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Poetry -
Thank you, Deb. Lewis uses the title to identify three times when he suddenly felt the presence of God.
I wonder if Wordsworth had the same intention in mind or was talking about a lost loved one. The later is how I would have interpreted the poem.
I was thrilled to receive a copy of Caroline Kennedy's She Walks in Beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems from my DD for Mothers Day and went in search of Goodreads comments on it. I was most happy to find this delightful thread which added to my enjoyment of poetry on this lovely day. Thanks!
Oh, Ann, how nice. I hope you enjoy the poems both in the book & here for years to come.deborah
Alias Reader wrote: "Lewis uses the title to identify three times when he suddenly felt the presence of God. I wonder if Wordsworth had the same intention in mind or was talking about a lost loved one. The later is how I would have interpreted the poem. ..."
You are on target, Alias. The poem apparently was written with his daughter Catherine in mind. She died when she was three. Here's an site which shares thoughts on the poem. I think we can get an idea of why Lewis used the title, too. http://www.suite101.com/content/under... The poem apparently was written with his 3 year old dead daughter in mind.
Last week i picked a beautiful rose from our garden to share with my visiting mother-in-law. When i brought it in i put it in a hand-painted vase she gave me which had been a gift to her mother as a thank you gift for being a teacher. We were all enjoying it when DH walks in, hears our praise & informs us it is the first flower that particular bush has ever produced. I felt guilty but not as much as if i'd plucked it for myself.ANYway, i always think of this poem when i see a "perfect rose", particularly in its bud stage. It doesn't fit the pleasure i had when i shared the rose but it is the poem which came to mind! Many people only know Dorothy Parker for her clever quips & don't know she wrote poetry. She did.
One Perfect Rose
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet --
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret:
`My fragile leaves,' it said, `his heart enclose'.
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
Dorothy Parker
What a lovely story! And the poem...as I began reading it, I thought it very sweet, and out of character for the Dorothy Parker I know of. But I finished it, and no -- it is definitely her sense of humor.
That poem and your story go so well together. It was one perfect rose. I guess you DH can't get too upset as it was for his mom.:)
Madrano wrote: e poem apparently was written with his daughter Catherine in mind. She died when she was three. "-----------
That so sad.
Thank you for the link. I am going to save it.
I can see now why the poem spoke to Lewis. It fits perfectly with the sentiments Lewis had after his wife died.
"Surprised by Joy" is not an elegy- it does not wish to comfort those that are still alive not idealize those who have died. Instead the poem highlights how the mind remembers the dead, how thoughts keep those that have died alive, and how these thoughts inevitably make one have to confront death time and time again. In this way "Surprised by Joy" expresses the double pain and loss of death- not only the death itself but the fact that one can remember a loved one, and the fact that one can only wish that they were there with them in particular moments- in Wordsworth's case in moments of happiness when he is 'surprised by joy' and which has given the poem its title:"
I appreciate the comments. Tomorrow we are leaving for a couple of weeks. We'll be in the Seattle area, then Bozeman for a cousin's wedding and family reunion. Finally, to Portland to visit our son. No doubt we'll return to summer in Texas. Long, hot summer.Happy May, folks!
deborah
Have a great time, Deb. We will miss ya.
Portland, Seattle, Bozeman - sounds really wonderful. Safe travels Deb.
We had a good time, seeing family & friends. The scenery lingers in my mind, though. One day we tried to take a hike but were thwarted on each trail by flooding. We'd seen the rivers bulging & streaming during our drive from Seattle to Bozeman but it became real when met on foot. ANYway, this poem made me smile when i read it, wondering if water could think...Swifts
by Boris Pasternak
At twilight the swifts have no power,
to hold back that pale blue coolness.
It bursts from throats, a clamour
an outpour that can’t grow less.
The swifts have no way, high
up there, overhead, of restraining
their clarion cries: ‘O, triumph,
see, see, how the earth’s receding!’
Like steam from a boiling kettle,
the furious flow rushes by –
‘See, see – no space for the earth
between the ravine and the sky.’
Madrano wrote: "We had a good time, seeing family & friends. ================
Welcome back, Deb. We missed you.
While reading Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton i came across a quote from a poem i recognize as being written by Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of my favorite poets. I thought i'd share the poem here.Dirge without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
I love that one, Deb -- thanks!
Thanks, Deb. I am almost finished with our group read Dog. Then I'll start solitude.
My daughter shared this one with me. Love the Millay one too!You Who Never Arrived by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt
landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and
unsuspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.
Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening..
Oh, Ann, thank you for sharing that beautiful poem. Time to read more Rilke!
Deb: Isn't it fabulous! I love reading it over and over, was not familiar with his work.
Serendipitous. Last night i was reading more from Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton. She ended her entry for January 19 with the closing lines of this Rilke poem. Naturally i had to look it up and was impressed by the power he imbued in the artwork. Amazing. This link offers a photo of the torso, as well as another translation. http://somethingtobedesired.blogspot....
Archaic Torso of Apollo
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
May Sarton (see previous post) continued to make reference to poetry by other poets. I am sharing some here, as i thought they were well written.The Buck in the Snow
Edna St. Vincent Millay
White sky, over the hemlocks bowed with snow,
Saw you not at the beginning of evening the antlered buck and his doe
Standing in the apple-orchard? I saw them. I saw them suddenly go,
Tails up, with long leaps lovely and slow,
Over the stone-wall into the wood of hemlocks bowed with snow.
Now he lies here, his wild blood scalding the snow.
How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers
The buck in the snow.
How strange a thing--a mile away by now, it may be,
Under the heavy hemlocks that as the moments pass
Shift their loads a little, letting fall a feather of snow--
Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.
And then there is this one.The Storm
by George Herbert
If as the winds and waters here below
Do fly and flow,
My sighs and tears as busy were above;
Sure they would move
And much affect thee, as tempestuous times
Amaze poor mortals, and object their crimes.
Stars have their storms, ev'n in a high degree,
As well as we.
A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse
Hath a strange force:
It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,
Dares to assault, and besiege thy door.
There it stands knocking, to thy musick's wrong,
And drowns the song.
Glory and honour are set by till it
An answer get.
Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best;
They purge the air without, within the breast.
While reading Journal of a Solitude, i've been dipping also into May Sarton's poetry. The following pleased me with its look at things unseen, while describing the opposite. Nice. So, i had to share here. :-)Things Seen
by May Sarton
A bluebird sudden as the flash of thought,
Embodied azure never to be caught.
The flowing white-on-white transparency
Of light through petals of a peony.
The shining ripple through tall meadow grass
Under the wind's invisible caress.
Unshadowed, vulnerable, smiling peace
Caught in one glance at a sleeping face.
Within love's new-sprung, light-shot, vivid green
My eyes are open. Angels can be seen.
They come and go as natural as you please--
What stirs? What wing there in the silent trees?
deborah
:) Thanks for sharing, Deb. It helps add to the overall picture of Sarton.
You're welcome, Alias. While i like her poetry and the way she employs nature to express her emotions, hers aren't the sort i imagine i would memorize. For me, her prose is more evocative of her life, her vision. deb
There is a Which poem are you? quiz on Face book. I have done it on several occasions. Mostly, I'm Robert Frost's The Road Less Travelled but once I came up as this one by Sylvia Plath.Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Scary or what?
This is a favourite of mine from A E Houseman's A Shropshire LadInto my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again
Madrano wrote: "Wordsworth was reviled by old friends when he changed his politics late in life. He came to see many things, some of which drew the public's attention to him, as being politically wrong. You can im..."Deb, this is the one poem which I do seem to have committed to heart without realising it.
I absolutely love this one Lynda! Not sure that I would characterize it as scary, however the part of the last line "like a terrible fish" is a bit jarring. I don't read any malice into the description of the lake as a mirror. I do love the contrast of the effect of the mirror on the wall and the mirror in the depths of the water.
Lynda wrote: "once I came up as this one by Sylvia Plath. Mirror I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. ..."
I've certainly enjoyed this thread recently. Rainer Maria Rilke has always been a great favorite of mine, although it's frustrating that I have to read him in translation. How do translators DO that, anyway? Here's one of my old faves:The Waking by Rainer Maria Rilke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Ann wrote: "I absolutely love this one Lynda! Not sure that I would characterize it as scary, however the part of the last line "like a terrible fish" is a bit jarring. I don't read any malice into the descri..."
I like the poem too, Ann. Sylvia Plath is a favourite of mine. What I found scary was that this poem was supposed to reflect my personality as revealed by the quiz. "Whatever I see, I swallow immediately --- unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel only truthful" Would you be friends with someone like that?! Of course, as with all Plath's poetry, it packs an emotional punch. "I have looked at it so long, I think it is part of my heart" Such poignancy.
Lynda: Ah, I can see how the idea that parts of the Sylvia Plath poem might represent your personality would make you pause a bit! ;) I don't usually take Facebook quizzes, perhaps I should to see what my representative poem would be. I almost picked up a Patti Smith book of poetry today, now I wish I had.
I've been away a few days and it is a pure delight to see new-to-me poetry shared here. Thank you each for sharing. Lynda mentioned that she realized she unintentionally had memorized some Wordsworth. What a pleasant surprise. It's been almost a decade now since i last deliberately attempted to memorize a poem. Here it is...NOT from my memory, btw.So I Said I Am Ezra
by A. R. Ammons
So I said I am Ezra
and the wind whipped my throat
gaming for the sounds of my voice
I listened to the wind
go over my head and up into the night
Turning to the sea I said
I am Ezra
but there were no echoes from the waves
The words were swallowed up
in the voice of the surf
or leaping over the swells
lost themselves oceanward
Over the bleached and broken fields
I moved my feet and turning from the wind
that ripped sheets of sand
from the beach and threw them
like seamists across the dunes
swayed as if the wind were taking me away
and said
I am Ezra
As a word too much repeated
falls out of being
so I Ezra went out into the night
like a drift of sand
and splashed among the windy oats
that clutch the dunes
of unremembered seas
Ann wrote: "Lynda: Ah, I can see how the idea that parts of the Sylvia Plath poem might represent your personality would make you pause a bit! ;) I don't usually take Facebook quizzes, perhaps I should to see..."
It is one of the more interesting quizzes. I've taken it six or seven times and with the exception of the first answer (The Mirror) I have always been Frost's The Road Less Travelled which I'm quite happy with and recognise as valid, actually. I must have been a bit hard on my self-perception the first time!
Elsewhere (on another thread, that is) i mentioned i haven't read a book of poetry by Linda Hogan. All i've found are online. I thought i'd share this one here.The Hidden
Linda Hogan
There are the far universes, the undiscovered
ocean depths, the hidden magma,
as if every morning you’ve been forsaken
and given smallness which you must accept as truth.
And some earthly paradise,
how reverent and radiant
the first fronds of green beginnings,
the shine of moonlight behind a cloud,
or the pearl in an ordinary shell.
There are the often described blue sheep
of the Himalayas,
the grain of gold beneath the earth.
Oh traveler, what if the far river had not been created.
Where then would you dream of going?
What if you hadn’t believed the story
or trusted directions through the desert
all those dry miles
I don’t care what you call it,
the human other portion, trust, belief.
What if you looked at it all aslant
What if you hadn’t believed the story,
then you would never have arrived
in the good red land, the heat,
suddenly finding the spring
and the wild horses.
Paradise has always been just out of sight.
Philip Levine named poet laureatePhilip Levine
NEW YORK — Pulitzer Prize winner Philip Levine, known for his detailed and personal verse about the working class, has been appointed the country's new poet laureate.
The Library of Congress was to announce Wednesday that the 83-year-old Levine will succeed fellow Pulitzer winner W.S. Merwin this fall. The laureate, who receives $35,000 and is known officially as the Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry, serves from October through May. Richard Wilbur, Joseph Brodsky and Robert Pinsky are among the previous appointees.
"I'm a fairly irreverent person and at first I thought, "This is not you. You're an old union man,'" Levine said during a recent telephone interview from his home in Fresno, Calif.
"But I knew if I didn't do this, I would kick myself. I thought, "This is you. You can speak to a larger public than has been waiting for you in recent years.'"
Levine has received virtually every literary honor, but he is the least rarefied of poets. A Detroit native who as a young man worked in automobile plants, he has for decades chronicled, celebrated and worried about blue collar life. Levine's awards include the Pulitzer in 1995 for "The Simple Truth" and the National Book Award in 1991 for "What Work Is."
"Philip Levine is one of America's great narrative poets," Librarian of Congress James H. Billington said in a statement. "His plainspoken lyricism has, for half a century, championed the art of telling `The Simple Truth' – about working in a Detroit auto factory, as he has, and about the hard work we do to make sense of our lives."
In "Drum," Levine writes of a "Tool & Die" shop and of the men who "sweep, wash up, punch out, collect outside for a final smoke." In "Coming Close," he presents a "quiet woman" standing for hours before a polishing wheel. But who is she, really? Levine asks. "You must come closer to find out."
___
You must hang your tie
and jacket in one of the lockers
in favor of a black smock, you must
be prepared to spend shift after shift
hauling off the metal trays of stock
bowing first, knees bent for a purchase
then lifting with a gasp, the first word
tenderness between the two of you
___
The laureate has few official duties and poets have used the job to pursue a range of personal projects, from Billy Collins' "Poetry 180," which encourages the reading of verse in high school, to Robert Hass' "Watershed" conference on nature writing.
"I don't want to overextend myself, but at the same time I would like to use the `bully pulpit,' as they call it, to bring attention to some of my concerns," Levine says.
"There's a great deal of American poetry that's hardly known and that should be known. As a poet who didn't get published for a long time, I know what it's like to not to be read. The other thing I'd like to do is reach out to readers. I would like to bring attention to the kind of people I've written about."
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/08...
Thank you for this information, Alias. I am a bit familiar with Levine but not too much so. I rather liked the poem included, too.deb
Alias: Thanks for sharing the interesting background story of Philip Levine!
This is a very powerful poem! Thanks! Madrano wrote: "The Hidden Linda Hogan..."
Alias Reader wrote: "Philip Levine named poet laureatePhilip Levine
NEW YORK — Pulitzer Prize winner Philip Levine, known for his detailed and personal verse about the working class, has been appoint..."
I've made it known in the past that I dislike poetry and the more I read and hear it, the more I dislike it. I guess I just have no soul.
Yesterday I was in the car and there was an interview with Philip Levine on the radio. At one point he began to read one of his poems about waiting in line to apply for a job at a factory. I thought I'd give it a chance. About 4 lines in when he recited something like the rain fell like a mist I couldn't take anymore. I said "Oh shut up" and turned the radio off.
I truly have no soul.
LOL, Connie! Maybe just a low tolerance for predictable verse? "rain fell like a mist"?!? How obvious is that? How about rain fell like "rain fell like a sprinkler"? Huh, would that have kept you listening? ;-)deb
I heard this poem in the South Korean film, Poetry. Translation, as always, is the problem but this one is most like it was recited in the film. I Ask You
by Ahn Dohyun
Do not even dare kick at the ashes of burnt coal.
Have you
Ever been… a burning person to another?
I'm not sure I get it. Ashes of burnt coal are spent, finished.That is follow by a burning person to another...meaning their spark ?
As i understood the poem, first it asks the reader to remember what ashes are like--scattered and soon lost. Then, it asks if you the personal and hopes you will make a connection. In every translation i found "burning person" were the words used. Yet, as i listened in the film, i thought the question was whether you have turned another person into those sort of ashes. One i saw it written, i wondered the same thing you did, Alias. Is the poet asking if the reader has ever sparked the life of another. Perhaps the question is, did you create a glow in that person's life or did you leave them in ashes? That was my final conclusion.
But, as always, poetry is open for discussion!
deborah
Well, you are our BNC poetry maven, so I will defer to you. Who would think a few lines could be interpreted in so many ways. I guess that is one of the beauties of poetry.
I think it's one of the fun and challenging aspects of poetry--numerous interpretations can be explored. It's a far cry from high school where the nuns taught us there was only one "correct" interpretation of a poem.deb
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Books mentioned in this topic
Touch (other topics)The Bone Clocks (other topics)
The Sonnets (other topics)
The Collected Poems (other topics)
The Complete Poems (other topics)
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Authors mentioned in this topic
Edwin Markham (other topics)Ted Berrigan (other topics)
Maxine Kumin (other topics)
Anne Sexton (other topics)
Linda Wagner-Martin (other topics)
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SURPRISED BY JOY
Surprised by joy -impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.