The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly-
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-clothes on my forehead,
and then led me out into the air light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift - not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-toned lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
In a touching and funny way, Collins identifies one thing I'm sure all children thought at some point, that we can "repay" our mothers in some sense for all that they do for us. Of course, that's impossible, but that is, as Collins correctly notes, a "worn truth." It seems blindingly obvious that we can never repay our mothers. The comic relief in which Collins throws this is wonderful. All the selfless, loving acts of motherhood answered with, "yes, I know, here's a lanyard." It's often said that parenting is a thankless job, and the naivete of children when it comes to gratitude probably does not help.
While I am not a parent, I still think that most mothers (or fathers) would accept that lanyard with thankfulness and joy. I hope you think about selfless love, reader, and enjoy the humor of the poem. We can never repay our mothers, but that's not important. Love is boundless, and knows no time frame. It makes the world go round, and even when our loved ones are gone, is still as present as that lanyard buried somewhere in a drawer in the house.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Grandeur of Ghosts - Siegfried Sassoon
When I have heard small talk about great men
I climb to bed; light my two candles; then
Consider what was said; and put aside
What Such-a-one remarked and Someone-else replied.
They have spoken lightly of my deathless friends,
(Lamps for my gloom, hands guiding where I stumble,)
Quoting, for shallow conversational ends,
What Shelley shrilled, what Blake once wildly muttered ....
How can they use such names and be not humble?
I have sat silent; angry at what they uttered.
The dead bequeathed them life; the dead have said
What these can only memorize and mumble.
Sassoon broods in anger in this poem about the gossip treatment he hears his literary idols receiving on a regular basis. He cannot comprehend how some people can be so callous and disrespectful when speaking of "great men." To Sassoon, a poet, these men, Blake, Shelley, have "bequeathed life" to future generations with their words.
To Sassoon, these poets are his rock. They are "lamps for my gloom, hands guiding where I stumble." His spiritual artistic guides, he is furious to see them reduced to gossip topics, being quoted "for shallow conversational ends." Sassoon actually places himself alongside them in decrying the small-minded men who can "only memorize and mumble." Sassoon himself is writing poetry rather than quoting it, following in the footsteps of his idols, rather than speaking lightly of their reputations. Is this arrogant? I'd say no, considering the great lengths Sassoon goes to in establishing literary giants as life-giving poetic figures. While he considers himself above the gossips of the worlds, he feels that he can only draw on the greats for support, rather than fully being one himself.
It is an understandable impulse, Sassoon's anger at hearing his idols sullied by gossip about what they may have said outside of their work, but I think it's important to embrace all aspects of the artist, to acknowledge the wholeness of their being. For example, I greatly admire James Joyce. Apart from writing Ulysses, he also wrote shockingly filthy letters to his wife, but unless someone uses those to try to discredit his massive artistic achievement, I do not get offended. I think I would feel the same as Sassoon if someone tried to discredit Wagner's music because of his abhorrent views on Judaism, or someone derided Percy Grainger's music because of his bedroom habits. We all hate when small-minded people disparage our idols for the wrong reasons.
I climb to bed; light my two candles; then
Consider what was said; and put aside
What Such-a-one remarked and Someone-else replied.
They have spoken lightly of my deathless friends,
(Lamps for my gloom, hands guiding where I stumble,)
Quoting, for shallow conversational ends,
What Shelley shrilled, what Blake once wildly muttered ....
How can they use such names and be not humble?
I have sat silent; angry at what they uttered.
The dead bequeathed them life; the dead have said
What these can only memorize and mumble.
Sassoon broods in anger in this poem about the gossip treatment he hears his literary idols receiving on a regular basis. He cannot comprehend how some people can be so callous and disrespectful when speaking of "great men." To Sassoon, a poet, these men, Blake, Shelley, have "bequeathed life" to future generations with their words.
To Sassoon, these poets are his rock. They are "lamps for my gloom, hands guiding where I stumble." His spiritual artistic guides, he is furious to see them reduced to gossip topics, being quoted "for shallow conversational ends." Sassoon actually places himself alongside them in decrying the small-minded men who can "only memorize and mumble." Sassoon himself is writing poetry rather than quoting it, following in the footsteps of his idols, rather than speaking lightly of their reputations. Is this arrogant? I'd say no, considering the great lengths Sassoon goes to in establishing literary giants as life-giving poetic figures. While he considers himself above the gossips of the worlds, he feels that he can only draw on the greats for support, rather than fully being one himself.
It is an understandable impulse, Sassoon's anger at hearing his idols sullied by gossip about what they may have said outside of their work, but I think it's important to embrace all aspects of the artist, to acknowledge the wholeness of their being. For example, I greatly admire James Joyce. Apart from writing Ulysses, he also wrote shockingly filthy letters to his wife, but unless someone uses those to try to discredit his massive artistic achievement, I do not get offended. I think I would feel the same as Sassoon if someone tried to discredit Wagner's music because of his abhorrent views on Judaism, or someone derided Percy Grainger's music because of his bedroom habits. We all hate when small-minded people disparage our idols for the wrong reasons.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Pied Beauty - Gerard Manley Hopkins
Glory be to God for dappled things -
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
All all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Jesuit, is best known for his devotional poems. Oftentimes considered one of the greatest Victorian poets, his poems are full of creative word combinations that seem to capture the imaginative essence of things. Here, he uses those interesting hyphenated descriptions to celebrate the variety of Creation and its great beauty.
The sounds of these images are crisp and ring nicely in the mouth. "fresh-firecoal," "finches' wings," these sounds have a pleasant crunch to them. They create beautiful sounds that very aptly and succinctly describe the interesting oppositions of colors and patterns in nature. The whole poem is in praise of "dappled things," things which are marked with spots or patches. The title, "Pied Beauty" means things having two or more colors. It's a celebration of the harmony and variety of nature, and the fundamental mystery of creation.
During the second stanza, the narrator wonders at how "He," the Creator God, "fathers-forth" all manners of things, "whose beauty is past change." It is impossible for the narrator to say just how this beauty came to be, or why indeed it is beautiful, as evidenced by the line, "(who knows how?)" spoken as a parenthetical aside to the reader. The images in the poem piece themselves into the mind effortlessly, and personally, make me think of a mackerel sky, dimpled clouds dotting a New England landscape with streaks of cloudy spots. I hope you find some comforting familiar beautiful brinded image yourself.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Chaucer - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.
I wanted to dislike this poem for its silly affectations of faux-Middle English, with its "laugheth" and "writeth" but I can't bring myself to do it. Longfellow is so earnest in his affection for Chaucer that his imagined scene of a man in his chamber, gaily decorated with hunting scenes, that I cannot help but be somewhat charmed myself. This is in no doubt partly because of my shared affection for Chaucer, though I think even without that personal connection, the picture Longfellow paints is enticing, like the scent of a wildflower.
What I really like most about this poem is the way Longfellow captures the effect that great poetry can have on the reader. Longfellow does not just imagine the sounds of the lark and linnet, or the smell of flowery mead, he hears it, he smells it. That's what great poetry does for us, it transports us to places in our minds so real and relevant to our daily lives that we become fully enraptured.
Somewhat strangely, this poem does somewhat transport me to that place, but not by its own power. It's through Chaucer that it does so. I'm reminded of the delightful atmosphere of The Canterbury Tales reading this poem, and my imagination begins to run away from me. Longfellow's poem itself is largely unremarkable, and like I said earlier, I really wanted to give it a bit of a spitroast for its painful posturing. Still, I can't help but smile at the thoughts and images it brings to mind. Besides, the rhymes are pleasing to the tongue and ear, and lines glisten with well worked words, nice assonance and alliteration abounding (see what I did there?). It's hard to dislike a poem so earnest in its admiration of a great poet and the magical effect that good poetry can have.
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.
I wanted to dislike this poem for its silly affectations of faux-Middle English, with its "laugheth" and "writeth" but I can't bring myself to do it. Longfellow is so earnest in his affection for Chaucer that his imagined scene of a man in his chamber, gaily decorated with hunting scenes, that I cannot help but be somewhat charmed myself. This is in no doubt partly because of my shared affection for Chaucer, though I think even without that personal connection, the picture Longfellow paints is enticing, like the scent of a wildflower.
What I really like most about this poem is the way Longfellow captures the effect that great poetry can have on the reader. Longfellow does not just imagine the sounds of the lark and linnet, or the smell of flowery mead, he hears it, he smells it. That's what great poetry does for us, it transports us to places in our minds so real and relevant to our daily lives that we become fully enraptured.
Somewhat strangely, this poem does somewhat transport me to that place, but not by its own power. It's through Chaucer that it does so. I'm reminded of the delightful atmosphere of The Canterbury Tales reading this poem, and my imagination begins to run away from me. Longfellow's poem itself is largely unremarkable, and like I said earlier, I really wanted to give it a bit of a spitroast for its painful posturing. Still, I can't help but smile at the thoughts and images it brings to mind. Besides, the rhymes are pleasing to the tongue and ear, and lines glisten with well worked words, nice assonance and alliteration abounding (see what I did there?). It's hard to dislike a poem so earnest in its admiration of a great poet and the magical effect that good poetry can have.
[Young in Fall I said: the birds] & [We are what the seas] - Lorine Niedecker
Young in Fall I said: the birds
are at their highest thoughts
of leaving
Middle life said nothing -
grounded
to a livelihood
Old age - a high gabbling gathering
before goodbye
of all we know
We are what the seas
have made us
longingly immense
the very veery
on the fence
Both of these poems are carefully constructed, with clear, dense images. The first poem is concerned with mortality and is divided into three stages, youth, middle, and old age. These periods are paired with heights, with youth's highs coming down and becoming grounded before a high goodbye, a religious image of ascension before saying a "goodbye of all we know." It's a clear poem with images that work on several levels.
The second poem deals more with our sense of what we are, and how we became that way. The idea that we are sculpted by the seas is somewhat confusing to me, but the third line clears it up for me rather well. We are all indeed immense, and longing is a basic part of the human condition. We have infinite capacity to go one way or the other (evoked here by the line "very veery on the fence") and our possibilities stretch to infinity, much as the seas appear to from the shore.
Both of these poems, being so short, do not lend themselves to heavy, long-winded scrutiny. So you, reader, I hope you enjoy these poems, and let the images mull around in your head. They're dense and satisfying.
are at their highest thoughts
of leaving
Middle life said nothing -
grounded
to a livelihood
Old age - a high gabbling gathering
before goodbye
of all we know
We are what the seas
have made us
longingly immense
the very veery
on the fence
Both of these poems are carefully constructed, with clear, dense images. The first poem is concerned with mortality and is divided into three stages, youth, middle, and old age. These periods are paired with heights, with youth's highs coming down and becoming grounded before a high goodbye, a religious image of ascension before saying a "goodbye of all we know." It's a clear poem with images that work on several levels.
The second poem deals more with our sense of what we are, and how we became that way. The idea that we are sculpted by the seas is somewhat confusing to me, but the third line clears it up for me rather well. We are all indeed immense, and longing is a basic part of the human condition. We have infinite capacity to go one way or the other (evoked here by the line "very veery on the fence") and our possibilities stretch to infinity, much as the seas appear to from the shore.
Both of these poems, being so short, do not lend themselves to heavy, long-winded scrutiny. So you, reader, I hope you enjoy these poems, and let the images mull around in your head. They're dense and satisfying.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Sonnet 16 - Richard Barnfield
Long have I long'd to see my love againe,
Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my love's sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my love's fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
A tortured account of separated lovers, Barnfield's Sonnet 16 is most notable for the clarity of its images and its homoeroticism, which was controversial in his day (1574-1627). The premise of the poem is that two lovers are separated, not by chance, but by the action of the narrator. We can safely infer that he has lost his love's favor, because more than gaining all the world, the narrator "desire[s] my love's sweet precious gaine." He has lost the favor and love of his beloved, and is in hell because of it. He imagines his "sterne countenaunce" (stern countenance) and longs for him. He has "foolish fantasies" in which he sees his love, and makes as if to kiss his lips, and when he awakes from these flights of fancy, he feels "but aire."
Further contributing to the idea that the narrator is fundamentally responsible for this schism of love is the comparison of himself with Ixion. Ixion, in Greek mythology, was king of the Lapiths, and a son of Ares. He is infamous for murdering his father-in-law, and the act defiled his soul, driving him mad. He is the first to kill his kin in Greek myth, a sort of Cain figure. Zeus however, pitied him, and invited him to Olympus. There, Ixion lusted after Hera. Zeus created a cloud in the shape of Hera, with which Ixion coupled ("Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine"). Afterwards, Ixion was expelled, struck with a thunderbolt, and strapped by Hermes to a burning wheel for all eternity ("Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine").
Barnfield attributes his lover's desertion of him to his own failings and faults, perhaps infidelity or violence, given the comparison to Ixion. The homoeroticism of the poem is obvious, and seems to cross squarely into a territory of erotic love and lust. Homoeroticism, or more accurately, homosocial love was common between men in the Renaissance period, but this seems to imply an actual physical relationship, rather than just extolling another man's beauty and virtue, and was common in the homosocial love writings of the day. Today, it is not scandalous, but a touching account of a lover's pain and self-loathing.
Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my love's sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my love's fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
A tortured account of separated lovers, Barnfield's Sonnet 16 is most notable for the clarity of its images and its homoeroticism, which was controversial in his day (1574-1627). The premise of the poem is that two lovers are separated, not by chance, but by the action of the narrator. We can safely infer that he has lost his love's favor, because more than gaining all the world, the narrator "desire[s] my love's sweet precious gaine." He has lost the favor and love of his beloved, and is in hell because of it. He imagines his "sterne countenaunce" (stern countenance) and longs for him. He has "foolish fantasies" in which he sees his love, and makes as if to kiss his lips, and when he awakes from these flights of fancy, he feels "but aire."
Further contributing to the idea that the narrator is fundamentally responsible for this schism of love is the comparison of himself with Ixion. Ixion, in Greek mythology, was king of the Lapiths, and a son of Ares. He is infamous for murdering his father-in-law, and the act defiled his soul, driving him mad. He is the first to kill his kin in Greek myth, a sort of Cain figure. Zeus however, pitied him, and invited him to Olympus. There, Ixion lusted after Hera. Zeus created a cloud in the shape of Hera, with which Ixion coupled ("Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine"). Afterwards, Ixion was expelled, struck with a thunderbolt, and strapped by Hermes to a burning wheel for all eternity ("Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine").
Barnfield attributes his lover's desertion of him to his own failings and faults, perhaps infidelity or violence, given the comparison to Ixion. The homoeroticism of the poem is obvious, and seems to cross squarely into a territory of erotic love and lust. Homoeroticism, or more accurately, homosocial love was common between men in the Renaissance period, but this seems to imply an actual physical relationship, rather than just extolling another man's beauty and virtue, and was common in the homosocial love writings of the day. Today, it is not scandalous, but a touching account of a lover's pain and self-loathing.
Speech: "This day is called the feast of Crispian" - William Shakespeare
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Unquestionably one of the most impassioned and inspiring military speeches of all time, the famous Saint Crispin's Day speech from Henry V is simple, concise, and incredibly stirring. Faced with impossible odds before the Battle of Agincourt, Henry the king addresses his men. They are tired, outnumbered five to one, and facing strong, fresh French soldiers. And yet, for all this, Henry (at least in Shakespeare's account) lowers himself to the level of the common solider, addressing them as brothers, and exalting them over any other Englishmen not at that fight. I particularly love the image of all men who did not participate in that battle holding their "manhoods cheap" while in the presence of any who fought in that impossible fight. The language of the poem is simple and clear, appropriate for an address to soldiers. It promises immortality and glory, and does not hope for victory, but assures the forces that they have already won. When saying that they will be remembered "from this day to the ending of the world" he is right.
The line, "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers" has become one of the most famous in the English canon, and for good reason. It is beautiful to speak, listen to, and to feel. That a king may through battle become as a brother to another is humbling and reminds us of our fundamental equality before Death, God, and Nature.
I did not read this for you myself today because I can only hope to embarrass myself in the face of better readings from real actors. So I present to Kenneth Branagh, and his supremely rousing rendition of this famous speech. Enjoy.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Unquestionably one of the most impassioned and inspiring military speeches of all time, the famous Saint Crispin's Day speech from Henry V is simple, concise, and incredibly stirring. Faced with impossible odds before the Battle of Agincourt, Henry the king addresses his men. They are tired, outnumbered five to one, and facing strong, fresh French soldiers. And yet, for all this, Henry (at least in Shakespeare's account) lowers himself to the level of the common solider, addressing them as brothers, and exalting them over any other Englishmen not at that fight. I particularly love the image of all men who did not participate in that battle holding their "manhoods cheap" while in the presence of any who fought in that impossible fight. The language of the poem is simple and clear, appropriate for an address to soldiers. It promises immortality and glory, and does not hope for victory, but assures the forces that they have already won. When saying that they will be remembered "from this day to the ending of the world" he is right.
The line, "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers" has become one of the most famous in the English canon, and for good reason. It is beautiful to speak, listen to, and to feel. That a king may through battle become as a brother to another is humbling and reminds us of our fundamental equality before Death, God, and Nature.
I did not read this for you myself today because I can only hope to embarrass myself in the face of better readings from real actors. So I present to Kenneth Branagh, and his supremely rousing rendition of this famous speech. Enjoy.
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