'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
There's nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow.
But is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth,
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes;
Because it hath the hope to come,
One day, to harbour in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath -
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.
How do death and youth intersect? At the start of the poem, Arnold sets up the image of death as peace. That's a pretty conventional image. Ease from shame, rest from fear, no more worries to crease a face. Is that it, though? As he asks, "Is a calm like this...the crowning end of life and youth?" In essence, is the height of youth, in all its grandeur, to be reduced to the calm of death?
Youth itself promises repose from the grave with its "hot brow" and firm step and light heart. Arnold asks if for all of that, its only destination and final repose can be the grave. Youth makes us feel as though we can fly high forever, even if this is not true. The poem, too, brings us down from our flight to reality. "Ah no, " Arnold writes, wistfully, "the bliss youth dreams is one for daylight, for the cheerful sun, for feeling nerves and living breath." Youth is the dream for the living, from which we wake only to find death, and a final repose.
Still though, the dream of youth is noble and beautiful, and "dreams a rest, if not more deep, more grateful" than the "marble sleep" of death. I like how Arnold brings the word "marble" back into the poem after he so beautifully used the word "dismarble" to describe how nothing can disturb the calm face of the dead. As the last two lines perfectly note, calm is the only thing we end up with at our end, though it isn't what our youth desires.
What I like most about this poem is how knowingly Arnold accepts that death is our final destination, and he describes its calm as beautiful, clear, and deep. And despite that knowledge, despite the certainty of it, the hot blooded dream of youth is more gratifying and satisfying to us, even though, maybe because, we know it is fleeting.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
The Lonely Death - Adelaide Crapsey
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In waters of ice; myself
Will shiver, and shrive myself,
Alone in the dawn, and anoint
Forehead and feet and hands;
I will shutter the windows from light,
I will place in their sockets the four
Tall candles and set them a-flame
In the grey of the dawn; and myself
Will lay myself straight in my bed,
And draw the sheet under my chin.
What does it mean to be really, truly alone? Adelaide Crapsey gives us an account of a lonely death, in which the narrator readies herself for death, from bathing, to confession, to preparation of the funeral bed, before finally laying down to die. It's a bleak picture, but it is in no way pitiful, as I expected it to be. Rather, I'm overwhelmed by the narrator's tremendous force of will. Someone so alone could just lay down and die unwashed, without any sort of dignity, and no one would know. That's not for this narrator, though.
This narrator is determined to face death head on, unbending, even in solitude. They will rise, they will bathe. Will is repeated so many times that's it's certainly no accident that the force of will was impressed upon me. The repetition of the word "myself" contributes to this as well, best exemplified in the line "myself will lay myself straight in my bed." No one else but "myself" will do it. Myself is the actor and myself is the object of action. It's a solitary figure of solitary strength.
There is dignity in every line of this poem, a constant railing against the knowledge that death finds us all alone. Yes, death will take me, but on my terms, this poem seems to say. Loneliness in this poem also means independence. No one is there to take care of the narrator but no one is needed, because the strength of self is sufficient to conquer death, if only for a moment. Even though there is no one to discover the passing and none to mourn, the effort is everything.
As a personal aside, I apologize, readers, for being dormant so long. I've had a number of changes in my role at work which require much more of my time than before. I work so much that it's difficult for me to find the time or mental effort to devote to writing about poetry. Given though, how good this return to writing has made me feel, I will strive to make the time as best I can, and I hope you continue, reader, to make the time for poetry and art in your daily life.
In waters of ice; myself
Will shiver, and shrive myself,
Alone in the dawn, and anoint
Forehead and feet and hands;
I will shutter the windows from light,
I will place in their sockets the four
Tall candles and set them a-flame
In the grey of the dawn; and myself
Will lay myself straight in my bed,
And draw the sheet under my chin.
What does it mean to be really, truly alone? Adelaide Crapsey gives us an account of a lonely death, in which the narrator readies herself for death, from bathing, to confession, to preparation of the funeral bed, before finally laying down to die. It's a bleak picture, but it is in no way pitiful, as I expected it to be. Rather, I'm overwhelmed by the narrator's tremendous force of will. Someone so alone could just lay down and die unwashed, without any sort of dignity, and no one would know. That's not for this narrator, though.
This narrator is determined to face death head on, unbending, even in solitude. They will rise, they will bathe. Will is repeated so many times that's it's certainly no accident that the force of will was impressed upon me. The repetition of the word "myself" contributes to this as well, best exemplified in the line "myself will lay myself straight in my bed." No one else but "myself" will do it. Myself is the actor and myself is the object of action. It's a solitary figure of solitary strength.
There is dignity in every line of this poem, a constant railing against the knowledge that death finds us all alone. Yes, death will take me, but on my terms, this poem seems to say. Loneliness in this poem also means independence. No one is there to take care of the narrator but no one is needed, because the strength of self is sufficient to conquer death, if only for a moment. Even though there is no one to discover the passing and none to mourn, the effort is everything.
As a personal aside, I apologize, readers, for being dormant so long. I've had a number of changes in my role at work which require much more of my time than before. I work so much that it's difficult for me to find the time or mental effort to devote to writing about poetry. Given though, how good this return to writing has made me feel, I will strive to make the time as best I can, and I hope you continue, reader, to make the time for poetry and art in your daily life.
Monday, September 7, 2015
September (from 'The Months') - Linda Pastan
Their summer romance
over, the lovers
still cling
to each other
the way the green
leaves cling
to their trees
in the strange heat
of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.
I've taken this poem directly from my colleague in poetry blogging, and her excellent blog to which I highly recommend subscribing. I thank her for showing me this wonderful poem and apologize for so blatantly copying her idea in posting it!
Summer itself in this poem is like a summer lover. There's a "strange heat" and a reluctance to separate. The poem feels especially appropriate today, a hot September day. It was nearly 95 F today (35 F for my non-American friends) and still, the leaves are mostly full and green, as if no one has told them summer is coming to a close soon.
My favorite line is the hope you can feel in the last stanza. The leaves hold on "as if this time there will be no autumn" and they will not have to part. Anyone who has ever had a summer romance, or any other sort of relationship limited by external time factors will feel those lines deeply. That desperate cling, knowing you must separate, is sweet and painful all at the same time. What a marvelous comparison.
over, the lovers
still cling
to each other
the way the green
leaves cling
to their trees
in the strange heat
of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.
I've taken this poem directly from my colleague in poetry blogging, and her excellent blog to which I highly recommend subscribing. I thank her for showing me this wonderful poem and apologize for so blatantly copying her idea in posting it!
Summer itself in this poem is like a summer lover. There's a "strange heat" and a reluctance to separate. The poem feels especially appropriate today, a hot September day. It was nearly 95 F today (35 F for my non-American friends) and still, the leaves are mostly full and green, as if no one has told them summer is coming to a close soon.
My favorite line is the hope you can feel in the last stanza. The leaves hold on "as if this time there will be no autumn" and they will not have to part. Anyone who has ever had a summer romance, or any other sort of relationship limited by external time factors will feel those lines deeply. That desperate cling, knowing you must separate, is sweet and painful all at the same time. What a marvelous comparison.
Monday, August 31, 2015
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud - William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in a sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; by they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be bay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Imagination, memory, day-dream, and solitary walks. Wordsworth hits at the heart of poetry here. It is the joyful impulse of creation, of motion and beauty so wonderful that it never really goes away. Wordsworth's lonely wandering was hardly sad, for what cloud (he wandered "as a cloud" after all) is sad? Clouds are lofty, majestic, changing constantly. He blew onto this marvelous scene of daffodils ringing the coastline, dancing in the wind, outdoing even the sea itself for motion and joy. He couldn't help but be jovial in such company as that.
The real gift though, is the memory of it. The lovely image that comes to him in his daydreams, that perfect remembrance, more perfect than any reality. It is the "inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." That must be the single best way to describe a daydream, the inward eye which is the bliss of solitude. Upon reading the poem, I leaned back in my chair, and let my mind wander to moments and images which now on recollection feel as magical to me as Wordsworth's daffodils. The poem is at once personal, descriptive, and immediately applicable to anyone. Who among us doesn't take joy in their sweetest remembered daydreams? Those beautiful places our minds go are the reason one who is alone needn't be lonely.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in a sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; by they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be bay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Imagination, memory, day-dream, and solitary walks. Wordsworth hits at the heart of poetry here. It is the joyful impulse of creation, of motion and beauty so wonderful that it never really goes away. Wordsworth's lonely wandering was hardly sad, for what cloud (he wandered "as a cloud" after all) is sad? Clouds are lofty, majestic, changing constantly. He blew onto this marvelous scene of daffodils ringing the coastline, dancing in the wind, outdoing even the sea itself for motion and joy. He couldn't help but be jovial in such company as that.
The real gift though, is the memory of it. The lovely image that comes to him in his daydreams, that perfect remembrance, more perfect than any reality. It is the "inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." That must be the single best way to describe a daydream, the inward eye which is the bliss of solitude. Upon reading the poem, I leaned back in my chair, and let my mind wander to moments and images which now on recollection feel as magical to me as Wordsworth's daffodils. The poem is at once personal, descriptive, and immediately applicable to anyone. Who among us doesn't take joy in their sweetest remembered daydreams? Those beautiful places our minds go are the reason one who is alone needn't be lonely.
Monday, August 24, 2015
The Season of Phantasmal Peace - Derek Walcott
Then all the nations of birds lifted together
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill-
the net rising soundless at night, the birds' cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.
And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven's cawing,
the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.
What a magnificent thing this poem is. The birds, ever lifting higher, get to experience a season of phantasmal peace and light that is undiminished by the passing of shadows. This poem puts me in mind of those perfect moments, when the light is just so, and you feel as though you could inhabit that moment forever. As Walcott says, "it was the light / that you will see at evening on the side of a hill / in yellow October." I don't think I've ever heard a more concise or evocative way to describe a month as "yellow October" which to me, brings to mind the essential nature of autumn.
Just imagining how "the birds lifted together / the huge net of the shadows of this earth" is enthralling. I have to imagine all the shadows disappearing for one brief moment, and must try to imagine, though I cannot fully, a moment with light, "phantasmal light that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever." The light is the peace of nature, highlighted by its constant connection to the birds in this poem. We, the people, are the ones who share "dark holes in windows and in houses."
There's a great sense of serenity about this poem, even though the moment it describes is incredibly brief. It's a reminder that there is beauty in the world, though we may have to rethink where we find it and why. It's inevitable that time moves on, but in these moments of "phantasmal light" and peace, we need to try to live on that fine line. As Walcott puts it so sublimely, it is the "pause between dusk and darkness." The briefest instant: may it last forever.
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill-
the net rising soundless at night, the birds' cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.
And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven's cawing,
the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.
What a magnificent thing this poem is. The birds, ever lifting higher, get to experience a season of phantasmal peace and light that is undiminished by the passing of shadows. This poem puts me in mind of those perfect moments, when the light is just so, and you feel as though you could inhabit that moment forever. As Walcott says, "it was the light / that you will see at evening on the side of a hill / in yellow October." I don't think I've ever heard a more concise or evocative way to describe a month as "yellow October" which to me, brings to mind the essential nature of autumn.
Just imagining how "the birds lifted together / the huge net of the shadows of this earth" is enthralling. I have to imagine all the shadows disappearing for one brief moment, and must try to imagine, though I cannot fully, a moment with light, "phantasmal light that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever." The light is the peace of nature, highlighted by its constant connection to the birds in this poem. We, the people, are the ones who share "dark holes in windows and in houses."
There's a great sense of serenity about this poem, even though the moment it describes is incredibly brief. It's a reminder that there is beauty in the world, though we may have to rethink where we find it and why. It's inevitable that time moves on, but in these moments of "phantasmal light" and peace, we need to try to live on that fine line. As Walcott puts it so sublimely, it is the "pause between dusk and darkness." The briefest instant: may it last forever.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Nightfall - Linda Dyer
The wood begins to gather darkness,
stuffing it in holes
and spreading it in hollows,
tucking it among the tree roots,
piling it against the sapling's trunk.
At first the upper branches stay aloof
preferring not to watch
the hoarding going on below,
but darkness stacks on darkness
stacks on darkness, up and up,
until the glutton woodland
vanishes from sight,
itself consumed in blackest night.
I don't think I've ever heard a sunset described in quite as interesting a way as this before. Rather than darkness being a result of the passing of the light, it is an active element, building up and up, swallowing the trees and absorbing them into the night. It's a ground up, one layer of abstraction sort of sunset description, and I can picture it perfectly. A treeline, becoming dark from the group up, until the last vestiges of light on the highest branches are swallowed too by the vertical growing darkness.
I found this enchanting poem in a volume of poetry I received as a gift, The Blueline Anthology. The poems in that collection are all inspired by, in some way, the Adirondack region. All through my life, my family would vacation for a week or two in Lake George in the Adirondacks, so the region holds a very special place in my heart. I cannot read something like this without imagining the pristine blue waters glinting as the sun comes down over the lake. Now, thanks to this poem, I have another image to add to my recollection: the darkness moving its way up the tree, as "darkness stacks on darkness stacks on darkness."
stuffing it in holes
and spreading it in hollows,
tucking it among the tree roots,
piling it against the sapling's trunk.
At first the upper branches stay aloof
preferring not to watch
the hoarding going on below,
but darkness stacks on darkness
stacks on darkness, up and up,
until the glutton woodland
vanishes from sight,
itself consumed in blackest night.
I don't think I've ever heard a sunset described in quite as interesting a way as this before. Rather than darkness being a result of the passing of the light, it is an active element, building up and up, swallowing the trees and absorbing them into the night. It's a ground up, one layer of abstraction sort of sunset description, and I can picture it perfectly. A treeline, becoming dark from the group up, until the last vestiges of light on the highest branches are swallowed too by the vertical growing darkness.
I found this enchanting poem in a volume of poetry I received as a gift, The Blueline Anthology. The poems in that collection are all inspired by, in some way, the Adirondack region. All through my life, my family would vacation for a week or two in Lake George in the Adirondacks, so the region holds a very special place in my heart. I cannot read something like this without imagining the pristine blue waters glinting as the sun comes down over the lake. Now, thanks to this poem, I have another image to add to my recollection: the darkness moving its way up the tree, as "darkness stacks on darkness stacks on darkness."
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
["Hope" is the thing with feathers] - Emily Dickinson
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Hope can never be wiped out, and no matter how extreme the circumstance, it "sings the tune without the words - and never stops at all." It is the endless optimism that cannot be knocked down by even the fiercest Gale. Best of all, it never asks a thing of you, just giving tirelessly. That is the nature of Hope, that tiny bird inside your soul. I think I would do well to memorize this one.
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Hope can never be wiped out, and no matter how extreme the circumstance, it "sings the tune without the words - and never stops at all." It is the endless optimism that cannot be knocked down by even the fiercest Gale. Best of all, it never asks a thing of you, just giving tirelessly. That is the nature of Hope, that tiny bird inside your soul. I think I would do well to memorize this one.
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