Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion

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JUST FOR FUN > Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song

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message 1: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
This is the place for discussing poetry.

So... which poems do you guys find dear, intriguing, memorable...?

(Help! Caroline!!!)


message 2: by Matthias (new)

Matthias Williamson (matthiasw) | 340 comments This is my absolute favorite poem.

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda
Translated by Stephen Tapscott


message 3: by Susinok (new)

Susinok | 5205 comments I like the classics. :)

ULYSSES
Alfred, Lord Tennyson


It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known---cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all---
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, my own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle---
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me---
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads---you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

1842


message 4: by mc (new)

mc | 1308 comments I have so many poems in mind, between the ones I grew up with to the ones we studied in one of my courses just this winter, but I have to share one that has stuck with me for ages, from a writer who is known more as a novelist:

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

~Margaret Atwood


message 5: by mc (new)

mc | 1308 comments Joe wrote: "This is my absolute favorite poem.

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark thi..."


Joe, this is gorgeous - Neruda is spectacular in general.


message 6: by mc (new)

mc | 1308 comments Susinok, that's also so beautiful...and the ending:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

particularly moving.


message 7: by Susinok (new)

Susinok | 5205 comments Yes the ending is my favorite part. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


message 8: by mc (last edited Apr 16, 2013 02:06PM) (new)

mc | 1308 comments I've written poetry for a long time, but last year took a Modern Contemporary poetry class, and this year, a special seminar in John Ashbery's poetry - some of his work asks a lot of the reader, but I very much enjoyed that, especially as we were reading it 'as a group.'

The survey class started with Dickinson and Whitman and came through to modernism. Particular favorites were the New York Schools of poets, Allen Ginsburg, Frank O'Hara...also the lovely brevity of William Carlos Williams. The fierceness of Amiri Baraka.

I can't WAIT to read more of everyone's entries...I'll have to find some decent translations of Rumi and Hafiz, if you all don't mind non-Western poetry.


message 9: by Caroline (new)

Caroline (carolinedavies) | 568 comments Wow. Thank you so much Johanna. I don't think my help is needed at all when you've got offerings of Neruda, Tennyson and Atwood. Not to mention the possibilities of Rumi and Hafiz.

In view of what happened in Boston yesterday my choice is Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy.

Prayer

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.


message 10: by mc (new)

mc | 1308 comments Caroline, the entire poem is lovely-and timely-but this part really struck me:

"Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train."

I can both sense that emotion, and yes, hear that Latin chanting. Lovely.

I'm already warning all of you right now, I will be repeating the same damn words over and over again with every entry, I'm sure. Lovely. Evocative. Moving. Touching. Resonant.


message 11: by KC (new)

KC | 4897 comments Joe wrote: "This is my absolute favorite poem.

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark thi..."


Beautiful! Thank you!


message 12: by Matthias (new)

Matthias Williamson (matthiasw) | 340 comments so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

That is the best part, my bf and I say it to each other when we are apart. Pretty corny I know, but so true.


message 13: by mc (new)

mc | 1308 comments Awwwwwwwwww.


message 14: by Anne (new)

Anne | 6816 comments My favourite poem is of course in Norwegian, by a much beloved poet called Tor Jonson.

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær
dette kaller eg kjærleik
eg veit ikkje kva det er

Før var kveldane fylte
av susing frå vind og foss
No ligg ein bortgjøymd tone
og dirrar i mellom oss.


My translation:

Closest you are when you are away
when you are close, something is missing
this I call love
I don't know what it is

Before, the evenings were filled
with the sussuration from wind and waterfall
now a hidden note
lies vibrating between us


message 15: by HJ (new)

HJ | 3603 comments Anne wrote: "My favourite poem is of course in Norwegian, by a much beloved poet called Tor Jonson.

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær
dette kaller eg kjærleik
eg veit ikkje kva det er

F..."


Wow, that's lovely.


message 16: by Tina (new)

Tina | 380 comments Johanna, this is a great idea! I can't wait to enjoy a quiet moment this weekend and take the time to read what's been posted. I use to love writing and reading poetry, but haven't done much of either lately. Caroline recommended some poetry books to me (Hi, Caroline!) that I'd like to check out one day. Maybe this thread will help me get my poetry groove back.

And maybe Josh will post some of his poetry here. :-)


message 17: by K.Z. (new)

K.Z. Snow (kzsnow) | 1606 comments Anne wrote: "My favourite poem is of course in Norwegian, by a much beloved poet called Tor Jonson.

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær
dette kaller eg kjærleik
eg veit ikkje kva det er

F..."


That was lovely, Anne.

What a wonderful forum! I hope more of you post poems that weren't written in English and offer your own translations. If only we could hear them recited to appreciate their original rhythms!


message 18: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments Many of you probably know this one, but I offer it because I love it so. It speaks to me of the binding connection uniting loving partners and just teases at the depth of private emotions between two people.

T.S. Eliot
A Dedication to my Wife

To whom I owe the leaping delight
That quickens my senses in our wakingtime
And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,
The breathing in unison

Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other
Who think the same thoughts without the need of speech
And babble the same speech without need of meaning.

No peevish winter wind shall chill
No sullen tropic sun shall wither
The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only

But this dedication is for others to read:
These are private words addressed to you in public.


message 19: by Katharina (last edited Apr 17, 2013 09:00AM) (new)

Katharina | 656 comments This really is a great idea - so many lovely and touching poems...

One of my favourites is still Prometheus by Goethe - it's stuck with me since I first had to learn it in my German class.
It's full of betrayed trust, of accusation towards a power that was supposed to protect and care but failed to do so.
It is rather harsh and angry, but it's also fierce and strong, full of defiance and unwillingness to give in or give up, and I do find that inspirational ;)

I think the translation takes a lot out of the words, but maybe I'm just too used to the German version. It's far more lyrical in German in my opinion, though ;D

Cover your heaven, Zeus,
With foggy clouds,
And try yourselve, like a boy
Who beheads thistles,
On oak-trees and mountain-tops;
You still must leave
my Earth to me,
And my hut, which you did not build,
And my stove,
Whose glow
You envy me.

I know no poorer creatures
Under the sun, than you, Gods!
You barely sustain yourself
From sacrificial offerings
And exhalated prayers
Your Majesty
And would wither, were
Not children and beggars
Hopeful fools.

When I was a child,
And did not know where from or to,
I turned my seeking eye toward
The sun, as if beyond there was
An ear to hear my complaint,
A heart like mine,
To have mercy with the embattled one.

Who helped me
Against the Titans' might?
Who saved me from Death,
From Slavery?
Did you not accomplish it all yourself,
Holy glowing Heart?
And glowed, young and good,
Deceived, thanks for salvation
To the sleeping one up there?

Shall I honour you? What for?
Have you softened the pains,
Ever, of a burdened one?
Have you silenced the tears,
Ever, of an anguished one?
Was I not forged into a Man
By almighty Time
And eternal Fate,
My masters and yours?

Do you imagine
I should hate life,
Flee to the desert,
Because not every
Flowering dream bloomed?

Here I sit, forming humans
In my image;
A people to be like me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy and to delight themselves,
And to not attend to you –
As I.


message 20: by Susinok (new)

Susinok | 5205 comments The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd (I love this one!) by Sir Walter Raleigh.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, -
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.


message 21: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Wow! What a treat to get to read all these LOVELY poems after a long day at work. Thank you!

Don't you guys just love it how Josh's post about Beautiful words on LiveJournal somehow turned into a new poetry topic in here? :-) This was such a great idea, Caroline!

Am I allowed to post the poem I already posted on Josh's LJ here too? I really would like to see it among your beloved poems.

This little poem has been dear to me for a long time. When hubby and I got married 15 years ago and bought our first own apartment, I painted the poem on our bedroom wall. I still sometimes wonder if the present owner has painted over it or if the poem is still there. :-)

Nowadays I also associate it strongly with Swift's story. I love the original Finnish version, but happened to find the English translation a few days ago.

Rannalla by Saima Harmaja, 1930

Ihanat vaaleat pilvet
liukuvat taivaalla.
Hiljaa ja lumoavasti
laulaa ulappa.

Aaltojen hyväilyistä
hiekka on väsynyt.
Tulisit aivan hiljaa,
tulisit juuri nyt –


On the Beach

The wonderful pale clouds
cross the sky like wings.
Quiet and enchanting
the open water sings.

The sand has grown weary
of the waves’ caressing play.
Now come in perfect quiet,
now come here, right away…


message 22: by Anne (new)

Anne | 6816 comments Thank you so much everybody for posting your favourite poems. So much beauty for the eyes and the soul. I wish for many more!


message 23: by Johanna (last edited Apr 17, 2013 10:13AM) (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Anne wrote: "My favourite poem is of course in Norwegian, by a much beloved poet called Tor Jonson.

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær
dette kaller eg kjærleik
eg veit ikkje kva det er..."


I was delighted to notice that I understand the original Norwegian version almost completely (because I've studied Swedish). The poem sounds lovely in your mother language, Anne. I find the first two lines especially wonderful in Norwegian:

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær


ETA: Your translation is delicate and beautiful. I love it.


message 24: by Anne (new)

Anne | 6816 comments Johanna wrote: "Anne wrote: "My favourite poem is of course in Norwegian, by a much beloved poet called Tor Jonson.

Nærest er du når du er borte
Noko er borte når du er nær
dette kaller eg kjærleik
eg veit ikkje ..."


Thank you, Johanna


message 25: by Bluesimplicity (new)

Bluesimplicity | 41 comments So many wonderful wonderful poems.

One of my favourites has always been

On a Dead Child by Richard Middleton

MAN proposes, God in His time disposes,
And so I wander'd up to where you lay,
A little rose among the little roses,
And no more dead than they.

It seemed your childish feet were tired of straying,
You did not greet me from your flower-strewn bed,
Yet still I knew that you were only playing--
Playing at being dead.

I might have thought that you were really sleeping,
So quiet lay your eyelids to the sky,
So still your hair, but surely you were peeping;
And so I did not cry.

God knows, and in His proper time disposes,
And so I smiled and gently called your name,
Added my rose to your sweet heap of roses,
And left you to your game.


message 26: by Caroline (new)

Caroline (carolinedavies) | 568 comments I'm really enjoying seeing the poems in their original languages even if I am completely reliant on the English translation when it comes to languages like Norwegian.

Apparently today 18th April is Poem in Your Pocket or at least it is for anyone living in the USA. It does sound like a lovely idea. Maybe next year we could do a group thing of handing out our poems? I've been trying to make up my mind whether I'm brave enough to wonder round work giving people poems but have kinda decided against it for today.


message 27: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Caroline wrote: "Apparently today 18th April is Poem in Your Pocket day or at least it is for anyone living in the USA. It does sound like a lovely idea. Maybe next year we could do a group thing of handing out our poems? I've been trying to make up my mind whether I'm brave enough to wonder round work giving people poems but have kinda decided against it for today."

Last summer I bought a book called Poem in Your Pocket: 200 Poems to Read and Carry. The idea of the book is to be able to tear out a page and to take the poem with you anywhere. I haven't dared to do it — to tear out the pages — but I love the idea of Poem in Your Pocket (Day) and especially the idea of handing out the poems to people around you! I already carry seashells and pebbles in my pockets — why not poems?! ;-)

Here is my pocket-sized haiku for you guys today:

Spring is coming
Yep, all that equipment
For sighs

- Jack Kerouac -


message 28: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Carlita wrote: "Many of you probably know this one, but I offer it because I love it so. It speaks to me of the binding connection uniting loving partners and just teases at the depth of private emotions between t..."

No, I didn't know this. Thank you for posting it, Carlita. This thread is really turning to be a treasure chest for me, because I've always read most of the poetry in my native language and I really don't know poetry in English that well at all. So, even though I might recognize a poem in English, I might not have never heard/read it in English before — only in Finnish. Anyway, I find it very exciting. :-)


message 29: by Johanna (last edited Apr 18, 2013 06:31AM) (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
The extremely touching poems Caroline and Bluesimplicity posted (Prayer and On a Dead Child) made me think of the equally touching poem by W.H. Auden. This one you all know at least from the movie Four Weddings And A Funeral, 1994. I return to it from time to time... to savor the poem's sorrowful beauty and its power.

Funeral Blues (also known as Stop All The Clocks) by W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


message 30: by Reggie (last edited Apr 18, 2013 08:55AM) (new)

Reggie Here is a poem that is very well done, but the power of the poem emerges when you know who wrote it.

Here is the poem-


I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

Anna Akhmatova, 1889-1966 lived out her life in Russia. She had 3 Husbands. One husband was put to death by the Bolsheviks. She wrote some major works on behalf of victims of the political up upheavals. Not an easy life.
Picturing such a strong and determined person living this, while at the center of so much tumult, emphasizes the beauty/peace in the simple moments.


message 31: by Reggie (last edited Apr 18, 2013 08:59AM) (new)

Reggie Thanks for the bits of beauty!! I've been enjoying my encounters with your poetry and stories.

Thanks, you all! OOXX


message 32: by Josh (new)

Josh (joshlanyon) | 23709 comments Mod
This is WONDERFUL.


message 33: by Ilhem (new)

Ilhem | 18 comments Johanna wrote: "The extremely touching poems Caroline and Bluesimplicity posted (Prayer and On a Dead Child) made me think of the equally touching poem by W.H. Auden. This one you all know at least from the movie ..."

That's exactly where I heard this poem for the first time. And I sobbed.:)


message 34: by Ilhem (last edited Apr 20, 2013 02:24AM) (new)

Ilhem | 18 comments I'm sorry, I suck at translating (especially poetry) but here's a verse by Louis Aragon.

I arrive where I am a stranger
Nothing is precarious like living
Nothing is fleeting like being
It's a little melting like frost
And for the wind being light
I arrive where I am a stranger

J'arrive où je suis étranger
Rien n’est précaire comme vivre
Rien comme être n’est passager
C’est un peu fondre comme le givre
Et pour le vent être léger
J'arrive où je suis étranger


message 35: by Reggie (new)

Reggie Ilhem wrote: " here's a verse by Louis Aragon.
I arrive where I am a stranger..."


I came to this thread first this morning, so hoping someone posted. Lovely. Simply lovely. Thanks for venturing forth and doing such a great job of translating.
Beautiful.


message 36: by Reggie (last edited Apr 21, 2013 04:08PM) (new)

Reggie What a week it has been in the US. The bombings/shootouts in Boston, the fertilizer plant explosion in Texas. The repercussions will be felt by too many people for the rest of their lives. It encompasses both victims, first responders, law enforcement in various forms and kind people coming together to help/support. I found an anonymous poem from the Firefighter POV, but it expands to all first responders and law enforcement. Thank you for all you do, all you give and who you are. To your family, thank you for your sacrifices.



I wish you could read my mind as I respond to a building fire. “Is this a false alarm or a working, breathing fire? How is the building constructed? What hazards await me? Is anyone trapped? Or to an EMS call, “What is wrong with the patient?” Is it minor or life threatening? Is the caller really in distress or is he or she waiting for us with a 2x4 or a gun?

I wish you could be in the emergency room as a doctor pronounces dead the beautiful five-year-old girl that I tried to save during the past 25 minutes. Who will never go on her first date or say the words “I love you, Mommy” again.

I wish you could know the frustration I feel in the cab engine, the driver with his foot pressing down hard on the pedal, my arm tugging again and again at the air horn chain, as you fail to yield the right of way at an intersection or in traffic. When you need us, however, your first comment upon our arrival will be, “It took you forever to get here!”

I wish you could know my thoughts a s I help extricate a girl of teenage years from the mangled remains of her automobile. “What if this was my sister, my girlfriend, or a friend? What were her parents’ reaction going to be when they opened the door to find a police officer with hat in hand?

I wish you could know how it feels to walk in the back door and greet my parents and family, not having the heart to tell them that I nearly did not come back from the last call I was on. I wish you could feel the hurt as people verbally and sometime physically, abuse us or belittle what I do, or as they express their attitudes or “It will never happen to me.”

I wish you could know the brotherhood and self-satisfaction of helping save a life, or preserving someone’s property, of being there in time of crisis, or creating order from total chaos.

I wish you could understand what it feels like to have a little boy tugging at your arm and asking. "Is Mommy okay?" Not even being able to look in his eyes without tears from your own and not knowing what to say. Or to hold back a long-time friend who watches his buddy having rescue breathing done on him as they take him away in the ambulance. You know all along he did not have his seat belt on ~ Sensations I am too familiar with.

Unless you have lived with this kind of life, you will probably never truly understand or appreciate who I am, we are, or what our job really means to us

……I WISH YOU COULD.


message 37: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments Reggie, thank you for posting this. My nephew is a fireman and I have heard him express some of these thoughts. First responders are a united community in the larger community and I am grateful. My thoughts have been with those who lose their lives in West, Texas, and in Boston. There aren't enough words


message 38: by K.Z. (new)

K.Z. Snow (kzsnow) | 1606 comments I'm so enjoying this discussion!

Auden's "Funeral Blues" (yes, so powerful in that movie!) made me think of a specific poetic form I've always loved: the villanelle. Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is probably the best and most well-known example, but Auden also wrote a villanelle, as did Sylvia Plath and Elizabeth Bishop. One of my favorites, though, is by Theodore Roethke.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.


message 39: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments Because Mondays offer so many opportunities

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


message 40: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
K.Z. wrote: "I'm so enjoying this discussion!

Auden's "Funeral Blues" (yes, so powerful in that movie!) made me think of a specific poetic form I've always loved: the villanelle. Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gent..."


Ah, I had to google villanelle (a beautiful word, by the way!) after reading your post, K.Z. So, that's something new I learned today! :-)

This has quickly become the thread I usually check first these days! And I've loved reading everyone's posts. Let's keep posting poems every once in a while — so many of us seem to enjoy reading them!

Here is a small poem by Eeva Kilpi (1928-), a Finnish poet. I like the relaxed, compassionate feel of it and the fact that it's almost like an afterthought — but still full of depth and wisdom. :-)


Nukkumaan mennessä ajattelen:

Huomenna minä lämmitän saunan,
pidän itseäni hyvänä,
kävelytän, uitan, pesen,
kutsun itseni iltateelle,
puhutellen ystävälisesti ja ihaillen, kehun:
Sinä pieni nainen
minä luotan sinuun.


Going to sleep, I think:

Tomorrow I will heat up the sauna,
Pamper myself,
Walk, swim, wash,
Invite myself to evening tea,
Speak to myself in a friendly and admiring way, praising:
You brave little woman,
I believe in you.


message 41: by Josh (new)

Josh (joshlanyon) | 23709 comments Mod
These are simply wonderful. What a glorious way to start a Monday morning.


message 42: by Caroline (last edited Apr 22, 2013 08:34AM) (new)

Caroline (carolinedavies) | 568 comments I'd half forgotten that villanelle By Roethke -thanks for the reminder KZ..
Elizabeth bishop's One Art is one of my favourites of all time and here's another by Derek Mahon about Captain Oates who was on Scott's ill fated expedition to the South Pole in 1912.

Antarctica

‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
The others nod, pretending not to know.
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He leaves them reading and begins to climb,
Goading his ghost into the howling snow;
He is just going outside and may be some time.

The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime
And frostbite is replaced by vertigo:
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Need we consider it some sort of crime,
This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No,
He is just going outside and may be some time

In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme,
Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow,
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He takes leave of the earthly pantomime
Quietly, knowing it is time to go.
‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.


message 43: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Josh wrote: "These are simply wonderful. What a glorious way to start a Monday morning."

Yes. Exactly. This topic is like a small cocoon of wonderful. :-)


message 44: by Johanna (new)

Johanna | 18130 comments Mod
Oh, wow. Thank you, Carlita and Caroline.


message 45: by Susinok (new)

Susinok | 5205 comments Here is my favorite Dylan Thomas:


The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
By Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.



The poem Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night always reminds me of my mother. She fought cancer tooth and nail and was determined to have a normal life through it all.


message 46: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments I'm so glad you posted


message 47: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments Sorry, here's the rest:

Thomas' Don't Go Gently Into That Good Night. It's one of my favorites and it has resonated with me for so many events of my life. Thank you.


message 48: by Kira (new)

Kira | 19 comments One of my all time favorites:

Instructions
by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.


message 49: by Anne (new)

Anne | 6816 comments Every time I come to this place, I find something new and wonderful. Thank you.


message 50: by Carlita (new)

Carlita Costello | 1219 comments Susinok: Since you mentioned it and I said it was a favorite, it's been on my mind, so I thought I'd post it.


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


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