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Post by Twoddle on Aug 19, 2008 22:34:38 GMT
It wouldn't be fair to offer a critique here, Twod. Poetry is a very personal thing, and if TfS likes it, that's fine by me, even though it's not to my taste. Understood.
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Post by Barry on Aug 20, 2008 22:30:58 GMT
I can't identify one favourite, but here's one in the top ten.
GLORY be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour 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; And áll trádes, 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: Pied Beauty)
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Post by Twoddle on Aug 20, 2008 22:38:57 GMT
I can't identify one favourite, but here's one in the top ten. GLORY be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour 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; And áll trádes, 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: Pied Beauty) I'd not seen that before. It's lovely (but a shame about the God stuff).
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Post by Alan Palmer on Aug 20, 2008 23:00:36 GMT
Well, he was a Jesuit priest, so he can be forgiven, in my eyes. Here's some more of his stuff: The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
Caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
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Post by Pete on Aug 20, 2008 23:25:03 GMT
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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Post by Pete on Aug 20, 2008 23:25:48 GMT
Not only one of the best poems ever but also a stunning episode of The Simpsons!
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Post by Verbivore on Aug 20, 2008 23:27:52 GMT
[...] And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. [...] Oooh! The vision that brought to my (twisted) mind is hardly what GMH meant, I'm sure. ;D
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Post by Barry on Aug 21, 2008 11:19:43 GMT
I wouldn't be too sure with Fr. Hopkins. Have you read The Bugler's first Communion? Here's the fourth stanza:
There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ’s darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless; Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine.
Thanks for The Windhover, Alan - another favourite. Hopkins really needs to be read aloud for best effect - all that alliteration and assonance don't really work in your head. And The Windhover absolutely demonstrates his ability to change speed in a poem (it accelerates from 'then off, off forth on a swing' and gradually slows to a halt through the last three lines).
Yes, there's a lot of God in Hopkins's poetry, but, as Alan says, he was a Jesuit priest. He taught at Stoneyhurst College, which is near to where I was brought up. It's a beautiful place - very isolated, up in the hills, surrounded by rugged countryside. One can imagine him walking out and being made ecstatic by the beauty of all that was around him.
What I love about Hopkins is his modesty. He corresponded quite a bit with the then Poet Laureate, Robert Bridges. Bridges's poetry is good, but it isn't a patch on that of Hopkins. And there's Hopkins asking Bridges if he thinks his (Hopkins's) poetry is publishable. Sheesh.
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Post by Barry on Aug 21, 2008 12:01:08 GMT
A liitle Tennyson, perhaps?
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.
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Post by Barry on Aug 21, 2008 12:12:53 GMT
And, maybe, some Whitman.
Darest thou now, O Soul, Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region, Where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to follow?
No map, there, nor guide, Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.
I know it not, O Soul; Nor dost thou—all is a blank before us; All waits, undream’d of, in that region—that inaccessible land.
Till, when the ties loosen, All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, bound us.
Then we burst forth—we float, In Time and Space, O Soul—prepared for them; Equal, equipt at last—(O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.
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Post by Barry on Aug 21, 2008 12:17:02 GMT
I love this one for its 'turn'. After something that's deeply personal (albeit slightly amusing), it finishes with a splendidly prosaic last stanza.
Life Story Tennessee Williams
After you've been to bed together for the first time, without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance, the other party very often says to you, Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you, what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do
sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you lying together in completely relaxed positions like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.
You tell them your story, or as much of your story as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, until the oh is just an audible breath, and then of course
there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee and gaze at himself with mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story, they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along,
and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming no more than an audible sigh, as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left, draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion and stops breathing forever. Then?
Well, one of you falls asleep and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth, and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.
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Post by Alan Palmer on Aug 21, 2008 13:09:22 GMT
Barry,
I was introduced to Hopkins's poetry at school, when I was about 16. For a good while I was convinced that he was the greatest ever poet. His coruscating verbal pyrotechnics simply awed me.
I still feel he was one of the great poets, though my admiration has been moderated slightly by the realisation that he sometimes wilfully used complicated constructions which were flashy and difficult to understand without adding greatly to our understanding of the poem.
The Windhover, though, is sublime. We have not seen his like, before or since.
P.S. Does/did anybody else write in sprung rhythm?
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Post by Pete on Aug 25, 2008 21:42:59 GMT
This is one of the first poems I remember, probably because it's one my father was forced to learn by heart at school. He used to quote it to me as a baby. I think it's wonderful for its rhythm, which really does feel like a gallop.
How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix Robert Browning (1812–89) I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I gallop’d, Dirck gallop’d, we gallop’d all three; “Good speed !” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; “Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we gallop’d abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turn’d in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shorten’d each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chain’d slacker the bit, Nor gallop’d less steadily Roland a whit. ’T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawn’d clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, ’t was morning as plain as could be; And from Mechelm church-steeple we heard the half chime, So, Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!” At Aershot, up leap’d of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To state thro’ the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other prick’d out on his track; And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groan’d; and cried Joris “Stay spur! Your Roos gallop’d bravely, the fault’s not in her, We ’ll remember at Aix”—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretch’d neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shudder’d and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laugh’d a pitiless laugh, ’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight! “How they ’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan Roll’d neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, lean’d, patted his ear, Call’d my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapp’d my hands, laugh’d and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland gallop’d and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I pour’d down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
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Post by Twoddle on Aug 26, 2008 7:43:30 GMT
One of my favourites, too, Pete, although the final two lines have a slight touch of McGonagall to them.
Talking of poetic licence (which we were doing on another thread), the distance by road from Ghent to Aix (Aachen) is about 120 miles. Damned fine horses, those! No wonder two of them dropped dead en route.
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Post by Pete on Aug 26, 2008 8:41:49 GMT
Do you get the feeling that he was struggling for an ending?
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