Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
“I was the shadow of the waxwing slainBy the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov was a poet. Below, one of my favorite --
LINES WRITTEN IN OREGON
Esmeralda! Now we rest
Here, in the bewitched and blest
Mountain forest of the West.
Here the very air is stranger.
Damzel, anchoret, and ranger
Share the woodland’s dream and danger.
And to think I deemed you dead!
(In a dungeon, it was said;
Tortured, strangled); but instead –
Blue birds from the bluest fable,
Bear and hare in coats of sable,
Peacock moth on picnic table.
Huddled road-signs softly speak
Of Lake Merlin, Castle Creek,
And (obliterated) Peak.
Do you recognize that clover?
Dandelions, l’or du pauvre?
(Europe, nonetheless, is over).
Up the turf, along the burn,
Latin lilies climb and turn
Into Gothic fir and fern.
Cornfields have befouled the prairies
But these canyon’s laugh! And there is
Still the forest with its fairies.
And I rest where I awoke
In the sea shade – l’ombre glauque –
Of a legendary oak.
Where the woods get ever dimmer,
Where the Phantom Orchids glimmer –
Esmeralda, immer, immer.
(1953)
Mod
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov was a poet. Below, one of my f..."
I really like this one and its rhythm! This is going to sound really dumb, but there are so many great words in it: bewitched, anchoret, woodland, fable, clover, dandelions, nonetheless, turf, climb, fir, fern, befouled, awoke... I really like the way those taste and feel when I say them. :-)
Mod
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm sw..."
I know this isn't what we usually post here among the bards, but Josh's beautiful poem "rang some bells" and it took me awhile to remember this one (of mine from 1997) that shares rain and remembrance, although not as gracefully. : )
terrible thing
I say it is kind
that you pretend not to mind
all my talk about weather,
but weather is simpler
than being together.
Darling,
love is a terrible thing.
When I say this rain
is a fine match to pain,
you shut my lips with your fingers
and your sweet smile lingers
in response to my claim.
Darling,
love is a terrible thing.
Then you draw me in
to a dim smoky room,
stand back in the gloom watching
as I take off my coat,
waiting for me to speak.
Darling,
love is a terrible thing.
You bring me to you
stop my words with your kisses,
the raindrops gleam in your hair,
one rolls to the tip of
your nose and you shiver.
Darling,
love is a terrible thing.
The heat of the day
in the heart of the summer
warms but can never mend
the cut that you made
with the look that you gave
me then.
Love is a terrible thing.
Karen wrote: "The heat of the dayin the heart of the summer
warms but can never mend
the cut that you made
with the look that you gave
me then.
Love is a terrible thing."
So very moving. Thanks for sharing.
Mod
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while t..."
Wow. This is so cool! Thank you for sharing, Karen!
Thanks to everybody sharing poems, but even more so to Karen! This is beautiful!
So amazing to come here and find such lovely poetry. Thank you!
Mod
THE GARDEN
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain—
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten—
After the stillness, will spring come again?
STARS
Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head
White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
The aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill
I watch them marching
Stately and still.
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.
THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Mod
Yes, melancholy and beauty. I feel like I've found a long-lost (more eloquent) cousin. (I have a bulbs poem and a particular stars poem, and they link somehow.)
I think that's why we're here, having found that resonance in Josh's work, and finding that link, whatever it is, gives us something more than the superficial to share.
Josh wrote: "Spring RainI thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm sw..."
This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing, Josh. :)
Karen wrote: "Josh wrote: "Spring RainI thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while t..."
Thank you, Karen. I liked reading that. :)
Johanna wrote: "The poem Spring Rain led me to read more Sara Teasdale. Josh posted her poem Barter here a while ago and I remember quite clearly how I fell in love with the way Teasdale so sensually describes sta..."I've read little by Sara Teasdale, but I really like what you all have posted. Thank you. I will read more. :)
Alison wrote: "Johanna wrote: "The poem Spring Rain led me to read more Sara Teasdale. Josh posted her poem Barter here a while ago and I remember quite clearly how I fell in love with the way Teasdale so sensual..."It's the wonder of this thread, learning about poets and poems you didn't know about.
Mod
That's my last duchess painted on the wall, ..."
That is a wonderful poem. It's a poem I first read in college, and to be honest, I missed 90% of what was going on it until my professor explained. Which is why education is such a glorious thing. :-)
Mod
She is considered "feminine" and "old-fashioned" now, but I don't regard these as negatives. :-) I think she has a way of elegantly slicing through to the emotional core of a given moment.
Mod
I love Teasdale. :-)
Mod
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while t..."
Karen, that's lovely.
Mod
Than your lips would ever say. . . .
..."
Right there is the core of so many romance stories. ;-) Real and imagined.
Mod
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov was a poet. Below, one of my f..."
I am startled to realize that I didn't know this. Or if I knew it, I've forgotten!
Mod
Than your lips would ever say. . . .
..."
Right there is the core of so many romance stories. ;-) Real and imagined."
Exactly!
I had a bit of poem serendipity yesterday, so I thought I'd share. I was thinking of this poem a few days ago for the first time in decades (I don't remember what brought it to mind) and I couldn't remember what it was or who wrote it or anything above a few phrases, but I thought I should try and find out. It's a poem my dad used to read to me when I was very little and I have such fond memories of lying curled up in bed listening to him read. He was an actor and a teacher and had a great voice and read aloud beautifully. Anyway, I was sorting through a shelf in his study yesterday and was leafing through a book and, lo and behold, there was the poem. It had found me. It was "The Bells" by Edgar Allen Poe and I was so excited to find it and then to read it and remember. I love the rhythm and the repetition and how it builds. I remember learning the lovely word "tintinnabulation" from this poem. The Bells
By Edgar Allen Poe
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten - golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale - faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king it is who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: -
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells: -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Mod
Thinking of you as you go through your father's study, a bittersweet activity I imagine, but with lovely memories like this one. I hope you have many more. Poe was also part of my childhood, and the book of poems my father read to us.
Josh wrote: "Larisa wrote: "“I was the shadow of the waxwing slainBy the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
Nabokov was a poet. Bel..."
Josh wrote: "Josh wrote: "Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .
..."
Right there is the core of so many romance stories. ;-) Real and imagined."
This is another interesting example, for your enjoyment:
Silentium, by Fyodor Tyutchev
(translated by Vladimir Nabokov)
Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.
How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.
Josh wrote: "Larisa wrote: "The poem My Last Duchess by Robert Browning (below) is mentioned by Nabokov in his novel Pale Fire more than once, but the footnotes never adduce it. That's my last duchess painte..."
Something of the kind happened to me.
Years ago, I tried to understand one Russian poem, whose idea was so dear to me, but I could not take the poem's sense entirely. Perhaps, a reason was the archaic Russian language of the poem or it was the manner of the poet, not sure. Now, I began reading in English, and among other things, one day, I read the Russian poem, translated in English. Instantly, I understood the poem completely, and fell in love with it. This is the poem:
ANTINOUS
(translated by Michael Green):
Three times I saw him face to face.
The first time was in the gardens--
I had been sent to fetch food for my comrades,
and to make the journey shorter
I took the path by the palace wing;
suddenly I caught the tremor of strings,
and, being tall of stature,
I peered through the broad window and saw
him:
he was sitting alone and sad,
his slender fingers idly plucking the strings of a lyre;
a white dog
lay silent at his feet,
and only the fountain's splashing
mingled with the music.
Sensing my gaze,
he put down his lyre
and lifted his lowered face.
Magic to me his beauty
and his silence in the empty room,
in the noontide stillness.
Crossing myself, I ran away in fear,
away from the window . . .
Later, on guard duty at Lochias,
I was standing in the passage
leading to the quarters of the imperial astrologer.
The moon cast a bright square on the floor,
and the copper buckles of my sandals
glinted
as I trod the patch of brightness.
Hearing footsteps,
I halted.
From the inner chamber,
a slave bearing a torch before them,
three men came forth,
he being one.
He was pale,
but it seemed to me
that the room was lit
not by the torch, but by his countenance.
As he passed, he glanced at me
and said, "I've seen you before, my friend,"
and withdrew to the astrologer's quarters.
Long after his white robes were lost to view
and the torch had been swallowed in darkness,
I stood there, not moving, not breathing,
and afterwards in the barracks,
feeling Martius, who slept next to me,
touch my hand in his usual way,
I pretended to be asleep.
And then one evening
we met again.
We were bathing
near the tents of Caesar's camp,
when suddenly a cry went up.
We ran, but it was too late.
Dragged from the water, the body
lay on the sand,
and that same unearthly face,
the face of a magician,
stared with wide-open eyes.
Still far off, the Emperor was hurrying toward us,
shaken by the grievous tidings;
but I stood seeing nothing,
not feeling tears unknown to me since childhood
running down my cheeks.
All night I whispered prayers, raving of my native Asia, of Nicomedia,
and angel voices sang:
Hosannah!
A new god
is given unto men!
Mod
ANTINOUS
(translated by Michael Green):"
Thanks, Larisa. I've never read this poem and I didn't know the story of Antinous.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antinous
https://www.britishmuseum.org/explore...
And then...
http://www.antinopolis.org/
http://www.sacredantinous.com/Home.html
Well, sometimes the internet is a weird and wonderful place. : )
Karen wrote: "Thanks, Larisa. I've never read this poem and I didn't know the story of Antinous."Memoirs of Hadrian is about Hadrian and Antinous, it's a classic.
Karen wrote: "Alison wrote: "I had a bit of poem serendipity yesterday, so I thought I'd share. I was thinking of this poem a few days ago for the first time in decades (I don't remember what brought it to mind)..."Thanks, Karen. :)
Mod
FIREFLIES IN THE GARDEN
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
Mod
F..."
"Emulating" is such an awkward word. And yet I see his point. And yet I wonder why not simply "fireflies" and allowing the reader to make the connection?
But then it's Frost and you can't really question.
Mod
After pondering over the poem last night I finally googled how others had analysed it and the contrast between the genuine and the imitation was obviously the most popular thought. I also quite liked someone's idea that the poem is about the meaning and significance of striving for a dream in spite of the limits of mortality and in spite of the fact that that dream may be impossible. In other words, it would be worth the fireflies’ time to attempt to imitate the stars, if even for only a very short while.
So, we can (or should) shine like a star in our own time, at our own pace, as long as we are able to?
And, what fascinated me the most was this speculation: Can the poem be seen as an analogy for creative process itself? Art does imitate life and everything in it, right? And art dreams even bigger than life, doesn't it? But... without never actually being the 'real thing'.
Although I think I'll have to disagree with that last line. At least I want to disagree. (OMG. Am I having a debate with myself? Clearly I'm more tired than I though.) ;-)
Anyway, I think that this little poem is fascinating. :-) Oh, and I agree with Josh, the connection would've been easy enough to see without the word emulating.
Mod
Well, in part it couldn't be just "fireflies" because that wouldn't fit the meter. All the lines are ten syllables. Decimeters? ; ) No, I suppose it's iambic pentameter? And I think that "emulating" balances "equal," both as non-poetic "e" words, and is somehow just right for the kind of brave, (awkward) striving described.
Johanna wrote:Thank you for sharing this poem and the memory with us, Alison. I wasn't familiar with Ozymandias and Percy Bysshe Shelley before. Very powerful stuff. ..."You are in for a treat if you don't know Shelley Johanna. I had him firmly pigeon holed as a dead white male poet and therefore boring and then I heard a journalist called Paul Foot enthusing about him and his left wing views. If he were alive today he'd be joining in with the occupy movement and cheering on people involved in the Arab spring etc. Foot quoted from his long poem - Mask of Anarchy - about the Peterloo massacre of civilians by British troops. The full poem is here .
'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;
XXXVIII
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.’
Caroline wrote: "Johanna wrote:Thank you for sharing this poem and the memory with us, Alison. I wasn't familiar with Ozymandias and Percy Bysshe Shelley before. Very powerful stuff. ..."You are in for a treat i..."
I love the Romantics. Long-dead white men sometimes do have wonderful things to say. :)
Too early in the morning as I thought it said read me a porn. Nice knowing we are still reading poems.
Recording of Sylvia Plath reading "A Birthday Present" (1962):http://hellogiggles.com/rare-sylvia-p...
(The combination of the name of that blog with the amazing reading i've just listened to is kind of jarring...)
Mod
A Dominant's Prayer
By: Grifter ©1998
To the power more powerful then myself,
I was born in a way that has sometimes left me mystified
Always reaching to guide those about me
Needing to know that they are fulfilled before true fulfillment reaches
in to caress my soul
I have compromised, in many cases, to allow another to be fulfilled
Wondering all the while how it is that they can not see me first, as I
see them
I have found myself pushing away all, in denial of my need to always
consider another first
Needing to be the one to consider others more needy than myself
The world about me thinks that
giving completely is reserved for those
who submit
That serving another is not for the "strong"
How could "they" be so wrong
I love that I am the one who can be turned to
The one to solve a problem
The one to set the direction
The Top
The Dominant
Please help me to remain focused on this need to walk
to the front
To always stop when a searching soul reaches out for a
hand up
To always be strong enough to pause when all is
insanity
To always surge forward when all has stalled
And to give all of me to becoming ALL
Please help me to know when the hand I extend needs to
be soft
When it needs to be harsh
When it is needed to wipe a tear or crush a fear
When it is needed for punishment
And when all that is needed is a hug
Please let my nature push through the world about me
that questions
I am a Dom
I can be no other
Let me be ALL that is right
Mod
PLACES by Sara Teasdale
Places I love come back to me like music,
Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming
In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music —
Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.
Mod
"And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me."
~ shivers ~
This is a place I can come back to again and again and find a piece of beauty for my soul. Thank you!
Johanna wrote: "I found a new-to-me Sara Teasdale poem today. In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.
.."
That is just what writing a poem is like, listening to that hushed insistent voice.
Thank you Johanna.
Tadeusz Różewicz, one of Poland's greatest poets has died at the age of 92. He bore witness to what happened in Poland during the Second World war and after - simple, direct and profoundly moving poems. I feel a sense of loss at his passing. Here is his poem The Survivor
I am twenty-four
led to slaughter
I survived.
The following are empty synonyms:
man and beast
love and hate
friend and foe
darkness and light.
The way of killing men and beasts is the same
I've seen it:
truckfuls of chopped-up men
who will not be saved.
Ideas are mere words:
virtue and crime
truth and lies
beauty and ugliness
courage and cowardice.
Virtue and crime weigh the same
I've seen it:
in a man who was both
criminal and virtuous.
I seek a teacher and a master
may he restore my sight hearing and speech
may he again name objects and ideas
may he separate darkness from light.
I am twenty-four
led to slaughter
I survived.
Caroline wrote: "Tadeusz Różewicz, one of Poland's greatest poets has died at the age of 92. He bore witness to what happened in Poland during the Second World war and after - simple, direct and profoundly moving p..."This gave me goosebumps. Thank you for posting it, Caroline.
Mod
Mod
The Dash by Linda Ellis http://www.linda-ellis.com/the-dash-t...I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone
from the beginning…to the end.
He noted that first came the date of birth
and spoke the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
that they spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved them
know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own,
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.
So, think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
that can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect
and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read,
with your life’s actions to rehash…
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent YOUR dash?
--------
This poem was in the program for my mother-in-law's funeral. Her children found it among her photos. It is perfect for her. She lived life large. In fact, the "theme" for her death was A Life Well Lived. I need to work on my dash.
Loretta: Thank you for sharing this. It's lovely and boldly true. So sorry for your loss.
Loretta wrote: "The Dash by Linda Ellis http://www.linda-ellis.com/the-dash-t...I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombs..."
Thank you Loretta, it is lovely. I am sorry for your loss.
A friend posted this on Facebook recently, I wanted to share it with you all, for those days that life seems overwhelming or hard:your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
@Charles Bukowski
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
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That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
"Must never hope to reproduce the faint
"Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked
Somehow I know not how as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech which I have not to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark" and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!