Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
There you go - two of my favorites. I'll add more later.The Falcon To The Falconer - Jonathan Steffen
Unleash me from your hand
And I will lance the light for you
I'll cut a swordblade on the wind
And pennant it with flight for you
To signal I am yours
If you will free me to be true to you
Unleash me from your hand
And I will mock the sky for you
I'll pull the anger from the air
And make the breezes sigh for you
To show you I am yours
If you will free me to be true to you
Unleash me from your hand
And I will jewel it bright for you
I'll hunt the treasures of the wind
And pluck them into sight for you
To show that I am yours
If you will free me to be true to you
O, cast me from your hand
That I may show my love for you
And throw me to the wind
That I may know my need for you
All darkness on your hand
I'm hooded, pinned and held by you
O, give me back my wings
That they may bring me back to you
Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
The falcon poem gave me goose-bumps. ( that is a good thing). Thank you.
I loved that poem about the falcon to the falconer. It was truly wonderful in its use of imagery. My favorite poem is one written in the middle ages in Spanish: What can I say... I am a medievalist at heart!
Coplas a la muerte de su padre el gran Maestre de Santiago
por Jorge Manrique:
I
Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso e despierte
contemplando
cómo se pasa la vida,
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callando,
cuan presto se va el plazer,
cómo después de acordado,
da dolor;
como, a nuestro parecer,
cualquiere tiempo passado
fue mejor.
English translation:
The Coplas on the Death of His Father,
the Grand-Master of Santiago
Let from its dream the soul awaken,
And reason mark with open eyes
The scene unfolding,—
How lightly life away is taken,
How cometh Death in stealthy guise,—
At last beholding;
What swiftness hath the flight of pleasure
That, once attained, seems nothing more
Than respite cold;
How fain is memory to measure
Each latter day inferior
To those of old.
Inspired by Kira in msg 50, I searched the net for Neil Gaiman poems. I found this one, story tellers might enjoy. It is a reflection on story telling. I'm not sure about Copywrite so I am linking the title and just using a couple of lines.
Locks
....
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
...
Again.
Again.
Again..
Mod
Speaking of Neil Gaiman:http://youtu.be/dBJVGwmswZI
In my experience, authors rarely read their poetry well, but he is good. :)
Lady*M wrote: "Speaking of Neil Gaiman:http://youtu.be/dBJVGwmswZI
In my experience, authors rarely read their poetry well, but he is good. :)"
Thanks for the link, Lady*M! I'm laughing and awwww-ing at the same time here. :)
Mod
http://youtu.be/dBJVGwmswZI
In my experience, authors rarely read their poetry well, but he is good. :)"
Thanks for the link, Lady*M! I'm laughing and aww..."
Exactly what Calathea said! I'm still awwwwing here. That was really cool!!! :-)
Reggie - thanks for your encouragements.I'm reading at present Samarcande by Amin Maalouf. It is a historical fiction featuring Omar Khayyam and his rubayiat (quatrains).
Here is one. The translation is thankfully not mine.;)
"I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered "I Myself am Heaven and Hell"
Mod
These are simply wonderful. Not merely for the work itself, but for seeing what you all read and love.
This is an amazing thread.
Mod
I introduced the ballad, and read Poe's "Annabelle Lee" since it met the criteria I wanted them to notice — a narrative told in stanzas, with a particular rhythm/cadence and a rhyming pattern. Their prior knowledge of Poe was "The Raven," from cartoons and commercials. While the 4ths focused on fitting their ideas to the pattern, the 5ths tackled it all with relish, creating tales of murder and mayhem, death and destruction (especially the girls) — and this was their own take on it, since I hadn't given thematic limitations. So they were kind of tickled when I told them that we'd not be sharing these works with their younger classmates since they'd met the PG-13 rating for violence. Just another day in our peaceful Montessori school... ;-)
=D Great story Karen! Thanks 8)All of my poetry knowledge/experience comes from school, people sharing their love of poetry, and media. I was surprised that I was familiar with 90% of the 50 most popular poems(http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/top_po...)
So a big shout of THANKS to you teachers and poetry lovers, for your influence is greater than you know. YAY! XXOO
I am a lover of Yeats. This is one of his most famous poems and the one that got me interested in his poetry:The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The recent poems on falcons have prompted me to post one which I love. I remember that when I first read Gerard Manley Hopkins (at school, of course!) we all found it difficult. But our teacher's son was "doing" GMH at university and gave her some excellent notes which she in turn gave to us. Hope you like it! He was very religious, hence the dedication he made.
The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
Anyone else have to look up 'sillion'? Found good description- http://www.arsdocendi.org/2011/07/02/...
He [teacher] invited the students to look out the window at the saturated clayey soil and observed that plowing it on a sunny day would pressurize it, causing the water to extrude slightly and flash in the sunlight suddenly and briefly as the plow passed, the flash-point moving with the plow.
Some poetry (and prose) sounds lovely and can be appreciated on that level, and then after one examines it and extracts all the meanings it is even better. Oh, and now I've followed Reggie's link and it says that so much better, as well as reminding me what "sillion" is.
I stayed this weekend with my father at the west coast of Norway, a place that is very beautiful with the fjords and the snow clad mountains that plunge directly into the waters. The spring is almost upon us, it has been a long, cold winter. I could almost hear and feel the grass waiting underneath the soil to push itself into the light, the buds are ready to burst forth, a few small and hardy flowers have ventured forth, but most are still lying in wait hoping for the warmth and the sun that shall nurture them into being.If you live in a climate with sunshine and warmth all year round, it is maybe hard to understand how we long for spring at this time of the year, checking the trees and bushes for buds, looking to see if there are colts foot blooming on the roadside, crocuses on the lawns.
It all reminded me of a Swedish poem by Karin Boye, "Of course it hurts when buds are breaking".
I found a translation into English by someone called Jenny Nunn, I don't know whether that is an official translation or not, but I think it is good.
Ja visst gör det ont
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.
Varför skulle annars våren tveka?
Varför skulle all vår heta längtan
bindas i det frusna bitterbleka?
Höljet var ju knoppen hela vinteren.
Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger?
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister,
ont för det som växer -
och det som stänger.
Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller.
Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger,
klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider -
tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger.
Svårt att vara oviss, rädd och delad,
svårt at känna djupet dra och kalla,
ändå sitta kvar och bara darra -
svårt att vilja stanna -
och vilja falla.
Då, när det är värst och inget hjälper,
brister som i jubel trädets knoppar.
Då, när ingen rädsla längre håller,
faller i ett glitter kvistens droppar,
glömmer at de skrämdes av det nye,
glömmer att de ängslades för färden -
känner en sekund sin största trygghet,
vilar i den tillit -
som skapar världen.
Karin Boye
Of Course It Hurts
Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.
Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
and to want to fall.
Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond
help,
the tree's buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch's drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey -
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
that creates the world.
That's lovely, Anne. And thank you for explaining so beautifully how much you long for spring.
Mod
We've now reached the point of agony and when all is beyond help. Within a week the snow has finally, completely melted away and I find myself in the garden walking from tree to tree peering the yet almost invisible buds and praying that my magnolia made it through its second, hard winter — and if the magnolia didn't make it, then, hopefully, at least the oak tree... please. And finding the small, small sprouts of tulips and peonies on the flowerbed feels like a true miracle every year!
Thank you for that, Anne. It perfectly expresses this year's spring in my part of the world. And the metaphorical dimension of the poem is just as strong.
Na wrote: "As it wasn't yet mentioned, let me share with you what I found back on my mobile notes:Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my u..."
Oh, wow, I love this one, Na! Thanks for sharing :-D
I've just rediscovered this one here. It's not as skillful maybe, but it's written by a Jewish girl in a concentration camp - and as such it's touched me deeply, especially the last part. I've tried to translate it properly, but you all know how difficult that is ;-D
To Our Teachers
Ever you taught us,
To strive for the Beautiful, the Good, the True,
You enchanted us
With the poet’s word,
Taught us,
To vault everyday life
On wings of ardour
And to immerse our spirit
In the secrets of life.
(…)
Is my suffering now the price for this,
And that I am without arms in this world?
Oh, if only you had taught us,
To jump out of the ambush,
To clutch life with a strong grip by the scruff of its neck,
To strike it with a clenched fist between both eyes,
So that it staggers,
And falls to its knees!
Had you taught us to scream,
So that we are heard,
And how to kick in a door,
And how to kick, so that we aren’t kicked!
And to accustom our eyes
To the lurid red of blood!
Have you really not known,
Learned, sage professors,
That humanity has no roof
On this earth anymore?
Why have you sown longing
Into our souls?
There are so many of my favourites on this thread – Dylan Thomas, Yeats, Invictus and I’m savouring being introduced to new poems. Here’s one I keep going back to after finding it a few years ago. Glyn Maxwell is a British poet based in New York and I think you can tell when he wrote this poem. Flags And Candles
Flags line up an hour before they’re chosen,
wave back along the row at others like them.
Candles sit in boxes or lie still,
sealed, and each imagines what will happen.
Flags will not accept the explanation
of why they were not needed as they are now.
Candles feel they’re made of stuff that’s soft
for a good cause, though maybe not their own cause.
Tall flags love all flags if it’s these flags.
Small flags are okay about immense flags.
Candles doze in xylophones of colour,
thrilled their purpose may be merely pattern.
Flags are picked out one by one. The others
group around the gap and say Gap, what gap?
Candles dream of something that will change them,
that is the making of and death of candles.
Flags don’t dream of anything but more flags.
The wind is blowing; only the landscape changes.
Candles have the ghost of an idea
exactly what the wick is for: they hope so.
Flags are hearing that you can’t see flags
at night, not even giants in a windstorm.
Candles have read that they can cry all day
and go unnoticed even by old candles.
When I wave flags, flags think it's the world waving
while flags are holding fast. When I light candles,
the sense of something reverently bowing
holds me and I tremble like the shadows.
Flags again know nothing and they're flying.
Candles shed a light and burn to darkness.
Glyn Maxwell
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 very powerful.The translation is done by me, it does not do it justice I am afraid. It is one I love very much.Den draumen
Det er den draumen me ber på
at noko vidunderlig skal skje,
at det må skje -
at tidi skal opna seg,
at hjarta skal opna seg,
at dører skal opna seg,
at kjeldor skal springa -
at draumen skal opna seg,
at me ei morgonstund
skal glida inn
på ein våg me ikkje har visst um.
The dream
It is that dream we carry
That something wonderful will happen
That it must happen –
That time will open
That hearts will open
That doors will open
That wells will spring forth-
That the dream will open
That we an early morning
Will glide along
On a wave we did not know about
Thank you so much for all poems and interesting links to poems. I think this is the only way I can enjoy poetry: taken in pills ;-). I've got some books of poetry by authors I love, but I never managed to read all of the book.
I also like to see the original version and the translation of a poem, even from a language I don't know like Norwegian.
Antonella wrote: "Thank you so much for all poems and interesting links to poems. I think this is the only way I can enjoy poetry: taken in pills ;-). I've got some books of poetry by authors I love, but I never m..."
I enjoy poetry like this too, in small doses, one poem at a time. To read a whole collection in one is hard I feel, because every word is important, so the poem must be read slowly. Not like reading a story where you can hurry through to see how it ends :)
I haven't commented on every poem posted here, but all of them have given me something, emotions, beautiful words and rythm, food for thought. And I agree, it is lovely to read a poem in a foreign language, just to get the feel of the words. It is the same feeling that has me enjoying books stores when travelling, even if all the books are in a language I don't understand.
You can't have a poetry thread and not have some Walt Whitman:Leaves of Grass
[21]
...
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night;
I call to the earth and the sea half-held by the night.
Press close barebosomed night! Press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Yay Vivian. The great thing about poems is that you can take them one at a time.
There is much to be said though for reading a poet's collection from start to finish. It is a wonderful way of getting to know the poet and his or her body of work especially an unfamiliar poet. I think of it like meeting someone for the first time and then spending the day (or night?) with them. A collection I've recently enjoyed reading was Richard Blanco's Looking for the Gulf Motel. You get to meet the rest of his family in the book too! Before that it was Rebecca Gethin's 'A Handful of Water'. As Becky has the same publisher as me I was able to get in touch with her and interview her for my blog
which was fun. I don't have the nerve to ask Mr Blanco.
Caroline wrote: "Yay Vivian. The great thing about poems is that you can take them one at a time.
There is much to be said though for reading a poet's collection from start to finish. It is a wonderful way of ge..."
I agree. I am a member of the Academy of American Poets and it has some perks, like getting first prints of the Walt Whitman's prize winners and the James Laughlin award winners. I got Eyes, Stones by Elana Bell. It is a beautiful collection of poems that record the experiences of Palestinian and Israelis. Elana Bell is the granddaughter of a Holocaust survivor, but her voice and her words she lends to both sides of the conflict. You see how both sides love the land and how the conflict affects both sides. Here is an example:
Naming the Land
Because we named the land in blood and ink
and everything held by the land
to our use we named –
dirty with the name–
Because we bought this land
when ash became sky
and the smell of burning
drifted
Because my grandmother dreamed it
instead of eating death
and now new trees grow over the graves
Because the ruined promise
because two pounds of shrapnel drawn from Noam's back
because Salim's house forced open like a jaw
a bag of pita scattered where the kitchen was
Because we can survive in any soil
because until the end of the world
we will scratch out the name
Mod
I'm trying to be sparing in comments lest in my haphazard responses I inadvertently slight someone, but these poems are gorgeous.
And in particular I love our exposure to Scandinavian literature, which previous to this group was pretty much unknown to me. This is proving to be a wonderful World Lit course.
Josh 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..."Thank you.
Vivian wrote: "You can't have a poetry thread and not have some Walt Whitman:Leaves of Grass
[21]
...
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night;
I call to the earth and the sea half-held by the night...."
Yay! Uncle Walt! My favorite Whitman poems are "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" and "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry." Powerful imagery, and rhythms like the rolling of the ocean.
Now where's Aunt Emily (Dickinson)? :)
Oh, here she is! I've always loved the ferocity and defiance in this one [1861], although it was born of an inner turbulence that couldn't have been too pleasant for the reclusive spinster. (One scholar described the poem aa "anguish converted into energy.")Title divine -- is mine!
The Wife -- without the Sign!
Acute Degree -- conferred on me --
Empress of Calvary!
Royal -- all but the Crown!
Betrothed -- without the swoon
God sends us Women --
When you -- hold -- Garnet to Garnet --
Gold -- to Gold --
Born -- Bridalled -- Shrouded --
In a Day --
Tri Victory
"My Husband" -- women say --
Stroking the Melody --
Is this -- the way?
Mod
By the way, I love the way K.Z. asked for Emily Dickinson and came back after a while herself with the answering poem! LOL. :-)
Johanna wrote: "So many new poems on this thread, yay! Thank you everyone!!!By the way, I love the way K.Z. asked for Emily Dickinson and came back after a while herself with the answering poem! LOL. :-)"
I got impatient. :-D
Mod
For me the most dear, the most touching Scandinavian literature is perhaps the kind that tells about people's every day lives without much action, lingering. When the story unfolds itself without any hurry and when the landscape surrounding the characters seems to be part of them — and vice versa. Here is a small poem with some landscape and some melancholy in it, but also a hint of hope and peace. It's written by Finnish author and poet Eeva-Liisa Manner (1921-1995).
ASSIMILAATIO
Näytän sinulle tien,
jota olen mennyt.
Jos tulisit,
jos tulisit jonain päivänä takaisin,
etsimään minua
näetkö miten kaikki siirtyy
hiukan joka hetki
ja tulee vaatimattomammaksi
ja primitiivisemmäksi
(kuin lasten piirtämät kuvat
tai alkeelliset eläimet:
sielun aakkoset)
Tulet lämpimälle seudulle,
se on pehmeä ja hämyinen.
Mutta silloin minä en ole enää minä,
vaan metsä.
ASSIMILATION
I will show you a way
that I have travelled.
If you come
If you come back some day
searching for me
do you see how everything shifts
a little every moment
and becomes less pretentious
and more primitive
(like pictures drawn by children
or early forms of life:
the soul's alphabet)
you will come to a warm region
it is soft and hazy
but then I will no longer be me,
but the forest.
I want to thank Anne and Johanna for introducing me to Scandinavian poetry. It is beautiful! I agree with Josh, this is better than a World Lit course. :DNow, someone was asking for Emily Dickinson? *waves book around*
*clears throat*
Now for my favorite Dickinson poem:
XVI
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
Ands sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
There was the poetry contest winner on the Goodreads newsletter today. I liked it!Throwdown
by Jena Strong
give me the drag queens, dolled up and delicious
the two moms bickering over the dishes
the orphans, adopted, the chosen, the trannies
the witches, the protestors, tattooed laughing grannies
the boys wearing tutus and all the shirtless
daughters of the revolution playing basketball
on the broken courts of lost fathers
the failures, the forgotten, the throwdown, the freak show
the hurts and the heartbreaks, the hassles and headaches
the beggar, the baron, the shelter, the clambake
trade in the cynical, the stubborn, the splintering showdown
because it's time to unite now, yes it's time to ignite now
it's time to pick up the phone to say, It's me and I love you
One of the group has a birthday today and so here is Christina Rossetti's birthday poem and also for anyone else who has a birthday in May.A Birthday
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
By Christina Rossetti 1830–1894
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/...
Happy Birthday Aleks.
Since we are introducing poetry from all over the world, now I bring you something from one of the most famous Spaniard poets: Federico García Lorca. Lorca was a remarkable man, he was a poet, a musician, a playwright. He wrote about the disenfranchised and powerless like women and the Roma people in the South of Spain. He was also gay. He was assassinated by Franco's troops near his home in Granada.
Serenata
(Homenaje a Lope de Vega)
Por las orillas del río
se está la noche mojando
y en los pechos de Lolita
se mueren de amor los ramos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
La noche canta desnuda
sobre los puentes de marzo.
Lolita lava su cuerpo
con agua salobre y nardos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
La noche de anís y plata
relumbra por los tejados.
Plata de arroyos y espejos.
Anís de tus muslos blancos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
English Translation by Michael Hartnett.
Serenata
The night soaks itself
along the shores of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love
Naked the night sings
above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body
with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver
shine over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors
Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.
Caroline wrote: "One of the group has a birthday today and so here is Christina Rossetti's birthday poem and also for anyone else who has a birthday in May.A Birthday
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nes..."
A lovely birthday poem, happy birthday, Aleks!
Mod
Happy birthday, Aleks! My favorite Lorca poem deals with feeling intensely transformed by desire and awareness after a first kiss. I love his use of color to express emotion.
From Selected Verse, Songs, 1921-1924
translated by Alan S. Trueblood
Cancioncilla del primer beso
En la mañana verde,
quería ser corazón.
Corazón.
Y en la tarde madura
quería ser ruiseñor.
Ruiseñor.
(Alma,
ponte color de naranja.
Alma,
ponte color de amor)
En la mañana viva,
yo quería ser yo.
Corazón.
Y en la tarde caída
quería ser mi voz.
Ruiseñor
¡Alma,
ponte color naranja!
¡Alma,
ponte color de amor!
Ditty of First Desire
In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul, turn orange-colored
turn the color of love.)
In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul, turn orange-colored.
turn the color of love.
Carlita wrote: "Happy birthday, Aleks! My favorite Lorca poem deals with feeling intensely transformed by desire and awareness after a first kiss. I love his use of color to express emotion. "
Oh, that's a wonderful one. I confess I read a lot of his poetry that has the influences of the Southern Spanish folklore and the canto jondo of the Calé (Roma people in Spain), so I must have overlooked this one, but it's magnificent.
"Caroline wrote: There is much to be said though for reading a poet's collection from start to finish. Vivian wrote: I agree. I am a member of the Academy of American Poets and it has some perks, like getting first prints of the Walt Whitman's prize winners and the James Laughlin award winners. I got Eyes, Stones by Elana Bell..."
I did want to say thanks for the Elana Bell recommendation Vivian. It does sound rather different to most poetry collections.
I've also been enjoying the Lorca and the exposure to Scandinavian poets. I'm currently grappling with one of the oldest forms of Viking poetry - the kenning. I have to write one about motherhood for Friday. If anyone has any kennings to recommend I'm all ears.
This just keeps getting better and better. (And now I get to learn what a kenning is!) Been thinking about trying The Canterbury Tales again in Middle English. I enjoy reading it aloud. It's been awhile, so I'll likely struggle, but I love the richness and rhythm of the original.
Johanna posted this in the CUTYS thread. Here it is for our collectionHere is the whole poem since feeling is first by E.E. Cummings, Swift's favorite (page 52):
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Mod
Labor is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
Joe wrote: "This is my absolute favorite poem.XVII (I do not love you...)
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark thi..."
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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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good..."
I love it! Thanks Carlita.