Page 5 of 8 FirstFirst ... 34567 ... LastLast
Results 61 to 75 of 106

Thread: Poetry

  1. #61
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    8,042

    Default

    I'm sure Craner posted this before on Dissensus somewhere (it'll probably turn out to be in this thread, but I'm too lazy to check now), but it's amazingly good so it merits the rewind. More sixth form business:

    SONNET 129

    The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust
    Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
    Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
    Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
    Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
    Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
    On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
    Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
    Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
    A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
    Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
    All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
    To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

  2. #62

    Default

    Quote Originally Posted by baboon2004 View Post
    I'm sure Craner posted this before on Dissensus somewhere (it'll probably turn out to be in this thread, but I'm too lazy to check now), but it's amazingly good so it merits the rewind. More sixth form business:

    SONNET 129

    The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust
    Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
    Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
    Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
    Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
    Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
    On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
    Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
    Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
    A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
    Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
    All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
    To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
    Nope, not me, although I do love that poem, and consider Shakespeare's sonnets essential reading, and formally only rivalled by Manley Hopkins and Ben Jonson. Luke quoted me as liking a Zukofsky poem at the time this thread started (10 years ago), but reading it now, I can't endorse my former enthusiasm.

    Of all those post-Pound Modernists, I still feel Bunting is worth the effort, and some of WCW's longer, later, free-form efforts.

  3. #63

    Default

    Of other post-war poets I only unequivably endorse Frank O'Hara and ee cummings, with a mild soft spot for Vernon Watkins for geographical and nostalgic reasons. Can't stand Larkin.

  4. #64

    Default

    Yeah, the Zukofsky poem he posted is bad Hopkins pastiche with contemporary subject matter. Embarrassing experiment. But still bolder than any of the milk-faced, Coldplay-morose, lite-Movement bollocks published by Faber and most other publishing houses these days.

  5. #65
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    8,042

    Default

    http://www.dissensus.com/showthread....ted#post172829 you don't give yourself enough credit. Spot on about the commas.

    O'Hara is very good. Lack of commas works in this one:

    Lana Turner has collapsed!
    I was trotting along and suddenly
    it started raining and snowing
    and you said it was hailing
    but hailing hits you on the head
    hard so it was really snowing and
    raining and I was in such a hurry
    to meet you but the traffic
    was acting exactly like the sky
    and suddenly I see a headline
    LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
    there is no snow in Hollywood
    there is no rain in California
    I have been to lots of parties
    and acted perfectly disgraceful
    but I never actually collapsed
    oh Lana Turner we love you get up

  6. #66
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
    Posts
    4,878

    Default

    Quote Originally Posted by craner View Post
    Can't stand Larkin.
    As a Larkin lover, I almsot don't want to know why you can't stand him, in case you convince me, but not quite enough to prevent me from asking what your beef is. What's your beef?

  7. #67
    Join Date
    Nov 2004
    Location
    leigh on sea
    Posts
    1,592

    Default

    Quote Originally Posted by craner View Post
    Nope, not me, although I do love that poem, and consider Shakespeare's sonnets essential reading, and formally only rivalled by Manley Hopkins and Ben Jonson. Luke quoted me as liking a Zukofsky poem at the time this thread started (10 years ago), but reading it now, I can't endorse my former enthusiasm.

    Of all those post-Pound Modernists, I still feel Bunting is worth the effort, and some of WCW's longer, later, free-form efforts.
    I just finished the final volume of the Pound biography by Moody. Been spending quite a bit of my time looking at the Pisan cantos again and also the early stuff in conjunction with reading Villon and Cavalcante.

    I have the Bloodaxe edition of Briggflatts that has a CD of Basil reading it and it makes a big difference. These boys really had an ear for cadence.
    Last edited by jenks; 22-09-2016 at 12:30 PM.

  8. #68
    Join Date
    Nov 2004
    Location
    leigh on sea
    Posts
    1,592

    Default

    I have always liked this by O'Hara

    ANIMALS


    Have you forgotten what we were like then
    when we were still first rate
    and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

    it's no use worrying about Time
    but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
    and turned some sharp corners

    the whole pasture looked like our meal
    we didn't need speedometers
    we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

    I wouldn't want to be faster
    or greener than now if you were with me O you
    were the best of all my days

  9. #69
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,179

    Default

    W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

    33. Ego Dominus Tuus


    Hic. ON the grey sand beside the shallow stream
    Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
    A lamp burns on beside the open book
    That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon
    And though you have passed the best of life still trace 5
    Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion
    Magical shapes.

    Ille. By the help of an image
    I call to my own opposite, summon all
    That I have handled least, least looked upon. 10

    Hic. And I would find myself and not an image.

    Ille. That is our modern hope and by its light
    We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
    And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
    Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush 15
    We are but critics, or but half create,
    Timid, entangled, empty and abashed
    Lacking the countenance of our friends.

    Hic. And yet
    The chief imagination of Christendom 20
    Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself
    That he has made that hollow face of his
    More plain to the mind’s eye than any face
    But that of Christ.

    Ille. And did he find himself, 25
    Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
    A hunger for the apple on the bough
    Most out of reach? and is that spectral image
    The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?
    I think he fashioned from his opposite 30
    An image that might have been a stony face,
    Staring upon a bedouin’s horse-hair roof
    From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned
    Among the coarse grass and the camel dung.
    He set his chisel to the hardest stone. 35
    Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life,
    Derided and deriding, driven out
    To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,
    He found the unpersuadable justice, he found
    The most exalted lady loved by a man. 40

    Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art
    Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,
    Impulsive men that look for happiness
    And sing when they have found it.

    Ille. No, not sing, 45
    For those that love the world serve it in action,
    Grow rich, popular and full of influence,
    And should they paint or write still it is action:
    The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
    The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, 50
    The sentimentalist himself; while art
    Is but a vision of reality.
    What portion in the world can the artist have
    Who has awakened from the common dream
    But dissipation and despair? 55

    Hic. And yet
    No one denies to Keats love of the world;
    Remember his deliberate happiness.

    Ille. His art is happy but who knows his mind?
    I see a schoolboy when I think of him, 60
    With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,
    For certainly he sank into his grave
    His senses and his heart unsatisfied,
    And made—being poor, ailing and ignorant,
    Shut out from all the luxury of the world, 65
    The coarse-bred son of a livery stablekeeper—
    Luxuriant song.

    Hic. Why should you leave the lamp
    Burning alone beside an open book
    And trace these characters upon the sands; 70
    A style is found by sedentary toil
    And by the imitation of great masters.

    Ille. Because I seek an image, not a book.
    Those men that in their writings are most wise
    Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts. 75
    I call to the mysterious one who yet
    Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream
    And look most like me, being indeed my double,
    And prove of all imaginable things
    The most unlike, being my anti-self, 80
    And standing by these characters disclose
    All that I seek; and whisper it as though
    He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
    Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
    Would carry it away to blasphemous men. 85


    CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

  10. #70
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,179

    Default

    I cant remember who said (in essence) The Poem tells the Poet what he thinks. Does anyone know? (Paul Valery?) Need to know urgently.

  11. #71
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
    Posts
    4,878

    Default

    This week I've been reading Yeats's 'A Prayer for My Daughter' and 'An Image From A Past Life'.

    Very good but I wish he'd stop going on about Guinness all the time.

  12. #72
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
    Posts
    4,878

    Default

    'IF you, that have grown old, were the first dead,
    Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime
    Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread
    Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of Time.
    Let the new faces play what tricks they will
    In the old rooms; night can outbalance day,
    Our shadows rove the garden gravel still,
    The living seem more shadowy than they.'

    William Butler Yeats - have you heard of him?

  13. #73
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,179

    Default

    i read ed dorn's gunslinger the other day. i enjoyed that a lot. done it in two days. first 2 books are better than the last two but worth finsihing it still. good laugh tbh.

  14. #74
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,179

    Default

    Aristeas, in Seven Years.
    gathering the heat to himself, in one thermic
    hazard, he took himself out: to catch up with
    the tree, the river, the forms of alien vantage
    And hence the first way
    By theft into the upper world – “a
    natural development from the mixed
    economy in the drier or bleaker
    regions, where more movement was
    necessary” – and thus the
    floodloam, the deposit, borrowed for
    the removal. Call it inland, his
    nose filled with steam & his brief cries,
    Aristeas took up it
    seems with the
    singular as the larch
    tree, the
    Greek sufficient
    for that. From Marmora
    And sprang with that double twist into the
    Middle world and thence took flight over the
    Scythian hordes and to the Hyperborean,
    Touch of the north wind
    carrying with him Apollo. Song
    his transport but this divine
    insistence the pastural clan:
    sheep, elk, the wild deer. In each case
    the presence in embryo, god of the shep-
    herd and fixed in the movement of flock.
    Wrung over the real tracts. If he was
    frozen like the felted eagle of Pazyryk,
    he too had the impossible lower twist,
    the spring into the middle, the air.
    From here comes
    the north wind, the
    remote animal
    gold – how did
    he, do we, know
    or trust this>
    Following the raven and
    sniffing hemp as the
    other air, it was
    himself as the singular that he knew and
    could outlast in the long walk by the
    underground sea. Where he was as
    the singular
    location so completely portable
    that with the merest black
    wings he could survey the
    stones and rills in their
    complete mountain courses,
    in name the displacement
    Scythic.
    And his songs were invocations in no frenzy
    of spirit, but clear and spirituous tones from the
    pure base of his mind; and he heard the small
    currents in the air & they were truly his aid:
    In breath he could speak out into the northern
    air and the phrasing curved from his mouth
    and nose, into the cold mountain levels. It
    was the professed Apollo, free of the festive line,
    powdered with light snow.

    And looking down, then, it is no outlay
    to be seen in
    the forests, or
    scattered rising
    of ground. No
    cheap cigarettes nothing
    with the god in this
    climate is free of duty
    moss, wormwood as the cold
    star, the dwarf Siberian pine
    as from the morainal deposits
    of the last deglaciation.
    Down there instead the long flowing hair,
    of great herds of sheep and cattle, the
    drivers of these, their feet more richly
    thickened in use than
    any slant of their
    mongoloid face or
    long, ruched garments.

  15. #75
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,179

    Default

    With his staff, the larch-pole, that again the
    singular and one axis of the errant world.
    Prior to the pattern of settlement then, which
    is the passing flocks fixed into wherever
    they happened to stop,
    the spirit demanded the orphic metaphor
    as fact
    that they did migrate and the spirit excursion
    was no more than the need and will of the
    flesh. The term, as has been pointed out,
    is bone, the
    flesh burned or rotted off but the
    branch calcined like what
    It was: like that: as itself
    the skeleton of the possible
    in a heap and covered with
    stones or a barrow.
    Leaving the flesh vacant then, in a fuller’s shop,
    Aristeas removed himself for seven years
    Into the steppes, preparing his skeleton and the
    Song of his departure, his flesh anyway touched
    by the in-
    vading Cimmerian
    twilight. “ruinous”
    as the old woman’s
    prophecy.
    And who he was took the
    collection of seven
    years to thin out, to the
    fume laid across where
    he went, direction north,
    No longer settled
    but settled now into length; he wore that
    as risk. The garment of bird’s feathers,
    while he watched the crows fighting the
    owls with the curling tongues
    of flame proper to the Altaic
    hillside, as he was himself
    more than this. The
    spread is more, the
    vantage is singular
    as the clan is without centre.


    Each where as
    the extent of day deter-
    mines, where the
    sky holds (the brightness
    dependent on that).
    And Apollo is in any case seasonal, the
    divine “used only of a particular god,
    never as a general term.” The Hyper
    borean paradise was likewise no general
    term but the mythic duration of
    spirit into the bone
    laid out in patterns
    on the ground
    “the skulls are sent on hunting
    journeys, the foot-prints alongside;
    that towards which they journey
    they turn them towards, so that
    they will follow behind.”
    From the fuller’s shop as from
    The camp of the seal hunter,
    Some part of the bone must be twisted
    & must twist, as the stages of Cimmerian
    Wandering, viz:
    1. 1800-13th Century B.C, north
    of the Caucasus, then
    2. 13th-8th Centuries, invaded
    by the Scythians and deflected
    Southwards & to the west. And
    3. After that, once more displaced
    (8th Century to maybe 500 B.C.),
    The invasion of Asia Minor,
    “ruinous”, as any settled and complaisant fixture
    on the shoreline would regard the movement of
    pressure irreducible by trade or bribery. Hence
    the need to catch up, as a response to cheap money
    and how all that huddle could
    be drawn out
    into the tenuous upper
    reach, the fine chatter
    of small birds under the
    head of the sky
    (sub divus columine)

Bookmarks

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •