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Post by spiderwort on Nov 22, 2023 21:01:32 GMT
An Autumn Sunset by Edith Wharton
I Leaguered in fire The wild black promontories of the coast extend Their savage silhouettes; The sun in universal carnage sets, And, halting higher, The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats, Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned, That, balked, yet stands at bay. Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline, A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray, And in her hand swings high o’erhead, Above the waster of war, The silver torch-light of the evening star Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.
II Lagooned in gold, Seem not those jetty promontories rather The outposts of some ancient land forlorn, Uncomforted of morn, Where old oblivions gather, The melancholy unconsoling fold Of all things that go utterly to death And mix no more, no more With life’s perpetually awakening breath? Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore, Over such sailless seas, To walk with hope’s slain importunities In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not All things be there forgot, Save the sea’s golden barrier and the black Close-crouching promontories? Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories, Shall I not wander there, a shadow’s shade, A spectre self-destroyed, So purged of all remembrance and sucked back Into the primal void, That should we on the shore phantasmal meet I should not know the coming of your feet?
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 25, 2023 16:58:30 GMT
Two short poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay
‘Thursday’.
And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday— So much is true.
And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what Is that to me?
‘First Fig’.
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light.
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Post by mikef6 on Nov 27, 2023 15:22:22 GMT
The Great American Poem
If this were a novel, it would begin with a character, a man alone on a southbound train or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.
And as the pages turned, you would be told that it was morning or the dead of night, and I, the narrator, would describe for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse
and what the man was wearing on the train right down to his red tartan scarf, and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head, as well as the cows sliding past his window.
Eventually—one can only read so fast— you would learn either that the train was bearing the man back to the place of his birth or that he was headed into the vast unknown,
and you might just tolerate all of this as you waited patiently for shots to ring out in a ravine where the man was hiding or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.
But this is a poem, not a novel, and the only characters here are you and I, alone in an imaginary room which will disappear after a few more lines,
leaving us no time to point guns at one another or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace. I ask you: who needs the man on the train and who cares what his black valise contains?
We have something better than all this turbulence lurching toward some ruinous conclusion. I mean the sound that we will hear as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.
I once heard someone compare it to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat or, more faintly, just the wind over that field stirring things that we will never see.
Billy Collins, the US Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003 (does anybody ever know who the current US Poet Laureate is?)
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Post by Nalkarj on Nov 29, 2023 22:13:07 GMT
Today is my late grandfather’s birthday. As I’ve written before here, I miss him dearly—we were pals as well as grandfather and grandson. (And, on topic for this movie-related board, he introduced me to “old movies,” film criticism, etc.) I owe a lot to him. Anyway, he was often reading the Transcendentalists—and, when I was a child, he brought me to Walt Whitman’s childhood home (we lived on Long Island). So this one’s for him.
On the Beach at Night by Walt Whitman
On the beach at night, Stands a child with her father, Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up through the darkness, While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky, Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east, Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter, And night at hand, only a very little above, Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father, Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all, Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child, Weep not, my darling, With these kisses let me remove your tears, The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious, They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition, Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge, They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again, The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure, The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter? Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is, (With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper, I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,) Something there is more immortal even than the stars, (Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,) Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter Longer than sun or any revolving satellite, Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
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Post by theravenking on Dec 1, 2023 13:41:50 GMT
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain by Conrad Aiken
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls Down golden-windowed walls. We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, We do not remember the red roots whence we rose, But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while We shall lie down again.
The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, We bear him away, gaze after his listless body; But whether he lives or dies we do not know.
One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. He sings of a house he lived in long ago. It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in; The house you lived in, the house that all of us know. And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, And throwing him pennies, we bear away A mournful echo of other times and places, And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.
Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; In broken slow cascades. The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly; Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . .
And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, Vaguely and incoherently, some dream Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.
We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; We close our eyes to music in bright cafes. We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.
And, growing tired, we turn aside at last, Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime
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sam
Nick Nack
Posts: 235
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Post by sam on Dec 1, 2023 16:34:16 GMT
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time BY ROBERT HERRICK
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
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Post by mikef6 on Dec 3, 2023 6:11:18 GMT
Two brief poems by my Miss Emily – Dickinson, that is – who could wrap a world of wisdom into a very few lines.
THE BUSTLE IN A HOUSE
The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon Earth –
The Sweeping up the Heart And putting Love away We shall not want to use again Until Eternity –
I’M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?
I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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sam
Nick Nack
Posts: 235
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Post by sam on Dec 5, 2023 19:23:35 GMT
To His Coy Mistress BY ANDREW MARVELL
Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day. Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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Post by theravenking on Dec 6, 2023 23:36:24 GMT
Moscow Carol by Joseph Brodsky
In such an inexplicable blue, Upon the stonework to embark, The little ship of glowing hue Appears in Alexander Park. The little lamp, a yellow rose, Arising -- ready to retreat -- Above the people it adores; Near strangers' feet. In such an inexplicable blue The drunkards' hive, the loonies' team. A tourist takes a snapshot to Have left the town and keep no dream. On the Ordynka street you find A taxicab with fevered gnomes, And dead ancestors stand behind And lean on domes. A poet strolls across the town In such an inexplicable blue. A doorman watches him looking down And down the street and catches the flu. An old and handsome cavalier Moves down a lane not worth a view, And wedding-party guests appear In such an inexplicable blue. Behind the river, in the haar, As a collection of the blues -- The yellow walls reflecting far The hopeless accent of the Jews. You move to Sunday, to despair (From love), to the New Year, and there Appears a girl you cannot woo -- Never explaining why she's blue. Then in the night the town is lost; A train is clad in silver plush. The pallid puff, the draught of frost Will sheathe your face until you blush. The honeycomb of windows fits The smell of halva and of zest, While Christmas Eve is carrying its Mince pies abreast. Watch your New Year come in a blue Seawave across the town terrain In such an inexplicable blue, As if your life can start again, As if there can be bread and light -- A lucky day -- and something's left, As if your life can sway aright, Once swayed aleft.
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 8, 2023 14:35:58 GMT
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun— by William Shakespeare
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art thou, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great, Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave!
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sam
Nick Nack
Posts: 235
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Post by sam on Dec 16, 2023 9:11:31 GMT
Abendlied Fenton Johnson
I When the soul goes wand'ring in the night On a moonbeam from the shrouded sky, And the body rests beneath the light Of the stars that in the morning die, When dewdrop falls 'pon the pressed eyelid, Sweet is every joy the nightime knows.; And the worries of the day are hid Where firefly mysteriously glows.
II When the soul goes wand'ring in the night Day descends into the silent stream; From the throne of God the pale moonlight Shines above as does a joyous gleam; Spirits of departed hover near Bringing peace and calm to aching heart; Spirits of departed hover near, Singing low a song of ghostly art.
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Post by theravenking on Dec 16, 2023 14:17:34 GMT
Little Tree by e.e. cummings
little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight just as your mother would, only don't be afraid look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, put up your little arms and i'll give them all to you to hold every finger shall have its ring and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy…
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 16, 2023 16:33:14 GMT
The Owlby Edward Thomas Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. N.B. I first learned of this poem from a short essay by one of my favorite contemporary poets, A.E. Stallings, whose insights are (as ever) fresh and on-target. I highly recommend that essay alongside this poem, not only for Stallings’s analysis but also for her comments on Christmas carols (she likes “the minor keys and the modal tunes,” which suggest, as Thomas’s poem does, “the juxtapositions of the season—pagan and Christian, birth and winter, darkness and starlight, hope and doubt”).
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Post by theravenking on Dec 19, 2023 14:52:27 GMT
Before the ice is in the pools by Emily Dickinson
Before the ice is in the pools— Before the skaters go, Or any check at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow—
Before the fields have finished, Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder Will arrive to me!
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Post by Nalkarj on Dec 19, 2023 23:28:41 GMT
Tinsel, Frankincense, and Fir by Dana Gioia
Hanging old ornaments on a fresh cut tree, I take each red glass bulb and tinfoil seraph And blow away the dust. Anyone else Would throw them out. They are so scratched and shabby.
My mother had so little joy to share She kept it in a box to hide away. But on the darkest winter nights—voilà— She opened it resplendently to shine.
How carefully she hung each thread of tinsel, Or touched each dime-store bauble with delight. Blessed by the frankincense of fragrant fir, Nothing was too little to be loved.
Why do the dead insist on bringing gifts We can’t reciprocate? We wrap her hopes Around the tree crowned with a fragile star. No holiday is holy without ghosts.
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