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| | “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”Page 1 of 8 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8) | “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
...............................................................................................The Talmud
What/who have been the poems, the poets that influenced you to write, keep writing, or just given you great pleasure in your life? | |
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TiMwM
| | Joined: 10/3/2006
Msg: 2 | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/17/2006 11:58:21 AM | From childhood-from a poem in school:
"Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass,
To wander as we wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreath pass,
Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while."
From "The Sick Stockrider," Adam Lindsay Gordon, Australia. | |
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| of all these good friends
Posted: 12/17/2006 2:52:09 PM | Tim, I've felt that, strongly, since I've been lurking here. Checked out a bunch of poetry sites, and this ends up being top or near top.
Other than friends, this is one I've loved for long:
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
-- Dylan Thomas
And, of course, much else of Thomas's, including, and especially, Fern Hill, which was perhaps the first poem I fell into and drowned in. | |
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| brolga ~~
Posted: 12/17/2006 2:59:53 PM | | I don't recall anything that lovely from my early childhood schooling. As a smoker, rider, former horse owner, and desert born girl: grand imagery -- bites the bone. . . | |
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| Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Posted: 12/17/2006 6:49:58 PM | Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
~~ LeRoi Jones
He prefers to be called Amiri Baraka now, but I have never loved him as well as Baraka, as I did as LeRoi Jones. . . . | |
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| Isn't poetry everywhere?
Posted: 12/18/2006 7:53:10 PM | During my one semester in teachers' training, I tried to tell my class that poetry was everywhere. Their faces told me they believed I lied. I didn't. To wit:
Ernest Daltroff be praised for this 1919 utterly midnight masterpiece aphrodisiac of ancient bone-dry leather and golden blond, cured tobacco with perfectly orchestrated notes of carnation, linden, iris, vetiver, ylang-ylang and lime tree leaf. At its core-of-the-earth base is a weighty collection of vanilla amber, cedar, patchouli and musk. Tabac Blond is one of the very few parfums of its kind that a woman with full, pouty, scarlet lips and a racing pulse would wear. Its potent, swarthy, sinfully dark and earthy qualities are enough to send a nun to the dark side ... and beyond. And that is its triumph.
And who could resist? Must run off now to eBay and get sum. . . . | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/19/2006 8:04:42 PM | The Waking
~~Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go. | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/19/2006 9:21:20 PM | I am really inspired by Tennyson's In Memorian. It is extensive, but refelcts on so many troubles, wants and regrets of life. Here is a link if anyone wants to read it all:
http://www.online-literature.com/tennyson/718/
One of my favorites is CXXIV:
A warmth within the breast would melt
The freezing reason's colder part,
And like a man in wrath the heart
Stood up and answer'd `I have felt.'
No, like a child in doubt and fear:
But that blind clamour made me wise;
Then was I as a child that cries,
But, crying, knows his father near;
And what I am beheld again
What is, and no man understands;
And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro' nature, moulding men
I also absolutely love Ulyses by Tennyson. My favorite lines are:
...Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/20/2006 3:39:10 PM | mandielove ~~
I'd forgotten. . . Those are lovely. And thanks for the link!
Amazing, really, how one comes to poetry, isn't it? My second son asked me when he was small what it was I "did"? What I said was something on the order of "telling the true truth, in as compact and blazing a way as possible" ~~ | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/20/2006 8:35:58 PM | An old dear friend got me going with Yeats, his voice sounds like God himself is speaking...
The Host Of The Air
Yeats
O’DRISCOLL drove with a song,
The wild duck and the drake,
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
what I learned reading Yeats:
~Song Of Self~
To follow is an improbable task
To yield to one and live unencumbered
He matters most but to none he is left
He too dreams of her fair hair
Playing merriment with men
Wise beyond years and solid in formation
As the song rings out in his ears
He knows of its solace and its torment
Both sides deprived of fortitude
To ponder such on earth is to seize glory
To reach up and take it from heaven
Dreaming, twirling her fair hair in his fingers
He reaches for her with strong arms
His back strong, his shoulders ripe
To take her to her dream he carries her
A place only known by heaven
But as he lifted his head up in the distance
He heard her song, etched permanently in his ears
Singing out love, Singing out hate, Singing for herself
© 2006 T. Scott | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/20/2006 9:16:58 PM |
Singing out love, Singing out hate, Singing for herself This is powerful. . . . Thank you for bringing it here.
This is my favorite Yeats, has been since I was a small thang. . . .
Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come. | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/22/2006 4:10:46 PM | MY LITTLE ONE
My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,
I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown to a man
and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.
~~Tennessee Williams | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 8:16:39 AM |
Not an optimist in the lot, for one. . . .
‘Scuse me? Who then wrote this poem, attributed to Blake:
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land. | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 9:22:02 AM |
Ah! I stand corrected, defeated, and bowed. (And, blushing, slinks off into the corner dark. . .)
Spoken like a.... woman! And your penance shall be to learn the glorious melody to which this was set and to sing it to the next person you come into contact with. (Yes, I’ve ended the sentence with a preposition, to comfort you for your misspelling of logic.) | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 11:28:09 AM | to sing it to the next person you come into contact with.
Alas! Not possible. (Not words I utter easily. . . ) I have an incredibly bum ear -- still can't carry the melody of The Internationale (I drop and rise in the wrong places). And have no desire to torture anyone with my singing. I have, however, downloaded an mp3 version, and will work on "getting" enough of it that I can hum bits and pieces without distressing my companion, whomsoever, too much. . . .
. . .I’ve ended the sentence with a preposition. . . With a preposition? That is something up with which we will not put!
With honors, of course, to Churchill. . . . (attribution is, however, spotty) | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 12:04:01 PM | My muse is life
It shows me everyday things that arranges me somehow
I find the simplest lines in the commonality of it
I find the strangest things come from normal
I see the images becoming words when they rattle senselessly in me
I let the everyday things become something written
If we can't see through the window we never learn to write
If we can't write we never learn to express
without expression we are stone.
My muse is life | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 6:38:07 PM | The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
~~ William Butler Yeats | |
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| “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/24/2006 12:48:04 AM | from "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
We lived long together
a life filled,
if you will,
with flowers. So that
I was cheered
when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
that we both loved,
even to this poor
colorless thing-
I saw it
when I was a child
little prized among the living
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
What do I remember
that was shaped
as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
with tears.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible.
~~ William Carlos Williams | |
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