tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48951809604336767802024-02-07T04:25:19.182+00:00WellspringsTimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-2583086505124565962020-04-02T20:15:00.000+01:002020-04-02T20:24:55.739+01:00Coronavirus Diary 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The Control Myth & Coronavirus</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">We like to be in control of our lives, and, of course,
we learn soon enough that while there is a lot we can control, there is also
much that lies beyond our power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Events
like personal illness and that of our friends and family; the chance occurrence
of natural disasters; the incidence of accidents on road, rail, water, and air;
and much else are examples of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
a novel virus called SARS-CoV-2 that causes the disease</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> COVID-19 seems to spell the end to all we hold dear like our
valued freedom to go about our daily business unhindered.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Civilisation of all varieties, especially
that of the rich Northern hemisphere, seems to be grinding to a halt, stymied
by a microscopic nucleic acid, that to my mind looks like a beautifully
coloured sphere with projecting spikes rather like a maritime mine from World
War II.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Incredibly it latches its spikes
into host human cells, gains access and multiplies almost totally unhindered in
the bodies of the immuno-compromised. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Those are the unlucky ones with underlying
diseases.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Others of the population vary
from presenting with serious flu-like symptoms to being totally asymptomatic. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No wonder, then, that when modern computers
and laptops came on the scene hackers were able to develop sequences of code aptly
named viruses that could corrupt many programs developed by the smartest
brains.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And my goodness, I’d imagine
that as a so-called civilized people we have spent more on defending our
technologies from viruses than on defending our own human bodies from microbe
attacks.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">After all, greed is practically
the sole consideration of unethical capitalism.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I often wonder whether ethical capitalism
exists at all?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The mystics of all religious and spiritual traditions
have been gently reminding humankind</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">for
millennia now to “wake up,” “become aware” and stop living in the delusional
world of limitless progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
message has been smothered by the unruly din of accelerating progress-driven
more by financial gain than the good of society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, there are some bright lights in
the billionaire entrepreneurial world like Bill Gates who these days spends
much of his time and money in philanthropic pursuits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is among the few, and, of course, it was
he, who in a famous TED talk in 2015 warned the Western World that we had more
to fear from a global viral pandemic than from any nuclear war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the place of weapons obliterating us from
the outside, we would instead, especially the weakest amongst us, be slowly and
painfully fragmented from the inside by a virus that attacks our very own bodies
at a cellular level.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">In short, the Western capitalist system has been
delivered a severe body blow, knocked to the canvas by an invisible
invader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a short while at least it
will require hospitalization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will no
doubt recover, but at the cost of thousands, if not millions, of lives. But the
question remains as to whether it will get up and enter the fighting ring of
human civilization and culture as a wiser and less greedy exploiter of the
earth’s resources and, indeed, of the millions of poor souls in the less
fortunate Southern hemisphere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can
but hope that lessons will have been learned.</span> <i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sic transit Gloria mundi.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“Thus, the glory of the world passes away”)</span></span></div>
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-71527716586462004932016-10-18T20:37:00.000+01:002016-10-18T22:52:28.733+01:00Poems I Journey With 28<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qiB8AMn8nAVFI_444ddy7KOu86sU8hx1MaG7rEP0qK6aiZ7IxmD-4OX4OLOW7SrhPKImGVbHkC580E350zbcJeAsu8pf6wrvCVnPC2fJ1r2qlWjmhiZN4X0S5YaA2Y3u268W4ypW_KQ/s1600/MI+William+Butler+Yeats+Wikipedia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qiB8AMn8nAVFI_444ddy7KOu86sU8hx1MaG7rEP0qK6aiZ7IxmD-4OX4OLOW7SrhPKImGVbHkC580E350zbcJeAsu8pf6wrvCVnPC2fJ1r2qlWjmhiZN4X0S5YaA2Y3u268W4ypW_KQ/s400/MI+William+Butler+Yeats+Wikipedia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">T.S. Eliot said in “Burnt
Norton,” the first poem in the sequence of poems called “Four Quartets,” that
“human kind cannot bear very much reality.” Reality here, I contend, can be
interpreted as all that wears us down as human beings as we try to negotiate
our way through life, as we try to cope with its many highs and lows and make
some meaning of our own journey through it. Again, I repeat this great poet’s
words merely to highlight our need for <i>some
form of escapism</i> from time to time: a good holiday, an inspiring read,
celebrations of all kinds, concerts, drama, plays, music recitals, and all the
cultural conventions and traditions that attempt to help human kind cope with
the “jagged edges of existence” or “reality” as T.S. Eliot puts it in the above
quoted poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Here, I’d like to return to two
poems from the pen of our great national Nobel Laureate for Literature, W.B.
Yeats and reproduce here for the readers of these musings two lovely refreshing
poems that quite soothe my drooping spirits in these stressful days after a
traffic accident.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Poem 1: The Lake Isle of
Innisfree (1888):<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lake Isle of
Innisfree<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I will
arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br />
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br />
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br />
And live alone in the bee loud glade.<br />
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And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br />
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br />
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br />
And evening full of the linnet's wings.<br />
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I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br />
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br />
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br />
I hear it in the deep heart's core.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Poem 2: The Song of Wandering Aengus<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Song of Wandering Aengus<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I went out to the hazel wood,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Because a fire was in my head,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And cut and peeled a hazel wand,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And hooked a berry to a thread;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And when white moths were on the wing,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And moth-like stars were flickering out,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I dropped the berry in a stream<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And caught a little silver trout.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I had laid it on the floor<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I went to blow the fire a-flame,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But something rustled on the floor,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And someone called me by my name:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It had become a glimmering girl<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With apple blossom in her hair<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Who called me by my name and ran<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And faded through the brightening air.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Though I am old with wandering<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Through hollow lands and hilly lands,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I will find out where she has gone,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And kiss her lips and take her hands;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And walk among long dappled grass,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And pluck till time and times are done,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The silver apples of the moon,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The golden apples of the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Source: The Wind
Among the Reeds (1899)<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Briefest of Commentaries<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span></u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80Z5wFEbDbYSOSpE9IfE8S_GHYT_baWDtvmaH5DxpH40GgQHML8ndC6r7fiuMfU_b5FZ_vrBBXBgnbM0ahH_kWxtiFbXsQJvmTDkZHdL0d-xayuweR1BRTOitlYo6wd5rme99g4g7rww/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80Z5wFEbDbYSOSpE9IfE8S_GHYT_baWDtvmaH5DxpH40GgQHML8ndC6r7fiuMfU_b5FZ_vrBBXBgnbM0ahH_kWxtiFbXsQJvmTDkZHdL0d-xayuweR1BRTOitlYo6wd5rme99g4g7rww/s320/images.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Yeats was born in 1865 and so
he was only 23 when he wrote “Lake Isle of Innisfree” while he was 34 when he
wrote the second poem. Eleven years is a long time in anyone’s life, and the
second poem is obviously a far more mature and far deeper poem than the first.
However, they are both written against the background of the nourishing and
sustaining power of nature for us humans. In short, a good walk out in nature
can heal many a broken heart and lift many a depressed spirit. These poems help
me cope with life then at this first level, that is, at the level of the balm,
the comfort and the healing that nature can offer us if we are open to her
charms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As Yeats grew older he became
much more interested in what we in Ireland call the “Celtic Twilight” period,
namely that Romantic turning back not alone to nature, but also to mythology
and the strong links that mythology had with nature as it developed. Also Yeats as a poet became far more
enchanted with anything to do with mystery, mystique and, indeed the mystical.
To commune with nature was to commune with the sustaining power behind that
universe – the pagan Celtic gods as represented in that wonderful body of
Gaelic Celtic mythology that he himself did much to preserve and to promulgate.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The “fire” that was in his head
is a very potent line because it shows the passion for nature that is in
Aengus’s mind and indeed in that of the poet himself. Again, Aengus cuts and
peels a “hazel wand” and we are immediately enchanted with a magical act that
brings us into a more mystical world to which we can escape from the harsh
reality around us. Everything around Aengus
is magical and mystical and shot through with the powers of the gods of nature.
There are moths on the wing there while the very heavens contain the mystical
“moth-like stars” and the repetition of words serves to enchant us further as
this is indeed the song of a wanderer through nature with all its healing
attributes – indeed it yields up a “silver trout” to feed us on our journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Then we are invited into
Aengus’s company as he lights a fire on the forest or wood floor, and then some
mysterious person calls Aengus, or indeed us the reader, by our name. For sure,
we are now in the mythical and mystical woods of the Celtic imagination, of the
Celtic Twilight. Indeed, we are so
enchanted that we want to stay there with Aengus. Like a fairy presence, this female voice changes
into a beautiful girl who enchants Aengus and us the readers:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It had become a glimmering girl<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With apple blossom in her hair<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Who called me by my name and ran<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And faded through the brightening air.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Reading the final verse, this
commentator writing these few reflections feels old like Aengus in the poem:
“old with wandering” or old and worn out from looking for meaning in an often
sad and painful world. But this final
verse is full of promise and hope; full of beauty and truth; full of wisdom and
inspiration, for we truly can live in an enchanted world when we read those wonderful
final lines of this second poem:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I will find out where she has gone,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And kiss her lips and take her hands;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And walk among long dappled grass,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And pluck till time and times are done,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The silver apples of the moon,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The golden apples of the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-12497481491992502932016-10-16T02:22:00.002+01:002016-10-16T02:22:38.620+01:00Poems I Journey With 27<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtzeqiFehBuPKMO60F6g_tLXGy-qTzzcb1j2XRE9lSel3FCi0HabmWU4gbY3sGi3_bNFwGqHitEfVbPfGwhuQ3gTSjzGHDsbijh9vRUZbdCJkMeVT-gfHo4k7C8sYxN9DZeHDqSB5TSo/s1600/keatspor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBtzeqiFehBuPKMO60F6g_tLXGy-qTzzcb1j2XRE9lSel3FCi0HabmWU4gbY3sGi3_bNFwGqHitEfVbPfGwhuQ3gTSjzGHDsbijh9vRUZbdCJkMeVT-gfHo4k7C8sYxN9DZeHDqSB5TSo/s400/keatspor.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sketch of John Keats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">As a
young student of English literature at college in the late seventies of the
last century when I was 19 or 20, I discovered the wonderful poems of John
Keats (1795 – 1821). There was romance
written in the face of the young poet depicted in whatever copies of sketches
or paintings that were then available.
To add to the romantic mystery and intrigue was the fact that he had
perished from TB, or consumption as it was then called, at just 25 years of
age. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets,
along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work
having been in publication for a period of only four years before his untimely death.
Coupled with this, his devotion to his craft, to nursing his younger brother Tom
and to his sweetheart Fanny Brawne also added to the romanticism that
surrounded this great poet. To add
further to his mystique, we were to learn that in 1816, when he was just 21,
Keats received his apothecary's licence, a qualification which made him
eligible to practise as an apothecary, physician, and surgeon. Further as a
qualified doctor he was to know that his death was imminent when he coughed up
blood during his sleep – indeed, he recounts this sad fact in one of his
letters. However, before the end of
1816, he announced to his guardian that he was resolved to be a poet, not a
surgeon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Needless
to say, given these brief biographical details one could not be faulted for
concluding that John Keats lived with dying and death on a daily basis. The
first poem I offer the reader for reflection is his beautiful sonnet “When I
have Fears” which is suffused with this ultimate concern, to use the current
language of Existential Psychotherapy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I Have Fears - Poem by John Keats<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I
have fears that I may cease to be<br />
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,<br />
Before high-piled books, in charactery,<br />
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;<br />
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,<br />
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,<br />
And think that I may never live to trace<br />
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;<br />
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,<br />
That I shall never look upon thee more,<br />
Never have relish in the faery power<br />
Of unreflecting love; - then on the shore<br />
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think<br />
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The
second poem I should like to offer the readers of these pages is a less
well-known one named “Sonnet: Written on the Top of Ben Nevis.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sonnet:
Written on the Top of Ben Nevis<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Read me
a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud<br />
Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!<br />
I look into the chasms, and a shroud<br />
Vapourous doth hide them, -- just so much I wist<br />
Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead,<br />
And there is sullen mist, -- even so much<br />
Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread<br />
Before the earth, beneath me, -- even such,<br />
Even so vague is man's sight of himself!<br />
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,--<br />
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,<br />
I tread on them, -- that all my eye doth meet<br />
Is mist and crag, not only on this height,<br />
But in the world of thought and mental might! <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ofobCbJx8oD0M4k-KgVgCoQBlExp8mIjX7IyBnBjEZAcfMqMq5xVPr7PdwVLWC60XfX3_KFSzwDF3S6ou2Qyp9iYrqmF2XTf-AjFvAgjXZ1zmidh1qmWhMrmJV9yc3ciUNoSNapmWuA/s1600/Keats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ofobCbJx8oD0M4k-KgVgCoQBlExp8mIjX7IyBnBjEZAcfMqMq5xVPr7PdwVLWC60XfX3_KFSzwDF3S6ou2Qyp9iYrqmF2XTf-AjFvAgjXZ1zmidh1qmWhMrmJV9yc3ciUNoSNapmWuA/s400/Keats.jpg" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pensive John Keats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I
love this sonnet for its mysticism and also for its rather “misty” attempt at
naming the mystery at the heart of life. In fact, the poem is all about our
incapability of grasping this strange mystery, this rather cloudy or unclear
life that we live. The absurdist writer
Albert Camus often ended up in despair at life as it was so full of
contradictions and unclarity while he was obsessed with finding confirmation
and clarity. His book <i>The Myth of
Sisyphus </i>is all about the sheer absurdity of the human project which he
likened to that of Sisyphus having to eternally roll his great rock up the steep
hill of life. Keats admits in this poem that his own insight
into himself, or that his own knowledge of his <i>self</i> is simply shallow to say the least, or foggy or misty to use the
imagery of this very poem:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #002060; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Even so
vague is man's sight of himself!<br />
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,--<br />
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, <br />
I tread on them, -- that all my eye doth meet<br />
Is mist and crag....<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-27098227947644714322016-10-14T13:27:00.001+01:002016-11-08T15:06:09.629+00:00Poems I Journey With 26<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAm99-3c7Fz73k8DZmyoRksI9wQJQZLvpa3j7h736gI4G1y93mHWbJnpBZ5jeidxkKp8GcRSbF-GT3WbTLTaTL3wQkUHciOMxDCoJnGD-VJGPUqUfrk40VWIaal6deOgxz4ebKS5lcIEw/s1600/My+mangled+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAm99-3c7Fz73k8DZmyoRksI9wQJQZLvpa3j7h736gI4G1y93mHWbJnpBZ5jeidxkKp8GcRSbF-GT3WbTLTaTL3wQkUHciOMxDCoJnGD-VJGPUqUfrk40VWIaal6deOgxz4ebKS5lcIEw/s400/My+mangled+car.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The car I escaped uninjured from</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Life surely challenges us;
everyday brings one or other crisis. That is seemingly the way we grow and
mature. However, it is hard to see that from the depths of a problem or of a
tragedy or from any event that brings us face to face with our fragility and mortality.
I have just walked free, totally unscathed physically - indeed no one was injured at all, thank God, just twisted metal and and few blocks in a wall displaced - from crashing my car
having nodded off momentarily at the steering wheel. However, existentially
I am shaken to the foundations of my being. This is surely what the Existential
Psychotherapist and Psychiatrist Irvin Yalom has in mind when he speaks of
death/dying/mortality as being one of the major ultimate concerns we encounter
in life. It is at times like these that
I like to turn to poetry and music in the quiet corners of my soul when my
friends and family have gone their busy way as they must. The poems of Wendell
Berry are a wonderful comfort to me today as they are gentle, sublime and
profoundly touching. I’d like to share several poems from the pen of this
great author with the reader today as I grapple to make sense of what has
happened to me the day before yesterday. Berry is 84 years old and still alive and
writing prolifically. He is an American novelist, poet, environmental
activist, cultural critic, and farmer. He is a recipient of many
prestigious awards for writing, for the humanities and for his advocacy of
environmental issues. Anyway, the first poem that is quieting my troubled soul
today is this one:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Peace of Wild
Things - Poem by Wendell Berry<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
despair grows in me<br />
and I wake in the night at the least sound<br />
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,<br />
I go and lie down where the wood drake<br />
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.<br />
I come into the peace of wild things<br />
who do not tax their lives with forethought<br />
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.<br />
And I feel above me the day-blind stars</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br />
</span><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">waiting for their light. For a time<br />
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rn_3TqG0Tq7O2IOU_OeZMPgCcZ5O8LDhLuBg-KkB6rywTw-ZUy1xL8zE4X0FhZhM36TQAhUQlYuAjTWu7ENJgQJI8-qDUQnxxKKRiRP7TGk0uM0esrdsnDfDWFT6hI5tCprUxKkon0Y/s1600/wendell_berry_banner.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rn_3TqG0Tq7O2IOU_OeZMPgCcZ5O8LDhLuBg-KkB6rywTw-ZUy1xL8zE4X0FhZhM36TQAhUQlYuAjTWu7ENJgQJI8-qDUQnxxKKRiRP7TGk0uM0esrdsnDfDWFT6hI5tCprUxKkon0Y/s400/wendell_berry_banner.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The great Wendell Berry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The second poem is equally as
simple and pure and touches me deeply where I need to be healed. This little
poem calls me to be deeply present in what I do and to live in the blessed
NOW. I remember an old Dominican priest
once telling me that “Now is the sacrament of the present moment.” I thought
that was a lovely statement and a deep truth expressed theologically and
poetically. The second poem reminds me of that truth, that healing truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What We
Need Is Here<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Geese
appear high over us,<br />
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,<br />
as in love or sleep, holds<br />
them to their way, clear<br />
in the ancient faith: what we need<br />
is here. And we pray, not<br />
for new earth or heaven, but to be<br />
quiet in heart, and in eye,<br />
clear. What we need is here. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Once again the third poem I
wish to share with you here is equally as simple and pure and once again touches
me deeply where I need to be healed. When we get in touch with the deep peace
that lies in natural things, even though nature can be violent and cruel at
times too, we can be healed. When the calm after a storm touches our soul we
can be healed. I’m sure survivors of natural disasters have often been healed
in spirit thereafter by the healing power of the peace in nature. Anyway, I
deeply need the healing power of the following beautiful lyric:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Woods - Poem by Wendell Berry<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I part
the out thrusting branches<br />
and come in beneath<br />
the blessed and the blessing trees.<br />
Though I am silent<br />
there is singing around me.<br />
Though I am dark<br />
there is vision around me.<br />
Though I am heavy<br />
there is flight around me. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-26118437574013208402016-10-13T22:19:00.004+01:002016-10-13T22:19:48.431+01:00Poems I Journey With 25<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Introduction: Poems and characters
from Elizabethan Times 1 <o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Shakespeare’s plays – written in
Elizabethan times, that epoch in English history marked by the reign of Queen Elizabeth
I (1558–1603, born 1533) – are highly popular and constantly studied and
reinterpreted in performances with diverse cultural and political contexts for
some few centuries now though there was an period when his work lay
undiscovered or unpopular. The genius of Shakespeare's characters and plots are
that they present real human beings in a wide range of emotions and conflicts
that transcend their origins in Elizabethan England. His themes, then, are
truly universal and transcend time and place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfVLT37F33jCAzTShPpWXX3pYlbz5Cy7v0Wb8sMgnBv1LP22A4_ecX4xTvV9U-ED2Q74WUVpFGaBfrFD1H0RFk9_Hk7B_itKGVwcycD5xYDgVR3K0kXcJ7QUNqCxK1s8ZdmR7ldXB58c/s1600/marlowe-corpuschristi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfVLT37F33jCAzTShPpWXX3pYlbz5Cy7v0Wb8sMgnBv1LP22A4_ecX4xTvV9U-ED2Q74WUVpFGaBfrFD1H0RFk9_Hk7B_itKGVwcycD5xYDgVR3K0kXcJ7QUNqCxK1s8ZdmR7ldXB58c/s400/marlowe-corpuschristi.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christopher Marlowe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">It is, I find, very fruitful to
place Shakespeare in his era by listing several of his many contemporaries,
those who lived at any time during his life span: Shakespeare’s own dates are
1564 – 1616 and he was 39 when Elizabeth died, and some of his contemporaries
are Christopher Marlowe (1564 –1593), a brilliant young playwright and poet killed
in a tavern brawl; James I of England 1566 – 1625, formerly James VI of
Scotland who translated what is known as the famous <i>King James Bible</i>, Sir Walter
Raleigh 1554 –1618, one of whose poems I have already reproduced in these
pages;</span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Dr. Simon Forman (1552 – 1611) the astrologer, occultist and herbalist,
much maligned and persecuted during his lifetime because of his heretical and
unorthodox beliefs, yet he is credited with having saved many patients during
the London plagues (1592 and 1594); and, of course, the famed actor, theatre
owner and artist Richard Burbage (1567 –
1619).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Poems
and songs appear in many of Shakespeare’s plays. They are often profound. One
universal theme, of course, is that of death and dying, that is, one of the
four ultimate concerns outlines by the Existential Psychotherapist, Irvin Yalom.
Mortality and the sheer unpredictability, even the pure random chance of life
are uppermost in my mind as I write these lines. Firstly, I was in a car smash yesterday where
I wrote the vehicle off, or totalled it, as those of you who are from the USA
would say. Thankfully I was uninjured and no one except me was involved as I
nodded off at the wheel after an exhausting day at work. How I got out of the
car in one piece I’ll never know. Having to spend 12 hours in A & E or ER was
in itself a wonderfully mind-concentrating experience. I witnessed much that I
care not to dwell on much here, yet it was a “wake up call,” to live whatever
remains to me on this earth as fully and as profitably as I can as indeed we
are fragile and brittle creatures that can literally be snuffed out at any
time. Meditating on death and mortality is good for the soul as it enables us
to value life all the more and to live in the moment or in the NOW. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zC9FEslP7ZdsDuGTWDtMyZUilf3BzNbyLNvxYBv8JU0O9W0u4sAEAqP-br1WzRHpmLTzLpm8XuS6UIvqqKs4IUmQkUMdTODniJGzR9lfJaQ_NrJaceD-3GvZcDLgd3f__k4VxupKs08/s1600/William-Shakespeare-768x713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zC9FEslP7ZdsDuGTWDtMyZUilf3BzNbyLNvxYBv8JU0O9W0u4sAEAqP-br1WzRHpmLTzLpm8XuS6UIvqqKs4IUmQkUMdTODniJGzR9lfJaQ_NrJaceD-3GvZcDLgd3f__k4VxupKs08/s400/William-Shakespeare-768x713.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Shakespeare</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">With
this in mind, I have been leafing through and pondering poems that I love on
line. I quite like the following poem or
song from Shakespeare’s play <i>Cymbeline</i>
(Act IV, Scene ii, lines 2656 to 2680). The first two stanzas are spoken (not
sung) alternately by the two brothers, Guiderius and Arviragus. Then, they take
it in turns to recite each line of the remaining two stanzas alternately,
except the final two lines of each stanza, which they recite together.
Guiderius and Arviragus are the sons of Cymbeline, abducted as babies by
Belarius, and brought up as woodsmen. They recite the song over the corpse of
Fidele, who they think is a man, but who is in fact Imogen, their sister, who
they have never seen, and who is actually not dead, but who has drunk a draught
of a poison the effect of which puts her into a state which resembles death. <i>Cymbeline</i> is
often called a "problem play" because it defies traditional
categories of genre. Many Shakespeare critics settle on calling it a
"tragicomedy" since the first three acts of the play feel like
mini-tragedy, while the play's second half feels like a comedy. In this sense,
it is a play that incorporates many existential themes as well as humour as a
way to cope with those problematic themes. In short, this beautiful song speaks
much to me after my recent escape from the swing of the “Grim Reaper’s” indifferent
scythe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Fear No
More<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Fear no
more the heat o' the sun;<br />
Nor the furious winter's rages,<br />
Thou thy worldly task hast done,<br />
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;<br />
Golden lads and girls all must,<br />
As chimney sweepers come to dust.<br />
<br />
Fear no more the frown of the great,<br />
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:<br />
Care no more to clothe and eat;<br />
To thee the reed is as the oak:<br />
The sceptre, learning, physic, must<br />
All follow this, and come to dust.<br />
<br />
Fear no more the lightning-flash,<br />
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;<br />
Fear not slander, censure rash;<br />
Thou hast finished joy and moan;<br />
All lovers young, all lovers must<br />
Consign to thee, and come to dust.<br />
<br />
No exorciser harm thee!<br />
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!<br />
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!<br />
Nothing ill come near thee!<br />
Quiet consummation have;<br />
And renowned be thy grave! <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-42504081546347641562016-10-11T23:51:00.004+01:002016-10-12T00:10:57.394+01:00Poems I Journey With 24<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84DbRFhXmjnRrPE7xh-iSE7dExL3KIotv2A8ukk9_5WEjyGBXYkUVipfrm02KlbeHqmugTW5gdfjGZuM-94j_SrXwEGQ1OW8g2wFM7Abegyhhlb_Xj8gvXCOHsxI-jcgCWDYvE2X1CkY/s1600/John+Donne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84DbRFhXmjnRrPE7xh-iSE7dExL3KIotv2A8ukk9_5WEjyGBXYkUVipfrm02KlbeHqmugTW5gdfjGZuM-94j_SrXwEGQ1OW8g2wFM7Abegyhhlb_Xj8gvXCOHsxI-jcgCWDYvE2X1CkY/s320/John+Donne.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sir Walter Raleigh</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Sir Walter Raleigh (or Ralegh)
was a most amazing man – a wonderfully alive, creative and swashbuckling
Elizabethan who was a soldier, a sailor, a land-owner, a courtier, an explorer</span><b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">as well as being a poet, a writer
and a historian. Again, when he was writing his <i>The
Historie of the World</i> in the Tower of London he used sources written in
some six different languages. It was maintained by some historians that Raleigh
was responsible for the introduction of the potato or spud into Ireland.
However, this is disputed by other historians. However, he is widely regarded
as the one who introduced tobacco and pipe smoking into England. To add to all
these accomplishments the fact that he was also a good family man is actually quite astonishing. In short, he was a courageous and ambitious Elizabethan who was
truly a Renaissance man, though he rejected the high-flowing style (loaded with
classical allusions) of the Italian Renaissance poets in favour of a more
direct unornamented fashion of writing known simply as “plain style.” This was why the critic C.S. Lewis called Sir
Walter one of the foremost “Silver Poets” of the seventeenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The poem from Raleigh that I’d like to offer to the
reader this evening is one called “The Lie” which, I should imagine, he composed
in the Tower of London some time before his execution. That his execution was
unjust is the verdict of history. One of the judges at his trial later said:
"The justice of England has never been so degraded and injured as by the
condemnation of the honourable Sir Walter Raleigh." Raleigh was beheaded
in the Old Palace Yard at the Palace of Westminster on 29 October
1618. The accounts of his last comments before his death are indeed very brave
and noble: "Let us dispatch", he said to his executioner. "At
this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I
quaked from fear." It is also
reported that after he was allowed to see the axe that would be used to behead
him, he mused: "This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all
diseases and miseries." Further, according to biographers, Raleigh's last
words (as he lay ready for the axe to fall) were: "Strike, man,
strike!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw53JPAASMSmIxIk28mgu_XzuBPISVQCbtXz6cZItCtcbINwpgQxh6DwrdmbvaCSNIyYgqhHftk2CmJQndnPH5r_w96OBnHAuykineWkpk_wxSOMRHxQ4Cc5BmhxsicLwzpRbIWoO6Qkk/s1600/ralegh1590b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw53JPAASMSmIxIk28mgu_XzuBPISVQCbtXz6cZItCtcbINwpgQxh6DwrdmbvaCSNIyYgqhHftk2CmJQndnPH5r_w96OBnHAuykineWkpk_wxSOMRHxQ4Cc5BmhxsicLwzpRbIWoO6Qkk/s320/ralegh1590b.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ralegh the Soldier</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I shall let the poem “The Lie” speak for itself
below. One gets a sense of the poet’s nobility, integrity and authenticity in
its stanzas. He has little concern, he tells us, for the hypocrisies of either
Church or State. We learn that what Raleigh prizes are the virtues of honesty
and sincerity. He also appreciates that
we are only pilgrims here on the earth and that our little lives are transient
indeed. Like any Elizabethan or Renaissance man he sees the life of the soul as
being immortal and imperishable and that of the flesh as mortal and perishable.
This
poem will demand that you read it reflectively several times and then perhaps
aloud, and then finally you will feel the passion and conviction of a man weighing
truthfully and honestly the significance of his life before the axe of execution
cuts off his head: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> The Lie</span></i></b><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Sir Walter Raleigh (1552
–1618)</span></i></b><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">GO, Soul, the body’s guest,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Upon a thankless arrant:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Fear not to touch the best;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> The truth shall be thy warrant:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Go, since I needs must die,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="5"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 5</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And give the world the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Say to the court, it glows<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> And shines like rotten wood;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Say to the church, it shows<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> What’s good, and doth no good:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="10"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 10</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">If church and court reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then give them both the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell potentates, they live<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Acting by others’ action;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Not loved unless they give,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="15"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 15</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Not strong, but by a faction:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">If potentates reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Give potentates the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell men of high condition,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> That manage the estate,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="20"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 20</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Their purpose is ambition,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="21"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Their practice only hate:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="22"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And if they once reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="23"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then give them all the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="24"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell them that brave it most,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="25"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 25</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> They beg for more by spending,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="26"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Who, in their greatest cost,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="27"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Seek nothing but commending:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="28"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And if they make reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="29"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then give them all the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="30"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 30</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell zeal it wants devotion;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="31"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell love it is but lust;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="32"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell time it is but motion;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="33"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell flesh it is but dust:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="34"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And wish them not reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="35"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 35</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">For thou must give the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="36"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell age it daily wasteth;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="37"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell honour how it alters;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="38"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell beauty how she blasteth;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="39"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell favour how it falters:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="40"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 40</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And as they shall reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="41"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Give every one the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="42"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell wit how much it wrangles<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="43"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> In tickle points of niceness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="44"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell wisdom she entangles<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="45"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 45</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Herself in over-wiseness:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="46"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And when they do reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="47"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Straight give them both the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="48"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell physic of her boldness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="49"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell skill it is pretension;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 50</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell charity of coldness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="51"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell law it is contention:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="52"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And as they do reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="53"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So give them still the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="54"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell fortune of her blindness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="55"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 55</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell nature of decay;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="56"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell friendship of unkindness;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="57"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell justice of delay;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="58"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And if they will reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="59"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then give them all the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="60"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 60</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell arts they have no soundness,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="61"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> But vary by esteeming;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="62"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell schools they want profoundness,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="63"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> And stand too much on seeming:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="64"></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">If arts and schools reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;" valign="top"><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="65"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 65</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
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<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Give arts and schools the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell faith it’s fled the city;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell how the country erreth;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tell, manhood shakes off pity;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Tell, virtue least preferreth:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="70"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 70</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And if they do reply,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Spare not to give the lie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So when thou hast, as I<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Commanded thee, done blabbing,—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Although to give the lie<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="75"><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 75</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Deserves no less than stabbing,—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Stab at thee he that will,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">No stab the soul can kill.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-74346848658059969572016-10-09T19:56:00.000+01:002016-10-09T19:56:12.060+01:00Poems I Journey With 23<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Who amongst us does
not at times wish to return to the more innocent and carefree world of childhood
as we remember it, if only to escape the monotony of our daily lives or indeed
its many troubles? In other words, nostalgia is no bad thing once it does not
become an obsession that prevents us from dealing with problems that must be
dealt with in our lives. One dictionary definition of nostalgia describes it as
a wistful desire to return in thought or in feeling to a former time in one’s
life, and in this sense it is mostly sentimental in thrust. But we are allowed to be nostalgic and
sentimental sometimes surely? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As I sit here writing
these thoughts, I am travelling back precisely forty-seven years to the autumn
days of 1969 when I was in fourth class primary school. We had a wonderful
teacher called Seán Ó Sé (John O’Shea) who was an erudite teacher in most
subjects, but who loved poetry and gave all of us an appreciation for its form,
metre, rhythm and rhyme. I remember well his beating out the rhythm of any
poem, whether in Irish or English, with his “bata mór” or “big stick” which he
actually rarely used as he was essentially a kind and caring teacher. He would beat
his “bata mór” on his old wooden desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of Thomas Hood</td></tr>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">After this brief
introduction, let me offer the reader a poem called “I remember, I remember”
from the pen of Thomas Hood. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #252525;">For me this poem brings me back into that old
classroom when I was just a sensitive little boy of eleven years of age. So, I
am unapologetically indulging in nostalgia and sentimentality now, and sure why
not! Thomas Hood(1799 – 1845) was an
English poet, author and humourist, best known for poems such as "</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">The Bridge of Sighs<span style="color: #252525;">" and "</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">The
Song of the Shirt</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">". Hood wrote regularly for<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><i style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">The London Magazine</i><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">, the</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;"> </span><i style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">Athenaeum</i><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">, and</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;"> </span><i style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">Punch</i><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">.
He later published a magazine largely consisting of his own works. Hood, never
robust, lapsed into invalidism by the age of 41 and died at the age of 45.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: left;">Other poets that were
his contemporaries were the likes of Wordsworth and Coleridge and the many
other lesser Romantic poets. Obviously Hood would not have been as famous, yet
his work was indeed very popular. The poem “I remember, I remember” needs
little or no commentary. It is enough to read it and reflect upon it
meditatively and if it is sentimental superficially, I believe that it contains
a certain deeper truth worth hanging on to. Enjoy, even for the briefest of
moments. </span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="background: white; color: #403152; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">I
Remember, I Remember</span></u></i></b><b><i><span style="background: white; color: #403152; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br />
<br />
I remember, I remember<br />
The house where I was born,<br />
The little window where the sun<br />
Came peeping in at morn;<br />
He never came a wink too soon<br />
Nor brought too long a day;<br />
But now, I often wish the night<br />
Had borne my breath away.<br />
<br />
I remember, I remember<br />
The roses red and white,<br />
The violets and the lily cups--<br />
Those flowers made of light!<br />
The lilacs where the robin built,<br />
And where my brother set<br />
The laburnum on his birthday,<br />
The tree is living yet!<br />
<br />
I remember, I remember<br />
Where I was used to swing,<br />
And thought the air must rush as fresh<br />
To swallows on the wing;<br />
My spirit flew in feathers then<br />
That is so heavy now,<br />
The summer pools could hardly cool<br />
The fever on my brow.<br />
<br />
I remember, I remember<br />
The fir-trees dark and high;<br />
I used to think their slender tops<br />
Were close against the sky:<br />
It was a childish ignorance,<br />
But now 'tis little joy<br />
To know I'm farther off from Heaven<br />
Than when I was a boy. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</span></div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-52012154375031544322016-10-08T21:10:00.001+01:002016-10-08T21:22:10.412+01:00Poems I Journey With 22<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of William Blake by Thomas Phillips</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">History
has always thrown up amazing geniuses. There can be few more talented
and extraordinary than William Blake (1757-1827). The
list of his accomplishments is wide and varied: poet, artist, engraver,
mystic and</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">prophet. We
are all acquainted with his simpler lyrics and even with his more
popular engravings from our school days. However,
behind these seemingly effortless and simple verses lies a complex and
talented man of</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">vision. Behind
the popular engravings lurks a restless soul and talented </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">artist.</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">Reading
his poetry and studying his paintings and engravings can
bring much pleasure and not a little insight into Blake's mystical and
prophetic vision, both dimensions of which were so <i>sui generis</i> as to make his work in poetry and engraving individual
and non-derivative to a fault. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">Before
setting out to read Blake, one should realize that he was almost completely
self-taught. This would probably account for much of his unconventional
spelling and punctuation, and for his inconsistent use of terminology in
his longer and more complex works. Also it is important to bear
in mind that he was rebellious in spirit and just did not like to conform. He was original
to a fault. Having spent seven years as an apprentice
engraver, he progressed to study art at the Royal Academy but quit after a year
because he rebelled against the aesthetic doctrines of its</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">president,
Sir Joshua Reynolds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">In
writing his poetry, Blake also broke with convention by
rejecting the high neoclassical style and modes of thought then current,
preferring a simple and direct style</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> – <span style="letter-spacing: -.55pt;">the language of the</span></span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">ordinary people that
prefigures by some twenty years Wordsworth’s pursuit</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">of the same
goal – <span style="letter-spacing: -.55pt;">as exemplified in
his lyrics. He was a nonconformist in religion, being born into
a Dissenting tradition that encouraged extemporary</span></span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">hymn-singing. Hence,
much of his religious thoughts were unorthodox and even
heretical by the standards of the more orthodox Christian churches. However,
having borne these preliminary qualifications in mind,</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">we
can still find his writings inspiring and personally enriching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">This
evening I wish to offer the reader a copy of William Blake’s wonderful and much
anthologized lyric "The Tyger" to read
and to reflect meditatively upon.
Immediately, if you are a lover of Blake’s poems you will be struck
forcefully by </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">the strong contrast with the poem "The
Lamb." ("Little Lamb, who made thee? //Dost thou know who made
thee?" The answer is, of course, God, who became incarnate as Jesus the
Lamb.) Here in this lyric "The Tyger," Blake asks the rhetorical
question, "Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" And the answer is, of
course, "Yes, God made the Tyger too."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcgJtHib8O1CJYPLH5A90xaFzw-wGHR6085xHU9AD5YwWJP5bCJpRkvm2BGIEuXuraYYwAtM02e-ziCKsHJ3jdcoiUoPEE71PP_F0VfzftJNDQtNEL3K1-xDeNuLKpgU2uaVeelcFpvc/s1600/tyger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcgJtHib8O1CJYPLH5A90xaFzw-wGHR6085xHU9AD5YwWJP5bCJpRkvm2BGIEuXuraYYwAtM02e-ziCKsHJ3jdcoiUoPEE71PP_F0VfzftJNDQtNEL3K1-xDeNuLKpgU2uaVeelcFpvc/s640/tyger.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A copy of the original engraving of Tyger by Blake</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">If
we are to appreciate and understand "The Tyger" as fully as we
possibly can, we need to know Blake's symbols. One of the central themes in his
major works is that the Creator of the world is a great blacksmith. This is
both God the Creator (personified in Blake's myth as <i>Los</i>) and Blake himself (again with <i>Los</i> as his alter-ego.) As an engraver and as an artist, Blake
identified God's creative process with the work of anyone engaged in any
artistic pursuits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">Blake's
story of creation differs from the Genesis account – as I’ve already pointed
out he is totally unorthodox in his personal beliefs, and this is something
that endears him to the present writer as he had the courage to be wholly
different at a time when it was simply anathema to be so. The familiar world
was created only after a cosmic catastrophe according to Blake. The longer
books that Blake wrote describe <i>Los's</i>
creation of animals and people within the world of nature after that
catastrophe. One particularly powerful passage in "Milton" describes <i>Los's</i> family weaving the bodies of each
unborn child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;">In
believing that creation followed a cosmic catastrophe and a fall of spiritual
beings into the atoms of matter, Blake recalls the early heresy of Gnosticism,
a multi-faceted religious movement that had run parallel to mainstream
Christianity. Unlike most other <i>Gnosticizers</i>,
Blake considered our own world to be a fine and wonderful place, but one that
would ultimately give way to a restored universe. Blake believed that his own
visions, which included end-of-the-world or apocalyptic images and sometimes a
sense of cosmic oneness, prefigured this restored world, and that his art would
help raise others "to the perception of the infinite." For Blake as
for St. Irenaeus, the purpose of creation is as a place for our own growth,
where we are allowed to mature through our encountering very rough experiences
of evil in its many manifestations in preparation for the beginning of our real
lives. On the one hand, while the natural world contained much that is gentle
and innocent (which we read about in the wonderful lyrics of "Songs of
Innocence"), those who are experienced with life ("Songs of
Experience") know that there is also much that is terrible and
frightening. In other words, what I am getting at here is that the "fearful
symmetry" we read about in “The Tyger” is the paradoxical contrast between
the gentleness of the lamb and the fierceness of the tiger – in other words we have here the paradoxical
mix of innocence and experience in the one poem.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">3 </span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; letter-spacing: -0.55pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%;">
<b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><i>The Tyger<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b><i>Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
In the forests of the night,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
What immortal hand or eye<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
In what distant deeps or skies<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
On what wings dare he aspire?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
What the hand dare seize the fire?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
And what shoulder, & what art,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
And when thy heart began to beat,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
What dread hand? & what dread feet?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
What the hammer? what the chain?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
In what furnace was thy brain?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
What the anvil? what dread grasp<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
When the stars threw down their spears,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
And water'd heaven with their tears,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Did he smile his work to see?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
In the forests of the night,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
What immortal hand or eye<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i></b></span><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-53168013540536679782016-10-07T22:09:00.003+01:002016-10-08T20:22:16.552+01:00Poems I Journey With 21<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NJh5EE50uImL1o7bZ0FbrzdVNXTE7biLHFS0NjEd5SgmxS8YVcqnhU_-LKs24t4YfktzEBVrt35joDsXb-ozjRiGrhyarHsLmnQGDTXBaTuJPzfto1oMvd5gkpRtmGKJdMvzOvDhIdQ/s1600/coleridge_st_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NJh5EE50uImL1o7bZ0FbrzdVNXTE7biLHFS0NjEd5SgmxS8YVcqnhU_-LKs24t4YfktzEBVrt35joDsXb-ozjRiGrhyarHsLmnQGDTXBaTuJPzfto1oMvd5gkpRtmGKJdMvzOvDhIdQ/s400/coleridge_st_02.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young S.T. Coleridge</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">One of my favourite
Romantic poets is Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I was lucky to study him from two
angles, once in an English Literature course at undergraduate level and once at
the level of philosophical theology whilst studying at postgraduate level. That
means that I have been lucky to have studied both his poems and his
literary/theological/philosophical prose works. Coleridge (1772 –1834) was a
complex individual and an extremely erudite dilettante, being a poet, a literary
critic and philosopher as well as being an avid walker and lover of nature. He
was also a wonderful raconteur who loved to regale his friends with stories and
witticisms. Again, he was more Dionysian than Apollonian in temperament, yet in
his philosophical and theological musings he could readily access and use
profitably and aptly the higher reaches of logical argument and thought,
thereby embracing both heart and head in a splendid and felicitous harmony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">With his friend and colleague William
Wordsworth, Coleridge was a founder of what is called the <i>Romantic Movement</i> in England. His
most anthologised poems and well known poems are <i>The Rime of the
Ancient Mariner</i> and <i>Kubla Khan</i> while his major prose
work <i>Biographia Literaria</i> is an amazingly erudite, eccentric and
extremely <i>sui generis </i> work of his literary imagination. His critical
work, especially on Shakespeare, was and is highly influential, and he
helped introduce German idealist philosophy to English-speaking
culture through his studies in the German language and German philosophy at
Gottingen University. Coleridge, as a
result of his concentrated studies, coined many familiar words and phrases,
including “suspension of disbelief, the “esemplastic power of imagination”
and many more. He is noted as a major influence on Emerson and
American transcendentalism. In short, then, we may summarise by saying
that it was through Coleridge’s writings and translations that German
transcendentalism entered the English and American Romantic Movements.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">On a personal level, throughout
his adult life, Coleridge had crippling bouts of anxiety and depression. Some
have speculated that he had bipolar disorder, though that is impossible to
prove definitively. However, it is important to note that he became an
addict of opium through its medicinal and all-too-easily attainable form called
<i>Laudanum</i>. All of this feeds into the
wonderfully complex and inspiring thought of a great poet and marvellously
talented critic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The poem I wish to offer the reader this evening is one of what is called his “conversation poems” namely
“Frost at Midnight.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Frost at Midnight<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
Frost performs its secret ministry,<br />
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry<br />
Came loud--and hark, again ! loud as before.<br />
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,<br />
Have left me to that solitude, which suits<br />
Abstruser musings : save that at my side<br />
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.<br />
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs<br />
And vexes meditation with its strange<br />
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,<br />
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,<br />
With all the numberless goings-on of life,<br />
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame<br />
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;<br />
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,<br />
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.<br />
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature<br />
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,<br />
Making it a companionable form,<br />
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit<br />
By its own moods interprets, everywhere<br />
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,<br />
And makes a toy of Thought.<br />
<br />
But O! how oft,<br />
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,<br />
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,<br />
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft<br />
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt<br />
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,<br />
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang<br />
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,<br />
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me<br />
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear<br />
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!<br />
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,<br />
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!<br />
And so I brooded all the following morn,<br />
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye<br />
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: <br />
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched<br />
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,<br />
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,<br />
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,<br />
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!<br />
<br />
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,<br />
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,<br />
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies<br />
And momentary pauses of the thought!<br />
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart<br />
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,<br />
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,<br />
And in far other scenes! For I was reared<br />
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,<br />
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.<br />
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze<br />
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags<br />
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,<br />
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores<br />
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear<br />
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible<br />
Of that eternal language, which thy God<br />
Utters, who from eternity doth teach<br />
Himself in all, and all things in himself.<br />
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould<br />
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.<br />
<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Therefore
all seasons shall be sweet to thee,<br />
Whether the summer clothe the general earth<br />
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing<br />
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch<br />
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch<br />
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall<br />
Heard only in the trances of the blast,<br />
Or if the secret ministry of frost<br />
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,<br />
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Briefest of Commentaries<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Here in this wonderful poem we
encounter the very quintessence of Romantic poetry: an openness to the
splendour, wonder and magic of nature where even “[t]he frost performs its
secret ministry.” In other words, from the very first line of this poem we
encounter the mystery of nature in the wonderful patterns frost forms all
around us on a winter’s night. It is important to note that Coleridge
attributes power to the frost, namely the power to perform a ministry or ritual
that brings the believer into communion with the very heart of nature, namely
the Creator revealed through the mysterious and wondrous patterns performed by
a minister called “frost.” Again, what we have here is the personification of
nature in the workings of the frost. It is significant, also, the Coleridge
ends the poem with a second reference to the frost’s ministry in the third last
line of the last stanza.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">From the first we are drawn
into the profound solitude that obtains in the poet’s country cottage in
Cumbria. We encounter all the sights and sounds of Coleridge’s surroundings
depicted in wonderfully clear and vivid images: “my cradled infant slumbers
peacefully,” “the thin blue flame lies on my low-burnt fire,” the “film which
fluttered on the grate,”</span><b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">“the old church-tower,//Whose bells, the poor man's only music,”</span><b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">“My babe so beautiful! it
thrills my heart//With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,”</span><b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">“For
I was reared//In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,” and so on and so forth. Unlike his father, his son Hartley will be
reared, attuned to the sounds of nature and not in a great and noisy city. Again, all these images and this last aspiration for his son are essentially Romantic in nature,
that is, they serve to help us to commune with God in and through nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">In conclusion, let me repeat
here the final eleven lines of the poem, which essentially sum up the Romantic
credo to which Wordsworth et al subscribed and that S.T. Coleridge so eruditely
wrote about in his prose writings. With
that thought I leave the reader to contemplate these last lines of this great
poem: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But
thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze<br />
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags<br />
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,<br />
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores<br />
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear<br />
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible<br />
Of that eternal language, which thy God<br />
Utters, who from eternity doth teach<br />
Himself in all, and all things in himself.<br />
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould<br />
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-77740392703433839652016-10-07T00:39:00.000+01:002016-10-07T22:36:38.869+01:00Poems I Journey With 20<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtdpyhjVassR7h_WFlfIb3iDjMQClqYb-WVW-hwJLMc4IdtQBg04AUxsPMKIHPTPbZ94IOcYCGlc9PbrFwjEQtGxFMOFNgnKLKCsrE2gD9aT7O5yXQqG_e1UxFOBvGcCklI4dZbXc2ZE/s1600/John+Donne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtdpyhjVassR7h_WFlfIb3iDjMQClqYb-WVW-hwJLMc4IdtQBg04AUxsPMKIHPTPbZ94IOcYCGlc9PbrFwjEQtGxFMOFNgnKLKCsrE2gD9aT7O5yXQqG_e1UxFOBvGcCklI4dZbXc2ZE/s400/John+Donne.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dean of St Paul's, John Donne - early portrait</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The ode is an ancient poetic
form that dates back to ancient Greece. A simple definition runs thus: a poem
in which a person expresses a strong feeling of love or respect for someone or
something is an ode. A rather more precise definition would be that it is a
lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of
line, and complexity of stanza forms. A classical ode is structured in
three major parts: the <i>strophe</i>, the <i>antistrophe</i>, and
the <i>epode</i>. Different forms such as the <i>homostrophic ode</i> and
the <i>irregular ode</i> also exist. It is an elaborately structured
poem praising or glorifying an event or individual and that describes nature
intellectually as well as emotionally.
It was originally accompanied by the music of the lyre in ancient Greece
and hence it is a distinct form of the lyric. Tonight I would like to offer the
reader an Ode from the pen of the great Anglican Divine, Dean of St Paul’s
Cathedral, London and accomplished poet John Donne (1573 – 1631).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">ODE</span></u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;">by
John Donne<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"> I.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b>VENGEANCE
will sit above our faults; but till<br />
She there do sit,<br />
We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still<br />
We lead her way; and thus, whilst we do ill,<br />
We suffer it.<br />
<br />
2. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b>Unhappy
he whom youth makes not beware<br />
Of doing ill.<br />
Enough we labour under age, and care;<br />
In number, th' errors of the last place are<br />
The greatest still.<br />
<br />
3. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b>Yet
we, that should the ill we now begin<br />
As soon repent,<br />
Strange thing! perceive not; our faults are not seen,<br />
But past us; neither felt, but only in<br />
The punishment.<br />
<br />
4. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b>But
we know ourselves least; mere outward shows<br />
Our minds so store,<br />
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose<br />
But form and colour. Only he who knows<br />
Himself, knows more. </b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Brief Commentary and
Observations<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-TWwAHbuYLMrmuFBHQOzlg3zAp6_UKy23_aTzGWZT0ro7P-hxppb5-jKanKYn_fGVcrEWbyVRREEIatUJOZjcnwNcKQ2oB7aNO5_xmliD7HWerAbZTo1YAf6QFwrIIXO66V12dqkyH4/s1600/St_Pauls_aerial_%2528cropped%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-TWwAHbuYLMrmuFBHQOzlg3zAp6_UKy23_aTzGWZT0ro7P-hxppb5-jKanKYn_fGVcrEWbyVRREEIatUJOZjcnwNcKQ2oB7aNO5_xmliD7HWerAbZTo1YAf6QFwrIIXO66V12dqkyH4/s400/St_Pauls_aerial_%2528cropped%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Paul's Cathedral, London</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">John Donne is a very complex
and most interesting character. He was
well educated, but came from a recusant Catholic background with an uncle (his
mother’s brother) being a Jesuit priest and translator named Jasper Heywood.</span><span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;">His </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">mother</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">was a great-niece of the Roman Catholic martyr Thomas More. This
tradition of martyrdom would continue among Donne's closer relatives, many of
whom were executed or exiled for religious reasons. Needless to say,
given this background, the young Donne converted to Anglicanism as anyone of us
would if we prized our very lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">He travelled on the continent for several
years in his early to mid-twenties and learned to speak both Spanish and
Italian fluently. Needless to say, as any scholar of the time would be, he also
was adept in both Latin and classical Greek.
He served also as a diplomat for some years. Despite his great education
and poetic talents, Donne lived in poverty for several years, relying heavily
on wealthy friends as patrons. He spent much of the money he inherited during and after
his education on womanising, literature, pastimes, and travel. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">In 1601, he secretly married Anne More, with whom he had twelve children, several of whom
died either in childbirth or as infants. In 1615, he became
an Anglican priest at the behest of the King, James I, although he
did not want to take Anglican orders at all. In 1621, he was appointed
the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London. He also served as a Member of
Parliament in 1601 and in 1614. The subjects of Donne's poetry are (i) religious
themes, especially the search for what might be termed true religion or the
truth in religion, (ii) romantic love, (iii) sexuality – explicit enough in
places – and (iv) mortality. He is known as the foremost poet of the group that is called
the <i>Metaphysical Poets </i>and is a
supreme exponent of the art of the conceit.
The poem I have offered the reader this evening is simply called Ode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">I like this poem as it may be
read on two levels. The obvious or overt
level shows us the human being in all his/her flaws, unaware of the level of
their sinning before the Almighty God, the Judge of our lives, and, consequently,
possessing little or no guilt. The second level, I argue, would not really have
been too obvious to readers of Donne’s own time, namely how little the human
person actually knows himself or herself. In other words, we moderns can see
that such lack of self-knowledge is in fact our lack of awareness of all our
unconscious motivations. In this regard, I read the final stanza, which I
repeat here, in such a fashion. We could do worse than contemplate the depth in
those lines once again:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><b>But
we know ourselves least; mere outward shows<br />
Our minds so store,<br />
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose<br />
But form and colour. Only he who knows<br />
Himself, knows more. </b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-80171637820037181152016-10-05T00:04:00.000+01:002016-10-07T22:45:31.661+01:00Poems I Journey With 19<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7GPEuOT48Fb9-Mx5b8qfKmrLTzWCyzaNBiDh0Dw-qCNjPp9SVBhHkhN43jykXSJHVFZADrS61PO-mb5i1GutC7zFvj15GRXHqKPsFJeb6gW6AP0o01YYgS__qDNRwSX3OEFABWlwOdo/s1600/yeats_360x450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7GPEuOT48Fb9-Mx5b8qfKmrLTzWCyzaNBiDh0Dw-qCNjPp9SVBhHkhN43jykXSJHVFZADrS61PO-mb5i1GutC7zFvj15GRXHqKPsFJeb6gW6AP0o01YYgS__qDNRwSX3OEFABWlwOdo/s400/yeats_360x450.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young W.B. Yeats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h1 style="background: white; line-height: 100%; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Tonight, yet again, I wish to reproduce here a poem by that greatest of Irish poets W.B. Yeats. In this year of centenaries as we Irish call this commemorative year of 2016, that is, that it celebrates both our national Rising and some of the greatest battles of the Great War.</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1.15pt; text-align: left;">An Irish<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span>Airman
Foresees His Death</span></div>
</h1>
<h1 style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;">
<o:p></o:p></h1>
<h1 style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-top: 0cm; mso-background-themecolor: background1;">
<span class="node-title"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 8pt; font-weight: normal;">(By </span></span><span class="node-title"><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 8pt;"><a href="https://www.poets.org/node/45485" target="_top"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span itemprop="name">W.
B. Yeat</span><span style="text-decoration: none;">s</span></span></a></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 8pt; font-weight: normal;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="date-display-single">1865</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>–<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="date-display-single">1939)</span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">I know that I shall meet my
fate<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Somewhere among the clouds
above;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Those that I fight I do not
hate<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Those that I guard I do not
love;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">My country is Kiltartan Cross,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">No likely end could bring them
loss<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Or leave them happier than
before.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Nor public man, nor cheering
crowds,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">A lonely impulse of delight <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Drove to this
tumult in the clouds;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">I balanced all,
brought all to mind,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">The years to come
seemed waste of breath,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">A waste of breath
the years behind,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">In balance with
this life, this death.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Commentary<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Yeats
wrote this famous poem "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" in 1918 and it was first published
in the Macmillan edition of <i>The Wild
Swans at Coole</i> a year later. It is a rather simple lyric written in regular
metre, that of iambic tetrameter, that is, in regular lines with four beats or
four iambs, that is, “Dee-Dah, Dee-Dah, Dee-Dah, Dee-Dah” with the beat on the
second syllable or on the “Dah.” The
rhyme scheme is pretty standard, too, being simply ABAB CDCD EFEF GHGH. Further, if the reader is a lover of war
films he will know that in the movie <i>Memphis Belle</i>, the character
Sergeant Danny Daly recites this
poem but omits the lines referring to Ireland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The
poem is a dramatic recitation or soliloquy given by an aviator
or early flyer from the First World War period in which the
narrator describes the circumstances surrounding his imminent and certain death.
The poem is a work that discusses the role of Irish soldiers fighting for the United
Kingdom during a time when they were trying to establish independence for Ireland. This was a heady, frightening and tumultuous
time in Irish history when families were split between loyalty to the crown and
sympathy with the revolutionary nationalist cause. In simple terms, this was a
complex and complicated period in Irish history. Wishing to show restraint from
publishing political poems during the height of the war, Yeats withheld
publication of the poem until after the conflict had ended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Yeats’
young pilot is just that, young and simply non-partisan. For him it was the
adventure of flying itself, then a real novelty, that inspired his action –
neither loyalty to the crown nor love for his native soil. In this, Yeats
captures brilliantly the way a good number of young men would have felt – that is,
young men who were full bloodedly wishing to embrace adventure for adventure
sake:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">I
know that I shall meet my fate<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Somewhere among the clouds
above;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Those that I fight I do not
hate<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Those that I guard I do not
love;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">My country is Kiltartan Cross,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">No likely end could bring them
loss<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Or leave them happier than
before.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">He
tells us that no outcome in the war will make their lives worse (“bring them
loss”) or better (“happier”) than before the war began. He says that he did not
decide to fight because of a law or a sense of duty, nor because of “public
men” (politicians) or “cheering crowds.” Rather, “a lonely impulse of delight”
drove him to “this tumult in the clouds.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-background-themecolor: background1; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqohZiZzE-OUk-SfqAb_7enZ5lBphNJqE5zY6K5Ps8f2pWgbV_q43BXUDrWlCWljdmikMREfOXIYlhZEAE7_IYszzAzkRn1JV-HjMCR4XthjSTT9K4gbzLrHFfkWdyoSm9F6ky_iuN2qs/s1600/splash03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqohZiZzE-OUk-SfqAb_7enZ5lBphNJqE5zY6K5Ps8f2pWgbV_q43BXUDrWlCWljdmikMREfOXIYlhZEAE7_IYszzAzkRn1JV-HjMCR4XthjSTT9K4gbzLrHFfkWdyoSm9F6ky_iuN2qs/s400/splash03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A First World War Airplane</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">There
is a deep reflectiveness or mindfulness in this poem that makes it a very
significant reflection on war and its futility and uselessness. He says that he
weighed his life in his mind, and found that “The years to come seemed waste of
breath, / A waste of breath the years behind.” In other words, the young pilot
is forced to wake up and live in the now because he realises that the past is
gone and gone forever, never to return as it is now very much wasted breath. He
also realises that his hours are numbered as he realises all too easily that
his death is imminent and inevitable and therefore the future has a similar
futility bound up with it just as the past has. Hence the years to come are
simply wasted breath, too. He is at the now of existence as that’s all he has,
this moment now, this reflective now or this mindful now before extinction. On
the one hand this could be seen as a rather tragic arithmetic that forces the
young man into the now of awareness or on another level a sort of mystical
wakefulness that Yeats would have embraced in his own life. In shaping or
forming this poem, Yeats writes in a neatly balanced structure that mirrors or
parallels the balance of an aircraft in flight, with its cycles of alternating
rhymes and its clipped, stoical meter. In short, in this poem we have Yeats the
consummate craftsman and weaver of words at work. Altogether a simply wonderful
poem, and one that was used so effectively in that lovely British-American war film</span><b><i><span style="color: #252525; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Memphis
Belle</span></i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"> (1990) that was directed by Michael
Caton-Jones and written by Monte Merrick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-60835063535001815202016-10-03T23:51:00.000+01:002016-10-07T22:48:51.064+01:00Poems I Journey With 18<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 1.7pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We turn to literature for many reasons: for comfort, for
escapism, for entertainment, to give us insight into life, to educate us, to
challenge us and so on and so forth. A turning point for this present reviewer
was his discovery of the local library. I remember joining the branch at
Charleville Mall in north inner city Dublin when I was seven years of age. It
was then that my love of books, for knowledge and for literature in general
began. To take out two different books every two weeks was a delight
for me and a brief embrace with the wonders of knowledge and indeed of life
itself. Umberto Eco has declared in one of his books that the main purpose of
literature is to learn how to die. In my
opinion he only took into account one side of the story in that declaration as
it is my contention, and indeed, that of many others, that the main purpose of
literature is to learn how to live and how to die. Life and death are
inextricably linked realities. Poems are in a sense a distillation of prose
literature, an intense expression of what is said in a more expanded and
expansive way therein.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVrZJEqfx1BML4YDerTybvnh-gHocN5gVQqO_axrzK7KtxMtWzeG1wppCE1OyAxxcskafTPJW2xWfO96a7EbdAR1Dz96qh-8YxGCdGkp6oIEVubQJBMxvoniB79Mkm9VcNWAurpxfuaU/s1600/carol-ann-duffy-portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVrZJEqfx1BML4YDerTybvnh-gHocN5gVQqO_axrzK7KtxMtWzeG1wppCE1OyAxxcskafTPJW2xWfO96a7EbdAR1Dz96qh-8YxGCdGkp6oIEVubQJBMxvoniB79Mkm9VcNWAurpxfuaU/s320/carol-ann-duffy-portrait.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carol Ann Duffy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This evening I would like to present the readers with a poem
from the pen of another wonderful woman poet, namely, Carol Ann Duffy. As the Wiki succinctly puts it: “Dame
Carol Ann Duffy, DBE FRSL (1955) is a Scottish poet and
playwright. She is Professor of Contemporary Poetry at Manchester
Metropolitan University, and was appointed Britain's Poet Laureate in
May 2009. She is the first woman, the first Scot, and the first openly LGBT person
to hold the position.” See this link: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Ann_Duffy" target="_blank">Carol Ann Duffy</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This poem works through a fairly standard technique or literary
device called “personification,” where Duffy presents us with a feminine
version of history, history as an old woman waking up in her bed and coming to
realise all that has been done to her. Rather than saying anything more at this
stage, let us read and reflect upon the poem:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">History<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She woke up old at last, alone,<br />
bones in a bed, not a tooth<br />
in her head, half dead, shuffled<br />
and limped downstairs<br />
in the rag of her nightdress,<br />
smelling of pee.<br />
<br />
Slurped tea, stared<br />
at her hand - twigs, stained gloves -<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
wheezed and coughed, pulled on<br />
the coat that hung from a hook<br />
on the door, lay on the sofa,<br />
dozed, snored.<br />
<br />
She was History.<br />
She'd seen them ease him down<br />
from the Cross, his mother gasping<br />
for breath, as though his death<br />
was a difficult birth, the soldiers spitting,<br />
spears in the earth;<br />
<br />
been there<br />
when the fisherman swore he was back<br />
from the dead; seen the basilicas rise<br />
in Jerusalem, Constantinople, Sicily; watched<br />
for a hundred years as the air of Rome<br />
turned into stone;<br />
<br />
witnessed the wars,<br />
the bloody crusades, knew them by date<br />
and by name, Bannockburn, Passchendaele,<br />
Babi Yar, Vietnam. She'd heard the last words<br />
of the martyrs burnt at the stake, the murderers<br />
hung by the neck,<br />
<br />
seen up-close<br />
how the saint whistled and spat in the flames,<br />
how the dictator strutting and stuttering film<br />
blew out his brains, how the children waved<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
their little hands from the trains. She woke again,<br />
cold, in the dark,<br />
<br />
in the empty house.<br />
Bricks through the window now, thieves<br />
in the night. When they rang on her bell<br />
there was nobody there; fresh graffiti sprayed<br />
on her door, shit wrapped in a newspaper posted<br />
onto the floor.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i><i><span style="color: white; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/carol-ann-duffy/poems/">Carol Ann Duffy</a></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Carol Ann Duffy covers
some 2000 years of history since the birth of Jesus Christ in this poem and comments on how
history, personified as a woman, might feel given the drastic changes that have
occurred over those two millennia. This
personification is an effective conceit to get us thinking. The one problem I have with this poem is that perhaps the period covered in too broad a canvas that thereby renders the conceit somewhat too simplistic and consequently somewhat less than effective as a literary device here. However, the message of the poem is clear:- we humans have really messed up and messed up very badly indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-44775510666639818392016-09-29T22:44:00.000+01:002016-09-29T22:57:36.082+01:00Poems I Journey With 17<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXWitD0xrscAuGHUhxo_-sJeBqEZSs_H7963bHLtxuinLWDtz6gKSGOOuDaMRcrLUU5vQBPBMlkhikGWyx3oEQQFhAGuu88XQc5EuKbfwWRLZI9NGQ2O04ePBqMQyPmD6SASvHQT0yi8/s1600/adrienne-rich_photo-by-thomas-victor-courtesy-of-schlesinger-library_305px_0_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXWitD0xrscAuGHUhxo_-sJeBqEZSs_H7963bHLtxuinLWDtz6gKSGOOuDaMRcrLUU5vQBPBMlkhikGWyx3oEQQFhAGuu88XQc5EuKbfwWRLZI9NGQ2O04ePBqMQyPmD6SASvHQT0yi8/s320/adrienne-rich_photo-by-thomas-victor-courtesy-of-schlesinger-library_305px_0_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young Adrienne Rich</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">I like reading new
and unusual poems from as many different cultural backgrounds as the English
language will allow me. The poem I wish to offer for the reader’s perusal and
reflection is one by the American Jewish poet Adrienne Rich (1929 – 2012). The
following poem I loved for its clarity of expression and for a new, if unusually
realistic, insight into love that I had never actually considered before.
Poems, like all good literature, should break new ground both in language and
form, in content and ideas. This, Rich does with an ease that almost camouflages her
consummate skill as an author. The poem I have chosen here is called “Translations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Translations</span></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br />
<i>December 25, 1972</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">You show me the
poems of some woman<br />
my age, or younger<br />
translated from your language<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Certain words
occur: enemy, oven, sorrow<br />
enough to let me know<br />
she's a woman of my time<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">obsessed<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">with Love, our
subject:<br />
we've trained it like ivy to our walls<br />
baked it like bread in our ovens<br />
worn it like lead on our ankles<br />
watched it through binoculars as if<br />
it were a helicopter<br />
bringing food to our famine<br />
or the satellite<br />
of a hostile power<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">I begin to see that
woman<br />
doing things: stirring rice<br />
ironing a skirt<br />
typing a manuscript till dawn<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">trying to make a
call<br />
from a phonebooth<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">The phone rings
endlessly<br />
in a man's bedroom<br />
she hears him telling someone else<br />
Never mind. She'll get tired.<br />
hears him telling her story to her sister<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">who becomes her
enemy<br />
and will in her own way<br />
light her own way to sorrow<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">ignorant of the
fact this way of grief<br />
is shared, unnecessary<br />
and political.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">The Briefest of Commentaries<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></u></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9xEzBuuVSkGSHAr-H7vDFeENFg0byGdG_moLLzbSIUafZh_fv1BOtlxv2KcG3GR0wYZ7avVzQ7sYJbbtMCqDCvti0ZqHXtJAx2dTyCein-TbOcjJu1ql1aILAwxjhtJGHuHx-owKZ4ak/s1600/adrienne-rich_custom-163c42254fa94e7175f08889f4a161b2c6fc8212-s6-c30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9xEzBuuVSkGSHAr-H7vDFeENFg0byGdG_moLLzbSIUafZh_fv1BOtlxv2KcG3GR0wYZ7avVzQ7sYJbbtMCqDCvti0ZqHXtJAx2dTyCein-TbOcjJu1ql1aILAwxjhtJGHuHx-owKZ4ak/s400/adrienne-rich_custom-163c42254fa94e7175f08889f4a161b2c6fc8212-s6-c30.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An older Adrienne Rich</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">I love people who push against convention, not in an anarchic
sense, I hasten to add, but in a well thought-out and considered fashion. They
are, of course, correct in their presuppositions, intuition and consequent
reasoning, because, after all, nothing in the world is either “black or white,”
or “cut and dried.” Rich belongs to this marvellous group of questioning
authors who push against convention, not to bring the state of things to a
crisis or to a state of collapse, but to advance a broader more inclusive
agenda. Rich was married, and with her husband, who ended his life at a
tragically young age of 45, parented three sons. In her late forties she began a
lesbian relationship with Jamaican-born novelist and editor, Michelle
Cliff, a relationship which lasted until her death. So her experiences of life
were broad and unconventional.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">What I like above this poem is that there are many renditions that
could be given of poems from one language to another. Such renditions will
depend upon the understanding of the text by the particular translator. Let us
be aware of how we translate or interpret things, Rich seems to be saying to
me. Let me not look on life solely from my own perspective. Let me try and see
it through another optic if I can at all. I also like the conversational tone
of the poem. Rich draws us into the conversation as she addresses the reader
(her lover, her companion, her friend or whoever) in the second person
singular. The following four lines leap
off the page for me:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Certain words
occur: enemy, oven, sorrow<br />
enough to let me know<br />
she's a woman of my time<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">obsessed<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Ah yes, I recognise such a woman myself in my mother and in many
of the women whom I have met in my time: women who baked for and in love; who
fought for and in love; women who were sorrowful because they suffered much in
loving. Then, the single word “obsessed” that has its own line, indeed, its own
stanza all to itself is most apt indeed. Women are obsessed, and then she tells us with what in
the first word of the next stanza, should we ever be in doubt. Of course, that obsession is with Love. That
very stanza is worth reproducing here again for our timely reflection:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">with Love, our
subject:<br />
we've trained it like ivy to our walls<br />
baked it like bread in our ovens<br />
worn it like lead on our ankles<br />
watched it through binoculars as if<br />
it were a helicopter<br />
bringing food to our famine<br />
or the satellite<br />
of a hostile power<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">There is a marvellous mix of observation of all womanly occupations
and preoccupations with her personal experience in this poem. As well as the
usual occupations like ironing and household tasks we have the image of a woman
typing a manuscript till dawn – a definite experience personal to a poet. Then, like the scene from a film, we are presented with the image of a woman trying to
communicate with her ex-lover by phone. Again this scene is cinematic in
quality: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">The phone rings
endlessly<br />
in a man's bedroom</span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">she hears him telling someone else<br />
Never mind. She'll get tired.<br />
hears him telling her story to her sister<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Here we have an account of the man’s disloyalty, and indeed his
betrayal of her to her sister to add salt to the wound of love. And yet all
this grief, or indeed much of it, is caused by the narrow ageements accepted
by more conservative society, by a politics of narrow conventions. There is
much freedom pointed to in this poem. We, as readers, are invited to ponder
these social conventions critically and to question our own prejudices and
presuppositions. Such is the task of all good literature and certainly that of
all good poetry:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">Never mind. She'll get tired.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br />
hears him telling her story to her sister<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">who becomes her
enemy</span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">and will in her own way<br />
light her own way to sorrow<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">ignorant of the
fact this way of grief</span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">is shared, unnecessary<br />
and political.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-14355446509252252892016-09-28T23:18:00.002+01:002016-09-28T23:29:30.608+01:00Poems I Journey With 16<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMChmyszLv93akZOh295qlSPGbJk_ftQ_0HAhjzj_i_yCffeAQxyfMSQWERpvbrYQEJE-jy7waWN_OP-9XPCOINvxJcWVSt-QN1npVKShMytsFt0Y3jbQBCGFOCVOzeu3R23dl3UV275M/s1600/babr003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMChmyszLv93akZOh295qlSPGbJk_ftQ_0HAhjzj_i_yCffeAQxyfMSQWERpvbrYQEJE-jy7waWN_OP-9XPCOINvxJcWVSt-QN1npVKShMytsFt0Y3jbQBCGFOCVOzeu3R23dl3UV275M/s400/babr003.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth Barrett Browning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; padding: 0cm;">Elizabeth Barrett Browning</span><span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; padding: 0cm;"> (1806 – 1861) was
one of the most prominent English poets of the Victorian era, popular in
Britain and the United States during her lifetime. She was vehemently anti-slavery
even though her father had earned much of his wealth from that much maligned, exploitative
and cruel industry. She had married her husband Robert Browning in secret and went
with him to live in Florence, having been disinherited by her father. Emily Dickinson
was an avid fan of Barrett Browning and the latter’s work greatly influenced the
American poet who admired her as a woman of achievement. Her popularity in the
United States and Britain was further advanced by her stands against social
injustice, including slavery in the United States, injustice toward Italian
citizens by foreign rulers, and child labour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; padding: 0cm;">Here,
let me offer the reader of this blog two poems from Barrett Browning’s pen, “A Musical
Instrument” published posthumously and her most frequently anthologized poem “How
do I Love Thee?” Both poems speak eloquently for themselves and are rather ethereal
and mystical in tone and sentiment. Barrett Browning was extremely spiritual and religious and a gifted linguist and scholar, all self-taught. She knew Greek, Latin and Hebrew and translated many pieces from the early Fathers of the Church into English and read the Hebrew Bible. All her life she was sickly, but her delicate physical condition did not prevent either her intellectual or spiritual insights and visions.</span></div>
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<span class="hdg"><b><span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; padding: 0cm;">A Musical Instrument</span></b></span><b><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">I.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Down in the reeds by the river?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Spreading ruin and scattering ban,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And breaking the golden lilies afloat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">With the dragon-fly on the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">II.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">From the deep cool bed of the river:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The limpid water turbidly ran,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And the broken lilies a-dying lay,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And the dragon-fly had fled away,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Ere he brought it out of the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">III.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">High on the shore sate the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">While turbidly flowed the river;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And hacked and hewed as a great god can,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">To prove it fresh from the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">IV.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">He cut it short, did the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">(How tall it stood in the river!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Steadily from the outside ring,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And notched the poor dry empty thing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">In holes, as he sate by the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">V.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Laughed while he sate by the river,)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The only way, since gods began<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">To make sweet music, they could succeed.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">He blew in power by the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">VI.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Piercing sweet by the river!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The sun on the hill forgot to die,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Came back to dream on the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong style="font-style: inherit;"><span style="border: none 1.0pt; color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; padding: 0cm;">VII.</span></strong><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">To laugh as he sits by the river,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Making a poet out of a man:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">For the reed which grows nevermore again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As a reed with the reeds in the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBq-4u8kBlvhbFdLrj2hR6ZPdXa0t6Cx_zZTcwBcHuLtp1fXuitrcE0_RoZCa30yb-A6qYGkjxwSQqBnh4tUeVj-_j9Xhvd1MshIBgaym7Lk5ngWpve0gXOWFQbt-EMGbnr_dQBm5a5oY/s1600/BrowningFamily-26yj41l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBq-4u8kBlvhbFdLrj2hR6ZPdXa0t6Cx_zZTcwBcHuLtp1fXuitrcE0_RoZCa30yb-A6qYGkjxwSQqBnh4tUeVj-_j9Xhvd1MshIBgaym7Lk5ngWpve0gXOWFQbt-EMGbnr_dQBm5a5oY/s640/BrowningFamily-26yj41l.jpg" width="496" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth's husband Robert Browning and their son Robert Junior, called Pen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">How Do I Love Thee?</span></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br />
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.<br />
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height<br />
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight<br />
For the ends of being and ideal grace.<br />
I love thee to the level of every day's<br />
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.<br />
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.<br />
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.<br />
I love thee with the passion put to use<br />
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.<br />
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose<br />
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,<br />
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,<br />
I shall but love thee better after death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sonnet
XLIII<br />
</span></i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;">from<i> Sonnets from the Portuguese, </i>1845
(published 1850)</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-49267253658698368792016-09-27T23:36:00.000+01:002016-09-28T00:05:00.830+01:00Poems I Journey With 15<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0omxx8TYKTeKkMG7VE4WuYhPTQKEpOg6Tg54obaD-M_RR9sIQ4E4H1wTmZkeQRIzOC2FAkpkWrdaESq7jr-CzQ_0wcbbHmW2gSF6K45I4e7-RlLAY1pRPKRKTm0SSNwfpLe_pylMOi9U/s1600/Horace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0omxx8TYKTeKkMG7VE4WuYhPTQKEpOg6Tg54obaD-M_RR9sIQ4E4H1wTmZkeQRIzOC2FAkpkWrdaESq7jr-CzQ_0wcbbHmW2gSF6K45I4e7-RlLAY1pRPKRKTm0SSNwfpLe_pylMOi9U/s320/Horace.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old depiction of Horace</td></tr>
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<h3 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">There is much richness in the classics, that is in Latin
and classical Greek texts. Unfortunately, I never got to study classical Greek
at school, though I did study Latin to Leaving Certificate level. Being
reasonably good at languages, I also loved studying the poems of Virgil, Horace
and Ovid and so on. Much of what I learned over forty years ago is
unfortunately lost somewhere in the recesses of my memory. Retirement will certainly entice me to
reacquaint myself with the Latin language and some of the texts of those old
poets. I remember well Horace’s agricultural metaphors and his love for wine. I’m
sure the reader of these lines will know that most famous of quotes from his
pen, namely “carpe diem” or “seize/pluck the day.” These few lines from that famous Ode are
worth quoting here for the beauty of the language: “Tu ne quaesieris — scire
nefas — quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoë .... dum loquimur,
fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” = “Do not ask — it is wrong
to know (it is impossible to know) — what end (quem finem) the gods have in
store for you or for me, Leuconoë .... while we talk (discuss) envious time flees
away: pluck the day, and believe as little as possible in tomorrow!” I wish I was at home in Latin so that I could
translate the verses given on my own. I had to use an on-line dictionary and
Google translate and compare to other translations. Still I enjoyed the activity as I began to
remember some of my old Latin skills. <o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<h3 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">The reason I begin this post with a diversion into
an Horatian Ode is that I should like to share a poem from the great Professor,
classical scholar and poet A.E. Housman (1859 – 1936) with you all this
evening. He was steeped in all things classical and is reckoned to be one of
the greatest classical scholars of the twentieth century. Such poets as those
listed above and many others from both Latin and Greek would have influenced my
chosen poet.</span><o:p></o:p></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h3 align="center" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">XXXI</span></h3>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The gale, it plies the saplings double,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">And thick on Severn snow the leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">When Uricon the city stood:<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">'Tis the old wind in the old anger,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">But then it threshed another wood.<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">At yonder heaving hill would stare:<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The blood that warms an English yeoman,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">There, like the wind through woods in riot,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Through him the gale of life blew high;<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The tree of man was never quiet:<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The gale, it plies the saplings double,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">To-day the Roman and his trouble<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Are ashes under Uricon.<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
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<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Briefest of Commentaries<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br /></span></u></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71VUwoTFStnAaujBImPIXWs1DnpEl1DNRlrZSxjOXgC4ik2eg5erDlKF2LopZRSUY-cLPyDRvIt5-kFBqDBy5A5XdUE_czxZQodFrD70KO7-Cen0HRooejVmL6EUOwv2q-2xiDykHC8Y/s1600/housman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71VUwoTFStnAaujBImPIXWs1DnpEl1DNRlrZSxjOXgC4ik2eg5erDlKF2LopZRSUY-cLPyDRvIt5-kFBqDBy5A5XdUE_czxZQodFrD70KO7-Cen0HRooejVmL6EUOwv2q-2xiDykHC8Y/s400/housman.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A.E. Housman</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This
poem occurs in a collection called <i>A Shropshire Lad</i></span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"> and was first published
in 1896 at Housman's own expense after several publishers had turned it down.
His colleagues and students were surprised by the emotional depth and
vulnerability it revealed in an apparently distant and self-contained man. This poem is the 31<sup>st</sup> poem, its
title designated in Roman numerals as XXXI of some 63 poems in the collection. In the distance, some five miles to the north
of Wenlock Edge, is a forested hill, the Wrekin (pronounced REE-kin).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">“Holt” is an old Germanic word
(and English, with its Anglo-Saxon ancestry, is a Germanic language) for a
wood, a forested area. “Hanger” also comes from an old Anglo-Saxon term;
it means a wood on a slope, like the forest on Wenlock Edge. The wind blew
through those woods “when Uricon the city stood.” He is taking us back to
Roman Britain — Britain after the Romans had invaded and settled there.
His “Uricon” was the Roman city Viriconium/Viroconium, also called
Uriconium, which lay where the present day town of Wroxeter lies, several miles
west of the Wrekin. It was the fourth largest Roman City in ancient
Britain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As a classicist, A.E. Housman
is reminded of Roman Britain. As he
views the restlessness of the fleecy trees on Wenlock Edge and on Wrekin hill
or mountain he becomes aware of his own restlessness and realises that such
discomfort has been part of the human condition for hundreds of years. We are
in the province, of course, of what was classically called “pathetic fallacy,”
namely the attribution of human feelings and responses to inanimate things or
animals, especially in art and literature. Here “'Tis
the old wind in the old anger,” and then we have the recalling or imagining of
how a Roman soldier or official might have felt over 1500 years before:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">At yonder heaving hill would stare:<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The blood that warms an English yeoman,<o:p></o:p></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; line-height: 150%;">The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></pre>
<pre style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></pre>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">A.E. Housman is moved by the
restlessness of the wind in the trees and by his own inner restlessness as part
of the human condition. He feels deeply his own continuity with the sympathies
and emotions of another human being from more ancient times, especially with how
a Roman soldier or official might have felt standing in the same spot as the
poet. This is a wonderfully simple but an extraordinarily powerful poem from a
very fine poet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-70533804354416013882016-09-25T13:25:00.000+01:002016-09-26T23:39:32.589+01:00Poems I Journey With 14<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUC2NNbJOeNVwjhvpmI3KT7oU4cz1jHl9Gea49yJOsIATitz6xLz5G9R-UVqy7lZ28Za2Y0XbjsHfUI-beChSIiUhjAqisBCRQG7Mf9NnHsEgjN-HL6ETGITsusCj0tZqIdNm2xpmpDo/s1600/47584650.cached.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUC2NNbJOeNVwjhvpmI3KT7oU4cz1jHl9Gea49yJOsIATitz6xLz5G9R-UVqy7lZ28Za2Y0XbjsHfUI-beChSIiUhjAqisBCRQG7Mf9NnHsEgjN-HL6ETGITsusCj0tZqIdNm2xpmpDo/s320/47584650.cached.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily Dickinson</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">After Gerard Manley Hopkins, I turn most often to the wonderful
and wondrous rhythms of the poems of Emily Dickinson, another spiritual and
mystical poet who also loved her periods of isolation and aloneness and even
ascetic living like the Victorian Jesuit priest and convert. Dickinson was born
in 1830 (fourteen years before Hopkins was born) and died at the age of 56 in
1886 when Hopkins was 42. While their lives overlapped then for some 42
years in terms of linear time neither would obviously have been aware of the
writings of the other given their personal and indeed the social circumstances
of the day and indeed the fact that neither sought publication of their work.
But, I personally get a lot of spiritual sustenance from the poems of
both great poets. Both were also most unusual is that they both broke away from
the then conservative conventions of what poetry was deemed to be. While both
are spiritual and mystical poets their work is correspondingly completely
"sui generis," unique and authentic to the very syllable of their
output. As her poems are so short I will offer three short favourite
poems from Dickinson's pen here below:</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">1.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Hope is a
thing with feathers</b></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
<i>Hope is a thing with feathers—</i></span><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That perches in the soul—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And sings the tune without the words—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And never stops—at all—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And sore must be the storm—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That could abash the little Bird</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That kept so many warm—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
I've heard it in the chillest land—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And on the strangest Sea—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Yet, never, in Extremity,</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It asked a crumb—of Me.</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
2. <b>Heaven</b></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Heaven"—is what I cannot
reach!</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Apple on the Tree—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Provided it do hopeless—hang—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That—"Heaven" is—to Me!</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br style="font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" />
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The interdicted Land—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Behind the Hill—the House behind—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">There—Paradise—is found!</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br style="font-family: Roboto, sans-serif;" />
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The credulous—decoy—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Enamored—of the Conjuror—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That spurned us—Yesterday! </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHbwM90HLZcMziiU3eqVxdSJwjrBAcjCrhsWaLwPwYCyvv6_JqP-l8s-uvsDyO5oZcNKTr9xY2f_E96Kpd4PCgtbvUecZRvwgCIDfPBkY7f6G_7oW57S4s_HYkIvvnVmHWNNQxkbXoVI/s1600/emily_primary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHbwM90HLZcMziiU3eqVxdSJwjrBAcjCrhsWaLwPwYCyvv6_JqP-l8s-uvsDyO5oZcNKTr9xY2f_E96Kpd4PCgtbvUecZRvwgCIDfPBkY7f6G_7oW57S4s_HYkIvvnVmHWNNQxkbXoVI/s400/emily_primary.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A somewhat younger Emily Dickinson</td></tr>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
3.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>My cocoon tightens, colors
tease</b></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
<i>MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, </i></span><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I 'm feeling for the air; </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A dim capacity for wings </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Degrades the dress I wear. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
A power of butterfly must be </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The aptitude to fly, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Meadows of majesty concedes </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And easy sweeps of sky. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
So I must baffle at the hint </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And cipher at the sign, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And make much blunder, if at
last </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I take the clew divine. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
<u>The Briefest of Commentaries</u>:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I love Emily Dickinson's poems
because they invariably give me a spiritual lift and a deep insight into the
depths that simple things can have. I also like her unique writing style with
dashes, which is completely unique to her and revolutionary, indeed, at the
time she was writing. She is simply unique, "sui generis" and
so authentic. Who could not be moved by the image of a little bird? It is
at once so fragile and yet can fly to such heights and gain an overall view of
things we humans are not privy to. Then the equating of hope - a complete
abstraction - with that little physical image of a bird is simply mindblowingly
powerful. That equation or juxtaposition of two utterly different "objects"
is so wonderful and wondrous that it strikes us immediately as being
insightful. Hope, which we all need to keep going, is often as fragile as a
little bird which we often doubt will be able to weather the storms of life.
Where does that little bird of hope perch? Yes, in the very cage of our souls!
It sings a tune without words, the delicate and fragile tune of hope.
And that strange little fragile creature, that brittle bird of hope, never
asked a single crumb of sustenance from its jailer, that is, ME and YOU and
US!!</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
The second poem is about Heaven. However, no mystic will ever offer a cheap or
cheapened image of that place or state or whatever we call Heaven.
Dickinson presents that reality as somewhat unattainable like the apple
on the highest bough while we are mere children playing about the trunk of that
great tree. There are hints also of Moses not being granted his wish to the
Promised Land which has traditionally also been linked with whatever Heaven is,
may be or could be. In fact, I like this poem also, and have placed it under
the poem on Hope as Dickinson talks about the reaching of the apple being
absolutely hopeless. In that regard let me repeat its opening stanza for
our contemplation here:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></b><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Heaven"—is what I cannot
reach!</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Apple
on the Tree—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Provided
it do hopeless—hang—</span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That—"Heaven"
is—to Me!</span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
The third poem reminds me of the sage advice, or at least the wise comment of
Anais Nin (1903 - 1977) that the day will come for all of us "when the
risk to remain tight in the bud is more painful than the risk it takes to
blossom." These words resonate with those of the entire poem and
especially those of the first stanza. The growth of the little seed in the bud
to full flower and blossom parallels the formation of the butterfly from egg to
larva (caterpillar) to pupa (chrysalis) to adult butterfly:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MY cocoon
tightens, colors tease, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I 'm
feeling for the air; </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A dim
capacity for wings </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Degrades
the dress I wear. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif;">
</span>
</span>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-46615403936025453622016-09-25T00:45:00.000+01:002016-09-25T13:56:51.540+01:00Poems I Journey With 13<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GCP1SYV3YigRMU-n2kvoPMl_4vac11Ew3XKn1eXR_sfrKf6b38m0N5dvpZCXUf7lkqnjRQCpt5-ILZn-ZgnTP-avopytGiEp1n60IuzUdeoSyQGwgXfvitCeLmm1oMhhUfN8eaNdVGI/s1600/7261067230_68135e12f9_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GCP1SYV3YigRMU-n2kvoPMl_4vac11Ew3XKn1eXR_sfrKf6b38m0N5dvpZCXUf7lkqnjRQCpt5-ILZn-ZgnTP-avopytGiEp1n60IuzUdeoSyQGwgXfvitCeLmm1oMhhUfN8eaNdVGI/s320/7261067230_68135e12f9_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young GM Hopkins at University</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Gerard Manley Hopkins was only one month short of his 45th
birthday when he died from typhoid fever in Dublin, Ireland in 1889. He
had been employed as a lecturer in classics in the Catholic University of
Ireland (the forerunner of University College Dublin) founded by the great
Victorian John Henry Cardinal Newman in 1854. The world-renowned literary
critic Sir Christopher Bruce Ricks, an expert on the Victorian period deems
Hopkins to be "the most original poet" of that time. Such is Hopkins's
originality and genius that he may clearly considered as influential as T.S.
Eliot in the starting of the modernist movement in poetry in the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It is also quite obvious to poetry
readers that G.M. Hopkins's experiments with elliptical phrasing and double
meanings, and even quirky conversational rhythms liberated the likes of W.H.
Auden and Dylan Thomas to give free rein to their freer and peculiarly personal
rhythms. Here I'd like to share one of my favourite Hopkins poems with the
reader.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">God's Grandeur </span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">(1877, written when the
poet was 33)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The world is charged with the grandeur of God.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And for all this nature is never spent;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And though the last lights off the black west went</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Oh ,morning at the brown brink eastward, springs -</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Because the Holy Ghost over the bent</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Commentary</span></u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPITIRgxUrrJJlE9PQQOQgGIHBnSKZolb_ntjCYmPWYA9UnBkJQC5Sxt1HldqKKLW91qdaWhMVHijZdsSKJu5Bxd_WMDHi6-v56NHqsJl991yT9-ePKJrVjG_0YNjBZupKNSN3nUVpFnI/s1600/gerard-manley-hopkinss-quotes-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPITIRgxUrrJJlE9PQQOQgGIHBnSKZolb_ntjCYmPWYA9UnBkJQC5Sxt1HldqKKLW91qdaWhMVHijZdsSKJu5Bxd_WMDHi6-v56NHqsJl991yT9-ePKJrVjG_0YNjBZupKNSN3nUVpFnI/s320/gerard-manley-hopkinss-quotes-8.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rev Gerard Manley Hopkins, SJ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I don't want to mar the appreciation of this sonnet by superfluous
or simplistic comment. However, some thoughts and reflections are demanded by
this beautifully sublime text. On the surface we will notice that it is
written in the form of the Italian or Petrarchan Sonnet - that is a poem in
fourteen lines that consists of an octave (eight lines) with the rhyming scheme <i>abbaabba </i>and
a sestet (six lines) that has the possibility of either being written in one of
two rhyme schemes - either <i>cdecde </i>or <i>cdcdcd. </i>The
sestet above is the latter of these two schemes. However, Hopkins does more,
much more, that is, he experiments with many interesting sounds within that
external superficial scheme. We note that the metre here is not that of
"sprung rhythm" for which Hopkins is so famous, but he does vary
greatly the iambic pentameter lines of the conventional sonnet. In that
context, we notice the run-on lines between the end word "oil" of the
third and the beginning word of the next line that is very dramatic and startling,
namely "Crushed." And the next nine monosyllabic words in that
very line after the disyllabic, namely <i>Why do men then now not reck his
rod? </i>are nothing short of wonderfully unique and sonorous in sound and
tone. They are all stressed syllables, one after another and highlight
the urgency of Hopkins question represented in those words. I relish reading
them aloud as all readers of poetry should. Like many of my teachers over the
years in the area of poetry, I firmly believe the poems are written more for
the ear than for the eye. In like manner, the next line contains the heavy
falling rhythm of the repeated words "have trod" that come after the
quick lilt of the polysyllabic "generations." This technique
recreates the sound of plodding steps in a striking onomatopoeia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">God's sustaining power over the universe is alive with an electric
power that passes constantly like a live current through its many natural
manifestations. The reader can trace this potent image of God's on-going
support of nature through the poem in his own time. The image of the
olive press is also magnificently and startlingly potent. This reader
especially loves the lines:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">because they capture for me the smelliness and dirtiness of our
daily toil and thereby portray our struggle with our animality, fragility and
mortality all imaged forth so powerfully in simple and direct everyday words. I
also delight in Hopkins's portrayal of humankind's alienation from its
spiritual and natural roots in the soil from which indeed he himself has
sprung. The very leather of his shoes or boots cuts him off from his
oneness or unity with the very clay or soil of that earth :<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">nor can foot feel, being shod. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">In short, this poem reflects Gerard Manley
Hopkins's conviction that the physical world around us is like a book
written by God, in which any attentive reader can detect the signs of a
benevolent and caring God who protects and sustains that world like a great
guardian angel:</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Because the Holy Ghost over the bent</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-62497574631862487082016-09-22T21:47:00.000+01:002016-09-25T14:05:25.880+01:00Poems I Journey With 12<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLmr5jFzkhgnQUW6ADzuUQDeIQ3VokkZfoLfO9b96Tbtb7Pf7weHJyZWrLRX91ubb9cAY_vFRMcn30TIpn65YiPM9e5LrAI_QVpUHqrZdg8SpDb_LXeQtXc-cjN8hxtD80YkgbNI1nbQ/s1600/rosen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLmr5jFzkhgnQUW6ADzuUQDeIQ3VokkZfoLfO9b96Tbtb7Pf7weHJyZWrLRX91ubb9cAY_vFRMcn30TIpn65YiPM9e5LrAI_QVpUHqrZdg8SpDb_LXeQtXc-cjN8hxtD80YkgbNI1nbQ/s400/rosen1.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;">The world throws up many wonderful and wondrous souls over and
over again, but none so wonderful and wondrous as Isaac Rosenberg (1890 - 1918)
who was sadly killed at the age of 27 as he and others were returning to their
trenches, having just finished night patrol. Rosenberg was the least privileged
of the British poets as he was born into a poor working-class Jewish family
that had emigrated from Russia. His economic circumstances militated
against his attending either Cambridge or Oxford. However, he was a talented
artist as well as a great poet, whom both Eliot and Pound acknowledged as a
good modernist poet - great praise indeed. Had he lived he would have
matched them with work equally as good as theirs. Alas that was not to
be. Too many young men were killed during the Great War - "half the
seed of Europe one by one" as Wilfred Owen, another First World War poet
would put it. As a talented artist, the young Rosenberg enrolled in evening
classes in the Art School at Birkbeck College, London University. Indeed, he
had hoped to make his living as a portrait artist and had moved to South Africa
to pursue that career when war broke out. Like most young men of his time he
would have felt he was abandoning his native homeland were he not to return to
England and enlist. He was no sympathizer with the war at all - he simply felt
duty-bound like many a young man of his era. He was to write in a letter
to a friend that "I never joined the army for patriotic reasons.
Nothing can justify war. I suppose we must all fight to get the
trouble over." Commentators are united in their view that the voice
of a modernist poet can be heard in his poems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Returning, We Hear the Larks</span></b><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";"><br />
<i>Sombre the night is. </i></span><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And
though we have our lives, we know<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">What
sinister threat lies there.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Dragging
these anguished limbs, we only know<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">This
poison-blasted track opens on our camp –<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">On a
little safe sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">But
hark! joy - joy - strange joy. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Lo!
heights of night ringing with unseen larks. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Music
showering our upturned list’ning faces.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Death
could drop from the dark<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As
easily as song –<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">But
song only dropped, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Like
a blind man’s dreams on the sand<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">By
dangerous tides, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Like
a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there, </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Or
her kisses where a serpent hides. </span></i><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRY_RTrAJ5RYjDXGiI0Nm24JxRqzJlsGnZyZgeL3gZ_4gRsY3bbVw2jBlDNptRwB8Au19UqGNOjTHQy0okoceO2Z7xXVl7KZ8mbd4iHukiVPlTBTS_DhNWBBXqH-FJi9JoiGh87nFJ7A/s1600/Rosenberg.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRY_RTrAJ5RYjDXGiI0Nm24JxRqzJlsGnZyZgeL3gZ_4gRsY3bbVw2jBlDNptRwB8Au19UqGNOjTHQy0okoceO2Z7xXVl7KZ8mbd4iHukiVPlTBTS_DhNWBBXqH-FJi9JoiGh87nFJ7A/s640/Rosenberg.gif" width="456" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Isaac
Rosenberg, selfportrait, 1915<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><br />
It is somewhat ironic that it was when returning from such a patrol the the
young artist and poet, Isaac Rosenberg was killed. "</span><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">And though we have our lives, we know //What
sinister threat lies there" are words sombre indeed as the night. The
opening imagery is clear and stark: "dragging anguished limbs,"
"poison-blasted tracks," and then the wonder of hearing a little
joyous song breaks the sombre tone with joyful aural images in the stanza</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">But
hark! joy - joy - strange joy. </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Lo!
heights of night ringing with unseen larks. </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Music
showering our upturned list’ning faces,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">lines that obviously make more sense when read
aloud to get their full aural effect. And then, we are given the wondrous and
wonderful final stanza that is loaded with mystery and magic interwoven with
fear and dread. It is as if Rosenberg is taking the fear and awfulness created
in the first and second stanzas and the joy, beauty and exultation of the third
and combining them both into a rather eerily beautiful and shockingly scary
mixture in the final stanza. It is indeed eerie and scary that death can drop
from the dark sky just as easily as song, but that is the nature of war.
Then those wondrous and magical lines that suggest inevitable lostness
(blindman's dreams) on "sands," (not a very stable support) which are
right beside "dangerous tides" (being washed away to destruction.)
Then those juxtaposed opposites in "girl's dark hair" (love and
beauty) and the "ruin" that may lie there is hauntingly bleak. Finally,
then, even her kisses which should be sweet, may hide the serpent lurking deep
within. And so, to end, dear reader, let us reread and ponder the words
of the last stanza:</span><span style="font-family: "bookman old style" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Death
could drop from the dark <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">As
easily as song – <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">But
song only dropped, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Like
a blind man’s dreams on the sand <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">By
dangerous tides, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Like
a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "bookman old style" , "serif";">Or
her kisses where a serpent hides. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-87744938403392517492016-09-21T20:11:00.003+01:002016-09-25T17:49:40.532+01:00Poems I Journey With 11<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 17px;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Clarity
versus Unclarity</span></u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This
contrast is one that has always confounded me. On the one hand each of us
desires clarity and yet there is pretty little of it to be found in this world
- at least, of the logical variety. At college we had to read Albert Camus'
short book <i>The Myth of Sisyphus </i>for our philosophy class. For
Camus, the philosopher of the absurd, or the absurd person, demands clarity or
certainty above all, but again there is little or none to be found in the world
around him. The sense of the absurd, then, results from the the conflict that
is created between human reason that demands clarity and the unreasonable
universe that is very unclear indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
I remember many years ago when I was a green young teacher walking into a staff
room early one winter's morning to find a colleague named Gerard Smith, one
very smart young gentleman, asking me the following question, "Well, Tim,
what is it all about?" What a huge question that was, and I was
taken aback to be asked it so early in the morning. I don't remember what
I replied, but I certainly would have said little of worth as I was quite a shy
young man then with little confidence. A few years later we were all to learn
that poor Gerard had died in America, having taken a career break from school.
It as only then that we found out that the poor man had a congenital and fatal
heart defect from his youth and that there remained little time on earth for
him when he asked his question. In hindsight, I then understood why he
had asked that weighty question. Again, he would have known that I had a
background in theology and philosophy, and he perhaps believed that I could
furnish him with some sort of answer to his deep question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
Most religious or spiritual gurus and writers acknowledge the unclarity of the
world and the sheer lack of any logical answers. They simply have a different
take on things, a much different perspective. Often they even seem to delight
in the sheer unclarity of things, and speak about mysticism, wonder and
mystery, especially that mystery which the divine is, that mystery that simply
cannot be caught in a net of words or in dogmatic phrases no matter how
intricate or sublime. There are other ways, apparently of encountering the
world, outside the logical. Those who have this perspective are often fond of quoting
the words of Blaise Pascal: "Le coeur as ses raisons que la raison ne
connait point" - "The heart has its reasons which reason itself
cannot understand." It is with this background in mind that I now invite
the reader to read Louis Macneice's very fine poem called "Entirely:"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Louis
Macneice 1907 - 1963<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b>Entirely</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><i>I</i></span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">f
we could get the hang of it entirely </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> It
would take too long; <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>All
we know is the splash of words in passing <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> And
falling twigs of song, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>And
when we try to eavesdrop on the great <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Presences
it is rarely <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>That
by a stroke of luck we can appropriate <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Even
a phrase entirely. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>If
we could find our happiness entirely <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> In
somebody else’s arms <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>We
should not fear the spears of the spring nor the city’s <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Yammering
fire alarms <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>But,
as it is, the spears each year go through <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Our
flesh and almost hourly <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>Bell
or siren banishes the blue <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Eyes
of Love entirely. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>And
if the world were black or white entirely <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> And
all the charts were plain <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>Instead
of a mad weir of tigerish waters, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> A
prism of delight and pain, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>We
might be surer where we wished to go <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Or
again we might be merely <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>Bored
but in brute reality there is no <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i> Road
that is right entirely.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I
love this poem because of its complete honesty and total authenticity.
The poet does not trot out old pieties or standard traditional
phrases that simplify life. Rather, he honestly presents a perspective on life
which is all too common and all too realistic - that is, that life is
exceedingly complex and often beyond our understanding of it. In short,
the poet admits to being somewhat stumped about the mystery that life faces us
with. The theme is clear, and that theme is that there is no ultimate clarity.
Camus drove himself wild looking for such clarity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
In stanza one the poet recounts how we simply cannot "get the hang of it
entirely," and even if we could, we simply would not live long enough to
figure it out. When we listen we often only pick up a fraction of what is
said. Indeed, we readers can add in our minds to this that we often do
not see the full picture as we are only granted a certain perspective on
events, often from an awkward angle. MacNeice hints at religious and spiritual
themes when he says that when sometimes we try to "eavesdrop on the great
Presences" we scarcely succeed in that endeavour at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
"[S]plash of words" and "falling twigs of song" are two
powerful images with the second one blending two totally opposite realities -
twigs (physical) and song (immaterial). Love is fleeting, not just the
romantic idea of it, but its physical reality, as we are not entirely satisfied
in our physical experience of it. The imagery of "spears"
reminds us of Shakespeare's line "to suffer the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune" and the intended meaning of both is the same, namely a
battle image to sum up the misfortunes we encounter in our lives. The
"yammering fire alarms" are those that are constantly calling out to
warm the citizens of London about the fires consequent on enemy attack.
Those bells "banish the Blue Eyes of Love entirely."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
The last stanza is as succinct as the other two and points out that it is
ludicrous to approach life in a "black and white" manner as there are
too many other colours in between the two that manifest themselves through
"a prism of delight and pain." Indeed, even the maps we get are not
one hundred per cent clear and logical. They are, rather, more than somewhat
unclear as they often manifest themselves in actuality as "a mad weir of
tigerish waters." Then there are times that we merely grow bored of
trying to find our way through the maze of unclarity that much of life can be.
Whatever our reaction to our situation in life is, we can be fully sure that
there is "no road that is right entirely."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
Finally, the title is a most apt and succinct summary of the poem, that is,
that we can never be totally sure entirely. I find this a comforting poem in
the down periods of my life as I begin to be less hard on myself as a result of
the wisdom garnered here. After all, we will never get everything right
entirely. Not even the commentary on this poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-11237638426794967922016-09-18T17:05:00.000+01:002016-09-25T18:40:12.542+01:00Poems I Journey With 10<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2ByDZGefpD8RqqpjfayOLXsgM1suKmFzlTF5LaoKg2yM_II66K2PN7cj54RII1SR-WyLUCg_lwqa9knWpfohb-uD6Wxq3l0yU3hYni9LIJ2b8r0jDsddxYVP_NSYKrTeAB5KemMeIDM/s1600/ar2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2ByDZGefpD8RqqpjfayOLXsgM1suKmFzlTF5LaoKg2yM_II66K2PN7cj54RII1SR-WyLUCg_lwqa9knWpfohb-uD6Wxq3l0yU3hYni9LIJ2b8r0jDsddxYVP_NSYKrTeAB5KemMeIDM/s400/ar2.jpg" width="370" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archibald Macleish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Archibald Macleish
(1892-1982) is a major modernist American poet and writer of the twentieth
century, and I first discovered him through his critical writings, rather than
through his poetry. I have beside me as I write the first book I bought
by him way back in 1978 when I was a mere twenty years of age. That book
is called <i>Poetry and Experience</i> (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books,
1961). I remember being blown away by how easily he communicated to the
reader his understanding of what poetry does and is. In part one of that
book, he discusses in a comprehensive way how poems work through sound, sign,
image and metaphor. In the second section of the book, Macleish treats
of how what he has discussed in the first section functions in the works of
Emily Dickinson, W.B. Yeats, Arthur Rimbaud and John Keats. This book,
consequently, would be a wonderful introduction to poetry appreciation for
anyone wishing to learn more about how to read and enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; padding: 0cm;">The Old Men in the Leaf Smoke</span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><br />
</span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The old men rake the yards for winter<br />
burning the autumn-fallen leaves.<br />
They have no lives, the one or the other.<br />
The leaves are dead, the old men live<br />
Only a little, light as a leaf,<br />
Left to themselves of all their loves:<br />
Light in the head most often too.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><br />
<br />
<i>Raking the leaves, raking the leaves,<br />
Raking life and leaf together,<br />
The old men smell of burning leaves,<br />
But which is which they wonder – whether<br />
Anyone tells the leaves and loves –<br />
Anyone left, that is, who lives.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">For me, it is the existential thrust of this poem that engages me
as a reader. I have already alluded to the psychiatrist Dr Irvin Yalom's
listing humanity's awareness of its mortality as being one of the four great
ultimate concerns in every human being's life. Raking leaves is a
perennial occupation for anyone with trees in their garden. Growing up,
it was one task I loved to do when I visited my country cousins and when I
spent some three years as a would-be monk. This poem uses the leaf as a
symbol of the mortality of humanity and for the shortness and beauty of life.
I love the way Macleish speaks of "lives" and "loves"
and "leaves" as they are, in effect, slight or partial rhymes as
these words share the consonants "l," "v" and
"s." Such felicity of language enchants this reader, simple
though this use of words is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Repetition in the poem gives it a song-like sound. As a
country boy, I can almost smell the burning leaves as I have stood beside many
a man burning dead vegetation in my time. Another riveting thing about this
poem is its apparent simplicity that somehow draws us into the deeper mystery
that life is. It would seem that life is an amorphous mix of things in
unity rather than a collection of random things. When one rakes a garden
one rakes many bits and pieces of vegetation and insect life and mud and clay
together in a unity, and that unity in plurality suggests a mysticism at work
in Macleish's sensitivity. And this latter mystical sensibility is all
too apparent to the perceptive and open reader. Let's read the second
stanza slowly and meditatively with the thoughts and sensitivities of this
paragraph in mind:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Raking the leaves, raking the leaves,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Raking life and leaf together,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The old men smell of burning leaves,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">But which is which they wonder – whether</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Anyone tells the leaves and loves –</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Anyone left, that is, who lives.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7M5bo6jXbfUEyN_0rz37DSR_GRsjxI4nbnPNVsLY8yCV-HLgn_6jgrGItN6hal5H274yiUfa025CIlHoaKwMI4TyNwbNPMynxlFi-j1Z7Cwi9UBB5L6GzNYXM5Vu7FX0n-bzeIUhzAM/s1600/1545900_912143195462894_6895480370313393707_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="float: left;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><v:shape alt="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7M5bo6jXbfUEyN_0rz37DSR_GRsjxI4nbnPNVsLY8yCV-HLgn_6jgrGItN6hal5H274yiUfa025CIlHoaKwMI4TyNwbNPMynxlFi-j1Z7Cwi9UBB5L6GzNYXM5Vu7FX0n-bzeIUhzAM/s320/1545900_912143195462894_6895480370313393707_n.jpg" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7M5bo6jXbfUEyN_0rz37DSR_GRsjxI4nbnPNVsLY8yCV-HLgn_6jgrGItN6hal5H274yiUfa025CIlHoaKwMI4TyNwbNPMynxlFi-j1Z7Cwi9UBB5L6GzNYXM5Vu7FX0n-bzeIUhzAM/s1600/1545900_912143195462894_6895480370313393707_n.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_33" o:button="t" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 178.5pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 240pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
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</v:imagedata></v:shape></span></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Mystically and linguistically leaves and lives and loves are all
somehow magically one. We are one with the poet raking them together as
we live. On the one hand, then, this is a sad and depressing poem, and yet, on
the other, this is a poem that suggests that we are part of the great cycle of
nature, and we are ennobled by being part of it, never lessened, as, after all,
we are the ones who do the raking. We are the ones who do the maintenance
on the garden. We, in our turn, will become old men or old women, as the
case may be, and we will surely smell of leaves and loves and lives.
Then, the beauty of the poem is that it does not state too much. It
connotes rather than denotes, and that is a wonderful device at the very heart
of poetry. Mystery, mystique, wonder and magic are always beyond
capturing in prose. They are more readily captured but never subdued or
crushed in poetry. That's why the last stanza defies paraphrase, which is
surely anathema to anyone with a poetic sensibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-24826640939726170982016-09-18T02:58:00.001+01:002016-09-25T18:01:24.948+01:00Poems I journey With 9<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">This morning I want to introduce the reader to another favourite
poem, this time from the pen of the great twentieth century English poet, W.H.
Auden (1907 - 1973) whose work never failed to inspire me and set me thinking.
One of my favourite poems of his is "Musée des Beaux Arts," a
short poem that was composed in 1938 and which was published a year later in a
newspaper. The eponymous title of the poem is the museum in question and
it is situated in Brussels, Belgium. The painting is by the Dutch Pieter
Brueghel, the Elder (c. 1525 - 1569) and is called "Landscape with the
Fall of Icarus." (1558) This is a fairly simple poem and it
basically sums up the thoughts and feelings inspired by a viewing of this great
painting. The description is ekphrastic that is it verbally describes all
the images that occur in the painting. In short, the poem does "exactly
what it says on the tin" or exactly what it says it will do in the
title. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Painting in question<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Musee des Beaux Arts</span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">W. H. Auden</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">About suffering they were never wrong,<br />
The old Masters: how well they understood<br />
Its human position: how it takes place<br />
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;<br />
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting<br />
For the miraculous birth, there always must be<br />
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating<br />
On a pond at the edge of the wood:<br />
They never forgot<br />
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course<br />
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot<br />
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse<br />
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away<br />
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may<br />
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,<br />
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone<br />
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green<br />
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen<br />
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,<br />
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I love the opening as it draws the reader in with its inversion of
the normal way of saying thimgs as we have to read on to find out who was never
wrong about suffering. Why were they never wrong? In the second
line we know it was the Old Masters, those old painters from the Dutch School.
Those old Masters were never wrong about human suffering. When one
views this painting, according to W.H. Auden, one realises quickly that while
someone is suffering (like Icarus hitting the water after flying too close to
the sun that caused the wax to melt on his constructed wings) others are
blithely going about their daily tasks: like eating, opening a window or
"just walking dully along" and so on. They simply never notice
Icarus' suffering and pain. If they never noticed the tragic fall of Icarus to
his watery destruction how would they ever notice ours either? He tells
us also that the elderly people amongst us hold out some desperate hope for
some miracle to transform their brittle and fragile lives. While these elders
amongst us vainly hope, the children play on in their own constructed reality,
totally unconcerned and oblivious to all worry and anxiety. Even a
saintly martyr must die on the margins of society. Those who live are too busy
going about their daily tasks to note even a martyr's demise: they are just too
busy living. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtCcAe1JKqbcOpUks1kGfxqOODwOFXoY-rMlb9u0qRSXQAfh7c-0gAAA39SpLsFQ7AabTi27e6faGZWu5n07uNIv85qz5KQ45Vg-DymWyvr19iwcQJPVXtXzSl4fXLGki6Riv7q_LhkE/s1600/Auden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtCcAe1JKqbcOpUks1kGfxqOODwOFXoY-rMlb9u0qRSXQAfh7c-0gAAA39SpLsFQ7AabTi27e6faGZWu5n07uNIv85qz5KQ45Vg-DymWyvr19iwcQJPVXtXzSl4fXLGki6Riv7q_LhkE/s320/Auden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The young Wystan Hugh Auden</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Auden states his conclusion even more clearly as we proceed down
through the poem: Brueghel's depiction of poor Icarus' falling from the heights
of his</span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> hubris</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> to his watery grave shows how uncaringly
"everything turns away" from this disaster which is simply sidelined.
The ploughman might have heard the splash as Icarus hit the water, but even if
he did he chose to ignore it and get on with his work. The passengers on
the nearby ship must surely have noticed this tragic disaster, but again, even
if they had, they chose to sail away to wherever they were going. It
would also appear that scenes from other pictures by Brueghel, also hanging in
the </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Musée des Beaux Arts</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> are alluded to in Auden's poem as his
lines about people "dully" walking along and the elderly waiting for
a miraculous birth and children skating may derive from a painting called
"</span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The Numbering of Bethlehem</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">." Furthermore the following
lines:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><br />
<i><span style="background: white;">They never forgot</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its
course</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and
the torturer's horse</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><br />
may be inspired by another of Brueghel's paintings, namely, <i>The
Massacre of innocents.</i> In this latter painting, there are indeed dogs
and horses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"><br />
One of the most pleasing features of this poem is its straight-forward
description of life in the various paintings in clear images, that is, what we
mean when we use the Greek term "ekphrasis." Another is its
lack of more poetic and formalised language. However, the most satisfying
feature for the present reviewer is Auden's lack of didacticism or direct
moralising. The poet is far too authentic an individual to be a self-righteous
preacher. Rather, he is making a subtle point as indeed did the Grand Masters
who were so right about the human condition. Humans really don't so much
care about the fate of their fellow men and women insofar as they have to get
on with their own concerns to eek out a living and survive. In this context, it
is interesting to underscore the fact that this poem was written about a year
before the outbreak of the Second World War. One might not be too far
from the truth to guess that the poet was picking up the international feeling
of this lack of concern for the welfare of others. To my mind, this is a
well-structured poem with considerable poise and delicacy shown by its oblique
criticism of mid-twentieth century humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-16711362078979905692016-09-16T21:04:00.000+01:002016-09-25T18:20:17.902+01:00Poems I Journey With 8<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back in the good old days we had to learn many poems off by
heart as learning by rote was still in the ascendant in the mid-seventies of
the last century. Ireland has given birth to legions of poets, and the author I
am celebrating here tonight, one Patrick Kavanagh remarked that at any one time
our country could boast of a standing army of some 10,000 poets. W.B. Yeats,
Patrick Kavanagh, Thomas Kinsella and Austin Clarke were the four major Irish
poets we studied at school. Tonight I want to discuss Patrick Kavanagh's
great poem "Stony Grey Soil" which we studied for our Leaving Certificate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Stony Grey Soil</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">O stony grey soil of
Monaghan<br />
The laugh from my love you thieved;<br />
You took the gay child of my passion<br />
And gave me your clod-conceived.<br />
<br />
You clogged the feet of my boyhood<br />
And I believed that my stumble<br />
Had the poise and stride of Apollo<br />
And his voice my thick-tongued mumble.<br />
<br />
You told me the plough was immortal!<br />
O green-life-conquering plough!<br />
The mandril stained, your coulter blunted<br />
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.<br />
<br />
You sang on steaming dunghills<br />
A song of cowards' brood,<br />
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,<br />
You fed me on swinish food<br />
<br />
You flung a ditch on my vision<br />
Of beauty, love and truth.<br />
O stony grey soil of Monaghan<br />
You burgled my bank of youth!<br />
<br />
Lost the long hours of pleasure<br />
All the women that love young men.<br />
O can I still stroke the monster's back<br />
Or write with unpoisoned pen<br />
<br />
His name in these lonely verses<br />
Or mention the dark fields where<br />
The first gay flight of my lyric<br />
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.<br />
<br />
Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco -<br />
Wherever I turn I see<br />
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan<br />
Dead loves that were born for me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<u>Commentary</u><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jQPs5W1NHmykfZhJrGiU6t0l5aLK7vw2ipBQY0yRxV86WYn0QngKSotslP5DMcHcRViQDagsMY5BoIdf0_md7YVT5HDzXmWvHnkNds1s7qx9o8ahKZ_QvGMKuxj1ut55qxC3MjzPGWI/s1600/Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jQPs5W1NHmykfZhJrGiU6t0l5aLK7vw2ipBQY0yRxV86WYn0QngKSotslP5DMcHcRViQDagsMY5BoIdf0_md7YVT5HDzXmWvHnkNds1s7qx9o8ahKZ_QvGMKuxj1ut55qxC3MjzPGWI/s400/Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IE;">Rare
colour photo of Patrick Kavanagh</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlp4tvtdpziZmrIzPSaeRxdPRxJ1-PqzlzVhGGIsl9tStbWBctFffvfC4TXeWHW6HUF9M7ErKsx_N81DeQt_11vxk7qEn8__eKxrzlo3zfzO9uDFBqwdV6E6EIfYlVb9jSGMibQFYG5U/s1600/Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><v:shape alt="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlp4tvtdpziZmrIzPSaeRxdPRxJ1-PqzlzVhGGIsl9tStbWBctFffvfC4TXeWHW6HUF9M7ErKsx_N81DeQt_11vxk7qEn8__eKxrzlo3zfzO9uDFBqwdV6E6EIfYlVb9jSGMibQFYG5U/s400/Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh.jpg" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlp4tvtdpziZmrIzPSaeRxdPRxJ1-PqzlzVhGGIsl9tStbWBctFffvfC4TXeWHW6HUF9M7ErKsx_N81DeQt_11vxk7qEn8__eKxrzlo3zfzO9uDFBqwdV6E6EIfYlVb9jSGMibQFYG5U/s1600/Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_25" o:button="t" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 294pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 300pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
<v:imagedata o:title="Poet_Patrick_Kavanagh" src="file:///C:\Users\Tim\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg">
</v:imagedata></v:shape></span></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">We all at one time or another have a love-hate relationship with
the city, town, village, townland or countryside where we were born.
We are never happy with our progress in life and we often blame our
native place for the singular lack of opportunity it offered us as young
people. We also, of course, blame our family of origin which is naturally
enough specifically rooted in our birthplace. When I studied the Irish
Gaelic language we were told that the great Irish Gaelic poet Seán Ó Ríordáin
had a propensity to compose compound words or "chomhfhocail" as we
called them in that language. Kavanagh uses a similar technique in his
poems by using his own compound or hyphenated words, viz.,
"clod-conceived," "thick-tongued" and
"green-life-conquering." </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I especially liked, as a youngster studying this poem,
Kavanagh's use of the literary devices of personification (where his Monaghan
farm home is addressed directly as a person) and apostrophe (addressing someone
or something that is simply not there in front of one). Also "Stony Grey
Soil" is written in a form somewhat akin to that of the ballad as the poem
contains stanzas of four lines each even though Kavanagh does not stick rigidly
to the rhyming schemes of the traditional ballad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However, for me the strongest feature of this poem, as of
virtually all of Kavanagh's poetry, is the strength or force of his simple and
direct imagery. Such strong imagery is evidenced practically in very line
and indeed in the very title which occurs as a repeated line that has the
effect of a chorus of lament. A list of images is always easy to make in
any poem by our author: "stony-grey soil," "gay child of my
passion," "clod-conceived," "clogged,"
"stumble," "stride of Apollo," the named parts of the
plough, "lea-field" and so on. I shall not bore the reader with
listing them for the whole poem as he or she can easily do that for themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This poem is steeped in regret for his lost opportunities as a
poet and as a human being since as a young man he dedicated himself to the land
rather than to his métier as a poet or as a lover or suitor for young women.
The poem then becomes a lament for his predicament, that is, having
wasted his youth. That sentiment is stated very strongly and bitterly in
the following lines packed with clear imagery:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">O stony grey soil of
Monaghan<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You burgled my bank of
youth!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I also particularly love the traditional format and nature of
this poem. It was long a tradition in Irish Gaelic poems to list off the
names of townlands and towns as in the tradition of the
"dindshenchus" as is exemplified in the final stanza.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Again, there are references to religion, God, but not the Church
as in the following five lines:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Or write with
unpoisoned pen<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His name in these
lonely verses<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Or mention the dark
fields where<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first gay flight
of my lyric<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Got caught in a
peasant's prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is the "peasant's prayer" or natural or instinctive
spirituality that appeals to Kavanagh. That is at once Pagan Celtic as well as
Catholic or Christian. Then there is the paradox that exists at
the very heart of life, namely "dark fields" that might suggest
something profoundly ungrounding and unnerving like the "dark night of the
soul" and yet it is placed side by side with "the gay flight of his
lyric" that somehow was caught up in a peasant's prayer rather than a
poet's book of promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally the line "Dead loves that were born for me" is
distinctly depressing and profoundly disturbing. That the ballad format
is used for this poem is also good as it is able to carry the lament and regret
from his misspent youth and the lost opportunities he might have had, had he
been luckier in life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-54528182256255540882016-09-14T00:15:00.000+01:002016-09-25T18:34:32.469+01:00Poems I Journey With 7<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;">
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I remember one of my former
students once exclaiming "Huh, families!" in quiet desperation. He
had simply felt smothered by his. On another occasion I remember an older
colleague remarking about his first marriage that he had married a family not
an individual. Freud spoke about the Oedipus Complex, that is, his theory, the
validity of which is often hotly debated still, that there is a complex of
emotions aroused in a young child, typically around the age of four, by an
unconscious sexual desire for the parent of the opposite sex and a wish to
exclude the parent of the same sex. (He had applied the term originally to boys
but Jung and others applied the term also to girls and designated it by a new
title, namely the Electra Complex.) However, let's not get too bogged down in
terminology for its own sake. What I simply wish to point out here is how
complex the relationships within any one family are in actuality. As we
grow up we initially model ourselves on our same-sex parents, then we begin to
pit one against the other, and as we further age we begin to grow away from
them as we enter our adolescent years and finally we then break to a greater or
lesser extent those ties that bind us to our family of origin as we form new
families of our own. All of this intense relational interaction causes a
complexity of joy and pain, little clarity and much confusion for all
concerned. However, that is the price we must pay for growing up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Having given this brief
introduction to the complexity of our inter-relationships within our families
of origin, I wish to present the reader with two poems in which the respective
authors look back rather critically on how their parents reared them. As
many have often remarked parenthood is often simply thrust upon us by
necessity, rather than by foresight or planning and that it is one task for
which none of us has really ever been properly prepared in the first place.
I remember when I was in my late teens arguing with my mother and saying
to her in a fit of anger that I had never asked to be born. Indeed, it was a
dreadful thing to say, and had I even thought about it I would have realised
that neither had she either. Indeed, recently I was sitting with some
friends looking at some little birds feeding at a seed feeder in a garden when
a magpie came up and chased the little ones away. My friend Mia remarked
that the magpie while a somewhat ugly and repulsive bird was "just another
of God's creatures that had never asked to be born." Here I was reminded
of Heidegger's phrase that we humans experience a sense of "dasein"
or "thrownness" into existence. Indeed, for me this is exactly
what my friend Mia was expressing. The two poems I offer the reader in
today's poetic reflection are poems that speak essentially about that
existential condition of our thrownness (random as it is) into existence.
No wonder the first action of any child is to cry out in fear at the feeling
of new being in an alien world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Our first poem is called
"This Be The Verse" by Philip Larkin (1922-1985), a poem which I have
seen used quite profitably in a counselling session and "Sorry" by
R.S. Thomas (1913-2000) They are two poems that are very provocative and
necessarily so, as we often need to be confronted by such reality! I believe
they have much to teach us insofar as they may help us come to grips with
ourselves and our relationships with our mothers and with our fathers. I will
offer them below as a diptych without commentary by way of comforting the
disturbed and disturbing the comfortable.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: small; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygEuthQ57qvJvO2lY7lliUdYBMY2AtSTiSpzcYq6-1gKraD63f2sTYAGdnb991XyqL4WVVlCwpEkEejo6SUECR4iWv4K_P5s8q-Xw0pWtXCUuY06Y6iQ6aK8kexGFUdGjKx57fCZTQ70/s1600/Philip_Larkin_in_a_library.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygEuthQ57qvJvO2lY7lliUdYBMY2AtSTiSpzcYq6-1gKraD63f2sTYAGdnb991XyqL4WVVlCwpEkEejo6SUECR4iWv4K_P5s8q-Xw0pWtXCUuY06Y6iQ6aK8kexGFUdGjKx57fCZTQ70/s400/Philip_Larkin_in_a_library.gif" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Philip Larkin, librarian and poet </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0cm; padding: 0cm;"> This Be
The Verse<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><i><span style="color: #c00000; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"> Philip Larkin<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">They
fuck you up, your mum and dad.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">They
may not mean to, but they do.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">They
fill you with the faults they had<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">And
add some extra, just for you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">But
they were fucked up in their turn<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">By
fools in old-style hats and coats,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Who
half the time were soppy-stern<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">And
half at one another’s throats.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Man
hands on misery to man.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">It
deepens like a coastal shelf.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Get
out as early as you can,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -12pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">And
don’t have any kids yourself.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="font-size: small;">
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<tbody>
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<td style="padding: 3.4pt 3.4pt 3.4pt 3.4pt;"></td>
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</div>
<div style="font-size: small; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 254, 253); color: black; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Sorry</span></b><b><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #c00000; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">R.S. Thomas<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="background: rgb(254, 254, 253); color: black; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Dear
parents,</span></i><i><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: rgb(254, 254, 253); color: black; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I
forgive you my life,</span></i><i style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #404040; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:=""><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="" style="color: #404040; font-size: 1rem; line-height: 1.5;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black; font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Begotten in a drab town,</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">The
intention was good;</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">Passing
the street now,</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">I
see still the remains of sunlight.</font-size:></span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br style="background-color: #fefefd; color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: normal;" />
<font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:=""><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: #FEFEFD;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">It
was not the bone buckled;</font-size:></span></i></font-size:></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">You
gave me enough food</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">To
renew myself.</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">It
was the mind's weight</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;">Kept me bent, as I grew tall.</span></i><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br style="background-color: #fefefd; color: black; font-size: medium; line-height: normal;" />
<font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:=""><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: #FEFEFD;">It was not
your fault.</span></i></font-size:></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">What
should have gone on,</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;">Arrow aimed from a tried bow</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">At
a tried target, has turned back,</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">Wounding
itself</font-size:></span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFEFD; color: black;"><font-size: 17px="" 23px="" line-height:="">With
questions you had not asked.</font-size:></span></i><o:p></o:p></span></font-size:></font-size:></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbFKzYpJTfrvRDCs-zQcph9s2BOgsoiPkaXMASQUBPuvLP4LxjTjAd-OWK2mrXuoM_hgakJ93dntwv_BUbyArGrYt2WAWi8jj64nrFMo1rJrQfS0sohdwehkK4s4cEwZaUCIcRw32pYU/s1600/thomas-original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbFKzYpJTfrvRDCs-zQcph9s2BOgsoiPkaXMASQUBPuvLP4LxjTjAd-OWK2mrXuoM_hgakJ93dntwv_BUbyArGrYt2WAWi8jj64nrFMo1rJrQfS0sohdwehkK4s4cEwZaUCIcRw32pYU/s400/thomas-original.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R.S. Thomas</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-46121276743782670172016-09-13T00:04:00.000+01:002016-09-16T21:30:04.597+01:00Poems I Journey With 6<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918) from early on became one of my favourite poets. Firstly, as a young boy and as a teenager I was always fascinated with wars, especially World War 1 and World War II, not from the military point of view solely, but primarily because of the havoc it had wrought on the world through the destruction of human life and property on such a vast scale. Such wanton destruction on such unprecedented scales amazed and astounded me. That humanity veered so quickly and so spontaneously towards war, rather than engaging in political debate and conflict resolution was also an intriguing feature that seemed to suggest that there was something rather corrupt that stank to high heaven within the human make-up. Then, I discovered the War Poets from both world wars, and those from the first of these wars were the more moving for me as that war in particular involved the first widespread use of machine guns, air power, submarine operations, armoured vehicles, bigger and more powerful guns and the use of poison gas and, of course, the mad rush of opposing troops against each other across NO-MAN'S-LAND, all of which led the poets to describe the horrors of war in such graphic detail that I was hooked forever and still moved, often to tears, by their words and images. To them we owe a great debt of gratitude for highlighting these horrors. Wilfred Owen was only 25 when he was killed on 4 November 1918 during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal exactly a week before the signing of the Armistice that ended the War. In a rather ironic twist of fate, his poor mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day just as the bells rang out in jubilation at the cessation of hostilities. He is buried at Ors Communal Cemetery.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lieutenant W. Owen</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Owen is the foremost poet of the Great War and his poems are much anthologized. Therefore, I will not publish any of his more popular ones hereunder as the reader will be almost too familiar with them. Instead, I will quote here another powerful, but less well known poem from his pen:</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Parable of The Young Man and The Old</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And took the fire with him, and a knife.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And as they sojourned, both of them together,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Isaac the first-born spake, and said, My Father,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Behold the preparations, fire and iron,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And builded parapets the trenches there,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Neither do anything to him. Behold,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">But the old man would not so, but slew his son,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And half the seed of Europe, one by one. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilfred Owen</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">There is no need for commentary on this wonderful little poem save to say that it is crafted with care and based on the famous Old Testament story of God's command to Abraham to slay his son Isaac by way of offering to appease Him. Those of us, </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">au fait</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;"> with mythology will know that such an image of God as a rather cruel task-master, who seemingly has no concern for morality as He is somehow beyond all such standards of proper behaviour, will realize that this is pure story, a story with a moral or a message - a story composed by priests or scribes simply to teach us lessons. The lesson here is simply that God often tests our loyalty in strange and even cruel ways. Whatever about Old Testament times the twentieth century unleashed the wrath of a most bloody God or Gods - Gods of greed and hate and vengeance - that slew "half the seed of Europe, one by one." As an officer, the young Lieutenant Owen would have witnessed so much bloodshed and so many horrible deaths of his soldier comrades that it must have surely felt that some bloodthirsty gods somewhere were slaying the young men of Europe one by one. This is not one of his famous poems, but I feel it is beautifully written, and most solemnly so as it practically repeats the beautiful English of the King James Bible and interweaves in the story images from the horrors of the First World War: "fire and iron," "belts and straps" (soldiers would have had many of these about their uniforms) and "parapets and trenches." However, it is the last two lines that are the most effective for me as they sum up the horrors of the Great War:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">But the old man would not so, but slew his son,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 23px;">And half the seed of Europe, one by one. </span></div>
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Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17341790378869111524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895180960433676780.post-91568827928707098512016-09-11T14:22:00.001+01:002016-09-16T21:27:25.337+01:00Poems I Journey With 5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are no fights as bitter as those between members of the one family, and indeed no wars as bloody as those between citizens of the one country. Somehow we learn to hate more easily and more deeply those we are supposed to love the most. With respect to the poem I am going to discuss in these thoughts today - "Tichborne's Elegy" - I wish to paint in the historical background here firstly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the history of the royal families of England & Scotland there have been many gory intrigues and many bloody plots. One of those was the Babington plot, which occurred in 1586, whose purpose was the assassination of Queen Elizabeth 1, a Protestant with the intention of replacing her on the English throne with the rescued Mary, Queen of Scots, (aka Queen Mary Stuart of Scotland) her Roman Catholic cousin who had been imprisoned for 18 years since 1568 in England. Indeed, Mary had been incarcerated at the behest of her cousin Elizabeth 1 who feared for her throne. The discovery of this plot would lead eventually to the execution of Mary Stuart as one of her letters to one of the plotters revealed that she had consented directly to the assassination of Elizabeth 1.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 24px;">Now, the long-term goal of the Babington plot was the invasion of England by the Spanish forces of King Philip II of Spain and the </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; line-height: 24px;">Catholic League </i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 24px;">in France and therefrom the restoration of the old religion. However, Elizabeth's notorious spymaster, one Sir Francis Walsingham discovered this plot, and he deviously used his discovery for the entrapment of Mary with the direct result that she would now forfeit any claims she might have on the English throne. The tragic Mary was beheaded at Fetherington Castle in 1587. She was only 44 years of age.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The author of the poem I have chosen for today's entry in these pages is one Chidiock Tichborne who was born into a devout Catholic family in Southampton around 1558 and he was destined to become involved in our aforementioned Babington plot. Like all Catholics, his life was to become increasingly difficult after Elizabeth 1 made the practice of the Roman Catholic Religion illegal, and he and his father, who had already spent time in prison, found themselves under constant surveillance by the Queen's spies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our poet author, Chidiock Tichborne joined the conspirators involved in the Babington plot which, as we have stated, sought to assassinate the Queen and supplant her with the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots. However, the plot was discovered and the conspirators all executed. As far as we know Chidiock only wrote three poems, or at least only three of his poems survive the ravages of time. His famous "Elegy" is by far the best of the three and I quote it in full hereunder. The unfortunate poet enclosed this poem in a letter he sent to his wife Agnes from the Tower of London on the eve of his execution for treason. Here is the poem and it is a masterful feat of poetry, replete with metaphors of an intensity that could only be forged in the mind of a talented and sensitive poet on the eve of his execution:</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tychbornes Elegie, written with his owne hand in the Tower before his execution</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now I live, and now my life is done.</span></div>
<div style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 1rem; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My fruite is falne [fallen], & yet my leaves are greene:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I saw the world, and yet I was not seene.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now I live, and now my life is done.</span></div>
<div style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 1rem; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I sought my death, and found it in my wombe,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now I die, and now I was but made.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now I live, and now my life is done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxkbMMiJ689T6TM5gSYVgHbMRdVu1P5iHJrOXUl861Io2Ehs5dVgVIG92EMN3z28Wl2W4s4z_dkl2IrGrF8vvKgv23GxElZWfN5GokeAq9kgiunPIBgl__Dnt3TWMHYdAYah7LVOOqbA/s1600/chidiockTichborne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxkbMMiJ689T6TM5gSYVgHbMRdVu1P5iHJrOXUl861Io2Ehs5dVgVIG92EMN3z28Wl2W4s4z_dkl2IrGrF8vvKgv23GxElZWfN5GokeAq9kgiunPIBgl__Dnt3TWMHYdAYah7LVOOqbA/s400/chidiockTichborne.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of Chidiock Tichborne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">On reading this poem one is immediately struck by its sheer authenticity and depth, two factors no doubt influenced by a mind concentrated on its imminent demise. Indeed, the biographical and background information given also adds to the popularity of this much anthologized poem which I remember studying many years ago at college. The images are literally forged from a wonderfully sensitive mind under the sentence of death. We are aware that this man is speaking directly to us as he was then also directly speaking to the love of his life, her dear wife Agnes. Every line contains an antithesis, a polar opposite, a sheer paradox. These antithetical statements are woven into paradoxes that cut to the heart of the mystery that all human life faces us with - namely its ending in insuperable death. Again, for a moment just reflect on these antitheses in the first stanza:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My feast of joy is but a dish of paine,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My Crop of corne is but a field of tares,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now I live, and now my life is done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One can easily list these antithetical words/images in the first stanza thus: youth/cares, joy/paine, corne/tares, good/vain hope, day/no sunne and live/is done and we may continue so to list them rather easily right on through the next two stanzas. I'll leave it to you, good reader, to do so if you wish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In short, for this reader, this is a profound poem which plumbs the heights or the depths of our human predicament, the human condition where the theme of our mortality is a central one for all of us. I have already acknowledged in these poetical reflections that all literature, and consequently and most essentially poetry, is concerned with the basic ultimate concern of death as outlined by Professor Irvin Yalom. See Poems I Journey With 1: <a href="http://springingintolife.blogspot.ie/2016/09/poems-i-journey-with-1.html" target="_blank">Here</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is also an ingenious weaving of tenses together to suggest that time is a very complex entity as in: "And now I live, and now my life is done": In fact the poet repeats this line by three, once in each stanza at the end as a sort of paradoxical chorus that sums up our human predicament - our past and our future are somehow telescoped into the present "now" that is itself so elusive, one "now" that will be cut short by execution for our poet the following day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If the reader gives voice to this poem by reading it aloud he or she will be greeted by the sheer drama of the declamation. One becomes a Hamlet or a Macbeth or an Othello or a Lear on the stage of one's own life. Indeed, one can imagine any one of these tragic heroes giving voice to Chidiock's moving and dramatic words. We are, as it were, presented with the dance of life with death in thes3 dramatic and moving words. What more quintessentially human drama could we be granted to behold upon a stage? Tichborne was only 28 when he wrote these words and "shuffled off his mortal coil" so tragically. Obviously these words brought the poor man some comfort as he faced his leaving of this painful world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Elizabeth 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For sheer mastery of the English language, for poetry of such high and refined emotion, for dexterity of phrase and the forging power of metaphor I know no poet better than the tragic Chidiock Tichborne. His poem is a masterly composition where time shifts all too quickly and all too mysteriously, and if time could only shift such that we might meet him, I believe we should encounter a wonderfully sensitive individual.</span></div>
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