Emily Dickinson*

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830. She attended Mount Holyoke Female Seminary in South Hadley, but severe homesickness led her to return home after one year. Throughout her life, she seldom left her house and visitors were scarce. The people with whom she did come in contact, however, had an enormous impact on her thoughts and poetry. She was particularly stirred by the Reverend Charles Wadsworth, whom she met on a trip to Philadelphia. He left for the West Coast shortly after a visit to her home in 1860, and some critics believe his departure gave rise to the heartsick flow of verse from Dickinson in the years that followed. While it is certain that he was an important figure in her life, it is not certain that this was in the capacity of romantic love—she called him "my closest earthly friend." Other possibilities for the unrequited love in Dickinson’s poems include Otis P. Lord, a Massachusetts Supreme Court Judge, and Samuel Bowles, editor of the Springfield Republican.

By the 1860s, Dickinson lived in almost total physical isolation from the outside world, but actively maintained many correspondences and read widely. She spent a great deal of this time with her family. Her father, Edward Dickinson, was actively involved in state and national politics, serving in Congress for one term. Her brother Austin attended law school and became an attorney, but lived next door once he married Susan Gilbert (one of the speculated—albeit less persuasively—unrequited loves of Emily). Dickinson’s younger sister Lavinia also lived at home for her entire life in similar isolation. Lavinia and Austin were not only family, but intellectual companions during Dickinson’s lifetime.

Dickinson's poetry reflects her loneliness and the speakers of her poems generally live in a state of want, but her poems are also marked by the intimate recollection of inspirational moments which are decidedly life-giving and suggest the possibility of happiness. Her work was heavily influenced by the Metaphysical poets of seventeenth-century England, as well as her reading of the Book of Revelation and her upbringing in a Puritan New England town which encouraged a Calvinist, orthodox, and conservative approach to Christianity.

She admired the poetry of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, as well as John Keats. Though she was dissuaded from reading the verse of her contemporary Walt Whitman by rumor of its disgracefulness, the two poets are now connected by the distinguished place they hold as the founders of a uniquely American poetic voice. While Dickinson was extremely prolific as a poet and regularly enclosed poems in letters to friends, she was not publicly recognized during her lifetime. The first volume of her work was published posthumously in 1890 and the last in 1955. She died in Amherst in 1886.

Upon her death, Dickinson's family discovered 40 handbound volumes of nearly 1800 of her poems, or "fascicles" as they are sometimes called. These booklets were made by folding and sewing five or six sheets of stationery paper and copying what seem to be final versions of poems in an order that many critics believe to be more than chronological. The handwritten poems show a variety of dash-like marks of various sizes and directions (some are even vertical). The poems were initially unbound and published according to the aesthetics of her many early editors, removing her unusual and varied dashes and replacing them with traditional punctuation. The current standard version replaces her dashes with a standard "n-dash," which is a closer typographical approximation of her writing. Furthermore, the original order of the works was not restored until 1981, when Ralph W. Franklin used the physical evidence of the paper itself to restore her order, relying on smudge marks, needle punctures and other clues to reassemble the packets. Since then, many critics have argued for thematic unity in these small collections, believing the ordering of the poems to be more than chronological or convenient. The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson (Belknap Press, 1981) remains the only volume that keeps the order intact.


*Biography from Poets.org

Poetic Fragment- Cleanthes

Conduct me Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,
Wherever your decrees have fixed my lot.
I follow cheerfully; and, did I not,
Wicked and wretched, I must follow still.

-Cleanthes

Of the Poem (Quote):

This is a quote by Cleanthes that Epictetus employs in one of his works, the Enchiridion.

Despite the fatalistic imports, I love this quote and apply it with Providence in mind. Indeed, despite the pantheistic philosophical perspective endorsed by them, I love the Stoics (especially Epictetus).

Poetic Parameters:

Stanza: Quatrain
Meter: Pentameter
Rhyme Scheme: x.a.a.x. (where 'x' represents unrhymed lines- essentially an Italian quatrain)

Note: I've studied philosophy for roughly 17 years, and I find it incredible, each day, how closely connected and influenced I was by poetry through my philosophical studies- and this without my complete awareness of the matter.

The Song My Paddle Sings

I have this funny little habit of going to NNDB and seeing who was born on a given day, and I'm particularly delighted when I see the names of philosophers or poets I've studied.

I've countless times come across the names of philosophers and poets who I've never heard of much less studied (e.g. Torquato Tasso, who was born this day in 1544, is a poet who I'm unfamiliar with).

It was precisely this that happened yesterday when I came across the name Pauline Johnson, a Native American poet born in Canada. Until then I hadn't heard of her, and when I looked her up and read some of her works I was thoroughly delighted- a truly gifted poet I'd say.

Four poems moved me immediately ...

Dawendine: a poem about a Native American girl averting the destruction of her kin
And He Said Fight On: written in the midst of the poet's fight against breast cancer
A Cry from an Indian Wife: a poem about a Native American mother's reluctance to send her son to war

The forth poem, the poem this post pertains to, is said to be the poet's most popular work: The Song My Paddle Sings. I read through it this morning and was utterly impressed with everything about it (it's popular for a reason) ... its meter, stanza selection, and rhyme scheme fit together so perfectly that the poem flows like a perfect story. It is a perfect story (albeit cryptic and exceedingly mystical in nature).

It is a must read- in fact, I can't wait to read it to my daughter tonight!


*****


The Song My Paddle Sings

WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
0! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow !
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
0! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
by your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep I
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now ;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl !
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for everimore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, 0 paddle! Be brave, canoe !
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead !
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

Tekahionwake

*****

Side Note: Wikisource lists all of the poems Pauline Johnson published under Flint and Feather, I highly recommend checking some of them out.

Birth Date of a Native American Poet*

Pauline Johnson (1861-1913)


Pauline Johnson (1861-1913) was the first Native American poet to have her work published in Canada and was one of the few women of her time who succeeded in supporting herself from her writings and recitals. Thousands of Canadian schoolchildren have read her poem "The Song My Paddle Sings."

Johnson was unique in her time because she recited her own work rather than that of others. Her recitals of her own poems, anecdotes, and plays were a refreshing change for American and Canadian audiences whose usual theatrical fare was Shakespeare or Ibsen. Johnson was never able to make much money from her writing, and most of her income came from her speaking tours.

Mixed Heritage

Emily Pauline Johnson was born on March 10, 1861, near Brantford, Ontario. She was one of four children born to George Johnson, a Mohawk chief on the Six Nations Indian Reserve, and Emily Howells, a wealthy white woman originally from Bristol, England. Her paternal grandfather was Mohawk chief Smoke Johnson.

Johnson's mother was living with her family in Ohio when she decided to join her sister, who was living near Brantford. While staying there, she met George Johnson, who had been raised primarily among whites.

George and Emily Johnson were married in 1853 despite opposition from some white citizens of Brantford. Emily Johnson's brother-in-law, a minister, refused to marry the couple. George Johnson's mother was also opposed to the marriage; she was concerned their children would not be considered Mohawks. They had a private wedding but were hounded by curious onlookers after the ceremony.

George Johnson bought two hundred acres on the Indian reserve and built a mansion there that he named Chiefswood. Johnson grew up at Chiefswood. Although she had few playmates, she managed to find companionship in nature. The Grand River flowed alongside her house, and she enjoyed camping and canoeing. Chiefswood frequently played host to important visitors from England. In 1869, Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught, who would later become governor-general of Canada, paid a visit.

Johnson's mother encouraged her daughter to read the classics in English literature, including the works of Sir Walter Scott, John Milton, and William Shakespeare. Johnson attended the Brantford Model School and also had private instruction from her governess. Her formal education ended after seven years and she did not attend college. Her father and grandfather taught her Mohawk legends.

Budding Poet

As soon as she could write, Johnson started creating poems. Her early writings were influenced by her grandfather's Indian tales and by the English poetry she heard from her mother. Canoeing would take on special significance in some of her poems, including "The Song My Paddle Sings." By the time she had reached her late teens, she was a competent poet but not yet published.

George Johnson died in 1884 at the age of 67 following a beating he received while trying to stop whites from illegally taking timber from the Six Nations Reserve. After his death, the family could not afford to remain at Chiefswood, so they rented out the house and moved to Brantford. Johnson expected to marry but found no suitors. She brought in some income by writing poems, which she published in the local newspaper and in an anthology entitled Songs of the Great Dominion.

Poetry Recitations

Johnson initially wanted to take up acting, but her mother objected. In the minds of many Victorian women, acting was not a reputable occupation. Instead, Johnson agreed to give poetry recitations, a highly respectable occupation for women in those days. Over the next seventeen years, Johnson recited her poems in England, New England, and Canada. During much of this period, she lived in trains and hotels. All told, she made nineteen trips across Canada and six forays into the United States. Some of her recitals were accompanied by musicians or comedians.

Although Johnson never married, she was involved with her manager and traveling partner Walter McRaye. Johnson first met McRaye in 1897, when she was 35 and near the peak of her career. McRaye, who was giving recitals of French-Canadian dialect poems throughout Canada and the United States, was 20. In 1899, the two formed a partnership; McRaye took responsibility for arranging their tours, bookings, and transportation. McRaye remained Johnson's constant companion and co-performer until she retired.

In 1892, using the Mohawk name Tekahionwake, Johnson made her reading debut at a poetry recital held at the Young Liberals Club in Toronto. At the recital, Johnson read her poem "A Cry from an Indian Wife," which argued that Canada had been taken unfairly from its first inhabitants. In "Indian Poet Princess," she asked, "If some great nation came from far away,/Wresting their country from their hapless braves,/Giving what they gave us - but wars and graves." During half the performance, she wore an evening gown, but in the other half, she dressed in buckskin embellished with silver brooches, wampum belts, a blanket, and two scalps.

Johnson toured to help defray the cost of printing her first book of poetry. She read her poetry throughout Canada. Her recitals took place in church halls, schoolhouses, and even saloons. In larger towns she might appear in an opera house.

Traveled to England

Johnson performed throughout Canada before traveling to England, where she hoped to find a publisher for her first book of poems. In England, she was warmly accepted and frequently invited to recite her poetry at private parties held by wealthy socialites.

Her first book of poetry, The White Wampum, appeared in 1895 while she was still in England. It included her famous poem "The Song My Paddle Sings." After her return to Canada, she again began touring while publishing in North American magazines. Besides poetry, Johnson wrote stories about Indian life, travel articles, and family stories for a variety of magazines. Because she covered a wide range of topics, she reached a diverse audience.

Johnson's second book, Canadian Born, appeared in 1903. Critics did not consider the poems in it as strong as those in her first collection, but the book sold well. Focusing on the shared heritage of all Canadians, Johnson emphasized the debt that her themes had to Native American culture. In the book's preface, she wrote, "White race and Red are one if they are but Canadian born." About this time, Johnson began cutting back on her public readings, having begun to feel the toll of constant traveling on her health.

Hoping to retire in England, she made a second trip there in 1906 but found no English journals or magazines willing to publish her work. The "drawing room entertainments" that had included Johnson on her visit to London twelve years earlier were no longer in vogue. She made her stage debut during this second trip in a large concert hall, billed as "E. Pauline Johnson - Tekahionwake, Indian Princess."

Vancouver

Not finding the reception she had hoped for in England, Johnson decided to make her home in Vancouver in 1909. In 1911, she published Legends of Vancouver, based on stories she had heard from Chief Joe Capilano of the Squamish tribe of British Columbia. Johnson's novel The Moccasin Maker recounted experiences of Canadian women - white, Indian and mixed-blood.

By 1911, Johnson knew that she had inoperable breast cancer. She nevertheless continued to write through the last years of her life. Many of her readers purchased her fourth book, Flint and Feather, which contained all of her poems in one volume, by subscription at premium rates to help defray her medical expenses. Her poem from this period, "And He Said Fight On," conveyed her determination to defeat the illness that was taking her life: "Time and its ally, Dark Disarmament,/Have compassed me about/Have massed their armies, and on battle bent/My forces put to rout;/But though I fight alone, and fall, and die,/Talk terms of Peace? Not I."

Johnson died on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia, three days before her fifty-second birthday. Her ashes were placed in Vancouver's Stanley Park and later marked by a large stone. Her final book, The Shagganappi, was published posthumously.

Legacy

In the years immediately following Johnson's death, her work went largely ignored. But in the mid-1920s, there was renewed interest in her poetry. Canadian schoolchildren began studying "The Song My Paddle Sings." In 1961, to mark the 100th anniversary of her birth, the Canadian government issued a Pauline Johnson postage stamp, the first stamp to recognize a Canadian Indian and the first Canadian stamp to recognize a woman who was not a member of the British royal family.

Some critics believed Johnson was Canada's best Native American poet. Some others attributed her success to her theatrical talents or to her successful blending of Indian and English elements in her poetry. For her part, Johnson seemed to care little whether she was remembered as a great poet. "Forget that I was Pauline Johnson, but remember that I was Tekahionwake, the Mohawk that humbly aspired to be the saga singer of her people," she was quoted as saying in Lucie Hartley's biography, Pauline Johnson.


*Biography from Encyclopedia of World Biography

Books by EPJ

Truth and Beauty

… Truth is Beauty’s outer speech
As Light’s the outer speech of Heat-
And truth be told, one cannot teach
The place where Truth and Beauty meet.

For they are One as One is He-
A Singularity Divine-
And if we add Him so there’s Three
A Oneness we would still assign.

… Beauty is the heart of Truth-
The Oldest Purity we view-
The Elder, if you will, of Youth,
Yet Age and Truth are hardly two.

For they are One as One is He-
A Singularity Divine-
And if we add Him so there’s Three
A Oneness we would still assign.

-jwm



Of the Poem:

Related poem fragment:

Who knows but that Truth is she
Who's known as Beauty to the eyes
Or Beauty, whom the arts do prize,
Who's to say that she's not he

-jwm

The idea conveyed in this quatrain is essentially the same idea presented in this post: Truth and Beauty's immutable unity.

Inspired by Shakespeare's Phoenix and the Turtle and a Dickinson poem, my intention here is to convey the mystical unity I'm convinced exists 'between' the two.

Because Emanual Swedenborg bares an incredible influence on my theological and ontological perspective, it should be of no suprise that the contents of the above poem reflect that influence.

Poetic Parameters:
Meter: Lines 1 and 9 are 7 syllable count, the rest are tetrameters.
Stanza: Quatrain (4 total)
Rhyme Scheme: abab (per quatrain)

The Philosopher's Skull- A Latin Poem Disclosed

Parvula Cartesii fuit hæc calvaria magni
exuvias reliquas Gallica busta tegunt
sed laus ingenii toto diffunditur orbe
mixtaque coelicolis mens pia semper ovat.


*****

In September of 1649 René Descartes departed for Sweden to mentor 20-year-old Queen Christina in the field of philosophy. Just six months later, in February of the following year, he would die from a sudden onset of pneumonia.

The French philosopher's body might have remained to this day in a churchyard cemetery near Stockholm, but a French Ambassador by the name of Hugues de Terlon secretly exhumed it, put it in a copper coffin, and brought it back with him to St. Genevieve-du-Mont, Paris.

Unfortunately, this wouldn't be the last trip for the philosopher's remains ... for the next 350 years his bones would be "fought over, stolen, sold, revered as relics, studied by scientists, used in séances, and passed surreptitiously from hand to hand."

Along the way there were inscriptions made on some of the bones, especially the skull. One in particular, and the one this post is most concerned with, is the inscription across the forehead of his skull. It's a single quatrain written in old Latin cursive- apparently a poem that commemorates the high genius of the philosopher.

Although I'm quite familiar with Descartes and his background as a philosopher, my Latin's a little loose; and because I was dying terribly inside to know the contents of this poem, I had to exhaust every means at my exposal to obtain its meaning ... I tried broad spectrum internet searches, online translators, combed through a dozen books or so, I even sought out assistance on Facebook- all to no avail.

And then it happened ... I stumbled on a Google Books page that referred to a book written by Russell Shorto, Descartes Bones. In it, on page 146, was that very Latin poem transliterated into English. Needless to say, I was really excited! Here's both versions:

Latin

Parvula Cartesii fuit haec calvaria magni,
exuvias reliquas gallica busta tegunt;
sed laus ingenii too diffunditur orbe,
mistaque coelicolis mens pia semper ovat.

English

This small skull once belonged to the great Cartesius,
The rest of his remains are hidden far away in the
land of France;
But all around the circle of the globe his genius
is praised,
And his spirit still rejoices in the sphere of heaven.

How cool is that? I just wish I knew the exact history of the person who wrote this poem, the extent of their poetic inclinations, what poetic influences bore sway on them, and- considering they were apparently Swedish- why the choice of Latin.

Now the English version of this poem may not be the most impressive read in the realm of poetry, but you've got to admit, considering the history of Descartes as a philosopher and the 'travels' of his skeletal remains, the poem takes on an aesthetic relevance that makes ignoring it at least unworthy. Hence the post.

*****

As a side note, I feel a certain sense of shame that Descartes' remains were treated this way. This is a man whose philosophical position lends ontological primacy to soul over that of flesh; a man who has argued that the body is merely an extended thing within which we- the mind, or soul- act through, but are not intrinsically a part of.

Yet here we are- I say we as in we humans … yet here we are squabbling, stealing, selling, and superstitiously adoring the bones of a man who would laugh at the very thought of it. At least the author of the above inscription acknowledged that these “once belonged” to Descartes, and that the man- Descartes- occupies a place that is “in the sphere of heaven” (a latent suggestion of the dualism Descartes espoused).

*****

"This 'I' – that is, the soul, by which I am what I am, is entirely distinct from the body, and would not fail to be what it is even if the body did not exist."

"Cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am)."

In order to improve the mind, we ought less to learn, than to contemplate.

Assault- Another Millay Poem

Here's another great poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The imagery here is especially gorgeous, and I can easily imagine myself aesthetically absorbed on a stroll such as hers . (Notice again here her stress on Beauty's overwhelming presence: waylaid by Beauty.)


Assault

I

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

II

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!



Of the Poem (in Brief):

This particular poem pulled me into the very moment Millay was referring to, especially the first quatrain. The second stanza moves from purely empirical imagery to transcendental symbols pertaining to savage Beauty, and does so very compellingly. A great poem indeed.


There’s an audio clip attached to this poem at Poets.org, click on the link and check it out.

God's World- a Millay Poem

God's World

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.



Of the Poem:

I first read this poem last year. It was so powerful a message that I remember exactly- down to the singular most detail of the day- where I was when I read it.

The reason it moved me so deeply is because I've long understood and known the overwhelming presence of Beauty that exists in the world. It's everywhere, crushing in all around me to the point that I feel unable to talk or move or think ... I see it in the trees, I smell it in the air, I feel it permeate dark summer nights. Beauty's everywhere. Everywhere!

It's a mystifying aspect of existence I know all too well, and it sits perpetually by just waiting for me to pause and acknowledge it, and the second I do- every time without fail!- it breaks in on me with the force of a sacred deluge, and inundates everything I am to the point of irreversible rapture ...

I believe this is the point of Millay's poem: Beauty's overwhelming glory made manifest in this humble world. In the first stanza she can't seem to get enough of it, but by the end of the second stanza she doubts whether she can take in anymore of its incredible glory: My soul is all but out of me, she says, and continues:

let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Should another autumn leaf fall or bird sing she feels she'll loose herself entirely in the beauty of it.

When I read this poem I’m reminded of William Wordsworth’s Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802, and how amazed he was that there are those in the world who hardly recognize the beauty that surrounds them:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty

I’m also reminds of a beautiful quote from a scene out of American Beauty:

“It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.”

With that I’d like to say Happy Birthday to this poet, whose date of birth was on February 22, 1892 … Happy Birthday, Edna St. Vincent Millay. We'll see you on the other side.


*****

Poetic Parameters:

Rhyme Scheme: abbccaa (per stanza)

Meter: Mixed- Lines 1 and 4 through 7 are done in pentameter (i.e. five metric feet), while lines 2 and 3 consist of three metric feet (or trimeter)

Stanza: Septet (i.e. 7 lines)

Edna St. Vincent Millay*

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950)

Poet and playwright Edna St. Vincent Millay was born in Rockland, Maine, on February 22, 1892. Her mother, Cora, raised her three daughters on her own after asking her husband to leave the family home in 1899. Cora encouraged her girls to be ambitious and self-sufficient, teaching them an appreciation of music and literature from an early age. In 1912, at her mother's urging, Millay entered her poem "Renascence" into a contest: she won fourth place and publication in The Lyric Year, bringing her immediate acclaim and a scholarship to Vassar. There, she continued to write poetry and became involved in the theater. She also developed intimate relationships with several women while in school, including the English actress Wynne Matthison. In 1917, the year of her graduation, Millay published her first book, Renascence and Other Poems. At the request of Vassar's drama department, she also wrote her first verse play, The Lamp and the Bell (1921), a work about love between women.

Millay, whose friends called her "Vincent," then moved to New York's Greenwich Village, where she led a notoriously Bohemian life. She lived in a nine-foot-wide attic and wrote anything she could find an editor willing to accept. She and the other writers of Greenwich Village were, according to Millay herself, "very, very poor and very, very merry." She joined the Provincetown Players in their early days, and befriended writers such as Witter Bynner, Edmund Wilson, Susan Glaspell, and Floyd Dell, who asked for Millay's hand in marriage. Millay, who was openly bisexual, refused, despite Dell's attempts to persuade her otherwise. That same year Millay published A Few Figs from Thistles (1920), a volume of poetry which drew much attention for its controversial descriptions of female sexuality and feminism. In 1923 her fourth volume of poems, The Harp Weaver, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. In addition to publishing three plays in verse, Millay also wrote the libretto of one of the few American grand operas, The King's Henchman (1927).

Millay married Eugen Boissevain, a self-proclaimed feminist and widower of Inez Milholland, in 1923. Boissevain gave up his own pursuits to manage Millay's literary career, setting up the readings and public appearances for which Millay grew quite famous. According to Millay's own accounts, the couple acted liked two bachelors, remaining "sexually open" throughout their twenty-six-year marriage, which ended with Boissevain's death in 1949. Edna St. Vincent Millay died in 1950.


*Biography from Poets.org

Atlantic Waters

It hugged the pillars of that pier
With trumpet waves that crashing sprayed
And low above it seagulls sang
To I, the priest who by it prayed

That green New Jersey ocean smelled
Of seaweed, rotted wood, and grime
But I, the priest who by it prayed
Felt nary ever better time

For seagulls loved the lapping sea
The lapping sea the seagull's song
And I the priest who prayed by both
Felt high elation ever strong

-jwm

Comus in the Margins

There's a poem quoted in the margins of one of Benjamin Jowett's translations of the works of Plato- specifically the book of Phaedo. The quote there was to serve as a comparison to what Socrates was elaborating on, namely, how some spirits are still so carnally-minded after death that they are so weighed down by it that they cannot ascend to the heavenly world ...

But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her departure, and is the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that the truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and use for the purposes of his lusts,—the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained only by philosophy;—do you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?

She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of the body have wrought into her nature.

And this corporeal element, my friend, is burdensome and weighty and earthly, and is visible; a soul thus hampered is depressed and dragged down again into the visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the other world- prowling about tombs and sepulchers, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls, spectres emanating from souls that have not departed pure, but still retain something of the visible element: which is why they can be seen.

-Phaedo, 80

Jowett, or perhaps the publishers, thought that a good comparison of the thought above might be found in a section of a poem entitled Comus, and so it was inserted …

But, when lust,
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,
Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The soul grows clotted by contagion,
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose
The divine property of her first being.
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchers,
Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave,
As loth to leave the body that it loved,
And linked itself by carnal sensuality
To a degenerate and degraded state.

-Comus, 469

Now I can’t be certain of the exact time I first read those lines, but it was definitely prior to 1995, and therefore prior to my formal introduction to poetry. I mention this because the poet who wrote those lines, John Milton, is the selfsame poet whose works pulled me deep into the realm of poetry years later (which I mention in an earlier post).

I should probably be clear on something here, or rather on two points.

First of all, John Milton is a man- no more and no less than I am. Although he happens to be my favorite poet, my praises to him resemble that of praises I’d render to a friend.

Nevertheless, and secondly (and the self-reflecting point of this post), I find it fascinating that his poetic influence reached further back than I had imagined. I must have read and reread that margin note twenty times or more, and never once- until recently- did it occur to me to find out who was responsible for those lines.

It goes without saying, when I did find out who was responsible for those lines, it reaffirmed the aesthetic preference I have for his style of writing- not to mention I was amazed and happy about it.

One of the very first things I did when I set this blog up was to indicate why poetry interests me. I wrote:

My longstanding interest in philosophy and theology- both sparked by my interest and belief in God- are what brought me to poetry, hence here.

Isn’t it delightfully coincidental that my first exposure to Milton was while reading Phaedo years ago- a deeply philosophical work whose subject revolves around the question of life after death and immortality? I believe that it’s questions like these, ultimately, that brought me to poetry … even more so, respectfully, than Milton.


Side Note: The above link under Phaedo leads to an awesome lecture that I recommend checking out.

Poetry vs. Histroy- Aristotle Quote

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

-Aristotle

A Philosopher's Hymn to Virtue

Aristotle is a philosopher who I admire a great deal. Last week I decided I'd take up another comprehensive study of one of his best known works, the Nicomachean Ethics (this is something that I’ve been meaning to do for a while now, a sort of back-to-the-basics type thing).

Anyhow, this new resolution brought me back to a poem that's attributed to him- the poem's called Hymn to Virtue (Ἀρετή, Areté).

This is a poem dedicated to Hermias (said to be Aristotle’s uncle-in-law), a poem modeled on an early poetic form well known to the ancient Greeks: Paean.

It's very important to realize that there were several transliterations of this poem, and that, despite the beauty of the poem we English speakers are familiar with, we might have lost some of the poetic parameters intended by Aristotle.

Of course, this doesn't mean its meaning is lost to us- far from it. What it means is that we ought to be very cautious ascribing parameters to the poem that are not intended in the original Greek.*

What's more important however, is that as we read this work we remember it came from the hand of a man who quite literally dedicated his entire life to a life of virtue in the purest sense of the word, and that as he did so, he became one of the highest contributors to the very foundations of Western civilization as we know it- and more. Yeah, I admire this guy a lot.

With that said, here’s that poem below, enjoy.


****

Hymn to Virtue

O sought with toil and mortal strife
By those of human birth,
Virtue, thou noblest end of life,
Thou goodliest gain on earth!
Thee, Maid, to win, our youth would bare,
Unwearied, fiery pains; and dare
Death for thy beauty’s worth;
So bright thy proffer’d honours shine,
Like clusters of a fruit divine.

Sweeter than slumber’s boasted joys,
And more desir’d than gold,
Dearer than nature’s dearest ties: -
For thee those heroes old,
Herculean son of highest Jove,
And the twin-birth of Leda, strove
By perils manifold:
Pelides’ son, with like desire,
And Ajax, sought the Stygian fire.

The bard shall crown with lasting bay,
And age immortal make
Atarna’s sovereign, ‘reft of day
For thy dear beauty’s sake:
Him, therefore, the recording Nine
In songs extol to heights divine,
And every chord awake;
Promoting still, with reverence due,
The meed of friendship, tried and true.


*To me the structure resembles that of an ode whose rhyme scheme (per stanza) is as follows: a.b.a.b.c.c.b.d.d

The meter of lines 1, 3, 5, 6, and 8 (of each stanza) seem to loosely resemble a tetrameter; whereas the rest want to express six to seven syllable counts.

Quote: Dylan Thomas

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.

-Dylan Thomas

Note: This quote is selected from Thomas' poem The Hand that Signed the Paper

(behind this link is a small article pertaining to that work).

What Will Your Verse Be

Dead Poet's Society is a great movie (and I thought so long before my own introduction to poetry's beauty).

In retrospect, there are scenes within this movie that have moved me to a deeper sensitivity to creativity's expression, and it is for this reason that my heart leaps in my chest when I come across a soul moved by the arts (whether it be music, painting, writing, photography, whatever).

This blog's introductory quote is taken from that movie and remains indelibly scribed on my heart.

In the movie, and immediately after the scene where that quote takes place, Robin Williams' character continues with another profound and inspirational quote from Walt Whitman:

To make video fullscreen click the expanding arrows in the media player.

Said the Crow

My curses gazed upon the foe
Who perched on wires by the tree:
"Just who is it you seek, Old Crow,
The neighbor boy, or is it me?"

Said the Crow:

"I seek for water and for bread,
And seek for murders in the sky-
But never for a neighbor dead,
Or that a neighbor's neighbor die."

Of the Poem:

Sometimes a crow's a crow, as sometimes a cigar's a cigar.

The poem above came from an experience I had earlier this week. I accompanied two friends for a walk across the street when suddenly there was dark black crow directly before us plucking at a puddle of water. An onslaught of superstitious images filled my head to the point that an eeriness sat on the entire scene (my friends felt it too).

Now I hardly consider myself a superstitious person, but truth be told, I've always perceived the presence or suggestion of Death where these birds would rove. Moreover, and on account of this, I've caught myself shunning them, shooing them, cursing them, staring swords at them ... I think I even tried to throw something at one of them once!

Superstitious? I wouldn't go that far, but I will acknowledge that like most of us I've grown up in a culture riddled with superstitious ideologies, and that these have become so interwoven into our social awareness that it's almost impossible to come out unscathed by it (e.g. my examples above).

Notwithstanding, the above poem is essentially a reminder to myself that this is so, that that bird we saw plodding about the water wasn't the embodiment of Death or Destruction or Bad Omen, but was rather ... well ... a bird.

Now we may attach symbols to these creatures that represent otherworldly aspects, and even mythologize or poeticize about them, but the truth is we ought to be focused on the meaning behind the symbol rather than the subject through whom that meaning seemingly symbolically manifests.


Side Note:

In the second line of the second stanza the phrase "murders in the sky" appears. This sounds exceedingly dark, and was intended to. But the truth is it's not dark at all. The word 'murder' is a collective noun that basically means the same thing as 'flock' (hence the phrase murder of crows). When in line two of stanza two the crow says he seeks "murders in the sky" he's essentially saying he seeks the company of other crows- a social inclination.

copyright © 2010

Love Divine- by SGK

I have a friend who produces music and writes songs. A few days ago he recited a stanza from a poem he had written some time ago. After having explained its context, and reciting it a couple more times, I had to ask him if I could post it. Anyhow, here it is, it's called ...


Love Divine

You were my woman-
that funny smile was mine-
but you made it all so clear
when you finally picked up the line:
in an unspoken voice your heart said goodbye
and with preservation for your feelings,
and no concern for mine,
I say farewell, my good friend,
and goodbye to a love divine.

-skg

Remembering a Life- by Nordette Adams

Remembering A Life

I remember him in the misted vision of toddler years
and again in girlhood, the booming voice on TV,
someone grown-ups talked about, eyelids flapped wide.
Elders huddled 'round the screen enraptured,
in fear for him, in awe.

I remember him.
His words swept the land, singing our passion.
Dogs growled in streets. Men in sheets.
Police battering my people. (Water, a weapon.)
Yet my people would rejoice... And mourn.

I remember him, a fearsome warrior crying peace,
a man--blemished by clay, the stain of sin as
any other, calling on the Rock--
Death's sickle on his coat tails,
yet he spied glory.

Shall we walk again and remember him,
not as the Madison Aveners do,
but in solitude and hope
with acts of courage and compassion,
with lives of greater scope
carving fresh paths of righteousness?

I remember.


-Nordette Adams

Carefully: by Jessica Doss

Negative thoughts lead to negative actions then can't be erased.... Trying to move carefully yet at a faster pace... Hiding from the truth cuz secure in the lie... There's no chance at failure when you don't even try... Shackled in the sky by our own understanding... To paralyzed to take off by fear of the landing... Fear keeps you safe from great life experience... The awareness learned might be worth the risk if you're really feelin it.. Subject to personal perception but lacking the self reflection... Questions ever puzzled down the right path with indirect directions... Unwrapped barely naked longing for internal embrace... So blinded by fear that your comfort I can't seem to take... Slowing towards the end quickly yet powerless to stop... Guess the question will be answered are these feelings we caught...

Of the Poem (Brief Summary & Thanks):

The poem above was submitted by a friend of mine, Jessica Doss. In it is found a tension that consumes the speaker, a tension between stagnation as a result of fear, and a latent but new hope that looks upon the possibility of a great life experience.

The poem employs to a great extent the use of cognitive terminologies: thoughts, understanding, awareness learned, perception, reflection, etc. This indicates a contemplative aspect of the poem that the poet wishes to relay. The opening line immediately discloses the poem's creed: all action comes from thought, and, after having come, is then indelibly marked onto the soul.

When coupled with the negative predicates of the poem- failure, fear, naked, blinded, powerless- its contemplative nature takes on a sort of existential desperation, one that painfully desires change and reformation (a change and reformation that no doubt must occur at the aforementioned level of thought itself).

Before the poem concludes there's a reference to an obscure figure: your comfort I can't seem to take. The line prior to this speaks of a longing for internal embrace, so my personal conclusion is that the figure in the following line is God Himself (or some other spiritual import).

As always, it excites me when someone honors me with a chance to read their works, their poems. Where deliberate effort is put into a work- especially where these efforts pertain to aspects of human existence and the world within which we live- I take special care to acknowledge it.

So thank you, Jessica, for sharing your poem here.

Hannah Arendt on Poetry

Poetry, whose material is language, is perhaps the most human and least worldly of the arts, the one in which the end product remains closest to the thought that inspired it.

-Hannah Arendt

Thou Mortal Thread

O thou mortal thread of light-
Frail and flickering in the dark-
Fear not mortal winds that blow
And bend thy quaint and placid spark.
These may breathe a fatal air
And quit that quaking flame agleam;
They, however, cannot touch
Th' eternal essence of thy beam.
Revel therefore in this time-
Though mortal and a borrowed thing-
Revel, O thou sacred flame,
For in thee dwells immortal being.

Of the Poem (Notes):

Stanza: I initially intended three quatrains here, but because the subject ran together well and without blatant breaks they were combined into a whole.
Meter: Mixed; The first line (and the odd ones that follow) have a seven syllable count, whereas all the even lines are four metric feet (i.e. tetrameter) .
Rhyme Scheme: a.x.a.x. / b.x.b.x. / c.x.c.x. (where ‘x’ represents, as I’ve shown in earlier posts, unrhymed lines).

In the following words there are nine distinct syllables: The eternal life within thy beam. These words are line 8 in the above poem, but with this difference, that I changed the to th' so as to reduce the syllable count to eight.

What happens, and one sees this over and over in the world of poetry, is that th' binds itself to the word that immediately follows it. This is not to say that th' is 'silent', but rather that its sonorous angularity is diminished, and when this happens its independent vocalization becomes immediately dependent on the word that follows.

In short, th' binds itself in such a way to the word eternal that it's almost essentially one word (one word containing three rather than four syllables). I intentionally did this here because until this point I haven't been able to employ this technique in a poem. I'm thankful that I had the opportunity here to do this.

A great example of this would be Shakespeare's 147th sonnet , lines 1 through 4.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.

Had Shakespeare chosen the verses th' in line four it would have turned his pentameter into an eleven syllable count rather than ten. Hence, in the original sonnet, Th' is written to preserve the meter. This was my intention above.

With that said, I hope that if this is read by others, well, it's an enjoyable read.

My Self-Summary by Aaron Cole

On the very first day of this very new year, 2010, my neighbor shared a poem he recently wrote. To say the least, I was excited to check it out. To my astonishment, however, I came to find that he intentionally adhered to a chosen metrical foot, tetrameter.

Now I use the word ‘astonishment’ because, from my perspective at any rate, one seldom comes across a contemporary American who chooses measured verse verses free verse- much less a contemporary American who lives right next to you . That the poem had my complete attention goes without saying.

Here’s that poem below:


My Self-Summary

Listen Hear my soliloquy
as I try to Unravel these
false dichotomies existing
tween the outer and inner me
Not bi polar, but bi solar.
I stand in the crux of 2 suns.
One physical, and warms my flesh
And one spiritually guides the mesh
None the less both are part of me
war wages perpetually;
but separately agreed they make
me the man I have come to be.



Of the Poem:

A seemingly tension-ridden dualism runs through the poem that’s extremely obvious:

~false dichotomies
~the outer and inner
~bi solar (i.e. two suns)
~the crux of 2
~physical (flesh)/spiritually
~and latently, division (war wages) and unity (separately agreed)

I stand in the crux of 2 suns.
One physical, and warms my flesh
And one spiritually guides the mesh

These lines, lines 6,7 and 8, are highly reminiscent of Swedenborg’s doctrine of two suns (now as far as I’m aware, Aaron has never read Swedenborg, which makes the relation of the poem above with the quotes below rather interesting):

There are two suns by which all things were created from the Lord, the sun of the spiritual world and the sun of the natural world. All things were created from the Lord by the sun of the spiritual world, but not by the sun of the natural world; for the latter is far below the former, and in a middle distance. The spiritual world is above and the natural world beneath it; and the sun of the natural world was created to act as a medium or substitute.

The expanse of the centre of life is called the spiritual world, which subsists from its sun; and the expanse of the centre of nature is called the natural world, which subsists from its sun.

The tension of the dualism that’s apparent throughout the poem culminates in line 10:

war wages perpetually

But immediately thereafter the poet reconciles the tension through a sort of Heideggerian acceptance of the inevitable- which in this case would be the fact that the author must come to terms with the influence of these two seemingly opposing poles. This is apparent in the following lines that conclude the poem:

None the less both are part of me
war wages perpetually;
but separately agreed they make
me the man I have come to be

I’ll comment here as I did to him on Facebook:

“Absolutely astonishing display of poetic prowess, Aaron. No joke. The sheer fact that you chose to adhere to classical meter in the face of popular free verse reveals an authentic aspect that, as Plato would say, is seldom seen amongst men.”

… and I’ll add that not only am I honored that he’d share his work with me, but most especially honored that he’d grace me with the opportunity to post it here.

Thanks, Aaron. Great write.

I'd love to hear what others might think of his work. So please, leave a comment if you will.

2010

“Another fresh new year is here . . .
Another year to live!
To banish worry, doubt, and fear,
To love and laugh and give!

This bright new year is given me
To live each day with zest . . .
To daily grow and try to be
My highest and my best!

I have the opportunity
Once more to right some wrongs,
To pray for peace, to plant a tree,
And sing more joyful songs!”

Old Long Since

Auld Lang Syne is a Scottish dialect poem written by Robert Burns, one of Scotland's finest poets. The literal transliteration of the title (auld lang syne) is "old long since" (which roughly means "days gone by").

The poem was inspired by an old folk song, and possibly influenced by a ballad written by James Watson in 1711. Upon its completion in 1788, Burns submitted it to the Scots Musical Museum with heavy emphasis on its oral and antiquated origin.

The poem, which begins with the question as to whether or not old time should be forgotten, has become a celebratory song in most English speaking countries. In America, for example, it is sung as a New Year comes into existence, and the ‘Old Year’ recedes.

****

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

We twa hae run aboot the braes
And pou'd the gowans fine;
we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Sin' auld lang syne

We two hae paidled i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne

And here's a hand, my trusty friend,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne


****

Since the publication of Burns’ poem and the selection of music that was to attend it, many versions of the song have since come into being (notwithstanding, the common theme has remained the same). Below is a version- a pretty version- of that old Scottish folk song passed down to us here as we exit a decade, and enter a new one.

Have a happy and safe New Year.

Robert Burns*

Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)

Born in Alloway, Scotland, on January 25, 1759, Robert Burns was the first of William and Agnes Burnes' seven children. His father, a tenant farmer, educated his children at home. Burns also attended one year of mathematics schooling and, between 1765 and 1768, he attended an "adventure" school established by his father and John Murdock. His father died in bankruptcy in 1784, and Burns and his brother Gilbert took over farm. This hard labor later contributed to the heart trouble that Burns' suffered as an adult.

At the age of fifteen, he fell in love and shortly thereafter he wrote his first poem. As a young man, Burns pursued both love and poetry with uncommon zeal. In 1785, he fathered the first of his fourteen children. His biographer, DeLancey Ferguson, had said, "it was not so much that he was conspicuously sinful as that he sinned conspicuously." Between 1784 and 1785, Burns also wrote many of the poems collected in his first book, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, which was printed in 1786 and paid for by subscriptions. This collection was an immediate success and Burns was celebrated throughout England and Scotland as a great "peasant-poet."

In 1788, he and his wife, Jean Armour, settled in Ellisland, where Burns was given a commission as an excise officer. He also began to assist James Johnson in collecting folk songs for an anthology entitled The Scots Musical Museum. Burns' spent the final twelve years of his life editing and imitating traditional folk songs for this volume and for Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs. These volumes were essential in preserving parts of Scotland's cultural heritage and include such well-known songs as "My Luve is Like a Red Red Rose" and "Auld Land Syne." Robert Burns died from heart disease at the age of thirty-seven. On the day of his death, Jean Armour gave birth to his last son, Maxwell.

Most of Burns' poems were written in Scots. They document and celebrate traditional Scottish culture, expressions of farm life, and class and religious distinctions. Burns wrote in a variety of forms: epistles to friends, ballads, and songs. His best-known poem is the mock-heroic Tam o' Shanter. He is also well known for the over three hundred songs he wrote which celebrate love, friendship, work, and drink with often hilarious and tender sympathy. Even today, he is often referred to as the National Bard of Scotland.



*Biography from Poets.org

A Hymn for Christmas-Day

In the 1793 edition of Hymns and Sacred Poems, under the title Hymn for Christmas Day, there's a poem that contemporary carolers are most likely very familiar with- or should I say almost familiar with. I refer to that delightful Christmas hymn, Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.

The song as it’s commonly sung today consists of thirty lines divided into three stanzas. However, when Charles Wesley wrote the poem (and make no mistakes- it's a poem) there were twenty additional lines, and every stanza was a quatrain. The original beginning couplet of the poem, which is now a repeating couplet in our contemporary hymn, was also different:

Hark! how all the welkin rings
“Glory to the King of Kings”

The couplet as it exists in its current form was a change initiated by a friend and coworker of Wesley’s, George Whitefield - I have a feeling it may have had something to do with that funny little word, welkin.

A little over a hundred years later Felix Mendelssohn would dedicate a musical piece to Gutenberg’s achievement of the printing press. Meant to be a purely secular piece, the music behind that dedication would later serve as the melody for Wesley’s poem (a beautiful choice made by William Cummings).

Below is Wesley’s poem as it appeared in Hymns and Sacred Poems. I would love to know what others think about the last four stanzas, the ones many hardley know. Enjoy, and have a merry Christmas all.

*******

Hark, how all the welkin rings,
“Glory to the King of kings;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconcil’d!”

Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
Universal nature say,
“Christ the Lord is born to-day!”

Christ, by highest Heaven ador’d,
Christ, the everlasting Lord:
Late in time behold him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb!

Veil’d in flesh, the Godhead see,
Hail th’ incarnate Deity!
Pleas’d as man with men to appear,
Jesus, our Immanuel here!

Hail, the heavenly Prince of Peace,
Hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings.

Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth;
Born to give them second birth.

Come, desire of nations, come,
Fix in us thy humble home;
Rise, the woman’s conquering seed,
Bruise in us the serpent’s head.

Now display thy saving power,
Ruin’d nature now restore;
Now in mystic union join
Thine to ours, and ours to thine.

Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface,
Stamp thy image in its place.
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in thy love.

Let us thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the life, the inner man:
O, to all thyself impart,
Form’d in each believing heart.

Keep Me in Thee

Keep me in thee in this day
Grace me that I may not stray
Let what's wrought be wrought by thee
That thy will be willed in me

-jwm

A Dark Fog Has Lifted

Years ago- around the late 90s- I found a poem tucked away within the pages of a book of mine, the Dialogues of Plato. It was hand written on yellow notebook paper, and had the name ‘john’ jotted just a little to the upper right hand of it.

Now I owned that book for the longest time, read and reread it more times than I can count. My point- that poem wasn’t in there when I first purchased it used from a coffeehouse in downtown Denver, which leads me to believe that it had been dedicated to me anonymously.

At this point in my life poetry and the study thereof had only been a marginal delight- and this at best! No, deep theological and philosophical studies consumed most of my time, which is what makes the dedication of this poem to me odd?

What’s more- and let me premise this by saying I’ve determined the hand writing to be that of a female- the content doesn’t seem to fit the context of my life as it was then. Had it spoke of love in the sense of romance I might have concluded someone’s secret crush snuck that poem in those pages … but it has nothing of the sort. Sure, there’s the 15th and 16th line, but this is predicated upon the idea of family (line 6) rather than a love-relationship.

Anyhow, I recently reread the poem and, despite a few grammatical glitches, must readily admit that I think it’s a good work. I just wish I knew who wrote it.

*****

A dark fog has lifted from
Confused souls,
We have found ourselves
In a clearing.
Looking around we can 5
Recognise our family
Only arms reach away.
We each have our pain
To hold,
Despair preys so close upon 10
Us all.
But we are no longer blind,
We have the eyes to see
What is held most true.
In seeing it in each other 15
We recognise it in ourselves.
Though we face our histories
Alone,
We survive together
In truth, love, beauty and understanding 20
We live.

".. to be just so clear .. "

A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer; he approaches lucid ground warily, like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. A poet's pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

-E.B. White

Elhanan

And there was war again with the Philistines; and Elhanan the son of Jair slew Lahmi the brother of Goliath the Gittite, whose spear staff was like a weaver's beam. ~I Chronicles 20:5

Elhanan
Was a son of Jair’s
Who slew like David
Anak’s heirs-
Titan men
From days of old,
Whose lofty minds
And hearts were cold.

Like Lahmi-
O that foolish foe-
Who mocked the Lord
With words of woe.
His pride-lust
And his scand’lous ways
By Elah’s grounds
Would end his days.

War-prone how
He towered high
As humble lad
And Lord drew nigh …
And just as he
Was weapon clad
A fatal blow
Came from the lad!

And so upon
The desert plain
Dagon’s pride
By God lay slain
Prefiguring
The days to be
When Christ would claim
Like victory.

-jwm



Of the Poem (Parameters):

Meter: Loose; No less than 3 syllables, no more than 5 (per line)
Rhyme Scheme: x.a.x.a.x.b.x.b ('x' represents unrhymed lines)
Stanza: Octet (i.e. 8 lines per stanza)
Note: The meter was inspired by anacreontic verse.

Coming to terms with names:

Elhanan (el-haw-nun) was a warrior and hero who, like David, slew a giant.
Jair (j-air) was the father of Elhanan.
Anak (an-nack) refers to an ancient family of giants, sometimes associated with the Nephilium.
Lahmi (lah-mee) was a giant, and the brother of Goliath.
Elah (ee-lah) is the field where Goliath was put down.
Dagon (day-gun) is the god whom the Philistines worshipped.

Note that in comments area is a brief explication as to the developement of the poem.

Happy Birthday Milton

One and four hundred years ago from this day there was born a man who would become one of history's greatest poets ... John Milton.

Anyone who knows me knows that not only does he bare a great influence on my poetic preferences, but that it was by reading his Paradise Lost that I developed an irreversible passion for poetry in the first place.

With that said, here are two poems written by him, poems particularly appropriate for this day's blog as their subjects deal with temporal existence and how we relate to it.

(The first one is about the consuming nature of Time and Eternity's triumph over it; and the second one, written by Milton on his 24th birthday, is about time and how he's aging through it.)


To this thy fete of birth
With joy and godly boast
Thy works and thee in mirth
We celebrate and toast

-jwm

****

On Time

Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

****

How Soon Hath Time

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on wtih full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

A Quatrain on May

Some want for Winter when it’s May-
But May is haply of my soul.
Should Winter rise by what they pray,
I pray my May their Winter null.

-jwm

Of the Poem:

A fun, simple (albeit cryptic) quatrain I wrote Nov. 9th ... thought I'd post it here as well.