The Siller Croun - Susanna Blamire

And ye shall walk in silk attire,
And siller have to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair.
O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a poor broken heart!
Or what's to me a siller croun,
Gin frae my love I part!

The mind wha's every wish is pure
Far dearer is to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my faith,
I'll lay me down an' dee!
For I hae pledg'd my virgin troth
Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to seek it back,
It wad be waur than theft!
For langest life can ne'er repay
The love he bears to me;
And ere I'm forc'd to break my troth,
I'll lay me doun an' dee.









Susanna Blamire was a Scottish poet who came to reside in the Cumberland region of England.  She lived from 1747-1794, and principally wrote poetry as a hobby to be shared with friends and relatives.  Little of it was published during her lifetime, which is a true shame, as she provides a wonderful perspective on the lives of ordinary people.  She herself was not of high birth, and her poetry is largely concerned with ordinary folk, and their lives.  She wrote in her native Scottish, English, and the Cumberland dialect, and also wrote lyrics.  Today's poem is a song she wrote, which was set to music by none other than Joseph Haydn.  That setting will be embedded towards the end of the post, as I want you to read the lyrics first without hearing the setting.

The lyric itself is a little difficult to read, so I encourage you to read it slowly, and aloud.  If it helps, imagine a Scottish accent.  I know that sounds silly, but this is a Scottish poem, after all.  Let's walk through it.  This is a beautiful poem of a doomed love.  A woman is being asked to leave her dear Donald to marry a wealthy man.  Blamire's narrator goes on to ask what good wealth is if she has to leave her love.  In the end, she'd rather die than break her promise to Donald, who has "gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare."

I don't feel the Scots is so far from English as to merit translation.  What I do feel, however, is that this should rightly be thought of as among the best of Scottish poetry and lyrics from this time period.  I feel a similar sweet heartbreak reading and listening to this as I do to Loch Lomond, which is a favorite of mine.  Now, enjoy the gorgeous musical setting courtesy of Haydn.

The Jew - Isaac Rosenberg

Moses, from whose loins I sprung,
Lit by a lamp in his blood
Ten immutable rules, a moon
For mutable lampless men.

The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy,
With the same heaving blood,
Keep tide to the moon of Moses.
Then why do they sneer at me?










Isaac Rosenberg was a British poet who died in 1918 at age 28, a victim of the first World War.  Prior to the war, he had published two volumes of poetry, which had a somewhat tepid reception.  Critics found his poems beautiful, but not yet mature, still very much in the style of the Romantic poets, particularly Keats.  His highly poetical language detracted from his sentiment, and critics said he had not yet found his voice.

It is impossible to ignore Rosenberg's Jewish heritage.  Born in 1890 in Bristol, England, his family faced terrible discrimination, and ended up in the Jewish ghetto in London.  His Jewish identity is important to his poems, particularly his war poetry, of which this is one example.  The Old Testament informs the relationships between God and man in his poetry, as we can see here.

What we can see in this poem is a clear establishment of Rosenberg's Jewish identity, the acknowledgment that much of the world (particularly Christians) recognize Moses and the Ten Commandments, and an anguish at the historical castigation of the Jewish people.  I particularly like the image of Moses being the lamp that brought light to the world, "immutable rules" for "mutable lampless men."

Rosenberg goes on to note that among men, "The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy" all "keep tide" (live) "to the moon of Moses" (the Ten Commandments, God).  So why then do they sneer at him, the Jew?  It's a question to continue asking, as anti-Semitic thought sees a rise again in the West.  Embracing his Jewish identity during his war poetry, Rosenberg began finding a unique voice, and had he survived the war, may have become a true force in English poetry.  As it stands, his poetry is interesting, and in this example, heart-wrenching. 

"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why" - Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.










What an absolutely beautiful and devastating love sonnet from Edna St. Vincent Millay this is!  Millay, who had a number of great romances in her life, creates a stark and beautiful image of herself as a winter tree, with bare branches where birds once sang.  She knows that "summer sang in me a little while, that in me sings no more."  Love gone, it is winter, and she is a tree, numb, unaware of what loves she had, only knowing them to be gone.

The line that sings to me most is, "but the rain is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh upon the glass and listen for reply."  The insistence of memories of lovers past, the personification of nature as an outward manifestation of inner struggle, is beautiful and subtle, and ties in with Millay's own envisioning of herself as a "lonely tree" in winter.  Her heart "stirs" with "quiet pain" to think of the "unremembered lads" that no longer share her bed.  There's an intimacy to this detachment.  She cannot remember them (or perhaps cannot bear to remember them) and yet, she can remember that arms have laid under her head until morning, and that her lips have kissed.  Where and why?  Who can say.  She only knows that her birds have "vanished one by one" and that her boughs are "more silent than before."  There's a numbness here, the sort one feels after a heartbreak.  It's put into words so beautifully here, with the image of a solitary, empty tree in winter.

It's a heart-breaking poem, anchored, I feel, by its traditional structure.  This is a perfect example of a sonnet.  Largely in iambic pentameter (five feet, composed of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables), it follows a straightforward rhyme scheme as well, at least in the first stanza.  ABBA, ABBA. The line break can be thought of as the volta, or turn, of the sonnet, where the subject matter shifts.  Here, the rhyme become a little more complicated, and rather than ending on a rhyming couplet, the last stanza follows the pattern CDEDCE.  The lines rhyme, but there's an unease to it.  By playing against the expectation of the structure, the final line, wherein summer, and love, "that in me sings no more" stands out all the more. 

April - Ezra Pound

Three spirits came to me
And drew me apart
To where the olive boughs
Lay stripped upon the ground:

Pale carnage beneath bright mist.










Ezra Pound's short form poetry is always a delight, because of its clarity of image and expression.  I've covered Pound before, and I have a great admiration for this style of poetry, often referred to as the Imagist style.  Rather than moralizing or telling a story, Imagist poetry creates a snapshot.  It's like examining an intriguing photograph, taking it in, and letting it speak for itself.  In that sense, this poem by Pound is somewhat unique, in that it is hazier than it is clear.

Despite a lack of, let's say, geography, in this poem, its images are clear.  Stripped olive boughs on the ground, bright mist.  It's a supernatural feeling image, bolstered by the first two lines.  "Three spirits came to me/ and drew me apart."  Like Pound's narrator, we are transported to another realm.  What spirits are these?  Why have olive boughs been stripped and tossed to the ground?  What does any of this have to do with April?

And yet for all this, somehow it still conjures a clear image.  The "pale carnage" of discarded plant matter, the bright mist of a spring morning.  I could be mis-reading it totally, but I'm more drawn in than put out by it.  What do you think, reader?

Predator - Billy Collins

It takes only a minute
to bury a wren.
Two trowels full of dirt
and he's in.

The cat at the threshold
sits longer in doubt
deciding whether
to stay in or go out.










Billy Collins is among my favorite living poems, and this short, humorous poem is a great example of why that is.  From the title, to the dead bird, to the cat, it's like a play told in three short acts.  And as a cat lover, I've been in the position where a cat has proudly brought me a dead animal.

Reading this, I can picture an aloof cat prowling a doorway, proud of what it's done, and trying to decide if it wants to check out the action.  There's not much deeper to this poem, but I don't think there needs to be.  It's a perfectly crystallized snapshot of a moment in time, and it makes me smile.  What more does a poem need to do?

As I Ponder'd In Silence - Walt Whitman

As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring
     bards?
And this is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.

Be it so, then I answer'd,
I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one
     than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance
     and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the field
     the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul.
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.









While I have admitted before to not being a huge fan of Walt Whitman, I, as Ezra Pound did, have decided to make my peace with him.  And fortuitously, I was given a beautiful copy of his seminal collection, Leaves of Grass as a gift.  So I have begun delving fully into Walt Whitman's work, and I happy to find myself changed.  This bold, declaratory poem is the second in the volume, and speaks beautifully to the challenges any artist faces, and answers that challenge with breath-taking confidence.

The poem begins from after having written poetry.  Whitman "ponder'd in silence" his poems, "considering, lingering long"on them.  It is then that he introduces the second character of the poem, the "Phantom" of poets past.  He describes it as "the genius of poets of old lands."  He speaks of the European masters, the looming giants of literature.  This is a feeling that I can relate to, as I'm sure any creative type can.  As an aside, whenever I sing Bach, I wonder how anyone else ever motivated themselves to write music.

Regardless, this Phantom approaches Whitman.  "What singest thou?" it asks him.  Put more plainly, "what poetry do you write?"  It's a challenge, a directive to prove your value.  However, the Phantom goes on.  It asserts that there is only one theme: War, and the making of perfect soldiers.  I can imagine how anything can be framed as war, really.  The making of perfect soldiers could be the cultivation of a cultured person, educated in the works of the great masters. 

Whitman does not shrink from the challenge.  Rather, he stands and answers this Phantom without fear.  If anything, he taunts the Phantom, calling it a "haughty Shade."  He goes on to describe his way of "sing[ing] war."  In his book (Whitman's, Leaves of Grass) is waged life and death, the Body and the eternal Soul.  And it is here that Whitman declares himself arrived among the great poets.  "Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battle.  I above all promote brave soldiers."  I find Whitman's confidence in declaring himself arrived intoxicating.  He was not alone in thinking so, either.  At the first publishing of Leaves of Grass, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote to him, and said, "I greet you at the beginning of a great career.  I find incomparable things said incomparably well."

Whitman doesn't seek the creation of "perfect soldiers" in his "chant of battle" (poetry) but "brave soldiers."  I feel that is an important distinction, and one reflected in Whitman's life and works.  His politics were radical, as was his homosexuality.  But Whitman was brave, and so was his poetry.  I find it beautiful where once I found it overly saccharine, and I am seeing it with fresh eyes.  It is accessible and I look forward to making my way through the whole book.  I will not take you through the whole book, but do not be surprised if I post more Whitman in the coming months. 

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.










This poem by Elizabeth Bishop is reassuring and beautiful.  Whatever you may lose, it is not a disaster.  What stands out to me most in this poem is the intentional nature of losing, and its framing as an art.  What this poem seems to be to me, more than anything, is an entreaty to balance, acceptance, and calm.

From a formal standpoint, many of the lines are hendecasyllabic.  That means lines containing eleven syllables each.  It's not dissimilar from iambic pentameter, which features ten syllables of alternating stressed and unstressed "feet" made of two syllables each.  It's quite common for poems written primarily in iambic pentameter to feature a hendecasyllabic line.  Keats made use of it in the opening line of Endymion and it's a natural feeling rhythm.  All stanzas, with the exception of the final one, are tercets, wherein the first and last lines are rhymed, or slant rhymed.  Examples include "last, or/master," "master/disaster" and "fluster/master."  They aren't all perfect, but they have enough common sound to lend a lilting quality to the poem.  I will get back to why this matters when I address the end of the poem.

What is losing, to Elizabeth Bishop?  We can say with certainty, that despite all appearances, it is not a disaster.  You can lose material objects ("the fluster of lost door keys"), time ("the hour badly spent") and people ("you").  What I like best about losing things in this poem is that Bishop never denies the pain of loss in the course of reassuring us, and herself, that it is no disaster.  Losing your keys does fluster you.  An hour can absolutely be badly spent.  There is no denial here, only assurance.  To accept those losses, and to continue, that is mastering the art of losing.  And besides, some things are meant to be lost!  Keys are practically begging to be misplaced, I know mine are.

Mastering the art of losing is hard, too.  Bishop herself needs to force it by the end of the poem.  When the poem turns to love, it's presented in the second person perspective, addressed at "you."  It is obvious that Bishop misses this "you" given her remembrance of "the joking voice, a gesture I love" and speaks of those things in the present tense.  By now in the poem, we've lost both our meter and rhyme scheme, and the final stanza is a quartet rather than a tercet.  Losing is not too hard to master, but Bishop has to (in parenthesis) remind herself, "Write it!"  Committing to paper the loss is part of acceptance, and mastery of said loss.  It's a beautiful, affecting touch at the end of the poem, and it cuts through the poem's texture like a knife.  It brings to mind loss you may have felt, a lover you may have drifted from, and it reminds you, master the art of loss.  "Lose something every day" Bishop tells us.  Accept, internalize, express.  You will miss things, but it will be no disaster.

Speaking of missing things, I've missed you, reader, and this blog.  A good friend of mine saw my blog as the first result when she Googled for a poem to show a friend, and encouraged me to resume blogging.  I am glad she did.  I hope to bring you many more poems in the coming days, months, and years.