Winter Solstice Chant - Annie Finch

Vines, leaves, roots of darkness, growing,
now you are uncurled and cover our eyes
with the edge of winter sky
leaning over us in icy stars.
Vines, leaves, roots of darkness, growing,
come with your seasons, your fullness, your end.










The winter solstice is a special day, and the day of the year with the shortest light. In my area, that's only around 9 hours of daylight today. And in a year such as this 2020 has been, it's hard to not feel depressed with the leaving of the light. Indeed, the description Finch gives us, of darkness like a flowering plant, uncurling and covering our eyes, is potent and vivid. I can feel the tendrils of night, like a plant, creeping over us, choking out the light. As I type this, it's 4:15p.m., and soon, within minutes, the sun will set on this shortest day of the year. I would be lying if I said that I don't deeply feel the lack of light, this year, especially.

And yet, there is not an absence of beauty in the darkness, as Finch reminds us. Our eyes are covered, but they are covered with the "edge of winter sky" which leans over us in "icy stars." It's a beautiful image, and truly, the winter sky can be magical. I personally am a big fan of a rich, almost purple, velvety winter sky, with the moon reflected on cold snow. That doesn't make the short days easier, however. That's why I find the last two lines of Finch's poem so wonderful. Yes, the winter sky covering us can be beautiful, but more importantly, it will end.

"Come with your seasons, your fullness, your end." The winter solstice, shortest day of the year that it is, signifies to us that each day from henceforth will be that little bit longer. We entreat the solstice to come because that means that every coming day will have just that bit more light for us. Seasons, fullness, these are not bleak words. And the format of the poem, as suggested by the title, is chant-like. I know I often urge you readers to read these poems out loud, and this is no different. There's something almost sacred feeling about the rhythm of the poem. Maybe the solstice itself, and reading about it, have put me in a magical headspace, but there's something especially satisfying about the rhythm of this poem.

While I have not shared much poetry this year, I feel fortunate to be in good health, and able to still share some with you all. It has been a difficult year for so many, and truly, I have been fortunate throughout it all. It's my sincere hope that if the solstice and the long darkness of night are difficult for you that this poem act as a panacea for those woes. When you read it out loud, imagine that you are joined by every other reader, separate in body, but together in spirit, chanting this poem of change and hope into the night. As Finch so elegantly put it, "Come with your seasons, your fullness, your end." I hope to post a few more times before the coming of the new year, but if I cannot, thank you, readers. I hope I've been able to bring just the tiniest bit of light to you on this darkest of days.

In Time of Plague - Thomas Nashe

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector's brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us.

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us.

Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
     Lord, have mercy on us.










Given the state of the world right now, in May of 2020, I find myself thinking back through history, to another time of plague.  This brought me to Thomas Nashe, and this litany in the time of plague from his 1592 comedic stage play, Summer's Last Will and Testament.  A landmark work of English drama, Nashe's work wasn't performed when it was finished, due to an outbreak of bubonic plague.

Existing somewhere in between the earlier interlude dramatic form of the 16th century, and the later masque form of the 17th century, Nashe's work features many pastoral elements, such as satyrs, nymphs, Bacchus, etc.  These stock elements were well-known to audiences of the time, so references to things like Helen, Hector, etc, in this poem, while somewhat unfamiliar to us, were common in dramas of the time.  They offer handy shorthand, and establish mood, place, and theme.

So what of the text itself?  It's structured like a litany, a prayer, like a series of petitions, hence why each stanza ends with, "I am sick, I must die. / Lord, have mercy on us."  The text works as a farewell to life, earth's pleasures revealed as toys by death.  No amount of money can keep you from dying of plague, which, while true, I can't help but think of the awful disparity that exists in the US currently between those who have access to healthcare and those that do not, when it comes to coronavirus lethality.

However, the litany does not end in despair.  Earth is but a stage for our plays, and our heritage is heaven.  The repeated entreaties for mercy are not out of despair for life, but hope for life out of death.  I am not a particularly religious person, but looking to a time after the time of plague and sickness is uplifting.  I don't want this to feel like a grim post.  I find comfort in reading how people navigated these times in the past, and without the benefits we have now in terms of information and medicine.  I hope you're all well.  I ask that in these times, you think unselfishly.  Act with your neighbors and family in mind, and be well.

Fog - Carl Sandburg

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.










Sometimes, it's enough that a poem simply conjure to mind one specific feeling or image with clarity.  To so clearly communicate what something so amorphous as fog feels like, rather, behaves like, is an achievement, and the direct statement of such is what I admire about Carl Sandburg's poetry.  Fog touches lightly, and comes and goes without making a commotion like rain, or snow.

Sandburg himself once defined poetry as, "a pack-sack of invisible keepsakes."  That's appropriate, I think, for this little gem of a poem, which captures the feeling of fog.  In a way, it's as if Sandburg has taken the image of fog as a keepsake for himself.  I know that the next time I wake to a foggy morning, I won't be able to help myself but to remember fog as coming on "little cat feet."  In that sense, Sandburg has given us, too, a little, invisible keepsake.

Amoretti LXII: "The weary yeare his race now having run" - Edmund Spenser

The weary yeare his race now having run,
The new begins his compast course anew:
With shew of morning mylde he hath begun,
Betokening peace and plenty to ensew.
So let us, which this chaunge of weather vew,
Chaunge eeke our munds and former lives amend,
The old yeares sinnes forepast let us eschew, 
And fly the faults with which we did offend.
Then shall the new yeares joy forth freshly send,
Into the glooming world his gladsome ray:
And all these stormes which now his beauty blend,
Shall turne to caulmes and tymely cleare away.
So likewise love cheare you your heavy spright,
And chaunge old yeares annoy to new delight.










In advance of the new year, I thought it only appropriate to look at a poem welcoming the new year, a Spenser sonnet which deliberately seeks to liberate the reader and poet from the bonds of the old.  Spenser here is writing in an English which is somewhere in between Middle English and Early Modern English, and as such, uses spellings and words that are unfamiliar to our modern eyes.  This was deliberate on Spenser's part, an affectation meant to sound "old" in the same way that an American author today could try to evoke a sense of time and place by modeling their language on Melville.  Don't think too hard about it, though, and just sound the words out loud, slowly, and it should be clear.  

Summarized, the poem, in our modern English, more or less means:

The weary year, his race now run,
The new year begins his compassed (set, fixed, planned) course anew:
With a show of mild morning he has begun,
Betokening peace and plenty (more) to ensue.
So let us, with the change of weather,
Change also (eek is a lovely Middle English word for "also") our minds, and amend our own lives,
Eschew the sins of the old year,
And let go of the faults with which we offended.
After that, the new year will send forth fresh joys
Into the glooming (gloomy) world with a gladsome (cheerful) ray.
All these storms that blend (obscure) the year's beauty
Will turn calm, and clear away in time.
So, likewise, love (you, the subject), clear away your heavy spright (spirit)
And change the old year's annoyances to new delight.

Hopefully that's easier to read!  The poem is an entreaty to recognize the old year's storms, sins, annoyances, and grievances, and to turn towards the new year, and to "chaunge eeke our mynds and former lives amend."  The new year always seems to inspire in us the opportunity for a fresh start, to turn a page, and to live better, with more love, and just as storms clear away in time, we too can find a calmer, better life.

On a personal note, I've long been annoyed with celebrations of the new year.  It has always seemed so terribly arbitrary to me, and I confess, even in the face of a beautiful poem like this, I remain unconvinced.  But, in the spirit of this poem, I'll put away my quarrel with celebrating the new year, and instead, try to cheer my heavy spirit, and change my old year's annoyances into new delights.  This poem was certainly a delight for me, and I hope it was for you, as well.

I hope this poem, and the new year, find you well.  I recognize that I've posted precious little in the way of poetry these past two years, but I assure you, I've not forgotten it.  I have been amazed for years now at the sheer volume of readership of my tiny little blog, and am humbled that others take the time out of their days to search for poetry, and maybe even read what little I may have to add.  Thank you.

Eight O'Clock - Sara Teasdale

Supper comes at five o'clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o'clock-
But eight o'clock is far.

How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o'clock to me.










More than a poem, I think of this beautifully rhythmic and metrical Sara Teasdale poem like a song.  And just like a song, its directness is its strength.  Through her use of conventional rhyme and rhythm, the poem falls off the tongue easily.  The repetitions of various "o'clock[s]" build anticipation for eight o'clock, when as she tells us, her lover comes.  The anticipation is such that she can't help but watch the clock, hoping for it to bring her lover with each hand's stroke.

There isn't much to say here, but I like the way Teasdale sets up the schedule of her afternoon and night to us in the first stanza.  It helps cement, to me, at least, our relationship with time, and touches very accurately on how things we desire and anticipate always seem to take a little longer to arrive.  It's a lovely little song of a poem, and I hope you enjoy it, and think fondly of happy times that you couldn't wait to arrive.

"Although the wind..." - Izumi Shikibu

translated by Jane Hirshfield

Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.










Izumi Shikibu was a Heian era Japanese poet (late 10th century, early 11th century), and her poetry frequently combines romantic, erotic longing with Buddhist contemplation.  This poem comes to us courtesy of Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Aratani's 1990 book, The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Onono Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan.  I do not typically feature poetry in translation, but this gripped me for the way it frames nature and our perception of it through an ephemeral human lens.

Wind and moonlight, in this poem, act like invaders.  The wind blows terribly, and the moonlight leaks through roof planks.  The house is ruined.  That said, the wind and moonlight didn't ruin it.  If anything, the house was the invader.  The framing of familiar poetic elements through the slats of a house falling apart is inherently romantic, and instills a sense of longing into the poem.  It does so with great economy, being only five lines.  It's also an incredibly clear image, despite having so little detail.  I know it certainly got my imagination racing.

I hesitate to go much further in analysis, given that this is in translation, and I have no personal ability to compare it to the source material.  I don't know if there are shades of meaning that are lost to translation, or if I am reading into the text things that aren't there due to Shikibu's biography, but I can also think of this poem as a reaction to a love that has fallen apart.  The house would be the relationship itself, and the wind that blows so terribly through it the falling out of love of the participants.  I don't think that's textually supported, but it's a romantic thought nonetheless.

'Out, Out-' - Robert Frost

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood behind him in her apron
To tell them 'Supper.' At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant.
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap-
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all-
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart-
He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off-
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then - the watcher at his pulse took fright.
Little--less--nothing!--and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.










From time to time, I like to remind myself that poetry can be truly awful.  Not awful in the sense that it is poorly written, or low quality, but awful in the gut-wrenching, heart-breaking sense, like this Robert Frost poem.  There's little for me to explain.  Frost uses plain English, and starkly little in the way of poetic technique to tell the gruesome, awful tale of a boy who loses his hand, and his life, to a buzz saw.  A boy too young to rightly be called a man, so precisely described as "big boy, /Doing a man's work, though a child at heart."

What stands out, apart from the truly terrible story at the heart of this poem, is the specificity of detail within.  From the number of mountains, to the size and smell of the planks of wood being cut, the account is vivid in the extreme.  Who among us who has seen tragedy has not had the specifics of the scene burned into their minds?  For my parents' generation, everyone remembers where they were when they heard that JFK had been assassinated.  For my generation, everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they heard of the terror attacks on September 11th, 2001.  So it is with this poem. 

The Usual Subject - Simon Darragh

One grows used to the loss itself;
it is the details catch, and scourge:
the extra tea-cup on the shelf;
the kitchen table, grown too large.

Not in sorrow for wasted days
of love unspoken,
but by trivia such as these
the heart is broken










I came across this poem courtesy of Conor Kelly, proprietor of the excellent Poem Today Twitter feed, in which he posts tweet sized poems.  It's an excellent daily feed, and a wonderful way to find new poetry.  If you search @poemtoday you will find his Twitter, and he also has a blog, which you can find here.  Conor Kelly is a poet as well, and perhaps with his blessing, I will post some of it here in the future.

This poem from Simon Darragh speaks to the realities of loss in practical terms, much like the excellent Roo Borson poem, "After a Death."  In Darragh's excellent short poem, it is not "sorrow for wasted days" that makes loss so hard.  Rather, it is the details left behind by someone's loss.  As he so expertly puts, it is the "extra tea-cup" or the now too spacious kitchen table.  It is the void left in our practical, material reality that stands out most.  What I appreciate about this poem in comparison with Borson's is that this speaks to a more general sense of loss.  While I do feel that this speaks to death more than anything, it could just as well apply to a traumatic romantic loss.  Reading the poem with both senses in mind causes different images to come to mind.  The "trivia" that breaks the heart is unique to each of us, and that is the power of the poem.  What I picture will be different than what you picture, and I like that Darragh avoided too many specifics, preferring instead to give examples.

Wood - Richard Brautigan

We age in darkness like wood
and watch our phantoms change
     their clothes
of shingles and boards
for a purpose that can only be
     described as wood.










What sort of purpose is wood, exactly?  I can't pretend to know, but I find this short poem from Beat poet Richard Brautigan a fascinating sort of riddle to chew on.  I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I am happy to report that I am no closer to understanding it than I was when I first read it.  More than any sort of understanding or hidden meaning, I think frustration wrapped in a fascinating image is sort of the point here.  Let's unpack a little and see what we can find.

Being in the first person plural, Brautigan is including us in this poem.  "We" is inclusive, and therefore we ought to think of ourselves as we read and try to make sense of this poem.  The first line, "We age...like wood."  What exactly does that mean?  Well, as wood ages, it can harden, but it can also rot.  It depends on how it's treated.  Nice parallel with people, there, yes? 

What then, are our phantoms?  That's personal, isn't it?  But what's more important is that the wood parallel continues.  Our phantoms, facsimiles of ourselves, perhaps our fears, clothes themselves in shingles and boards, continuously renewing by changing their clothes.  They are like us, but without the full body of substance.  What purpose, then?  Wood.  That's just how we are.  That's my take-away, at least.  I think more than anything, this is just a reflection from Brautigan on our state of being, and how our phantoms take on a form like ours, continually renewing.  There's tantalizingly little solid about this poem, but I hope my brief explication has helped, reader.  If you read it differently, please leave a comment and let me know!  I feel like this is so open a poem that most interpretations are completely valid.

An Inscription - Ambrose Bierce

     For a statue of Napoleon

A conqueror as provident as brave,
He robbed the cradle to supply the grave.
His reign laid quantities of human dust:
He fell upon the just and the unjust.









While Ambrose Bierce's mysterious disappearance and uncertain fate remain a mystery even today, it is no mystery why he is still held in high regard in the world of American literature.  His short stories are held in esteem nearly to Poe's, and his first-hand accounts of the American Civil War.  While other authors wrote movingly about the American Civil War, Bierce fought on the front lines for the Union for the duration of the war, including some of its bloodiest battles.  From all accounts, he acted heroically, rescuing wounded men despite being under heavy gunfire.  He spent the duration of the war in almost continuous combat, and he said of himself, "When I ask of myself what has become of Ambrose Bierce the youth, who fought at Chickamauga, I am bound to answer that he is dead."  His essays detailing his experiences in the War are essential reading for anyone interested in the subject.

This poem, written in 1910, three years before his disappearance,  shows the world weariness and cynicism that marked much of his writing.  Speaking on Napoleon, he casts harsh indictment upon the strife and violence he brought to the world.  "He robbed the cradle to supply the grave" is as damning a line as I can imagine.  Napoleon is spoken of here almost as a plague, laying down "quantities of human dust" upon the just and unjust alike.  I am not certain, but I imagine that this is in reference to Napoleon Bonaparte, not Napoleon III, though it seems fitting for both men.

I admire short form poetry that manages to have such a strong impact in so few lines.  Bierce may be best known for his essays and short stories, but his poetry remains modern and worthwhile, and I encourage you to look up more of it if you had your interested piqued by this little poem, or the brief biographical information I provided.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3 1802 - William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!










Is there anything more magical than a huge city completely silent?  That's what Wordsworth, in his breathlessly excited account of London in early morning, as viewed from Westminster Bridge, captures so perfectly.  I have actually seen this scenario myself, though about 212 years after this poem.  I have to agree, in that early dawn hour, it does seem as though "the very houses seem asleep."  I can only wonder what Wordsworth would think of things like the London Eye if he marvels so at "ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples" that line the river Thames.

There really isn't much to this poem, but given the title, I like to imagine that Wordsworth was passing by and was so taken by the beauty of the scenery that he had no choice but to compose a poem right then and there.  It's a very Romantic idea, and Wordsworth is one of the architects of Romantic poetry.  Read the poem slowly and luxuriate in its illuminating imagery and language.

A Dream - Edgar Allan Poe

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed -
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream - that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?










Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most revered American poets and short story writers, and it occurs to me that I've engaged with very little of his work here.  Let's change that!  His poetry and short stories continue to exert a strong influence on American culture and literature, and is still very much worth reading today.

This poem in particular reminds me of a sonnet from John Milton, his Sonnet 23, specifically.  In that sonnet, Milton, who had gone blind during the course of his life, dreamed that he saw his departed wife, and as she came to embrace him, he woke, "and day brought back [his] night." Upon waking, he was again blind, and alone.  The overall sentiment of Poe's poem is similar, I find.  Indeed, the first stanza contains much of the narrative action of Milton's poem.  In this first stanza, the narrator finds his "joy departed" only "In visions of the dark night."  Waking leaves him broken-hearted.  It is much the same as in Milton's poem.  But whereas Milton stops at his waking, Poe goes on to ponder what such dreams are and what they mean to us, and our relationship with them.

In the second stanza, Poe asks what a dream is.  It is not a general question, but rather, what is a dream to someone "whose eyes are cast / on things around him with a ray / Turned back upon the past?"  Essentially, what is a dream to someone who looks at all things through the lens of the past?  The narrator of this poem is fixated on their "joy departed" which I have trouble not interpreting romantically, given the strong parallels with Milton's poem and the overall content of Poe's poetic work.  It could just mean thinking back to a happier time, but my interpretation is that this is a lover in question, especially given that upon waking from the dream, Poe's narrator is "broken-hearted."

The final two stanzas present Poe's answer to that question.  The dream cheers Poe, like a "lovely beam" that guides his lonely spirit.  He calls it even "a holy dream" and repeats that phrase twice, cementing its importance and impact.  Even though the world chides, the dream, the holy dream of his joy departed guides his spirit.  Poe is aware that he is engaging with a fantasy, however.  In the final stanza, he admits as much, albeit in a roundabout manner. 

Though the "light" of this dream's "lovely beam" can tremble from afar, it is brighter to Poe's narrator than "Truth's day-star."  It is brighter than reality itself, brighter than Truth.  The Truth here is that this joy is in fact departed, is no more.  But through storm and night, Poe clings to it, more purely bright than truth to a man whose eyes are cast on things around him with a ray turned back upon the past.  It's truly amazing how Poe manages to fit such depth of emotional content into a simple four stanza poem made of simple sing-song ABAB rhymes.  It's a testament to his skill and to the power of the content matter that it can resonate so strongly even now.

A Poet's Epitaph - John Black

When comes the last long silence to this lute,
And by its plea no more the calm is broken,
In charity, O world, let it be spoken:
No human sorrow found this player mute!










I came across this small poem by accident.  I had been reading a James Joyce poem, "She Weeps Over Rahoon" which was published in the November 1917 issue of Poetry Magazine.  Since I was reading a scan of that page, I saw the poem that accompanied it, a short ABBA quatrain epitaph by John Black.  It caught my eye, and its straightforward earnestness caught me off guard.  I have been unable to find any biographical info on the poet John Black, and would welcome any readers who know anything more.

What stands out most to me about this short poem is its interpretation of what poetry is.  The narrator, presumably Black himself, as this is "A Poet's Epitaph," wishes to be remembered for a refusal to be silent in the face of human sorrow.  It's a brave role, and aspirational.  Black isn't dead yet, but "When comes the last long silence to this lute" he wishes to be remembered for never being "mute."  The publishing date also stands out to me.  In 1917, the western world was in the midst of World War I, then known as The Great War.  There were countless poet-soldiers, many of whose work I've looked at here.  Is this a war poem?  I'm having difficulty finding concrete info on this poem apart from the actual page on which it was published.  Still, I feel like this epitaph is a reminder of what a poet can be.  Poetry can be an enduring testament to the human spirit and righteousness in the face of evil, and indeed, oftentimes it is.  While Black's lute may be silent, as I can find almost no info about him, his epitaph endures as a reminder of our highest hopes, aspirations, and anxieties about how the world will remember us (if indeed it does) after we're gone.

Of Dying Beauty - Louis Zukofsky

"Spare us of dying beauty," cries out Youth,
"Of marble gods that moulder into dust-
Wide-eyed and pensive with an ancient truth
That even gods will go as old things must."
Where fading splendor grays to powdered earth,
And time's slow movement darkens quiet skies,
Youth weeps the old, yet gives new beauty birth
And molds again, though the old beauty dies.
Time plays an ancient dirge amid old places
Where ruins are a sign of passing strength,
As is the weariness of aged faces
A token of a beauty gone at length.
Yet youth will always come self-willed and gay-
A sun-god in a temple of decay.









This wonderful sonnet comes to us from the 20th century American poet Louis Zukofsky.  Born to Russian Jewish immigrants in the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1904, Zukofsky came to literature first through Yiddish, then through English, interweaving multiple literary traditions.  This poem was written when he was only 20 years old, and while it is not so ambitious or well-honed as his later works, I feel it's notable for the way it uses its form to play both with and against its subject matter.

The central conflict of the sonnet is between Youth and entropy.  Entropy is the thermodynamic principle that all things eventually break down towards disorder.  That's a gross oversimplification, but the essence is that things fall apart over time.  It is the gradual movement from order to disorder.  What we see in this poem is the cycle of creation and entropy, in perpetuity.  "Youth weeps the old, yet gives new beauty birth / And molds again, though the old beauty dies."  Youth asks to be spared this cycle in the first quatrain of the poem.  Despite asking to be exempt, to be spared the "marble gods" of the past, it goes on and creates its own doomed monuments, its own ruins that signify passing strength.

For all this, "youth will always come self-willed and gay- / A sun-god in a temple of decay."  No matter how the old gods have "mouldered" Youth will always be there, constant amid the entropy.  This is where I find the formal choices Zukofsky made to be significant.  He wrote a traditional, straightforward sonnet, a form hundreds of years old.  It's as if in doing so, Zukofsky is honoring the traditions that Youth, in the poem, asked to be spared, despite being a young man himself.  I think it elevates the poem from just being a routine sonnet to something a touch more thoughtful, and it is certainly beautiful.  It's easy to imagine a beaming sun-god, standing proud and tall, though all things must eventually come to dust.  Such is power of Youth, and Zukofsky obviously realized that.

Today - Thomas Carlyle

So here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.

Out of Eternity
This new Day is born;
Into Eternity,
At night, will return.

Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did:
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.










I particularly like this Thomas Carlyle poem for how its intricacies are belied by its simple structure and rhyme scheme.  What at first read seems just a simple, almost childish aphorism about how every day is a new day, upon closer looks, perhaps has more to reveal to us.

The most striking feature of this poem to me, the one that makes me think this is more than just some bumper sticker type maxim, is the lack of  a question mark in that central repeated phrase: "Think wilt thou let it / Slip useless away."  If this were a question, it would be asking the reader directly, "Are you going to let this day slip you by?"  Instead, we are given a statement.  I read it almost as, "If you think too much, this day will pass you by."

Rather than asking the reader, it's more cautionary, in my view.  Carlyle lived an extraordinarily long life, from 1795 to 1881, and was a titan in the Victorian literary scene.  Also inextricable from his work is his Scottish birth, upbringing, and life.  While he eventually moved to Chelsea, his formative years and early adult years were spent in Scotland, and he was very much of the Calvinist persuasion.  Carlyle had an obsession with order, duty, and destiny.  Calvinists were a Christian sect particularly fond of the notion of predestination.  So for Carlyle, when he writes that every day is new, and never before seen, and says, "Think wilt thou let it/ Slip useless away" it takes on a much different tone. 

I get the sense that beneath the sing-song feeling of the poem is an earnest warning to productivity and industry.  It is another blue day, and it will pass you by, and that day will never come again.  It is not a question of whether it should slip useless away or not.

Excerpt from the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer

     Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Canterbury

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Bifil that in that seson on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we were esed atte beste.
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,
That I was of hir felawshipe anon,
And forward erly for to ryse,
To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse.

But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
And whiche they weren and of what degree,
And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne.










As it is a beautiful spring day today, I can't stop thinking of the general prologue to the Canterbury Tales.  I've presented here the first three stanzas of Chaucer's introduction to his magnum opus, and while it is in Middle English, if you take it slowly, it's still fairly easy to understand.  I have posted poems in Middle English before, but if you haven't read one before, here are a few general guidelines:

1)  Pronounce vowels as if they are Latin vowels.  Think of vowels in Spanish, for reference.  A, instead of being our English A, which is a dipthong, is a pure "ah" sound.

2)  Pronounce consonants!  The word "Knyght" rather than being pronounced knight, as we would say today, is closer to kuh-nicht.  Think of the bit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, with the French soldier taunting King Arthur and his coterie.  Rather than just being silly, his pronunciation is actually fairly historically authentic.  That's just another layer to a great joke!

3)  If there's a word you don't know, don't worry too much about it.  There are going to be words you don't recognize, but don't let it stop you.  Context can usually help, and in cases where it doesn't, hopefully I either provide you with a little help, or you can look it up.  Don't be afraid to sound things out.  A word like "ye" would be pronounced "ee-uh" which means "eye."  You may feel silly sounding words out, but you shouldn't!  Reading silently was not common practice, and Middle English often makes use of puns that only make sense when audible.

With all that said, let's take a bit of a closer look at the poem itself!

Here begins the Book of the tales of Canterbury!  Chaucer so declares, and so it is!  It's the start of a long journey.  17,000+ lines, in fact.  And Chaucer didn't even finish his tale!  Initially he planned to have each of the thirty pilgrims he introduces tell four tales each, two on the way there, two on the way back, in a story-telling competition while they took their pilgrimage to Canterbury (and the shrine of St. Thomas of Beckett).  This would have been a common pilgrimage, as St. Thomas of Beckett was visited by those who felt themslves to be sinful.

To begin, Chaucer starts setting the scene.  It's April, which is the season of "shoures soote" (sweet breath) that pierces the drought of March.  April is the season in which the countryside comes back to life.  Here in my native Connecticut, it seems to have taken until May for that to really happen, but no matter!  I don't mind posting a poem a day late.  April has "bathed every veyne (vine) in swich licour (sweet liquor)" that has woken every "flour" (flower).

One word that comes up in Middle English is "eek" or "eke."  This simply means "also."  So when Chaucer writes, "Whan Zaphirus eek with his swete breeth" you can simply think "also."  So those lines, loosely translated, can read, "When Zephirus (the Greek god of the west wind) also breatheed his sweet breath, he raised the tender crops (brought life to the fields).  If we go slowly through lines, it's not so hard, right?  "Smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen all the nyght with open ye."  Small birds sing, that sleep all night with open eyes.  Chaucer is just setting the scene here, and painting a vivid image of a lively spring, animated with images that tickle every sense.

But what happens to us people when Spring starts happening like this?  "So priketh hem Nature in his corages, / Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages."  Why, we want to go on pilgrimages, of course, and enter out into the beautiful world!  (Translated, Nature pricks us with its courages, so we long to go on pilgrimages.)  Where do we especially want to go?  "Specially, from every shires ende / Of Engelond, to Canterbury they wende."  Ah, we want to go to Canterbury, from every shire's end, from all corners of England!

Now, many presentations of the General Prologue stop after that first stanza, but I feel a little more context makes it much richer.  Don't worry, we don't have to read all 800 lines of the General Prologue, though I certainly encourage you to do so on your own time!  The second stanza introduces Chaucer as the narrator of this tale.  He is at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, which operated from 1300 until 1873!  Chaucer there was "redy to wenden on my pilgrymage / To Caunterbury wil ful devout corage" when that night another group arrived.  "nyne and twenty in a compaignye" arrived, all going to Canterbury.  Nine and twenty plus Chaucer gives us thirty in total.  Worth noting, the word "wend" means to go.  We sometimes still use that in modern English, though it is somewhat archaic.

In the last stanza that I've included, Chaucer addresses us directly, with an aside.  It's a very straightforward stanza, which translated, effectively says, "Nevertheless, while I have the time, before I go any further, I think I'll tell you about each of the travelers: who they are, their condition, how they were dressed, and I'll begin with the Knight."  I stopped there, because what follows in the prologue is Chaucer going on to describe each character in detail.  They certainly are characters, too, and Chaucer gives us a clear picture of each of them, both in terms of disposition and appearance.  I included that last stanza to give you a glimpse at the more human element of this narration.  Chaucer, through his narrator, speaks to us readers directly.  It's like any storyteller saying, "Oh, while I've got time, let me tell you about these folks."  It really brings to bear the directness of the storytelling, and throughout the whole of the Tales, Chaucer uses that narrator as a character in rich and interesting ways, acting in a shockingly modern, self-deprecating manner.  That's neither here nor there in the General Prologue, but I felt that the third stanza could give you a glimpse of the character of the later work by letting Chaucer speak more frankly.

I hope it hasn't been too hard or boring getting through this Middle English with me.  I dearly love the challenge and sound of Middle English, and feel that it is still accessible without too much ornery scholarship.  And once you get into the rhythm of it, it becomes a true delight.  I've attached for you a reading of the Prologue so that you may hear what I mean about how Middle English sounds.  It's my hope that one day, you will attempt reading Middle English on your own, not in translation, reader, and take great satisfaction from it, much as I do when presenting it to you.

And to further get you in the mood for a pilgrimage, here is a wonderful album of music from the time of Chaucer, specifically, drinking songs!  Start this playlist, read along, and get caught up in the time!  There's something especially buoyant about this music and this poetry, as if it captures the very essence of Spring.

Sonnet 17 - Richard Barnfield

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
     Might not compare with his pure ivorie white,
     On whose faire front a poet's pen may write,
Whose roseare red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limb,
     Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazine eies:
     His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
     His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
     Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set.
     Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
     Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?










Richard Barnfield, whose sonnets I have looked at before, is an Elizabethan poet whose work is most notable for its overt homoerotic themes.  He is the only poet, apart from Shakespeare, to address love sonnets to another man, and it's hard not to read them in a sexual, romantic light.  This was controversial for the day, and certainly stands out today when compared with the poems of his contemporaries.

More than the homoeroticism though, Barnfield's sonnets stand up today because of their direct beauty.  They also make great use of Classical myth and characters to relate to the narrator's present situation.  In his Sonnet 16, which I looked at four years ago, the narrator compares himself to Ixion.  Here, the narrator compares the object of his admiration, referred to only by third person pronouns, to Apollo, and shockingly, Apollo comes up short in comparison with this mystery man.  It is worth noting that in Greek mythology, Apollo had many lovers, both male and female.  It makes the comparison to Apollo more apt and grounds the potentially damning (at the time) homosexuality in a learned, Classical tradition, making it safer to express.

While Apollo is "cherry-lipt [lipped]" and is "snowie" in complexion, Barnfield's love object is "pure ivorie white."  The whole poem is a series of comparisons between the features of this lover, and ways in which Nature and even deities (Apollo) fall short of his great beauty.  The comparisons themselves are lush and inventive, and overtly sexual.  One of my favorite lines is, "His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, / Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazine eies."

That line is worth breaking down a bit, due to non-standard spellings and abbreviations that are unfamiliar to the modern eye.  The first line is easy enough.  His delicate, soft limbs, are enticing.  The following line, broken down further, and translated a bit, would read, "are perfectly framed to draw and hold poor gazing eyes."  Taken together, we get a line to the effect of, "His limbs are so delicate and soft, so enticing, that they are uniquely perfectly set to draw in my poor, gazing eyes."  The narrator cannot help but look at his love's perfect shape.  There's almost an element of guilt to it, drawing in his "poore gazine eies." 

I also love the thought of the lover's mouth as a hive to which Muses flock like bees.  It's such perfection that Muses can't help but buzz around him, inspired to write and praise him.  The real turn of the poem comes in the last two lines, however.  "Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, / Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?"

Here, procuring means to persuade something.  So, "How can a body, his body, that persuades me so strongly to sin, be slow to love, and quick to hate?"  This last couplet gives us the sense that Barnfield expressed his love, and perhaps was rebuffed.  His love wasn't returned, but his scorn was earned, and the scorn endures, while the love has not started.  I could be reading it incorrectly, but I feel that is the most likely scenario, given the effusive praise earlier in the poem, and the exhortation "Oh" to start the couplet.  It is a frustrated love sonnet, as are so many sonnets.  It sets it apart that the love object is a man, but in all other aspects, it's a wonderful example of a typical Elizabethan love sonnet.

A Riddle on the Letter H - Catherine Maria Fanshawe

'Twas in heaven pronounced - it was mutter'd in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd.
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd.
'Twill not soften the heart; and tho' deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly - it dies in an hour.









It's not often that I post two poems by the same poet in the span of a week, but this riddle on the letter H from Catherine Fanshawe is so delightful that I couldn't not share it.  Simply, it's a poetic explication of the oftentimes mystifying way the letter H works in the English language.  "'Twill be found in the sphere when riven asunder[?]"  Sure enough, if you crack sphere in half, there's the H!  "Attends at...birth, awaits in...death."  Yup, we've got an H there, too.

Any references to it dying or being permitted to rest are words wherein the H is silent, like "hour" or  how it is "seen in lightning" only yet "heard in thunder."  I imagine if you presented this to a friend, but omitted the title, they'd have a great time piecing together just what this riddle is about.  In fact, I fully plan to do that to some of my friends, and see how they do!

To Flush, My Dog - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

LOVING friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemize its dulness, -
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, -
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap - those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dags may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, -
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning -
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow -
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing -
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, -
Up he spring in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, -
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, - platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
Come out! ' praying from the door, -
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour!
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, -
Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail -
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up -
No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats anointed flee -
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations ;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal? -
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, -
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, -
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers, thine,
Loving fellow-creature!









I hold a special place in my heart for poems that extol the virtues of our canine friends, and this magnificent poem from Elizabeth Barrett Browning captures marvelously those best qualities for which we love our dogs.  I have never heard a better phrase to describe a dog than "gentle fellow-creature" or "loving fellow-creature."  The poem beautifully celebrates Browning's own dog, Flush, in both his physical and higher qualities.

Browning spares no detail in describing Flush to the reader.  He has silken ears that flow down like a lady's ringlets, a silver-suited breast, dark brown fur that catches the sun, which "Alchemize[s] its dulness."  What a phrase!  Exposed to sun, the fur will "flash all over into gold, with a burnished fulness."

Browning goes on to describe how Flush can leap and play, but goes on to say, "Yet, my pretty sportive friend,/ Little is 't to such an end/ That I praise thy rareness!"  It isn't because of the dog's physical qualities alone that she praises Flush.  After all, she goes on to say that other dogs may be Flush's equal when it comes to such physical qualities.  What sets Flush apart comes next, and it is the most perfect description of a dog's capacity for emotional sensitivity towards humans I have ever read.

"This dog watched beside a bed / Day and night unweary."  Browning goes on to describe, in beautiful poetic detail, how Flush stood attentive by the bedside of the sick, attendant to every need.  "This dog only, waited on, / Knowing that when light is gone, / Love remains for shining."  Indeed, when it is dark, both physically and metaphorically, a dog's Love is a light that shines bright.

The poem itself is fairly simple if you read it slowly.  While the writing seems more formal than we are used to today, the sentiment is as fresh and relevant as can be.  We love our dogs because they always see the best in us.  Browning even says, "Tears are in my eyes to feel / Thou art made so straightly."  She tears up just thinking about how good dogs are to us.  How can you not, after having read her account of Flush?

As I'm sure it will for anyone who has known the love of a good dog in their life, this poem brought to mind my childhood dog, Clark, who also shared those noble qualities.  If I was sick, he would lay by my bed, doing everything he could to comfort me.  One stanza struck me as particularly relevant to that experience:

"And this dog was satisfied,

If a pale thin hand would glide,

Down his dewlaps sloping, -

Which he pushed his nose within,

After, - platforming his chin

On the palm left open."

I can remember clearly times that Clark would rest his snout on my hand, happy to be held, because he knew it made me feel better.  Dogs are emotionally intelligent in ways we are not, and Browning captures that perfectly in her poem.  I also find myself becoming emotional thinking about my dog.  Though he's been gone for nearly six years now, I knew him for fifteen years, from my childhood until I graduated college.  I think the memory of a good dog will never fade, in part because of poems like this one, which so beautifully capture that special relationship we as humans have with dogs.

And because I love him very much, here's a picture of my childhood dog, Clark.

[in Just-] - E. E. Cummings

in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles       far       and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queet
old balloonman whistles
far        and       wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and

       the

              goat-footed

ballonMan       whistles
far
and
wee










Reproducing the spacing for the visual effect of an E. E. Cummings poem is always a bit of a challenge, so I've done my best for you, reader.  And what an effect!  The irregular spacing in the poem, particularly on the balloonman's "whistles       far       and wee" creates both movement and time.  How much more vividly can you imagine a long whistle, spaced apart, reaching far, calling children from their play to espy some bright balloons.

There's so much vivacity and life in the poem, but my favorite thing about it is the sense of timing.  It is not spring, it is just-spring.  Just barely have we crossed the threshold into spring, and "the world is puddle-wonderful."  I don't know if I can think of a better image to describe spring than that.  Being that it is just-spring, the world isn't yet in full bloom, but it is "mud-lucsious."  There's a wetness about the poem that promises bloom and growth.  Children play throughout the poem, adding to the overall sense of youth and newness that just-spring promises.

Repetition is also a key element of this poem.  So many times, a phrase will trail into or end with "it's spring."  Coupled with the presence of children, and the arrival of a balloonman(!, how exciting!), it creates an overwhelming sense of joy and excitement.  It's finally spring, it's just-spring, and things are happening again.  Eddie and Bill are playing marbles and at pirates, Betty and Isbel are jumping rope and playing hop-scotch and it's spring!

What sticks out most among these images of new life and children and joy is the balloonman.  He is lame footed, ("goat-footed") and presumably has trouble walking.  Someone who has no real choice but to be a peddler, possibly homeless.  He is not, however, treated poorly by Cummings, or by the children.  His whistle is what summons them, summons Just-spring.  He is included, rather than pushed out, and his whistle rings far        and      wee. 

I have often found that Cummings poetry looks more intimidating than it is, and that when you slow yourself down and get out of your head, and read it out loud, it becomes filled with childlike wonder.  There's a sense of joy and admiration at just how marvelous spring is.  He's so excited he says that it's spring three times.  The effect of the spacing, I find, just emphasizes time and space.  It fills the poem, and makes it feel bigger than it is.  I like that about it, and I like that the poem can't exist fully without being both heard and seen.