O spring wind,
You are the fine line
Between cool and warm,
The promise of green and
Growing.
O spring wind,
Grant me wings,
Spread my arms and
Lift me up with your blowing,
Blowing.
With the remarkable weather we've had lately, I felt the impulse to write. Maybe it's too saccharine and contrived, but I present to you without a hint of irony my feelings about the spring wind. I think we unfairly denigrate sincerity in our society today and I find the only antidote is to be sincere. Enjoy spring, friends.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
The Eagle - Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Pure majesty, both the poem and the bird. There's little for me to say, so I'll stop bleating already and let you enjoy the poem. Next you see an eagle, or any other bird of prey, I hope you can remember this poem.
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Pure majesty, both the poem and the bird. There's little for me to say, so I'll stop bleating already and let you enjoy the poem. Next you see an eagle, or any other bird of prey, I hope you can remember this poem.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd. - Emmeline Grangerford (Mark Twain)
And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts around him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear, with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world,
By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.
Emmeline Grangerford, a character in Huckleberry Finn, is a parody of real-life poet, Julia Moore, who was dubbed "The Sweet Singer of Michigan." Twain himself said of Moore than she had "the touch that makes an intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny." We can see that so very clearly in this poem inside Huckleberry Finn, where Emmeline describes the death of an unfortunate boy, Stephen Dowling Bots. She learned of him by reading the obituaries section of the Presbyterian Observer. Emmeline loved nothing more than to write maudlin elegies to all of the obituaries she saw.
The poem is hilarious, frankly. I'm particularly tickled by "They got him out and emptied him." It's like deflating a sponge. As Twain said of Moore, this poem really did make a pathetic incident comedic.
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts around him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear, with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world,
By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.
Emmeline Grangerford, a character in Huckleberry Finn, is a parody of real-life poet, Julia Moore, who was dubbed "The Sweet Singer of Michigan." Twain himself said of Moore than she had "the touch that makes an intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny." We can see that so very clearly in this poem inside Huckleberry Finn, where Emmeline describes the death of an unfortunate boy, Stephen Dowling Bots. She learned of him by reading the obituaries section of the Presbyterian Observer. Emmeline loved nothing more than to write maudlin elegies to all of the obituaries she saw.
The poem is hilarious, frankly. I'm particularly tickled by "They got him out and emptied him." It's like deflating a sponge. As Twain said of Moore, this poem really did make a pathetic incident comedic.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
The Very Self - Walter de la Mare
Clear eyes, beneath clear brows, gaze out at me,
Clear, true and lovely things therein I see;
Yet mystery, past ev'n naming, takes their place
As mine stay pondering on that much-loved face.
Deep in another's eyes, what do you see? No matter how well known, how loved, there is mystery there, or so says Walter de la Mare. While eyes can be "clear, true, and lovely" they are still another person's, and therefore, unknowable on a certain level. The interior lives of our friends and lovers are forever hidden from us, no matter how close. It's a thrilling mystery, to be sure, and expressed cleanly, clearly, and elegantly, much like the face and eyes in the poem.
As an alternate reading, I think you can also consider this as looking into a mirror. While I don't think it fits fully ("much-loved face" stands out to me as not fitting a mirror reading) it's still workable to address the mystery within ourselves. How long can you view your own eyes in the mirror before they become that of a stranger's?
Clear, true and lovely things therein I see;
Yet mystery, past ev'n naming, takes their place
As mine stay pondering on that much-loved face.
Deep in another's eyes, what do you see? No matter how well known, how loved, there is mystery there, or so says Walter de la Mare. While eyes can be "clear, true, and lovely" they are still another person's, and therefore, unknowable on a certain level. The interior lives of our friends and lovers are forever hidden from us, no matter how close. It's a thrilling mystery, to be sure, and expressed cleanly, clearly, and elegantly, much like the face and eyes in the poem.
As an alternate reading, I think you can also consider this as looking into a mirror. While I don't think it fits fully ("much-loved face" stands out to me as not fitting a mirror reading) it's still workable to address the mystery within ourselves. How long can you view your own eyes in the mirror before they become that of a stranger's?
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Sea Fever - John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
For anyone who has ever felt the keen pang of wanderlust, I present John Masefield's poem. A former merchant seaman, he traveled from England to New York City where he deserted to work for a time. Eventually he returned to London to write, and found great success in doing so. It seems clear to me that that thrill of travel never quite left him. Once you get the itch, it never really goes away, as I can now attest.
The call of the sea and all its allure is at the heart of every line of this poem. Its driving rhythm and power are inescapable. The descriptions are crisp and clear, as picturesque as a postcard. For Masefield, living the life of a sailor, which is having nothing, means he has everything he names in the poem. He has the sky, and the sea, and the company of other like-minded spirits. It's a romantic image, and for anyone who has ever traveled even slightly afield, whether by land, sea, or sky, it will raise that familiar impulse to get up and go. Somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't matter. Once you start moving, everything is yours.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
For anyone who has ever felt the keen pang of wanderlust, I present John Masefield's poem. A former merchant seaman, he traveled from England to New York City where he deserted to work for a time. Eventually he returned to London to write, and found great success in doing so. It seems clear to me that that thrill of travel never quite left him. Once you get the itch, it never really goes away, as I can now attest.
The call of the sea and all its allure is at the heart of every line of this poem. Its driving rhythm and power are inescapable. The descriptions are crisp and clear, as picturesque as a postcard. For Masefield, living the life of a sailor, which is having nothing, means he has everything he names in the poem. He has the sky, and the sea, and the company of other like-minded spirits. It's a romantic image, and for anyone who has ever traveled even slightly afield, whether by land, sea, or sky, it will raise that familiar impulse to get up and go. Somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't matter. Once you start moving, everything is yours.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Rain - Edward Thomas
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all stiff and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
Our time upon the earth is short, and at times, it feels as though we are helpless to stop suffering or to live meaningfully. Despite all of that, we still maintain hope, even if like in this poem, it's a bleak sort of hope. Thomas' narrator experiences "nothing but the wild rain," "solitude, and me." He feels totally isolated in this rain. It makes him conscious that he too will die, and no longer be able to experience the rain, or to thank it for cleaning him, both physically and spiritually.
There's a shade of the Beatitudes about this poem as well. "Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon" is the line which most evokes those. Even saying that the dead are blessed, Thomas cannot wish death upon any whom he once loved. Maybe they, like him, are having some sort of mental crisis, are experiencing pain, or too feel helpless. Despite never once giving his poem the aspect of hope, by the narrator's reluctance to embrace death, to abdicate from suffering and helplessness, these inform a feeling of gratitude towards life, towards experience. The dead upon whom the rain rains cannot experience anything. Even though the narrator says they are blessed, probably for that very reason, he won't embrace that just yet.
The only thing the rain has not dissolved is his "love of death." Death here is not defined as a mere cessation of life, but, as the tempest, the storm, informs him, of perfection. Death is the perfected state in which no more suffering can occur. Sounds an awful lot like heaven to me. I know that I am reading quite a lot into that, but I cannot see the narrator here as anything but fundamentally hopeful, even in the face of bleakest midnight rain.
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all stiff and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
Our time upon the earth is short, and at times, it feels as though we are helpless to stop suffering or to live meaningfully. Despite all of that, we still maintain hope, even if like in this poem, it's a bleak sort of hope. Thomas' narrator experiences "nothing but the wild rain," "solitude, and me." He feels totally isolated in this rain. It makes him conscious that he too will die, and no longer be able to experience the rain, or to thank it for cleaning him, both physically and spiritually.
There's a shade of the Beatitudes about this poem as well. "Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon" is the line which most evokes those. Even saying that the dead are blessed, Thomas cannot wish death upon any whom he once loved. Maybe they, like him, are having some sort of mental crisis, are experiencing pain, or too feel helpless. Despite never once giving his poem the aspect of hope, by the narrator's reluctance to embrace death, to abdicate from suffering and helplessness, these inform a feeling of gratitude towards life, towards experience. The dead upon whom the rain rains cannot experience anything. Even though the narrator says they are blessed, probably for that very reason, he won't embrace that just yet.
The only thing the rain has not dissolved is his "love of death." Death here is not defined as a mere cessation of life, but, as the tempest, the storm, informs him, of perfection. Death is the perfected state in which no more suffering can occur. Sounds an awful lot like heaven to me. I know that I am reading quite a lot into that, but I cannot see the narrator here as anything but fundamentally hopeful, even in the face of bleakest midnight rain.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Winter - Anne Hunter
Behold the gloomy tyrant's awful form
Binding the captive earth in icy chains;
His chilling breath sweeps o'er the watery plains,
Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm.
See from its centre bends the rifted tower,
Threat'ning the lowly vale with frowning pride,
O'er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side,
A fearful ruin o'er their heads to pour.
While to the cheerful hearth and social board
Content and ease repair, the sons of want
Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant;
And where some shed bleak covert may afford,
Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host
Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.
Anne Hunter gives us this masterful account of the wrath of a pending winter storm, and how its effects will be felt throughout different parts of society. Those in the countryside, the "scared flocks" both sheep and man, seek the shelter of the valley, as a "fearful ruin" brews overhead. Those who have a life of ease relax by the "cheerful hearth" as the storm approached, unaware that there are others, those "sons of want" who have to seek some small shelter from the storm. Niggard (one who is not generous) fate gives them almost no pity. Poverty, here personified as a woman, "shivers at the frost."
Through the first stanza you can really feel the fearful force of the incoming storm. It is a "gloomy tyrant" with "chilling breath." In so few lines, Hunter does a wonderful job making us feel for all of the characters in her poem. Reading it, we want to share the warmth of the hearth with poverty. I think that's her intent, to make us think about how things affect others, particularly those less fortunate. It would have been easy to ignore them and write a poem just about the storm, but in this case, I am glad she didn't.
Binding the captive earth in icy chains;
His chilling breath sweeps o'er the watery plains,
Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm.
See from its centre bends the rifted tower,
Threat'ning the lowly vale with frowning pride,
O'er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side,
A fearful ruin o'er their heads to pour.
While to the cheerful hearth and social board
Content and ease repair, the sons of want
Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant;
And where some shed bleak covert may afford,
Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host
Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.
Anne Hunter gives us this masterful account of the wrath of a pending winter storm, and how its effects will be felt throughout different parts of society. Those in the countryside, the "scared flocks" both sheep and man, seek the shelter of the valley, as a "fearful ruin" brews overhead. Those who have a life of ease relax by the "cheerful hearth" as the storm approached, unaware that there are others, those "sons of want" who have to seek some small shelter from the storm. Niggard (one who is not generous) fate gives them almost no pity. Poverty, here personified as a woman, "shivers at the frost."
Through the first stanza you can really feel the fearful force of the incoming storm. It is a "gloomy tyrant" with "chilling breath." In so few lines, Hunter does a wonderful job making us feel for all of the characters in her poem. Reading it, we want to share the warmth of the hearth with poverty. I think that's her intent, to make us think about how things affect others, particularly those less fortunate. It would have been easy to ignore them and write a poem just about the storm, but in this case, I am glad she didn't.
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