Alright, I apologize. I realize I have slacked off greatly in my blogging this past month. With the holiday season comes my most depressed time of the year, and I simply do not have the kind of energy to maintain a blog. However, I believe my brief(ish) hiatus is over, and I will begin posting with much more frequency. I sincerely hope that all of your holiday experiences were filled with joy and good food! I must say, my aunt Wei-chi made the most stunning crab cakes I have ever tasted. MMMMMmmmm good!
I realize that I usually have some relation to poetry in the first section of my blog, but I really don't feel that food poetry would be quite appropriate. I also just wrote up an entire blog with poetry from my great-great-great-grandmother. I erased it because I realized you all probably don't care about her. I will try to focus on more relevant things. It's bad enough I subject you to my ramblings let alone the ramblings of an ancestor. I think I would like some feedback. What type of poetry or specific poet or topic would you like to read about? I will try to honor any requests you make (within reason!).
When I was about three years old, I really started getting interested in Abraham Lincoln (don't ask me, I was an odd child). I have carried this obsession throughout life, though I have lost in the recesses of my mind most of the information I used to retain on his life. Naturally, one of my favorite poems of the day was "Oh, Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman because it is about Lincoln.
Walt Whitman was a man of many talents. He was employed in trades from printing, to teaching, to journalism, and, for a brief time, he was clerk for the Department of the Interior. He began his working life at the age of 11 when he was pulled out of school to help support his family. It was when he began work as a printer at age 12 that he began his love affair with written language. He was mostly self-taught. He was a strong abolitionist, and even developed a "free soil" newspaper. He was influential in the lives of the wounded often giving his own salary to pay for gifts and supplies for them.He left Washington D.C. for Camden in order to care for his dying mother and brother. He suffered a stroke in the mid 1870s and found returning to Washington D.C. impossible. He lived in Camden for the last of his days.
O Captain My Captain
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
♪Someday, my love, there will be songs to sing♫
Yay! There is finally snow on the ground, so I can post the winter poem I found without feeling guilty. I am rather spastastic (yes, Firefox, that is a word. I just made it up.) today due to waking up at 5 and drinking lots of caffeine and getting into the Christmas spirit. Well, I made Christmas gifts if that counts as the Christmas spirit. I think we'll say it counts. I even attempted to remember how to play "Carol of the Bells" on the piano. This is astonishing since I hate pretty much all Christmas music. I'm Scrooge in a much younger, smaller package! Actually, my high school choir always sang "Carol of the Bells" in our Christmas concert, so I kind of know the words. Except two years I sang it as a soprano (which I am), and two years I sang it as an alto (which I am most assuredly not). I tend to sing the beginning half of the words from whence I spiral down into "ding dong ding dong", which is the alto part. Congratulations to me for a long pointless story!
Boris Pasternak won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1958 for Dr. Zhivago. It was the only novel he ever wrote (that I am aware of. He did write a "novel in verse", but I'm not sure entirely what that entails.), but it was not published in his own homeland until 1988 (which, if I do say so myself, was a very good year). He turned down the Prize, but it was presented posthumously to his son in 1989. I think that's a very ambiguous sentence, and I apologize. Interestingly enough, he has a planet named after him, the 3508 Pasternak. Though here in the West, we know him best for Dr. Zhivago, he was much more highly influential and well known as a poet. He set the groundwork for much contemporary Russian poetry. He also was a translator in his homeland translating Shakespeare and Goethe as well as many others into Russian. Without further ado and more pointless rambling from yours truly, I present Winter's Night.
Winter's Night
Blizzards were blowing everywhere
Throughout the land.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
As midgets in the summer fly
Towards a flame,
The snowflakes from the yard swarmed to
The window pane.
And, on the glass, bright snowy rings
And arrows formed.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
And on the white illumined ceiling
Shadows were cast,
As arms and legs and destinies
Fatefully crossed.
Two slippers fell on to the floor
With a light sound,
And waxen tears dripped from the candle
On to a gown.
No object in the misty whiteness
Could be discerned.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
A mild draught coming from the corner
Blew on the candle,
Seduction's heat raised two wings crosswise
As might an angel.
It snowed and snowed that February
All through the land.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
Disclaimer: I do not speak one iota of Russian, so I sincerely hope this translation is good.
Boris Pasternak won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1958 for Dr. Zhivago. It was the only novel he ever wrote (that I am aware of. He did write a "novel in verse", but I'm not sure entirely what that entails.), but it was not published in his own homeland until 1988 (which, if I do say so myself, was a very good year). He turned down the Prize, but it was presented posthumously to his son in 1989. I think that's a very ambiguous sentence, and I apologize. Interestingly enough, he has a planet named after him, the 3508 Pasternak. Though here in the West, we know him best for Dr. Zhivago, he was much more highly influential and well known as a poet. He set the groundwork for much contemporary Russian poetry. He also was a translator in his homeland translating Shakespeare and Goethe as well as many others into Russian. Without further ado and more pointless rambling from yours truly, I present Winter's Night.
Winter's Night
Blizzards were blowing everywhere
Throughout the land.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
As midgets in the summer fly
Towards a flame,
The snowflakes from the yard swarmed to
The window pane.
And, on the glass, bright snowy rings
And arrows formed.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
And on the white illumined ceiling
Shadows were cast,
As arms and legs and destinies
Fatefully crossed.
Two slippers fell on to the floor
With a light sound,
And waxen tears dripped from the candle
On to a gown.
No object in the misty whiteness
Could be discerned.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
A mild draught coming from the corner
Blew on the candle,
Seduction's heat raised two wings crosswise
As might an angel.
It snowed and snowed that February
All through the land.
A candle burned upon the table,
A candle burned.
Disclaimer: I do not speak one iota of Russian, so I sincerely hope this translation is good.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Antiquities
Well, today was an adventure of the grandest sort! I went out to eat with one of my dearest friends and her mother, imbibed in so much sweet stuff I almost exploded, got a package in the mail for my birthday, and was given an antique book of Lowell's Poems. All in all, I was pretty well satisfied today. Some days I feel better equipped for coping with life than others. After yesterday's maudlin attitude, I definitely needed to feel upbeat. I think the lack of sleep and the copious amounts of sugar added greatly to the spasticity of my mood (I think I made that word up. Oh well, I definitely think it should be added to my Funk and Wagnalls! Actually, I can't say "my" since I don't technically own one. I would like one someday though. *sends hint out to the cosmos* Maybe next year for my birthday when it doesn't land on a holiday, and people have fewer things on their plates. *sigh*
James Russell Lowell. Consequently, if I had been a boy, my name would have been Russell. Okay, maybe that much sugar was not a good idea. You should see me when I have espresso! Poetry, think poetry!
I honestly knew nothing about James Russell Lowell before today. I am finding out many fascinating odds and ends. For example, he was the godfather of Virginia Woolf. He was good friends with Longfellow and Emerson. He had a rather illustrious political career later in his life serving in both the Spanish and English courts. He was a strong supporter of Lincoln, which definitely bumps him up in my book since Lincoln is my favorite president. He was abolitionist though he was much less involved in that belief later in life. In fact, he oscillated considerably on that belief. His first wife was a strong supporter of the anti-slavery movement and pushed him to be more actively involved. He struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts many times. Three out of his four children died in infancy, and he almost didn't recover. I liked the quote from Walt Whitman in regard to Lowell. He said, "Lowell was not a grower--he was a builder. He built poems: he didn't put in the seed, and water the seed, and send down his sun—letting the rest take care of itself: he measured his poems—kept them within formula." Lowell wrote a goodly amount of sonnets, which is nice for me since I rather enjoy sonnets in general--their structure and ebb and flow. Here is Sonnet XIV.
I would not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide Life's iron diadem:
It should grow always like that Eastern tree
Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly;
That love for one, from which there doth not spring
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart, above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood
All earthly things, making them pure and good.
James Russell Lowell. Consequently, if I had been a boy, my name would have been Russell. Okay, maybe that much sugar was not a good idea. You should see me when I have espresso! Poetry, think poetry!
I honestly knew nothing about James Russell Lowell before today. I am finding out many fascinating odds and ends. For example, he was the godfather of Virginia Woolf. He was good friends with Longfellow and Emerson. He had a rather illustrious political career later in his life serving in both the Spanish and English courts. He was a strong supporter of Lincoln, which definitely bumps him up in my book since Lincoln is my favorite president. He was abolitionist though he was much less involved in that belief later in life. In fact, he oscillated considerably on that belief. His first wife was a strong supporter of the anti-slavery movement and pushed him to be more actively involved. He struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts many times. Three out of his four children died in infancy, and he almost didn't recover. I liked the quote from Walt Whitman in regard to Lowell. He said, "Lowell was not a grower--he was a builder. He built poems: he didn't put in the seed, and water the seed, and send down his sun—letting the rest take care of itself: he measured his poems—kept them within formula." Lowell wrote a goodly amount of sonnets, which is nice for me since I rather enjoy sonnets in general--their structure and ebb and flow. Here is Sonnet XIV.
I would not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide Life's iron diadem:
It should grow always like that Eastern tree
Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly;
That love for one, from which there doth not spring
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart, above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood
All earthly things, making them pure and good.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
I'm BACK :D
My apologies, gentle reader, I have been without internet connection for a little over a month now. I decided against blogging via my cell phone since I probably couldn't figure out if I tried, and, even if I could, I wouldn't want to type anything on that little ol' screen! *Takes cake for longest run-on ever* I am afraid I have lost you all. However, hopefully, I can eke back a faithful following. Or at least one or two views every now and again.
Today, I will post something from Keats as an homage to my bestie, m (you know who you are!). Unfortunately, I will not be quoting it with a sultry voice a la Benedict Cumberbatch, but I do what I can.
John Keats was one of the foremost Romantic poets. During his life, however, he received little recognition for his work. He grew up in a very unstable home and, by the time he was fourteen, had lost both of his parents. He worked in medicine as a young man and, at the age of 20, obtained a position as a junior house surgeon at Guy's Hospital. His first surviving poem was written in 1814 when he was only 19 years old. In 1816, Keats decided he would devote his time to poetry rather than a career in apothecary for which he had received his license. He spent a good deal of time nursing his brother Tom who was dying of tuberculosis. Both of his brothers died penniless of the disease. Keats died on February 23, 1821 also of tuberculosis. (Sorry I cut his bio short, but I wanted to have room for the poem and also get to bed at a decent hour.)
Ode to a Nightengale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?
P.S. It is so good to be back :D
Today, I will post something from Keats as an homage to my bestie, m (you know who you are!). Unfortunately, I will not be quoting it with a sultry voice a la Benedict Cumberbatch, but I do what I can.
John Keats was one of the foremost Romantic poets. During his life, however, he received little recognition for his work. He grew up in a very unstable home and, by the time he was fourteen, had lost both of his parents. He worked in medicine as a young man and, at the age of 20, obtained a position as a junior house surgeon at Guy's Hospital. His first surviving poem was written in 1814 when he was only 19 years old. In 1816, Keats decided he would devote his time to poetry rather than a career in apothecary for which he had received his license. He spent a good deal of time nursing his brother Tom who was dying of tuberculosis. Both of his brothers died penniless of the disease. Keats died on February 23, 1821 also of tuberculosis. (Sorry I cut his bio short, but I wanted to have room for the poem and also get to bed at a decent hour.)
Ode to a Nightengale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?
P.S. It is so good to be back :D
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Remember, remember the... sixth of November?
Well, I'm falling behind again. Usually this time of year, I feel so motivated. I want to take on the world. Then, the holidays come, and I spend a month and a half crying at every family event. I am the world's worst scrooge at the holidays! Birthdays, too. Well, mine anyway, I have no problem with other people's birthdays. Unfortunately, my birthday and the holidays walk hand-in-hand. This year, my birthday even falls on Thanksgiving. Double whammy! I shall learn to be grateful and thank God for all the foods that I have yet refuse to eat like turkey and ham (blech!). Wow, I think I have just gone through the how-to guide for making enemies and alienating people! On to something more uplifting than my poor attitude!
Edna St. Vincent Millay was raised by a progressive mother who asked the father to leave the family in 1899. She had two sisters. She and her sisters were raised with an appreciation of the arts, and it was at her mother's urging that she enter her poem Renascence into a contest that led to her first publication. Also, as a result of this, Millay gained instant acclaim and a scholarship to Vassar. There, she continued to write poetry, and, at the request of the Vassar drama department, she wrote her first verse play The Lamp and the Bell. She led a Bohemian lifestyle. She won the Pulitzer Prize for her fourth volume of poetry The Harp Weaver. While she did marry later in life, she and her husband maintained a sexually open relationship throughout their twenty-six year marriage. He died in 1949, and she followed in 1950. My favorite sonnet of hers is as follows:
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain,
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Edna St. Vincent Millay was raised by a progressive mother who asked the father to leave the family in 1899. She had two sisters. She and her sisters were raised with an appreciation of the arts, and it was at her mother's urging that she enter her poem Renascence into a contest that led to her first publication. Also, as a result of this, Millay gained instant acclaim and a scholarship to Vassar. There, she continued to write poetry, and, at the request of the Vassar drama department, she wrote her first verse play The Lamp and the Bell. She led a Bohemian lifestyle. She won the Pulitzer Prize for her fourth volume of poetry The Harp Weaver. While she did marry later in life, she and her husband maintained a sexually open relationship throughout their twenty-six year marriage. He died in 1949, and she followed in 1950. My favorite sonnet of hers is as follows:
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain,
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Biggest Loser: Cat Edition
So, the last post that I mentioned having cats involved one of them dying. Well, I went to visit the other one today (he lives with my folks) and was pleased to discover that he lost 3.5 lbs. He used to be 19.5 lbs, so clearly he could afford to lose some. I finally found a way to get my pictures off of my phone, so I am going to try to run with technology here a bit and upload a picture of the new and improved Puck (though, even to my eye, he still looks fat...).
It's possible he could still afford to lose a few... Though, I did find out that Ragdoll cats, of which he is 1/4, tend to be larger than your garden variety house cat (and here was me thinking he had a mountain lion for a grandfather...). Okay, okay, I'll try to stop being a crazy cat lady for a while. On to poetry!
Well, thinking about cats and poetry of course brings to mind T.S. Eliot and The Naming of Cats. It also brings to mind the musical Cats!, but since I am not trying to frighten anyone away, I will leave off talking about that!
T.S. Eliot was a very fascinating individual. I believe I will have to post something else of his later to truly show what he was about, since The Naming of Cats is a much more trite subject matter than that with which he usually dealt. Although, for such an influential and well-known poet, he really didn't publish that many works of poetry. He was born in the U.S., but later, he became a British citizen and renounced his U.S. citizenship saying, "My mind may be American, but my heart is British." He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948 for "his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He also had 13 honorary doctorates from various universities including Oxford, Harvard, the Sorbonne, and Cambridge. It is interesting to note that when his poetry first began emerging into the printed world, it was criticized as not poetry at all. His style and use of language was so different from the works of the day that the critics did not consider his work poetry!
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Well, thinking about cats and poetry of course brings to mind T.S. Eliot and The Naming of Cats. It also brings to mind the musical Cats!, but since I am not trying to frighten anyone away, I will leave off talking about that!
T.S. Eliot was a very fascinating individual. I believe I will have to post something else of his later to truly show what he was about, since The Naming of Cats is a much more trite subject matter than that with which he usually dealt. Although, for such an influential and well-known poet, he really didn't publish that many works of poetry. He was born in the U.S., but later, he became a British citizen and renounced his U.S. citizenship saying, "My mind may be American, but my heart is British." He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948 for "his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He also had 13 honorary doctorates from various universities including Oxford, Harvard, the Sorbonne, and Cambridge. It is interesting to note that when his poetry first began emerging into the printed world, it was criticized as not poetry at all. His style and use of language was so different from the works of the day that the critics did not consider his work poetry!
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The wind may howl, but I am cozy and content
The wind is doing its best to pull this house down around my ears, but I'm not too worried. I got to sleep in today; I drank a delicious mug of tea; and I have a phone date tonight with a certain someone who makes me smile a lot. All is well in the world. I'm also being extraordinarily lazy, so I think I'm just going to post something of my own again.
I thought I'd do a little throwback to senior year Shakespeare class. We were all assigned the project of writing a Shakespearean sonnet. Well, I grumbled and moaned and procrastinated and complained and finally wrote something that I thought was semi-passable. I'm having difficulties with the third stanza (i.e. it's awful), but in the 5 years since I've written it, I still can't think of anything else. I think this pretty much sums up why I am not a published poet!
When I alone in winsome winter sit
My thoughts awry within my captured brain
Myself versus myself again is pit
And triumph over me I'll never gain
Against the cages of my head I fight
A butterfly who struggles to the death
When will I ever let my soul ignite
What sorrow lies there clinging to each breath
Oh would that life were of a different tune
Without the pain that causes me to fall
Without facing my ever ill fortune
But in my mind there stirs the slightest call
A voice that whispers sweetly in my ear
"You'll never be alone while I am here"
I thought I'd do a little throwback to senior year Shakespeare class. We were all assigned the project of writing a Shakespearean sonnet. Well, I grumbled and moaned and procrastinated and complained and finally wrote something that I thought was semi-passable. I'm having difficulties with the third stanza (i.e. it's awful), but in the 5 years since I've written it, I still can't think of anything else. I think this pretty much sums up why I am not a published poet!
When I alone in winsome winter sit
My thoughts awry within my captured brain
Myself versus myself again is pit
And triumph over me I'll never gain
Against the cages of my head I fight
A butterfly who struggles to the death
When will I ever let my soul ignite
What sorrow lies there clinging to each breath
Oh would that life were of a different tune
Without the pain that causes me to fall
Without facing my ever ill fortune
But in my mind there stirs the slightest call
A voice that whispers sweetly in my ear
"You'll never be alone while I am here"
Sunday, October 24, 2010
♪It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood...♫
I don't really know why Mr. Rogers is on my mind today. Maybe because we are finally getting to sweater weather (though, I went out today in a short-sleeved shirt), and sweaters inevitably make me think of Mr. Rogers. We didn't have television at my house growing up (that's not to say we didn't have a TV, we just didn't watch television. We watched movies, though.), so when I went to Camp Grandma, I would watch Mr. Rogers and Lamb Chops. My favorite part was always when Mr. Rogers would pick out a sweater. I loved looking at all the colors in his closet! *Realizes that this is the world's most boring story and slowly peters off*
Poetry! I am in quite the mood today, in case you hadn't noticed already. However, I'm not really sure whose poetry to feature today. I have this piece by Pasternak that I want to use, but I am waiting for snow. Anyway, I haven't really posted many poems by female poets other than Dickinson (I don't really count myself!), so I thought something along that line would be appropriate. I don't honestly know that many different poems and their authors, but I enjoy finding out about them. I have always loved the poem "How Do I Love Thee?", and, consequently, it was written by a woman Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a brave, resourceful, and strong woman. She was the oldest of twelve children and the daughter of a Jamaican plantation owner. However, her father decided to raise his children in England, so that is where they lived. She was born in Coxhoe Hall, Durham, England, in 1806. She suffered greatly with a lung condition that came on in her youth and plagued her the rest of her life. Also, at age 15, she incurred a spinal injury. Despite all of this, she flourished in her studies. She taught herself Hebrew, so she could read the Old Testament, and later turned to Greek studies. She abhorred slavery and, naturally, had difficulties with her father's slave-run plantation and the fact that he sent her younger siblings off to Jamaica to help run things. In 1844, she came out with a collection of work simply titled Poems. This brought her to the attention of another poet Robert Browning. He wrote her a letter, which in turn became a series of correspondences numbering 574 in 20 months. Her father, who did not want any of his children to marry, bitterly opposed the romance. So, Elizabeth and Robert eloped and moved to Florence, Italy, in 1846. Her father never spoke to her again. Her later work focused greatly on political and social themes. She died in Florence on June 29, 1861.
How Do I Love Thee?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Poetry! I am in quite the mood today, in case you hadn't noticed already. However, I'm not really sure whose poetry to feature today. I have this piece by Pasternak that I want to use, but I am waiting for snow. Anyway, I haven't really posted many poems by female poets other than Dickinson (I don't really count myself!), so I thought something along that line would be appropriate. I don't honestly know that many different poems and their authors, but I enjoy finding out about them. I have always loved the poem "How Do I Love Thee?", and, consequently, it was written by a woman Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a brave, resourceful, and strong woman. She was the oldest of twelve children and the daughter of a Jamaican plantation owner. However, her father decided to raise his children in England, so that is where they lived. She was born in Coxhoe Hall, Durham, England, in 1806. She suffered greatly with a lung condition that came on in her youth and plagued her the rest of her life. Also, at age 15, she incurred a spinal injury. Despite all of this, she flourished in her studies. She taught herself Hebrew, so she could read the Old Testament, and later turned to Greek studies. She abhorred slavery and, naturally, had difficulties with her father's slave-run plantation and the fact that he sent her younger siblings off to Jamaica to help run things. In 1844, she came out with a collection of work simply titled Poems. This brought her to the attention of another poet Robert Browning. He wrote her a letter, which in turn became a series of correspondences numbering 574 in 20 months. Her father, who did not want any of his children to marry, bitterly opposed the romance. So, Elizabeth and Robert eloped and moved to Florence, Italy, in 1846. Her father never spoke to her again. Her later work focused greatly on political and social themes. She died in Florence on June 29, 1861.
How Do I Love Thee?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
♪Hey soul sister, ain't that mister mister on the radio, stereo...♫
I love that song, but I have to admit that I have no idea what it means! Hmmm... well, let's string some random words together and make a really cheery, chipper song. Okay! I fell for it anyway ☺
I found this really cool aspect of blogger that I have been using rather incessantly. It's a tool that let's me see where the people are from who are looking at my blog. Mainly, I've got US followers, but I have also had several people pop by from Germany and other places (like Slovenia, the UK, Denmark, Canada, Japan, etc.). So I thought I would do a little shout-out and try to feature more poetry from other countries. I like to think that I have been fairly good at diversifying my selections, but I am the first to admit that I have a LOT to learn. Anyway, while doing a search for famous German poets and poetry, I came across a piece that I was actually already familiar with and quite enjoyed. It is Der Erlkönig (or, in English, The Erl-King) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The first time I came across it was in one of my college music classes because it was set to music by Franz Shubert. It really is the most lovely piece!
I will attempt to brief in my mini-bio of von Goethe. An interesting fact I found was that von Goethe did not much appreciate Franz Schubert's achievements. I guess I am insulting the poet's sensibilities by forever linking the poet to that composer! Von Goethe's main work, which he spent most of his lifetime writing, was the two-part piece Faust. This piece apparently was what influenced many works ranging from The Picture of Dorian Grey (Oscar Wilde), The Devil to Pay (Dorothy L. Sayers), to Don Juan/Don Giovanni (the best known operatic version of this being by Lorenzo Ponte and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart). Von Goethe himself seems to have been highly eclectic in his interests. He appeared to be involved in everything from law to alchemy to philosophy and plant life. Clearly, I need to spend more time researching since I know so very little. In an effort to maintain brevity in the lengths of my posts, I will stop flaunting my ignorance on von Goethe and simply publish the poem of his that first caught my interest: The Erl-King. P.S. I hope this translation is accurate, but not speaking any German, I have to rely on the power of search engines. That's a scary thought!
The Erl-King
WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
I found this really cool aspect of blogger that I have been using rather incessantly. It's a tool that let's me see where the people are from who are looking at my blog. Mainly, I've got US followers, but I have also had several people pop by from Germany and other places (like Slovenia, the UK, Denmark, Canada, Japan, etc.). So I thought I would do a little shout-out and try to feature more poetry from other countries. I like to think that I have been fairly good at diversifying my selections, but I am the first to admit that I have a LOT to learn. Anyway, while doing a search for famous German poets and poetry, I came across a piece that I was actually already familiar with and quite enjoyed. It is Der Erlkönig (or, in English, The Erl-King) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The first time I came across it was in one of my college music classes because it was set to music by Franz Shubert. It really is the most lovely piece!
I will attempt to brief in my mini-bio of von Goethe. An interesting fact I found was that von Goethe did not much appreciate Franz Schubert's achievements. I guess I am insulting the poet's sensibilities by forever linking the poet to that composer! Von Goethe's main work, which he spent most of his lifetime writing, was the two-part piece Faust. This piece apparently was what influenced many works ranging from The Picture of Dorian Grey (Oscar Wilde), The Devil to Pay (Dorothy L. Sayers), to Don Juan/Don Giovanni (the best known operatic version of this being by Lorenzo Ponte and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart). Von Goethe himself seems to have been highly eclectic in his interests. He appeared to be involved in everything from law to alchemy to philosophy and plant life. Clearly, I need to spend more time researching since I know so very little. In an effort to maintain brevity in the lengths of my posts, I will stop flaunting my ignorance on von Goethe and simply publish the poem of his that first caught my interest: The Erl-King. P.S. I hope this translation is accurate, but not speaking any German, I have to rely on the power of search engines. That's a scary thought!
The Erl-King
WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Absolutely no song lyrics today
Well, what started out as a peaceful, cheerful day today turned rather awful after work. I called my Papa, and he informs me that one of my cats had bovine (pretty sure he meant feline, but he does work a lot with cows) leukemia and had to be put down yesterday. So, I decided to do what I always do when I am upset: write. I try not to bog down my few faithful followers with personal drama, but I figure you can always skip this if you don't care or want to know about details of my life.
We got our two cats when I was in high school. Pretty much immediately following, my dog died. I hate losing pets! I am still traumatized over the death of that dog. I will probably always feel that way, and now I have another death to deal with. You would think that being a farm girl I would be more accustomed to death. I think I am going soft in my old age. Well, I will admit to crying a bit when a couple of our calves died, but it is not that easy getting attached to cattle, so, all in all, I survived. I hurt when I think of Puck trying to go on without Rocky. They had only been apart three days in their entire lives.
Well, to continue on this perfectly morbid chain, I found a poem about losing someone. Originally, it was made for losing a human companion, but the site I found it on used it to describe pets. (It's amazing what you can find on Google.) The author is unknown, but hopefully it can help you if you are grieving someone or some animal.
We got our two cats when I was in high school. Pretty much immediately following, my dog died. I hate losing pets! I am still traumatized over the death of that dog. I will probably always feel that way, and now I have another death to deal with. You would think that being a farm girl I would be more accustomed to death. I think I am going soft in my old age. Well, I will admit to crying a bit when a couple of our calves died, but it is not that easy getting attached to cattle, so, all in all, I survived. I hurt when I think of Puck trying to go on without Rocky. They had only been apart three days in their entire lives.
Well, to continue on this perfectly morbid chain, I found a poem about losing someone. Originally, it was made for losing a human companion, but the site I found it on used it to describe pets. (It's amazing what you can find on Google.) The author is unknown, but hopefully it can help you if you are grieving someone or some animal.
I Only Wanted You
They say memories are golden
well maybe that is true.
I never wanted memories,
I only wanted you.
A million times I needed you,
A million times I needed you,
a million times I cried.
If love alone could have saved you
you never would have died.
In life I loved you dearly,
In life I loved you dearly,
In death I love you still.
In my heart you hold a place
no one could ever fill.
If tears could build a stairway
If tears could build a stairway
and heartache make a lane,
I'd walk the path to heaven
and bring you back again.
Our family chain is broken,
Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same.
But as God calls us one by one,
the chain will link again. Thursday, October 14, 2010
♪One day more! Another day, another destiny♫
Well, I've been lazy again, gentle reader. I haven't researched any poet or poem again, so you are stuck with more of my ramblings. Every now and again I try a little free verse. I'm really not as comfortable with it, since, to me, it seems so unstructured. I like things in my life to be orderly, but, so often, they aren't.
I'm worried a lot about my grandfather. He has a bad heart and has had several surgeries, heart attacks, and hospitalizations. Now he says he does not want another surgery that could extend his life because he is ready to go. Well, I am not ready for him to go, but I realize that God takes people according to His timing and not mine.
I haven't been able to write any poetry lately, but I would like to share a poem I wrote about my aunt. I didn't really stop to think about her death much when she went, but some time after, I wrote this while thinking about her. It isn't great--it isn't even good, but it helps me to cope to think I will never fully lose her.
In the recesses of my mind
I hear you
Softly and sweetly echoing there
"I am here! I am here!" over and over
But when I look, you are nowhere near
I have lost you now foerever
I miss you
And I know I always will
You are there! You are there! I can find you
Indelibly etched in my memory
I'm worried a lot about my grandfather. He has a bad heart and has had several surgeries, heart attacks, and hospitalizations. Now he says he does not want another surgery that could extend his life because he is ready to go. Well, I am not ready for him to go, but I realize that God takes people according to His timing and not mine.
I haven't been able to write any poetry lately, but I would like to share a poem I wrote about my aunt. I didn't really stop to think about her death much when she went, but some time after, I wrote this while thinking about her. It isn't great--it isn't even good, but it helps me to cope to think I will never fully lose her.
In the recesses of my mind
I hear you
Softly and sweetly echoing there
"I am here! I am here!" over and over
But when I look, you are nowhere near
I have lost you now foerever
I miss you
And I know I always will
You are there! You are there! I can find you
Indelibly etched in my memory
Monday, October 11, 2010
♪It's a little bit funny... this weather outside!♫
I do enjoy music and making lyrics say exactly what I am thinking! However, I am a trifle miffed at this glorious summer like weather because I have a wonderful winter poem that I would like to publish. However, even I can see the inappropriateness of writing about snow when we are all enjoying having a little more summer. Well, maybe not all... I have never found hot weather to be my cup of tea and would much prefer if the temperature would just hang out around 65. I will just have to grin and bear it, I guess. ☺
So instead of a poem on snow and winter, I will publish a perfectly delightful Emily Dickinson poem on Indian summers. I think we should all be counting our blessings today as we are given a delightful respite before the cold, short days of winter truly come. That reminds me of another song, ♪"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep... and I fall asleep counting my blessings!"♫
What can I say about Emily Dickinson? There is so much to be said, but I don't have the lines to capture her essence. She was the original eccentric dressing mostly in white and, after 1860, became withdrawn from the social scene rarely leaving her home. Most of her friendships were kept up via letter. Unfortunately for us, she left instructions to her sister Lavinia to burn most of her letters upon her death. So much has been lost! But it is in keeping with her private nature. I will cease to say any more about her for fear of hindering instead of helping in understanding of who she was. So without further ado, "Indian Summer" by Emily Dickinson.
INDIAN SUMMER.
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, --
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
So instead of a poem on snow and winter, I will publish a perfectly delightful Emily Dickinson poem on Indian summers. I think we should all be counting our blessings today as we are given a delightful respite before the cold, short days of winter truly come. That reminds me of another song, ♪"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep... and I fall asleep counting my blessings!"♫
What can I say about Emily Dickinson? There is so much to be said, but I don't have the lines to capture her essence. She was the original eccentric dressing mostly in white and, after 1860, became withdrawn from the social scene rarely leaving her home. Most of her friendships were kept up via letter. Unfortunately for us, she left instructions to her sister Lavinia to burn most of her letters upon her death. So much has been lost! But it is in keeping with her private nature. I will cease to say any more about her for fear of hindering instead of helping in understanding of who she was. So without further ado, "Indian Summer" by Emily Dickinson.
INDIAN SUMMER.
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, --
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
♪Just like me they long to be close to ME♫
Well, it's been a few days, and I'm sure you're missing me as much as I am. Actually, the reason for the title of my post is not my narcissism (I actually don't think I have that!), but rather a compilation of some of today's (and yesterday's) hits turned into the Narcissistic Playlist of the Teens. A list turned out by M and I on a loooong road trip. Some of our other favorites on the list include:
I love me; you love me; we are one big family
I’m so beautiful to me; can’t you see, I’m everything I hoped for, I’m everything I need
I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful, it’s true
I wanna be where I am; I wanna see; wanna see me dancing -
I’m so vain, I probably think this song is about me -
Have I told me lately that I love me?
I get misty just holding my hand
Will I still love me when I’m sixty-four?
Come what may, I will love me until my dying day
Just the way I look tonight
Night and day, I am the one
No, no they can’t take me away from me
I’ll be my bridge o’er troubled waters
Eight days a week, I love me
I get a kick out of me
I love everything about me, yes I do
I have confidence in me!
I suppose I should get down to something serious now. I always find myself more hilarious when I wake up earlier. Not that I am, mind you; I just feel that way! Also, in light of the fact that I took up a lot of space posting song references that you may not even pick up on, I thought a haiku would be appropriate for today's poem of choice.
Matsuo Basho (forgive the lack of appropriate accent marks; I only know simple accent codes on the computer.) was a highly renowned haiku writer of the 17th century. Probably his most remember haiku was
An ancient pond/ a frog jumps in/ the splash of water
That is just one of many different interpretations of the original. I even found a spin-off that a gangster had pinned on the lapel of his victim before drowning him.
However, probably my favorite of Basho's haiku s that I have found so far goes
Even a horse/ arrests my eyes--on this/ snowy morrow
which he wrote during one of his four major travels. It was the turning point of his poetry from more introspective to more observant of the world around him.
I love me; you love me; we are one big family
I’m so beautiful to me; can’t you see, I’m everything I hoped for, I’m everything I need
I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful, it’s true
I wanna be where I am; I wanna see; wanna see me dancing -
I’m so vain, I probably think this song is about me -
Have I told me lately that I love me?
I get misty just holding my hand
Will I still love me when I’m sixty-four?
Come what may, I will love me until my dying day
Just the way I look tonight
Night and day, I am the one
No, no they can’t take me away from me
I’ll be my bridge o’er troubled waters
Eight days a week, I love me
I get a kick out of me
I love everything about me, yes I do
I have confidence in me!
I suppose I should get down to something serious now. I always find myself more hilarious when I wake up earlier. Not that I am, mind you; I just feel that way! Also, in light of the fact that I took up a lot of space posting song references that you may not even pick up on, I thought a haiku would be appropriate for today's poem of choice.
Matsuo Basho (forgive the lack of appropriate accent marks; I only know simple accent codes on the computer.) was a highly renowned haiku writer of the 17th century. Probably his most remember haiku was
An ancient pond/ a frog jumps in/ the splash of water
That is just one of many different interpretations of the original. I even found a spin-off that a gangster had pinned on the lapel of his victim before drowning him.
However, probably my favorite of Basho's haiku s that I have found so far goes
Even a horse/ arrests my eyes--on this/ snowy morrow
which he wrote during one of his four major travels. It was the turning point of his poetry from more introspective to more observant of the world around him.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
My not-so-secret secret obsession
Ever since I was a little girl, I have known that the really cool people in life are all... Minnesota Twins fans. My Aunt-a Dede, my grandma, everybody who mattered most (with the exception of my immediate family and pretty much all my friends...) were Twins fans. I had this dream that I was going to be the first woman player on the Twins team. I would head out to the backyard with my baseball bat and ball and knock it around some. All the while imagining Aunt-a Dede watching the game and being so shocked when the announcer called out my name. Well, I kind of let that dream die after Dede did, and I realized near-sighted, tiny women with no experience in the game aren't exactly in demand in an MLB player's capacity. *sigh* I still root, root, root for my home team even though I'm not in Minnesota anymore. Well, in honor of that obsession, I was going to post a baseball poem. It seems appropriate this time of year heading into the post season. Then I discovered, I really don't like any of the poems that are out there about baseball. Maybe someday I will write my own. I probably wouldn't like it anyway. ☺ So because I have no plan to fall back on, I will simply post something else that I wrote. Sorry for the let down, gentle reader. Better luck next time!
I wish I were a stitch in the quilt of your life
With colors both brilliant and blue
I would wile all my days dreaming of night
Where I'd wrap my arms around you
I'd be wet with your tears, but bright with your smiles
All through the winter and fall
Then you'd pack me away and the saddest of things
is that you wouldn't miss me at all
I wish I were a stitch in the quilt of your life
With colors both brilliant and blue
I would wile all my days dreaming of night
Where I'd wrap my arms around you
I'd be wet with your tears, but bright with your smiles
All through the winter and fall
Then you'd pack me away and the saddest of things
is that you wouldn't miss me at all
Friday, October 1, 2010
♪I am a rock. I am an island♫ or not
I can never think of that song by Simon and Garfunkle without also thinking of John Donne. It always gets me to thinking, "Well, ma'am, which are you? Solitary and isolated or part of a whole?" I think that all mankind is interconnected. What affects one of us has a ripple effect toward others. However, that does not mean we are not individuals. As Boris Pasternak says in Dr. Zhivago, "There are no nations; there are only individuals." I wish we as a culture could treat each other in such a way more: sensitive to the needs of the individual yet working together as a whole. Well, I may be a bit of a dreamer, it's true, but I can't help thinking of a world where we are rich in the servitude of others over ourselves and that we work together to accomplish goals instead of trying to function entirely on our own.(Note: Please don't take anything political out of what I say. I detest talking about politics. I have always said talking politics is the quickest way to turn a friend into an acquaintance and an acquaintance into an enemy.)
John Donne was a very eclectic poet. He wrote anything from satire to sonnets to religious poems. He wrote some very sensual poetry that I choose not to read being a bit of a prude. He was born into a Catholic family in England during a time when that faith was illegal. Later in his life, he became an Anglican clergy member. It is not clear when exactly he converted, but he began to question his faith after his brother was tortured into revealing where he (the brother) had harbored a Catholic priest. His brother later died in prison. "No Man Is an Island" is probably his best known poem. It is the source for the title of Hemingway's famous work For Whom the Bell Tolls and also Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island (which I have never read, yet the author is very interesting). It is as follows:
John Donne was a very eclectic poet. He wrote anything from satire to sonnets to religious poems. He wrote some very sensual poetry that I choose not to read being a bit of a prude. He was born into a Catholic family in England during a time when that faith was illegal. Later in his life, he became an Anglican clergy member. It is not clear when exactly he converted, but he began to question his faith after his brother was tortured into revealing where he (the brother) had harbored a Catholic priest. His brother later died in prison. "No Man Is an Island" is probably his best known poem. It is the source for the title of Hemingway's famous work For Whom the Bell Tolls and also Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island (which I have never read, yet the author is very interesting). It is as follows:
No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A milestone
Well, today was an (almost) first for me. I almost cried in a movie. I've never cried in a book or movie before, but I welled up in Hachi: A Dog's Tale. There's not really much to say about that. I guess being a farm girl I learned to love animals. I had a dog; she was perfect. I bawled like a baby when she died. I actually will admit to still crying sometimes over that dog. Finally, I feel like I am ready to give my heart to a new puppy. Unfortunately, living arrangements and lack of means don't allow me to act on this instinct. I wish that everyone could know the love a good dog gives. Well this is rather ramble-y. Anyway, I thought I would find a poem about dogs to post, and I did. "The Best Place to Bury a Dog" is touching. Maybe you aren't like me and don't connect to animals more than people. If so, just ignore this rambling of a devoted animal lover. That shouldn't be too hard to do. But if, like me, you have been changed and tempered by the loyalty, love, and absolute trust that only a dog can give, I hope you find solace in these words.
THE BEST PLACE TO BURY A DOG
"There is one best place to bury a dog.
"If you bury him in this spot, he will
come to you when you call - come to you
over the grim, dim frontier of death,
and down the well-remembered path,
and to your side again.
"And though you call a dozen living
dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
him, nor resent his coming,
for he belongs there.
"People may scoff at you, who see
no lightest blade of grass bent by his
footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog.
Smile at them, for you shall know
something that is hidden from them,
and which is well worth the knowing.
"The one best place to bury a good
dog is in the heart of his master."
--- Ben Hur Lampman ---
from the Portland Oregonian Sept. 11, 1925
[AKA "If A Dog Be Well Remembered"]
[AKA "Where TO Bury A Dog"]
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
It's three a.m. I must be lonely
Okay, technically, it's not three a.m. It was that accursed hour four hours ago when I was up and thinking what delightfully witty post I could come up with for today. Then I got sidetracked by Netflix instant watch, and, whoa! look at the time. I'm somewhat wishing I had my morning back (Mainly so I could sleep through it). So, not actually coming up with something witty at three this morning, I have decided to cop out a bit. I will simply use a short poem entitled "Woman" by Eaton Stannard Barrett.
There really isn't that much to find about good ol' Eaton. Most of what is online is about his book The Heroine, which sounds rather delightful, and I do believe I must go out and find a copy. He was a satirist born in Ireland. Actually, the lines that are on Thomas Moore's daughter's headstone, which are usually attributed to Joseph Atkinson, are by Barrett. So I guess that gives me double points for tying two posts (and poets) together (sort of). I found "Woman" in the same Book of Irish Verse that I found "All That's Bright Must Fade".
Woman
Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied Him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave,
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.
There really isn't that much to find about good ol' Eaton. Most of what is online is about his book The Heroine, which sounds rather delightful, and I do believe I must go out and find a copy. He was a satirist born in Ireland. Actually, the lines that are on Thomas Moore's daughter's headstone, which are usually attributed to Joseph Atkinson, are by Barrett. So I guess that gives me double points for tying two posts (and poets) together (sort of). I found "Woman" in the same Book of Irish Verse that I found "All That's Bright Must Fade".
Woman
Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied Him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave,
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Taking a detour
Today, instead of posting something by a revolutionary poet, I thought I would try something a little different. I thought I would post something I wrote. Since, not a lot of people read my blog, this is the perfect time for me to put down something of my own. This way I won't get too scared by all the criticism. Maybe I can make this a bit of a tradition. Once a week I could put out something of my own. Please don't run, gentle reader, I promise I will put out good poetry for the rest of the week!
Were I a sparrow on the breeze
With just my own and mine to please
I would not tarry nor would I wait
For life's long journey to mark my fate
I would embark on summer's eve
To make my fortune among the leaves
Were I a leaf upon a tree
With no ears to hear nor eyes to see
I would be blown from north to south
Upon a fancy and turned about
I'd have no choices of my own to make
I would exist for life's own sake
But I am not so fortune free
To live my life upon a tree
Nor wing about without a care
You will not find my temper there
But this my happiness I'll own
That I am I and I alone
Were I a sparrow on the breeze
With just my own and mine to please
I would not tarry nor would I wait
For life's long journey to mark my fate
I would embark on summer's eve
To make my fortune among the leaves
Were I a leaf upon a tree
With no ears to hear nor eyes to see
I would be blown from north to south
Upon a fancy and turned about
I'd have no choices of my own to make
I would exist for life's own sake
But I am not so fortune free
To live my life upon a tree
Nor wing about without a care
You will not find my temper there
But this my happiness I'll own
That I am I and I alone
Monday, September 27, 2010
Of ships and shoes and sealing wax
I was 14, I believe, when I fell thoroughly in love with the Spanish language. I had taken beginning Spanish courses in middle school, but it wasn't until high school and getting into more advanced courses that I realized that I needed this to be a part of my life. It sounds slightly melodramatic, but it opened up whole new worlds of peoples and literature and culture that I had never known before. I love the challenge of learning something new and different.
What started in high school only grew in college. I had an amazing professor, and I learned so much about the world that I would never have known otherwise. He introduced his class to Hispanic music and poetry and life in general, and I will always be grateful for that. I wish I could have found the poem he first introduced us to, since it is one of my favorites. However, it's been three years, and I don't remember the author's name. So, I had to make do with finding a new poem and poet. I am glad I did. "Canción: Si mi voz muriera en tierra" (Song: If my voice dies on land) is a beautiful and haunting piece by Rafael Alberti.
Rafael Alberti is thought of today as one of the most influential modern Spanish poets. He was a part of the group of poets called "Generation of 1927"; a group that brought modern Spanish poetry back to the quality of the 16th century. Continuing with my apparent fixation on politically involved poets, Alberti became very involved in politics and in 1934 began publishing the revolutionary journal Octubre with his wife María Teresa León. They stayed in Spain throughout almost all of the Spanish Civil War until, after the fall of Madrid, they were evacuated. He made friends with several other famous expatriates. My own favorites from among them were Pablo Picasso, Boris Pasternak (author of Dr. Zhivago), and Sergei Prokofiev (composer best known for Peter and the Wolf and Romeo and Juliet). Finally, after nearly 40 years of exile, Alberti returned home to Spain.
Song
If my voice dies on land...
If my voice dies on land,
take it down to the sea
and leave it on the shore.
Take it down to the sea
and make it captain
of a white man-of-war.
Honor it with
a sailor’s medal:
over its heart an anchor,
and on the anchor a star,
and on the star the wind,
and on the wind a sail!
Translated by Mark Strand
What started in high school only grew in college. I had an amazing professor, and I learned so much about the world that I would never have known otherwise. He introduced his class to Hispanic music and poetry and life in general, and I will always be grateful for that. I wish I could have found the poem he first introduced us to, since it is one of my favorites. However, it's been three years, and I don't remember the author's name. So, I had to make do with finding a new poem and poet. I am glad I did. "Canción: Si mi voz muriera en tierra" (Song: If my voice dies on land) is a beautiful and haunting piece by Rafael Alberti.
Rafael Alberti is thought of today as one of the most influential modern Spanish poets. He was a part of the group of poets called "Generation of 1927"; a group that brought modern Spanish poetry back to the quality of the 16th century. Continuing with my apparent fixation on politically involved poets, Alberti became very involved in politics and in 1934 began publishing the revolutionary journal Octubre with his wife María Teresa León. They stayed in Spain throughout almost all of the Spanish Civil War until, after the fall of Madrid, they were evacuated. He made friends with several other famous expatriates. My own favorites from among them were Pablo Picasso, Boris Pasternak (author of Dr. Zhivago), and Sergei Prokofiev (composer best known for Peter and the Wolf and Romeo and Juliet). Finally, after nearly 40 years of exile, Alberti returned home to Spain.
Song
If my voice dies on land...
If my voice dies on land,
take it down to the sea
and leave it on the shore.
Take it down to the sea
and make it captain
of a white man-of-war.
Honor it with
a sailor’s medal:
over its heart an anchor,
and on the anchor a star,
and on the star the wind,
and on the wind a sail!
Translated by Mark Strand
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Going back a little further
When I lived with my parents, the nearest, dare I say, town was a little burg with an even smaller library. Oddly enough, they had a very wide variety of books to choose from if not a lot of options. One of the books I picked up was an Oxford book of Irish verse. It was there that I first met Thomas Moore.
Thomas Moore was an amazing poet of the late 18th and early 19th century. He was born in Dublin in 1779 to Roman Catholic parents. Consequently, he also was filled with national pride and became a member of the United Irishmen. His politics led him to turn down a job as "Irish Poet Laureate" as he felt that taking such a post would require him to be less outspoken in that which he believed. The poem that to me was the most beautiful goes by the title "All That's Bright Must Fade".
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest?
Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
Thomas Moore was an amazing poet of the late 18th and early 19th century. He was born in Dublin in 1779 to Roman Catholic parents. Consequently, he also was filled with national pride and became a member of the United Irishmen. His politics led him to turn down a job as "Irish Poet Laureate" as he felt that taking such a post would require him to be less outspoken in that which he believed. The poem that to me was the most beautiful goes by the title "All That's Bright Must Fade".
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest?
Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
FINALLY!
Well, here it has been over a year since I have touched this. There have been many reasons why I have forsaken (if you can forsake something that you have barely started) this blog. The one underlying cause has been lack of reliable internet connection. I consider that a rather large stumbling block, which has finally been overcome.
Boring details aside, there is a poem I would like to share. It was written by a man named José Rizal the night before he was to be executed. I say "man" generally, but he was in fact a phenom. I have read him to be compared to Leonardo da Vinci and Benjamin Franklin. He was a genius, highly educated, artistic, and humble. He mastered 22 languages. He was falsely accused of sedition and rebellion. His only crime apparently that of questioning the governing authorities (Spain's) and publishing revolutionary works. I would highly suggest anyone researching this great man. Following his death, the United States was kicked into action and invaded the Philippines in order to expel the Spanish. His final work entitled "Mi Ultimo Adios" (My last goodbye) is as follows:
Boring details aside, there is a poem I would like to share. It was written by a man named José Rizal the night before he was to be executed. I say "man" generally, but he was in fact a phenom. I have read him to be compared to Leonardo da Vinci and Benjamin Franklin. He was a genius, highly educated, artistic, and humble. He mastered 22 languages. He was falsely accused of sedition and rebellion. His only crime apparently that of questioning the governing authorities (Spain's) and publishing revolutionary works. I would highly suggest anyone researching this great man. Following his death, the United States was kicked into action and invaded the Philippines in order to expel the Spanish. His final work entitled "Mi Ultimo Adios" (My last goodbye) is as follows:
| Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed, Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost, With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed; And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best, I would still give it to you for your welfare at most. On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight, Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy, The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white, Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site, It is the same if asked by home and Country. I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night; If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow, Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so, And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light! My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent, My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain, Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient, Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain. My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire, Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee; Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire; To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire, And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity! If over my tomb some day, you would see blow, A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses, Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so, And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow, Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness. Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry, Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light, In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh, And should a bird descend on my cross and alight, Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site. Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky; Let a friend shed tears over my early demise; And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high, Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I. Pray thee for all the hapless who have died, For all those who unequalled torments have undergone; For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried; For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied, And pray too that you may see your own redemption. And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry And only the dead to vigil there are left alone, Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery: If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery, It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone. And when my grave by all is no more remembered, With neither cross nor stone to mark its place, Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored, Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space. Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me: Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep; Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be: Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep, Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep. My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine, Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine, I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign. Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me, Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed; Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day; Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way; Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest. | ||
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