smooth heat,
its quick fullness. My mind was
a reel flashing pictures inside
my skull, and there was no detail
missing. I sat like a drunk
trying to act sober. I chewed
and swallowed while in my thoughts
I knelt; I gave thanks to you.
This morning was such a beautiful morning, the sun shining, the air crisp and cool, my bare toes were cold. I was bicycling to work, and felt content. Everything was in working order, the bicycle, my body, the traffic was easy. A lot of people were bicycling and I felt joy of being one among many. I know it is unique we long to be, but sometimes it is good to be one in the crowd.So, yes, happy in a silent way.
On Facebook today, someone posted a poem by Olav H. Hauge, who I have talked about before, and it was just the right poem for this day.
I am sorry my translation does not do it credit, his language is very down to earth, coloured by his dialect, and suits his poetry immensely.
In addition to being a poet, he earned his living as a farmer and gardener.
Dei store stormane
har du attum deg.
Då spurde du ikkje
kvi du var til,
kvar du kom ifrå eller kvar du gjekk,
du berre var i stormen,
var i elden.
Men det gjeng an å leva i kvardagen òg,
den grå stille dagen,
setja potetor, raka lauv
og bera ris,
det er so mangt å tenkja på her i verdi,
eit manneliv strekk ikkje til.
Etter strævet kan du steikja flesk
og lesa kinesiske vers.
Gamle Lærtes skar klunger
og grov um fikentrei,
og let heltane slåst ved Troja.
The great storms
are behind you.
Then you did not ask
why you existed,
from where you came or to where you went,
you just stayed in the storm,
stayed in the fire.
But it is possible to live
in the ordinary day too,
the gray, still day
plant potatoes, rake leaves
and carry haulm,
there are so much to think about in this world,
one man’s life does not suffice.
After the toil you can fry bacon
and read Chinese poetry.
Old Laertes cut thorn twigs,
and dug around the fig trees,
and let the heroes fight at Troy.
Mod
Thank you for sharing your content feeling and thoughts with us, Anne. I think that the ability to find beauty and satisfaction from everyday things makes us the happiest. At least I find myself the most content and serene with the silent happiness (as you wrote) in the middle of my very ordinary life. It's only the matter of letting myself to have time to notice these things and emotions. That's something I've been working on this last winter — reminding myself to stop once in a while, to look around and to cherish what I see.
I'm anxiously waiting for my Olav H. Hauge book to arrive, so I thank you for the
Dear Anne, dear Johanna, this is truly a topic dedicated to poetry, even poetry written in prose like yours!
Johanna wrote: "I think that the ability to find beauty and satisfaction from everyday things makes us the happiest."This is so very, very true. I'm watching and smelling and listening to rain at the moment, and I've no desire to do anything else.
Mod
This is so very, very true. I'm watching and smelling and listening to rain at..."
Yes. This is exactly what I meant. Moments like that are just... precious.
Mod
I've been listening to an audio book The Poets' Corner: The One-and-Only Poetry Book for the Whole Family by John Lithgow. It's a lovely introduction to the work of his favorite poets whom, I would assume, are the very favorite poetry masters of many others too. The great thing about this book is that Lithgow does quite lively biographical and critical commentary on the poets — and that he doesn't read all the poems himself, but there are many guest readers for that.
It's like a short, basic course to the poets' lives and works. I've learned some fascinating things about some of my favorites! For example I didn't know that Robert Frost was going to read another poem at John F. Kennedy's inauguration in 1961 ("Dedication", which he had written for the occasion), but when he climbed the stage he realized that he couldn't see the words on his paper, so he decided to read another poem which he knew by heart, "The Gift Outright". And that one apparently became instantly well loved.
I'm sure you all already knew things like this, but I'm currently enjoying tremendously learning all this. The book has a wonderful description on W. H. Auden's life and work, too. And did you know that Hart Crane's father was the candy manufacturer who invented Life Savers! Oh, and I loved the part of Robert Burns and his poems, but his poems made me fear that I'll never survive in Scotland this summer, because I didn't understand half of them when read aloud! ;-)
Aaaanyway, if you're in need of a basic poetry course like this and have some extra Audible credits, I can recommend it. You can check out the contents of the (print) book here on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Poets-Corne...
I wish my former students had been like you, Johanna! :)
Mod
LOL. You should have been here witnessing my joy today, when I received my copies of The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged and The Dream We Carry: Selected and Last Poems of Olav H. Hauge. :-)
This is my favorite poem of the 20th century -- Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour" (1959). Its structural artistry and thematic complexity wow me every time I read it, but the imagery stuns me even more. Explications abound; if you're curious about its meaning, just google the title.Lowell suffered from, and was frequently hospitalized for, bipolar disease (then called manic depression). Sometimes I think it contributed to his brilliance.
Skunk Hour
Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village;
she's in her dotage.
Thirsting for
the hierarchie privacy
of Queen Victoria's century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.
The season's ill--
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.
And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.
One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love. . . ." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat. . . .
I myself am hell;
nobody's here--
only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.
Johanna wrote: "K.Z. wrote: "I wish my former students had been like you, Johanna! :)"LOL. You should have been here witnessing my joy today, when I received my copies of The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collecte..."
It brings me joy to see such enthusiasm and appreciation!
Mod
I was in the garden listening to my poem audio book and stopped it after listening the part of Robert Lowell. And when I came inside and to this topic, you had meanwhile posted a Robert Lowell poem here. :-) I do like the rich language of the "Skunk Hour", but I think I'll need to google its meaning before I'll fully understand it.
My book didn't have "Skunk Hour" in it (although it was mentioned), but "The Public Garden". I was also highly amused when Lithgow said something like this: "You don't need to read a biography of Robert Lowell for portrait of his life, you just need to read his poetry from beginning to end."
Apparently sometime in his forties his style begun to have very personal and very confessional approach at least partly due to the fact that his life was so complicated and troubled with messy marriages, the mental illness and such. This and your comment above: "Sometimes I think it contributed to his brilliance" made me think of the fact that no doubt some of the greatest art ever known has been created in catastrophically bad circumstances.
And this guy did have a lot of pressure on him from the beginning, because his family, the Lowell's had attended Harvard for more than three hundred years and he was the one who broke that tradition (amongst many other family traditions he happened to end). Uh-oh.
Anyway, here is also Robert Lowell's "The Public Garden", which I thought was lovely. It describes beautifully a particular glowing moment of autumn in the Boston garden where the activities are closing down for winter, but which still holds lovely memories of summer days. I also learned today that this garden in Boston was the first botanical garden in the US (that's why the latin labels on the trees).
In any case, this poem reminded me today how much I love public gardens. :-)
THE PUBLIC GARDEN by Robert Lowell
Burnished, burned-out, still burning as the year
you lead me to our stamping ground.
The city and its cruising cars surround
the Public Garden. All's alive—
the children crowding home from school at five,
punting a football in the bricky air,
the sailors and their pick-ups under trees
with Latin labels. And the jaded flock
of swanboats paddles to its dock.
The park is drying.
Dead leaves thicken to a ball
inside the basin of a fountain, where
the heads of four stone lions stare
and suck on empty fawcets. Night
deepens. From the arched bridge, we see
the shedding park-bound mallards, how they keep
circling and diving in the lanternlight,
searching for something hidden in the muck.
And now the moon, earth's friend, that cared so much
for us, and cared so little, comes again—
always a stranger! As we walk,
it lies like chalk
over the waters. Everything's aground.
Remember summer? Bubbles filled
the fountain, and we splashed. We drowned
in Eden, while Jehovah's grass-green lyre
was rustling all about us in the leaves
that gurgled by us, turning upside down...
The fountain's failing waters flash around
the garden. Nothing catches fire.
Thank you, Johanna. I'd forgotten all about that poem.
Thank you KZ and Johanna for introducing me to Lowell. As Johanna said, this thread has thought me about English poets I am not familiar with and thus you are always expanding my knowledge with their visions.
Mod
Well, of course I had to read the excerpt... and then join you. I bought the Kindle book as well, because it really annoys me how Audible contents are divided by chapters, with no correspondence to the way well-designed poetry ebooks are organized. I mean those that are formatted so the reader can actually go directly to the poem desired! Is there some way to "bookmark" audio books the way one can bookmark ebooks? If not, there should be! ;-!
Anyway, I couldn't resist a book with Helen Mirren as one of the readers, and Lithgow's stories about his father lead me to reminisce about my father reading aloud to his two daughters. Also, I like the thought of you perhaps gardening and listening, while I am an ocean and then some away working on my hideous room-by-room clean and de-clutter project and listening to poetry. :-)
I'm in the smallest room now (utility) and it's just... hideous!
Mod
Such imagery! "They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire..." Just wow.
Mod
Well, of course I had to read the excerpt... and then jo..."
Oh Karen! I hope you'll like the book! And good thinking about the Kindle version. I might purchase that too. And no, I don't know if there is any way to bookmark an audio book, but when listening these poetry audio books, I've been longing to do just that! To bookmark my favorite poems.
And hey, you might find it comforting that I'll be cleaning up our study tomorrow (it should be raining). I'm in the middle of clearing up all the papers and other stuff there, but today was too sunny to continue with that. So, I really feel for you, my friend. ;-)
Lowell's never an easy read, but that's true of so many gifted poets. I'm in awe of him.
Mod
Aw, poor thing! I love frogs and toads.
Susinok wrote: "I like the classics. :)
ULYSSES
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws ..."
I'm with you- best poem ever in English
ULYSSES
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws ..."
I'm with you- best poem ever in English
I like the down to earth language of this poem
by one of my favorite novelists.
Easter Morning
by Jim Harrison
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon grease.
We're not supposed to have "peasants"
but there are tens of millions of them
frying potatoes on Easter morning,
cheap and delicious with catsup.
If Jesus were here this morning he might
be eating fried potatoes with my friend
who has a '51 Dodge and a '72 Pontiac.
When his kids ask why they don't have
a new car he says, "these cars were new once
and now they are experienced."
He can fix anything and when rich folks
call to get a toilet repaired he pauses
extra hours so that they can further
learn what we're made of.
I told him that in Mexico the poor say
that when there's lightning the rich
think that God is taking their picture.
He laughed.
Like peasants everywhere in the history
of the world ours can't figure out why
they're getting poorer. Their sons join
the army to get work being shot at.
Your ideals are invisible clouds
so try not to suffocate the poor,
the peasants, with your sympathies.
They know that you're staring at them.
by one of my favorite novelists.
Easter Morning
by Jim Harrison
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon grease.
We're not supposed to have "peasants"
but there are tens of millions of them
frying potatoes on Easter morning,
cheap and delicious with catsup.
If Jesus were here this morning he might
be eating fried potatoes with my friend
who has a '51 Dodge and a '72 Pontiac.
When his kids ask why they don't have
a new car he says, "these cars were new once
and now they are experienced."
He can fix anything and when rich folks
call to get a toilet repaired he pauses
extra hours so that they can further
learn what we're made of.
I told him that in Mexico the poor say
that when there's lightning the rich
think that God is taking their picture.
He laughed.
Like peasants everywhere in the history
of the world ours can't figure out why
they're getting poorer. Their sons join
the army to get work being shot at.
Your ideals are invisible clouds
so try not to suffocate the poor,
the peasants, with your sympathies.
They know that you're staring at them.
Mod
A stoic toad mummy? Yikes. *shudders*
Mod
by one of my favorite novelists.
Easter Morning
by Jim Harrison
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon ..."
Yeah, the down to earth language really works for this poem, the effect is powerful. It leaves me with a very gloomy feeling. Is that how it's suppose to feel? Not much hope there, right? More like angst and melancholy?
Johanna wrote: "Sarah wrote: "I like the down to earth language of this poem
by one of my favorite novelists.
Easter Morning
by Jim Harrison
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potat..."
It doesn't seem gloomy to me, but more a spotlight turned on someone different than myself. Sort of the idea that people are different on a horizontal scale, rather than a vertical scale, such as we usually use.
by one of my favorite novelists.
Easter Morning
by Jim Harrison
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potat..."
It doesn't seem gloomy to me, but more a spotlight turned on someone different than myself. Sort of the idea that people are different on a horizontal scale, rather than a vertical scale, such as we usually use.
Q&A with Josh Lanyon
Books mentioned in this topic
Mr. Cogito (other topics)Don't Mention the Children (other topics)
Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry (other topics)
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life (other topics)
The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World (other topics)
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Authors mentioned in this topic
Zbigniew Herbert (other topics)Vanni Bianconi (other topics)
Pablo Neruda (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
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XVII (I do not love you...)
Wow, so touching Joe – what a beautiful, soulfully deep poem. My son loves poetry, can’t wait to share with him.
My favorite poem…When I am dead, my dearest – by Christina Rossetti.