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Post by men an tol on Oct 20, 2012 10:55:57 GMT -5
Tomorrow and Tomorrow William Shakespeare
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps on this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Some things written are not poems in the true sense of the definition of words, but are rather poems of the soul more pure than any rhymed words. The following letter is on the walls of Brasenose College, Oxford University, England, this letter of the “rail-splitter” President hangs as a model of purest English, rarely, if ever, surpassed.
Executive Mansion Washington, Nov. 21,1864
To Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Mass.
Dear Madam,
I have been shown in the file of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weal and fruitless must 'be any word of mine which I should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so over whelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that most be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
Yours very sincerely and respectfully
A. Lincoln.
These deaths take on an added degree of solemnity in the city where I live, Waterloo, Iowa, USA as barely 100 years later during World War II the five Sullivan brothers of Waterloo died together in a navel battle. As chance would have it, a close friend of mine delivered the official telegram of their deaths to the family.
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Post by men an tol on Sept 21, 2013 18:36:01 GMT -5
The Way Things Used To Be By Edwin R. Lewis
We all enjoy visiting Places we used to know, To see the well remembered spots Where we lived years ago. The old hill where we used to slide, The deep old swimming-hole.
The streams where many times we fished With a crude willow pole, The meadows and the dusky woods, The big old apple tree; We wonder if these things still are Just like they used to be.
But things, somehow, seem to have changed Since we lived in that place. The school house is no longer there. Dry is the old mill race. The stream where once we swam and fished Now seems, somehow, quite small
And many of the land-marks Now are not there at all. Progress, of course, has passed that way And changed the things we see But, we can still remember well Just how things used to be.
We all grow older day by day. The years seem to have wings And life demands a certain price For all the things it brings. Some gain success while others fail To reach the goal they sought.
We all have made attempts at things That, somehow, came to naught. Time marches on. Conditions change. Each day new things we see Yet, most of us still like to think Of how things used to be.
So, generations come and go. Each one has its own goals And each one has a testing time That tries men's very souls. Life still demands that certain price And we learn, soon or late.
That we must pay that price in full Whatever be our fate. We cannot stop. We must go on. But sometimes, wistfully, We like to think of “good old days” And how things used to be.
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Feb 23, 2014 17:38:12 GMT -5
Just in time for me to post the Longfellow, beth and Lin. Thank you!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow published "The Day is Done" in 1844, as the "proem" (that just means the preface) to an anthology of poems called The Waif.
The Day is Done By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 23, 2014 18:34:00 GMT -5
Thanks for that, Jessie. It's good to see the Word Works back up again and you always contribute well to every aspect of this board and maybe especially to this one!
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 24, 2014 16:47:03 GMT -5
I wonder if any members know the work of Joaquin Miller. He was a very varied and often uneven American poet during the nineteenth century.
Some of his work is dire but at his best (it doesn't help that his best work is in long poems which rarely get into anthologies because the Twittering classes can't deal with work of any length) he is second only to Walt Whitman among American poets of the century.
I'd love to post 'Arizonian' and 'With Walker in Nicaragua' but I can't find either of them online so I'll scan them and post them on here myself.
He really is an amazing poet at his best!
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 24, 2014 16:52:20 GMT -5
In the meantime I'll post another piece by Miller - not remotely in the same class as his two masterpieces and as so often with him uneven but it's pretty good on the whole.
California by: Joaquin Miller (1841-1913) I stand beside the mobile sea; And sails are spread, and sails are furled From farthest corners of the world, And fold like white wings wearily. Steamships go up, and some go down In haste, like traders in a town, And seem to see and beckon all. Afar at sea some white shapes flee, With arms stretched like a ghost's to me, And cloud-like sails far blown and curled, Then glide down to the under-world. As if blown bare in winter blasts Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts Are rising from the restless sea, So still and desolate and tall, I seem to see them gleam and shine With clinging drops of dripping brine. Broad still brown wings flit here and there, Thin sea-blue wings whistle through the air: I hear a thousand sea-gulls call. Behold the ocean on the beach Kneel lowly down as if in prayer. I hear a moan as of despair, While far at sea do toss and reach Some things so like white pleading hands. The ocean's thin and hoary hair Is trailed along the silvered sands, At every sigh and sounding moan. 'Tis not a place for mirthfulness, But meditation deep, and prayer, And kneelings on the salted sod, Where man must own his littleness And know the mightiness of God. The very birds shriek in distress And sound the ocean's monotone. Dared I but say a prophecy, As sang the holy men of old, Of rock-built cities yet to be Along these shining shores of gold, Crowding athirst into the sea, What wondrous marvels might be told! Enough, to know that empire here Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; Here art and eloquence shall reign, As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old; Here learned and famous from afar, To pay their noble court, shall come, And shall not seek or see in vain, But look on all with wonder dumb. Afar the bright Sierras lie A swaying line of snowy white, A fringe of heaven hung in sight Against the blue base of the sky. I look along each gaping gorge, I hear a thousand sounding strokes Like giants rending giant oaks, Or brawny Vulcan at his forge; I see pickaxes flash and shine And great wheels whirling in a mine. Here winds a thick and yellow thread, A mossed and silver stream instead; And trout that leaped its rippled tide Have turned upon their sides and died. Lo! when the last pick in the mine Is rusting red with idleness, And rot yon cabins in the mould, And wheels no more croak in distress, And tall pines reassert command, Sweet bards along this sunset shore Their mellow melodies will pour; Will charm as charmers very wise, Will strike the harp with master hand, Will sound unto the vaulted skies The valor of these men of old-- The mighty men of 'Forty-nine; Will sweetly sing and proudly say, Long, long agone there was a day When there were giants in the land.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 24, 2014 16:59:43 GMT -5
This is one of Miller's better short poems:
Twilight At The Heights
Joaquin Miller
The brave young city by the Balboa seas Lies compassed about by the hosts of night— Lies humming, low, like a hive of bees; And the day lies dead. And its spirit’s flight Is far to the west; while the golden bars That bound it are broken to a dust of stars.
Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy dusk! The wolf and the dog; dear incense hour When Mother Earth hath a smell of musk, And things of the spirit assert their power— When candles are set to burn in the west— Set head and foot to the day at rest.
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Feb 24, 2014 18:53:07 GMT -5
I wonder if any members know the work of Joaquin Miller. He was a very varied and often uneven American poet during the nineteenth century. Some of his work is dire but at his best (it doesn't help that his best work is in long poems which rarely get into anthologies because the Twittering classes can't deal with work of any length) he is second only to Walt Whitman among American poets of the century. I'd love to post 'Arizonian' and 'With Walker in Nicaragua' but I can't find either of them online so I'll scan them and post them on here myself. He really is an amazing poet at his best! I, personally, would put Robert Frost (late 19th century into 20th) and Edgar Allen Poe ahead of Miller but he is notable, too.
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Post by beth on Feb 25, 2014 0:16:51 GMT -5
I wonder if any members know the work of Joaquin Miller. He was a very varied and often uneven American poet during the nineteenth century. Some of his work is dire but at his best (it doesn't help that his best work is in long poems which rarely get into anthologies because the Twittering classes can't deal with work of any length) he is second only to Walt Whitman among American poets of the century. I'd love to post 'Arizonian' and 'With Walker in Nicaragua' but I can't find either of them online so I'll scan them and post them on here myself. He really is an amazing poet at his best! I, personally, would put Robert Frost (late 19th century into 20th) and Edgar Allen Poe ahead of Miller but he is notable, too. Maybe e.e. Cummings and Longfellow, too. Not sure they fit into the 19th century, though. Lots of competition there ... Emerson and Emily Dickinson.
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Post by beth on Feb 25, 2014 0:25:13 GMT -5
Almost forgot ... Amy Lowell and Patterns. Lots of good poets at the time.
Patterns by Amy Lowell I walk down the garden-paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden-paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover. Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon-- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.
Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.
In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 18:32:32 GMT -5
I'd call Cummings and Frost twentieth-century poets - certainly Frost's best work was done in that century and I'm not sure that Cummings wrote much that early.
Emily Dickinson I have to admit to having a blind spot for - to me she is original in a sort of irritating, mannered and 'precious' way and her poems make me want to throw up when I read them.
Recently on a poetry site I belong to and where I'm a mod I wrote a tribute poem to Elizabeth Bishop for a contest. The host of the contest liked it and invited me to enter a Dickinson tribute contest. She was stunned when I told her that I regarded Dickinson as a female McGonagall and certainly NOT a role model for women poets.
Longfellow is a complex case - his best poem in my opinion is 'Evangeline' although the hexameters do get a bit wearing after a while. 'Hiawatha' scores on originality but it also shows why trochaic tetrameter can only work in a poem for a short time. It's no accident that it got heavily parodied!
Most of his other work is derivative almost to the point of plagiarism - he was particularly prone to imitate the forgotten English poet Felicia Hemans - now remembered only for the first line of her poem 'Casabianca' - 'the boy stood on the burning deck' - to such an extent that English contemporaries often accused Longfellow of downright plagiarism from her.
Poe is uneven and I don't think he's got any thought content in his poetry. His mastery of rhythm is exceptional and his music is hauntingly beautiful but he never really has anything original to say.
Emerson - another writer who was heavily parodied in his day, perhaps most brilliantly by Andrew Lang in his parody of 'Brahma' - seems to me to have no rhythm, no music, no structure and although many of his ideas are interesting I much prefer reading his essays in prose to his poetry!
Whittier is abject, embarrassingly twee and almost impossible to read now without bursting into laughter.
Bryant, like Emerson, tries hard and has slightly more poetic gifts but he never really leaps off the page at you and makes you shout with excitement.
By contrast Robert C Sands, S Margaret Fuller Ossoli, Jones Very, Thomas Buchanan Read, James Bayard Taylor, Lucy Larcom, Thomas Bailey Aldrich and Adah Isaacs Menken strike me as very fine and underrated poets.
I'll post some works by all of them to give people a flavour of some very good writers that aren't well enough known and recognised!
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 18:46:18 GMT -5
This is in my opinion a very fine poem by Thomas Buchanan Read.
Drifting
My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote: -
Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, - O'erveiled with vines She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.
Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; - This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.
O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 18:55:37 GMT -5
This is by Lucy Larcom - I'm trying to find some better ones by her online but I suspect I'll have to scan and upload them!
The Still Hour
THE quiet of a shadow-haunted pool, Where light breaks through in glorious tenderness; Where the tranced pilgrim in the shelter cool Forgets the way's distress, —
Such is this hour, this silent hour with Thee! The trouble of the restless heart is still, And every swaying wish breathes reverently The whisper of Thy will.
Father, our thoughts are rushing wildly on, Tumultuous, clouded with their own vain strife; Darkened by cares from our own planting grown; We call the tumult life.
And something of Thy Presence still is given: The keen light flashing from the seething foam, Through tangled boughs the sudden glimpse of heaven, From Thee, Thee only, come.
And beautiful it is to catch Thy smile Amid the rush, the hurrying flow of mind; To feel Thy glance upon us all the while, Most Holy and most Kind!
But oh! this hour of heavenly quietness, When, as a lake that opens to the sky, The soul, serene in its great blessedness, Looks up to meet Thine eye!
Fountain of Life, in Thee alone is Light! Shine through our being, cleansing us of sin, Till we grow lucid with Thy Presence bright — The peace of God within.
Yet nearer to our souls in blessing come! O Thou Divine One, meet us a Friend! With Thee alone is every heart at home: Stay with us to the end!
By the stream's windings let us with Thee talk Of this strange earth-life Thou so well hast known; In Thy fresh footprints let us heavenward walk, No more to grope alone!
If in our thoughts, by Thee made calm and clear, The brightening image of Thy face we see, What hour of all our lives can be so dear As this still hour with Thee!
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:01:41 GMT -5
Again I think I'll have to scan and upload some better poems but this one by Thomas Bailey Aldrich isn't bad.
Miracles
Sick of myself and all that keeps the light Of the wide heavens away from me and mine, I climb this ledge, and by this wind-swept pine Lingering, watch the coming of the night: 'Tis ever a new wonder to my sight. Men look to God for some mysterious sign, For other stars than such as nightly shine, For some unwonted symbol of His might. Wouldst see a miracle not less than those The Master wrought of old in Galilee? Come watch with me the azure turn to rose In yonder West, the changing pageantry, The fading alps and archipelagoes, And spectral cities of the sunset-sea.
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:04:35 GMT -5
I think this is a very fine poem by Adah Isaacs Menken:
Answer Me
I
In from the night. The storm is lifting his black arms up to the sky. Friend of my heart, who so gently marks out the lifetrack for me, draw near to-night; Forget the wailing of the low-voiced wind: Shut out the moanings of the freezing, and the starving, and the dying, and bend your head low to me: Clasp my cold, cold hands in yours; Think of me tenderly and lovingly: Look down into my eyes the while I question you, and if you love me, answer me— Oh, answer me!
II
Is there not a gleam of Peace on all this tiresome earth? Does not one oasis cheer all this desert-world? When will all this toil and pain bring me the blessing? Must I ever plead for help to do the work before me set? Must I ever stumble and faint by the dark wayside? Oh the dark, lonely wayside, with its dim-sheeted ghosts peering up through their shallow graves! Must I ever tremble and pale at the great Beyond? Must I find Rest only in your bosom, as now I do? Answer me— Oh, answer me!
III
Speak to me tenderly. Think of me lovingly. Let your soft hands smooth back my hair. Take my cold, tear-stained face up to yours. Let my lonely life creep into your warm bosom, knowing no other rest but this. Let me question you, while sweet Faith and Trust are folding their white robes around me. Thus am I purified, even to your love, that came like John the Baptist in the Wilderness of Sin. You read the starry heavens, and lead me forth. But tell me if, in this world's Judea, there comes never quiet when once the heart awakes? Why must it ever hush Love back? Must it only labor, strive, and ache? Has it no reward but this? Has it no inheritance but to bear—and break? Answer me— Oh, answer me!
IV
The Storm struggles with the Darkness. Folded away in your arms, how little do I heed their battle! The trees clash in vain their naked swords against the door. I go not forth while the low murmur of your voice is drifting all else back to silence. The darkness presses his black forehead close to the window pane, and beckons me without. Love holds a lamp in this little room that hath power to blot back Fear. But will the lamp ever starve for oil? Will its blood-red flame ever grow faint and blue? Will it uprear itself to a slender line of light? Will it grow pallid and motionless? Will it sink rayless to everlasting death? Answer me— Oh, answer me!
V
Look at these tear-drops. See how they quiver and die on your open hands. Fold these white garments close to my breast, while I question you. Would you have me think that from the warm shelter of your heart I must go to the grave? And when I am lying in my silent shroud, will you love me? When I am buried down in the cold, wet earth, will you grieve that you did not save me? Will your tears reach my pale face through all the withered leaves that will heap themselves upon my grave? Will you repent that you loosened your arms to let me fall so deep, and so far out of sight? Will you come and tell me so, when the coffin has shut out the storm? Answer me— Oh, answer me!
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