― pete s, Wednesday, 31 December 2003 06:25 (seventeen years ago) link
― pete s, Wednesday, 31 December 2003 06:28 (seventeen years ago) link
― pete s, Friday, 2 January 2004 00:33 (seventeen years ago) link
Philip Larkin "Faith Healing"
― jed (jed_e_3), Friday, 2 January 2004 00:37 (seventeen years ago) link
― cozen¡ (Cozen), Friday, 2 January 2004 02:52 (seventeen years ago) link
We went there for the dance: a ritualof touch and distance, webs of courtesyand guesswork; shiftsfrom sunlight into shade;and when the patients came downstairsto join us, smiling, utterly polite,in new-pressed clothes, like cousins twice-removed,they had the look of people glimpsed in mirrors,subtle as ghosts, yet real, with the vaguegood-humour of the lost.
'The Asylum Dance', John Burnside.
― cozen¡ (Cozen), Friday, 2 January 2004 02:58 (seventeen years ago) link
a curse against elegies - anne sexton
― lauren (laurenp), Friday, 2 January 2004 05:40 (seventeen years ago) link
At the Fishhouses - Elizabeth Bishop
― bnw (bnw), Friday, 2 January 2004 06:30 (seventeen years ago) link
― pete s, Friday, 2 January 2004 14:53 (seventeen years ago) link
Misery and Splendor - Robert Hass
― byronnw (bnw), Sunday, 4 January 2004 08:19 (seventeen years ago) link
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,An ague hath my ham.Freezeth river, turneth liver,Damn you sing: Goddamm.Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,So 'gainst the winter's balm.Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,Sing Goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
Ancient MusicEzra Pound
― pete s, Tuesday, 6 January 2004 00:51 (seventeen years ago) link
― pete s, Tuesday, 6 January 2004 00:54 (seventeen years ago) link
― jed_ (jed), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link
― Ann Sterzinger (Ann Sterzinger), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 04:38 (seventeen years ago) link
---Mark Levine, "Work Song"
― Matthew K (mtk), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 18:35 (seventeen years ago) link
i love larkin so much.
and elliot not so much.
and john burnside a whole whack more.
and don paterson the most.
in fact, i'm going to break the 10 line rule too ('cos i think it is a stupid, if sensible, rule):
'Addenda' by Don Paterson
1 The Gellyburn is six feet under; 2 they sunk a pipe between its banks, 3 tricked it in and turfed it over. 4 We heard it rush from stank to stank, 5 Ardler Wood to the Caird Estate.
6 Scott said when you crossed the river 7 you saw sparks; if you ran at it 8 something snagged on the line of water.
1 It was Scott who found the one loose knot 2 from the thousand dead eyes in the fence, 3 and inside, the tiny silver lochan 4 with lilies, green rushes, and four swans. 5 A true artist, he set his pitch:
6 uncorking the little show for tuppence 7 he'd count a minute on his watch 8 while a boy set his eye to the light.
1 One week he was early, and turned up 2 at the Foot Clinic in Kemback Street 3 to see a little girl parade 4 before the Indian doctor, stripped 5 down to just her underthings.
6 Now he dreams about her every night 7 working through his stretches: The Mermaid; 8 The Swan; The Tightrope-Walker; Wings.
1 They leave the party, arm in arm 2 to a smore so thick, her voice comes 3 to him as if from a small room; 4 their footprints in the creaking snow 5 the love-pact they affirm and reaffirm.
6 Open for fags, the blazing kiosk 7 crowns old Jock in asterisks. 8 He is a saint, and Scott tells him so.
― david. (Cozen), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 21:07 (seventeen years ago) link
go to the front of the class!
― jed_ (jed), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 21:16 (seventeen years ago) link
― david. (Cozen), Tuesday, 6 January 2004 21:19 (seventeen years ago) link
And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
("The Snow Man" - Wallace Stevens)
― David R. (popshots75`), Wednesday, 7 January 2004 02:45 (seventeen years ago) link
("He Held Radical Light" [1st stanza] - A. R. Ammons)
― David R. (popshots75`), Wednesday, 7 January 2004 02:48 (seventeen years ago) link
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,Not one is dissatisfied....not one is demented with the mania of owning things,Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.
("Leaves of Grass" - Walt Whitman)
― o. nate (onate), Wednesday, 7 January 2004 03:54 (seventeen years ago) link
Early germwarfare. The deadhurled this way look like wheelsin the sky. Look: there goesLarry the Shoemaker, barefoot, over the wall,and Mary Sausage Stuffer, see how she flies,and the Hatter twins, both at once, soarover the parapet, little Tommy's elbow bentas if in a salute,and his sister, Mathilde, she follows him,arms outstretched, through the air,just as she didon earth.
Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City - Thomas Lux
― bnw (bnw), Wednesday, 7 January 2004 05:39 (seventeen years ago) link
It exhales softly,Especially now, approaching springtime,When tendrils of green are plaited
Across the humus, desperately frailIn their passage againstThe dark, unredeemed parcels of earth.
A Chosen LightJohn Montague
― pete s, Friday, 9 January 2004 11:24 (seventeen years ago) link
The WindhoverGerard Manley Hopkins
― (sallying), Friday, 9 January 2004 23:05 (seventeen years ago) link
"Not so," said a man. "The voice of God whispers in the heart So softly That the soul pauses, Making no noise, And strives for these melodies, Distant, sighing, like faintest breath, And all the being is still to hear."
( Stephen Crane )
― scott seward (scott seward), Monday, 12 January 2004 17:23 (seventeen years ago) link
― cozen (Cozen), Monday, 12 January 2004 20:21 (seventeen years ago) link
The ripples on your wall: fake sea-lights the soft sunlight makes.
You sleep under water. Learn to love the counterfeit
and in the mess of shalts and shoulds and musts find what you want.
Don't forget: I once stood loving what was not here.
J. T. Barbarese
― bnw (bnw), Saturday, 14 February 2004 00:14 (seventeen years ago) link
And when the lodger, on the second day,asks her if she knows the word cock
she looks ahead and simply starts walking,steadying the word like an egg.
― cozen (Cozen), Wednesday, 17 March 2004 19:48 (seventeen years ago) link
Paula wants to marry mebut I gave her the cold shoulder:she's way too old. I'd have givenit a thought if she were older.
Martial (trans. William Matthews)
― Donald, Wednesday, 17 March 2004 21:31 (seventeen years ago) link
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Wednesday, 17 March 2004 23:06 (seventeen years ago) link
'like an egg'!
― cozen (Cozen), Wednesday, 17 March 2004 23:42 (seventeen years ago) link
But stop driving it aroundin a van. Stop bitingyour nails and sweating,and for God's sake stopsaying not to be afraid.
Just get it over with.
Come on poetrylovers step up with some more lines
― donald, Thursday, 18 March 2004 22:48 (seventeen years ago) link
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Thursday, 18 March 2004 23:03 (seventeen years ago) link
also: what about: i. oswald's 'dart' ii. stevens' 'harmonium' and iii. molloy's 'hare soup'? anyone?
― cozen (Cozen), Thursday, 18 March 2004 23:31 (seventeen years ago) link
excerpt of 'Essay On The Personal'Stephen Dunn
― bnw (bnw), Friday, 19 March 2004 00:28 (seventeen years ago) link
1 What innocence? Whose guilt? What eyes? Whose breast? 2 Crumpled orphan, nembutal bed, 3 white hearse, Los Angeles, 4 OiMaggio! Los Angeles! Miller! Los Angeles! America! 5 That Death should seem the only protector--- 6 That all arms should have faded, and the great cameras and lights 7 become an inquisition and a torment--- 8 That the many acquaintances, the autograph-hunters, the 9 inflexible directors, the drive-in admirers should become 10 a blur of incomprehension and pain--- 11 That lonely Uncertainty should limp up, grinning, with 12 bewildering barbiturates, and watch her undress and lie 13 down and in her anguish 14 call for him! call for him to strengthen her with what could 15 only dissolve her! A method 16 of dying, we are shaken, we see it. Strasberg! 17 Los Angeles! Olivier! Los Angeles! Others die 18 and yet by this death we are a little shaken, we feel it, 19 America. 20 Let no one say communication is a cantword. 21 They had to lift her hand from the bedside telephone. 22 But what she had not been able to say 23 Perhaps she had said. 'All I had was my life. 24 I have no regrets, because if I made 25 any mistakes, I was responsible. 26 There is now---and there is the future. 27 What has happened is behind. So 28 it follows you around? So what?'---This 29 to a friend, ten days before. 30 And so she was responsible. 31 And if she was not responsible, not wholly responsible, Los Angeles? 32 Los Angeles? Will it follow you around? Will the slow 33 white hearse of the child of America follow you around?
― cozen (Cozen), Friday, 19 March 2004 00:33 (seventeen years ago) link
No room has ever been as silent as the roomWhere hundreds of violins are hung in unison.
― cozen (Cozen), Friday, 19 March 2004 01:08 (seventeen years ago) link
from "The Wasteland", T.S. Eliot
― weather1ngda1eson (Brian), Friday, 19 March 2004 10:44 (seventeen years ago) link
On longer evenings,Light, chill and yellow,Bathes the sereneForeheads of houses.A thrush sings,Laurel-surroundedIn the deep bare garden,Its fresh-peeled voiceAstonishing the brickwork.It will be spring soon,It will be spring soon --And I, whose childhoodIs a forgotten boredom,Feel like a childWho comes on a sceneOf adult reconciling,And can understand nothingBut the unusual laughter,And starts to be happy.
― donald, Friday, 19 March 2004 14:08 (seventeen years ago) link
― Maria D., Friday, 19 March 2004 14:38 (seventeen years ago) link
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Friday, 19 March 2004 14:56 (seventeen years ago) link
-Anna Akhmatovafrom "Requiem" (1957)
― marisa (marisa), Friday, 19 March 2004 15:40 (seventeen years ago) link
Italy stands the other side, While, like a guard between,The solemn Alps,The siren Alps, Forever intervene!
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 20 March 2004 00:58 (seventeen years ago) link
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
― I'm Passing Open Windows (Ms Laura), Saturday, 20 March 2004 07:56 (seventeen years ago) link
She hated bleak and wintry things alone. All that was warm and quick, she loved too well-A light, a flame, a heart against her own; It is forever bitter cold, in Hell.
Vl. The Actress
Her name, cut clear upon this marble cross, Shines, as it shone when she was still on earth;While tenderly the mild, agreeable moss Obscures the figures of her date of birth.
from "Tombstones in the Starlight" by Dorothy Parker
― weather1ngda1eson (Brian), Saturday, 20 March 2004 10:05 (seventeen years ago) link
The still explosions on the rocks,the lichens, growby spreading gray, concentric shocks.They have arrangedto meet the rings around the moon, althoughwithin our memories they have not changed.
And since the heavens will attendas long on us,you've been, dear friend,precipitate and pragmatical:and look what happens. For Time isnothing if not amenable.
The shooting stars in your black hairin bright formationare flocking where,so straight, so soon?--Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,battered and shiny like the moon.
[Elizabeth Bishop. I shamelessly nicked the last verse of this for a song of mine a few years ago. I will be paying you royalties in eternity, Liz.]
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Saturday, 20 March 2004 11:34 (seventeen years ago) link
― cozen (Cozen), Saturday, 20 March 2004 11:46 (seventeen years ago) link
― cozen (Cozen), Saturday, 20 March 2004 12:00 (seventeen years ago) link
I am in love with the LION poetry database.
― cozen (Cozen), Saturday, 20 March 2004 14:40 (seventeen years ago) link
― donald, Saturday, 20 March 2004 18:30 (seventeen years ago) link
― cºzen (Cozen), Tuesday, 26 October 2004 13:50 (seventeen years ago) link
― Fred (Fred), Tuesday, 26 October 2004 16:52 (seventeen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 26 October 2004 17:37 (seventeen years ago) link
― Fred (Fred), Tuesday, 26 October 2004 20:15 (seventeen years ago) link
Now the heart sings with all its thousand voices To hear this city of cells, my body, sing. The tree through the stiff clay at long last forces Its thin strong roots and taps the secret spring.
And the sweet waters without intermission Climb to the tips of its green tenement; The breasts have borne the grace of their possession, The lips have felt the pressure of content.
Here I come home: in this expected country They know my name and speak it with delight. I am the dream and you my gates of entry, The means by which I waken into light.
--- AD Hope
― Archel (Archel), Monday, 1 November 2004 14:04 (sixteen years ago) link
Let us have winter loving that the heartMay be in peace and ready to partakeOf the slow pleasure spring would wish to hurryOr that in summer harshly would awake,And let us fall apart, O gladly weary,The white skin shaken like a white snowflake.
― Archel (Archel), Monday, 1 November 2004 14:07 (sixteen years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Monday, 1 November 2004 17:23 (sixteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Monday, 1 November 2004 17:31 (sixteen years ago) link
If no, then I'm not sure I understand the question.
― Archel (Archel), Monday, 1 November 2004 17:35 (sixteen years ago) link
(interesting tidbit/bragging: I talked to Dorraine Laux a bit about that article when I met her.)
― bnw (bnw), Monday, 1 November 2004 18:08 (sixteen years ago) link
Public Address (excerpt)
[...]The screen goes blank, all that was
etched there in light--a flashbulb'sthumbprint in the back of the skull.Sometimes we only die, sometimeschampagne corks fly from our wounds.
The coldest day of the year and stillthere's flowering. The lovers' bodies,once long grass, strike and strike each other.How else control fire but to make your own? A dye
must be squeezed from the poisonous berries,the sand melted translucent. each workan evasion, secret, clue, the subject alwaysmissing just as the dream is never
inside the sleeper but rises above likea sweet scum above boiling milk, the bodylike a dead body but warm, inviting,arousable. Who has not looked down the throat
of an orchid into color that can't be seenlike the cosmic black humming behindnoon blue? We want only to be admitted.We want only to be left out.
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 04:39 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 05:03 (sixteen years ago) link
When I've got my editor hat on, nothing sets the alarm bells off so quickly as randomly placed line breaks, put in just because the 'poet' is dimly convinced that poetry has line breaks.
(Then again, with some of the dodgy things that email can do to formatting, it's often anyone's guess where the line breaks are intended to be, if anywhere.)
― Archel (Archel), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 10:00 (sixteen years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 17:22 (sixteen years ago) link
That sentence sounds not wholly grammatical, yet still sufficiently suggestive.
― the bluefox, Tuesday, 2 November 2004 17:44 (sixteen years ago) link
I think what I'm talking about are those "prose w/ line breaks" pieces that seem to use breaks in such a way that disregard them as being a pause or an emphasis on the line's effect as an independent part of a larger whole.
I'd agee that ultra-conventional breaks are probably nothing to pat yourself on the back for either. They're worth experimenting with.
― bnw (bnw), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 18:54 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 2 November 2004 23:48 (sixteen years ago) link
It would later be said of our erathat even the boring parts were interesting,& vice versa.
Without the least trace of irony,officials christened space shuttlesafter doomed & sunkencities of yore.
Nearly all of usconstructed dashboard altarsupon which we lavishedparticular & minute devotionsas we cruised past scenesthat seemed to represent disaster’s aftermathbut almost always resolvedinto simple sequences of yard sales—derelict undergarments & mattressesexposed on sullenly tilting lawns—each just another item on the ever-growinglist of events not to be takenpersonally.
For their arcane significance,we pondered signs such as these: IF YOU LIVED HERE YOU'D BE HOME RIGHT NOW!
GOD SEES EVERYTHING, EVEN YOU READING THIS SIGN!
Though the varieties of available lip-gloss shades& the total number of famous people in historywere exponentially increasingso that it became ever more difficultto distinguish plum from maroonor the living from the dead,it still took approximatelythe same six yearsfor a single exhaled breathto become evenly mixed with the atmosphere.
For none of us was it ever clearwhether that rumbling sound we kept hearingwas static or heartfelt applause.
Everyone was professionally lonely,yet we ceased not our shining.
Many aspired to but did not actually achievethe office of Notary Public.
This was not considered a tragedy.
― Jerry the Nipper (Jerrynipper), Saturday, 6 November 2004 20:46 (sixteen years ago) link
In your field of vision, there is a place where no image is fixed,where injury carved its cave of nothing,gathered blackness around a splinter's wooden slip.One eye, you say, scans the world.The other examines the self's invisible wanting.In that equation, I believe myself to bethe point connecting one destination to another,somewhere you paused to draw lines to the next warm station.I emit no light, no heatbut gather, in cupped hands, what fell to the groundwhen limbs were shaken by your grasping wind.
― bnw (bnw), Sunday, 7 November 2004 16:43 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Sunday, 7 November 2004 18:00 (sixteen years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Sunday, 7 November 2004 19:04 (sixteen years ago) link
― bnw (bnw), Sunday, 7 November 2004 19:05 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Sunday, 7 November 2004 19:56 (sixteen years ago) link
From too much hope of living,From hope and fear set free,We thank with brief thanksgivingWhatever gods may beThat no life lives for ever;That dead men rise up never;That even the weariest riverWinds somewhere safe to sea.
-- A. C. Swinburne
― sceefy, Tuesday, 9 November 2004 22:26 (sixteen years ago) link
--- Thomas Hood
― Archel (Archel), Tuesday, 16 November 2004 10:15 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 16 November 2004 22:04 (sixteen years ago) link
I laugh at his poems, As he laughs at mine. They read like The words of a blind man Describing the sun.
― Fred (Fred), Saturday, 20 November 2004 22:25 (sixteen years ago) link
I wanted to add Sean O'Brien to it, last night, but I don't know how to make the lines all go together.
― the pomefox, Thursday, 23 December 2004 11:10 (sixteen years ago) link
(Excuse the repitition, I am providing a public service.)
― Puddin'Head Miller (PJ Miller), Thursday, 23 December 2004 12:04 (sixteen years ago) link
For that thundery corridor
Painting its Forth into Scotland and back,
For the drizzly grind of the coal-train
Or even the Metro, that amateur transport,
Sparking and chattering every verse-end.
from Sean O'Brien, 'The Eavesdroppers'
― the pomefox, Thursday, 23 December 2004 13:53 (sixteen years ago) link
...Where darkness isOnce there was a mirrorAnd I therein was King....
Where is everyone?
― pepektheassassin (pepektheassassin), Saturday, 29 January 2005 17:29 (sixteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Saturday, 29 January 2005 19:14 (sixteen years ago) link
They are buffeted by this wind and that,never really knowing where they are going.
They think they have no choice over their destiny,but we know the path and we follow it without question.
Remember, there is sacrifice involved in any kind of life,even those that choose the safe way must sacrifice the thrill.
The point is if you know what you want,you must be prepared to sacrifice everything to get it.
Those that realise this are the fortunate ones.
- Thomas Schumacher ‘The Fortunate Ones’
― c7n (Cozen), Saturday, 29 October 2005 11:11 (fifteen years ago) link
― c7n (Cozen), Saturday, 29 October 2005 11:12 (fifteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 1 November 2005 03:38 (fifteen years ago) link
― Jaq (Jaq), Tuesday, 1 November 2005 03:51 (fifteen years ago) link
― Matt (Matt), Tuesday, 1 November 2005 11:22 (fifteen years ago) link
― Jaq (Jaq), Tuesday, 1 November 2005 13:22 (fifteen years ago) link
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 1 November 2005 18:06 (fifteen years ago) link
"she my love by london gentled as by space the spinning world"
i read this poem this morning and thought: how startling, how beautiful, and then I discovered that the only google result for it is... me, on this thread.
― lords of hyrule (c sharp major), Sunday, 21 March 2010 10:08 (eleven years ago) link
Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetryby Howard Nemerov
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzleThat while you watched turned to pieces of snow Riding a gradient invisibleFrom silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
― INSUFFICIENT FUN (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 23 March 2010 20:31 (eleven years ago) link
While out today I bought a book of poems from a charity store because it was a book of Kenneth Rexroth translations out of the Chinese, and Rexroth has previously torn my brain to giddy shreds
I had heard Rexroth was a polyglot and a skilled translator, but I did not know I'd be reduced to tears on the train home
His first 35 translations are of Tu Fu's work, an 8th-century poet whom he claims is alongside Catullus and Baudelaire as the greatest non-epic and non-dramatic poet in history
One of the poems, just one, was too long for a single page. I did not know this and upon the end of the page thought the poem done - it had reached a moment of such wisdom that I shudderingly re-read the tract and felt something settle over me
There turned out to be nine more lines.
TO WEI PA, A RETIRED SCHOLAR
― acoleuthic, Friday, 17 September 2010 20:16 (eleven years ago) link
We drink ten toasts rapidly from The rhinoceros horn cups.Ten cups, and still we are not drunk.We still love each other asWe did when we were schoolboys.Tomorrow morning mountain peaksWill come between us, and with themThe endless, obliviousBusiness of the world.
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfoldWhat while we, while we slumbered. O then, weary then why When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care, Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonderA care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.— Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder, Yonder.
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Friday, 25 July 2014 21:54 (seven years ago) link
Simon Armitage writes a poem on the occasion of the death of the Duke of Edinburgh.
The Patriarchs – An Elegy
The weather in the window this morningis snow, unseasonal singular flakes,a slow winter’s final shiver. On such an occasionto presume to eulogise one man is to pipe upfor a whole generation – that crew whose survivalwas always the stuff of minor miracle,who came ashore in orange-crate coracles,fought ingenious wars, finagled triumphs at seawith flaming decoy boats, and side-stepped torpedoes.
Husbands to duty, they unrolled their plansacross billiard tables and vehicle bonnets,regrouped at breakfast. What their secrets werewas everyone’s guess and nobody’s business.Great-grandfathers from birth, in time they becameboth inner core and outer casein a family heirloom of nesting dolls.Like evidence of early man their boot-prints standin the hardened earth of rose-beds and borders.
They were sons of a zodiac out of syncwith the solar year, but turned their mindsto the day’s big science and heavy questions.To study their hands at rest was to picture mapsshowing hachured valleys and indigo streams, schemesof old campaigns and reconnaissance missions.Last of the great avuncular magiciansthey kept their best tricks for the grand finale:Disproving Immortality and Disappearing Entirely.
The major oaks in the wood start tuning upand skies to come will deliver their tributes.But for now, a cold April’s closing momentsparachute slowly home, so by mid-afternoonsnow is recast as seed heads and thistledown.
― the pinefox, Saturday, 17 April 2021 10:53 (six months ago) link
I think there's a rather uncertain mix of the specific and the general here. If this is for the Duke, then why is it so general and generational? But if it's so general, why include the line about 'a zodiac out of sync', apparently specifically referring to his Greek origins and not applicable to other patriarchs?
On such an occasionto presume to eulogise one man is to pipe upfor a whole generation
-- seems to pick up the tone of parts of the FOUR QUARTETS, and of Auden who was contemporary with them. I'm unsure that 'pipe up' fits well here, even though Armitage is probably trying to imply a hint of a bagpiper playing in tribute.
― the pinefox, Saturday, 17 April 2021 10:56 (six months ago) link
Trash poem for a trash human
― it's like edging for your mind (the table is the table), Thursday, 22 April 2021 01:06 (six months ago) link
instead of trying to eulogize Philip, he wisely chose to skate away immediately into generalities about WWII. for me the poem never really rises above the imagery of wartime propaganda films or lends vitality to the people or events it purports to capture. ceremonial poems are hard.
― sharpening the contraindications (Aimless), Thursday, 22 April 2021 02:01 (six months ago) link
I don't actually think so! I think it's hard to write a ceremonial poem about a person who was a malevolent racist with a noted passion for younger women.
It's simply tiresome how these old British hack poets refuse to deal with actual history, instead writing again and again about "the genius" of a generation and the trauma of the bombing of London. Give me a break.
I've read and witnessed any number of poems written for ceremonial occasions that were excellent. Hell, I read one by a student the other day that was written for a funeral of a cat that was more interesting than this crap.
― it's like edging for your mind (the table is the table), Thursday, 22 April 2021 12:07 (six months ago) link
I am sure it was an excellent cat and an even better public figurehead
― imago, Thursday, 22 April 2021 12:12 (six months ago) link