Poetry Friday

For years...like, since I was in h.s., (wow, I guess I should soon be saying "decades," not years)...I have been collecting poems. They're on scraps of paper...some yellowing now...stuffed in a little poetry anthology that I got probably 12 years ago out of a bargain bin somewhere. It's interesting to look back at these poems...obviously I copied them from their source because they meant something to me, though for some, that meaning has long been forgotten. The poem I have selected for today was on top of the poem pile, and I think I remember what it meant.

You Are At the Bottom of My Mind
by Iain Mac a' Ghobhainn (aka Iain Crichton Smith)

Without my knowing it you are at the bottom of my mind
like a visitor to the bottom of the sea
with his helmet and his two large eyes,
and I do not rightly know your appearance or your manner
after five years of showers
of time pouring between me and you:
nameless mountains of water pouring
between me hauling you on board
and your appearance and manner in my weak hands.
You went astray
among the mysterious plants of the sea-bed
in the gree half-light without love,

and you will never rise to the surface
through my hands are hauling ceaselessly,
and I do not know your way at all,
you in the half-light of your sleep
haunting the bed of the sea without ceasing
and I hauling and hauling on the surface.

Dance update

"I missed my wife."

I've been reading A Dance to the Music of Time for 10 months or so now. I've been reading it for so long that I don't remember if I started it last November or December. For those of you who don't know: Dance consists of four movements, each made up of three novels that were published over the course of a few decades, each about 250 pages = 4 x 3 x 250= a long damn book. I struggled with it at first, but have come to enjoy it. I have, however, been fairly lax about reading it lately, so I am egregiously behind on my schedule for it. I've picked back up a little in the last week...renewing my nightly date with Nick Jenkins. He and I haven't talked in awhile...we need to find our "connection" again.

In chapter 3 of book #7, Nick is granted a brief military leave to visit his wife Isobel, who was then about to give birth. He returns to his post at the end of that chapter. I was wondering when - if ever - Nick was going to tell me whether or not his wife had the baby...as he is notorious for keeping mum on his own life while telling me all about everybody elses. So, I was shocked - shocked I tell you! - when in the first page or two of chapter 4, he tells us that she did have the baby, a boy, and that mother and son were doing well. And then - almost giving me a heart attack (not really, I being hyperbolous - is that a word?) he says what I quoted above - "I missed my wife." Though Nick expressed some feeling regarding the Jean Templer affair, this was the first time he had expressed any emotion at all about his Isobel. Now, I'm just waiting for Widmerpool to show up, as he always does. Everytime the doorbell rings, I think - could it be? So far it hasn't been, but I know he's lurking around here somewhere...

This book is a behomoth, but I'll be honest - I'll miss Nick Jenkins when he's gone. I've really grown to like the chap. But it's ok...I've still got six months or so with him!

Poetry Friday

Today, some short poems by D.H. Lawrence

"And Oh--That The Man I Am Might Cease To Be--"

No, now I wish the sunshine would stop.
and the white shining houses, and the gay red flowers on the balconies
and the bluish mountains beyond, would be crushed out
between two valves of darkness;
the darkness falling, the darkness rising, with muffled sound
obliterating everything.

I wish that whatever props up the walls of light
would fall, and darkness would come hurling heavily down,
and it would be thick black dark for ever.
Not sleep, which is grey with dreams,
nor death, which quivers with birth,
but heavy, sealing darkness, silence, all immovable.

What is sleep?
It goes over me, like a shadow over a hill,
but it does not alter me, nor help me.
And death would ache still, I am sure;
it would be lambent, uneasy.
I wish it would be completely dark everywhere,
inside me, and out, heavily dark
utterly.

Self Pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Boredom, Ennui, Depression

And boredom, ennui, depression
are long slow vibrations of pain
that possess the whole body
and cannot be localised.

Poetry Friday

Since I'm in Philly for the weekend, I thought a poem about a famous Philadelphia resident, Benjamin Franklin, would be appropriate. Ben Franklin is a favorite adopted Pennsylvanian, and I think he would have been a fun(ny) guy to meet. My favorite Franklin story is of the time when he and John Adams had to share a room (and of course bed) with each other. Adams was sick, and Franklin insisted that having the window open would be good for the illness. Adams believed the cold air would make it worse. I have always had a picture in my mind of Adams and Franklin in their pjs, one jumping out of bed to shut the window, and once he got into bed, the other got up and opened it. This would turn into some kind of Laurel & Hardy routine of both of them standing there, clonking each other on the head.

My husband tells me that a former professor once told him that during the Consitutional Convention, Franklin would go out drinking at the end of the day, and he would get a little too talkative, so other conventioners had to accompany him in order to make sure he kept his mouth shut about what they were doing. I have never seen this in print, though. But it's another interesting picture of ol'Ben. Washington or someone saying, ok, ok Ben...I think you've had enough claret. Now for the poem:


On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin by Philip Freneau

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
The glory of its native wood,
By storms destroyed, or length of years,
Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,
To dust returns by slow decays:
But, when its destined years are o'er,
We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,
The world laments your exit made;
So long befriended by your art,
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!–

When monarchs tumble to the ground,
Successors easily are found:
But, matchless Franklin! what a few
Can hope to rival such as you,
Who seized from kings their sceptered pride,
And turned the lightning darts aside.

Poetry Friday

Ok people. I came up with something new...it's called Poetry Friday! I know you're excited.

I used to love poetry. Not to mean that I don't anymore, I just stopped reading it somewhere along the line. So, in an effort to get back to poetry, I will be posting a poem here every Friday.

I once gave the following poem to someone very special in my life when he was leaving to go home, and was (still is) a possibility that I might never see him again. Our "time in the sun" so to speak is well past, but we're still in contact, and over the years, he has proven (to my surprise, honestly) to be a faithful and thoughtful friend. It's a beautiful poem...I hope you like it. First the original German:

Wo Bist Du Itzt by Jakob Michael Reinhold Lenz (1751-1792)

Wo bist du itzt, mein unvergesslich Mädchen,
Wo singst du itzt?
Wo lacht die Flur, wo triumphiert das Städtchen,
Das dich besitzt?

Seit du entfernt, will keine Sonne scheinen,
Und es vereint
Der Himmel sich, dir zärtlich nachzuweinen,
Mit deinem Freund.

All unsre Lust ist fort mit dir gezogen,
Still überall
Ist Stadt und Fed. Dir nach ist sie geflogen,
Die Nachtigall.

O komm zurück! Schon rufen Hirt und Herden
Dich bang herbei.
Komm bald zurück! Sonst wird es Winter weden
Im Monat Mai.

*******************************************
Now, the translation:

Where Are You Now

Where are you now, my unforgettable maiden,
Where do you sing now?
Where smiles the field, where does the small town triumph
Which possess you?

Since you are gone, no sun will shine
And Heaven itself,
To weep after you tenderly,
Unites with your friend.

All our happiness has gone with you,
Quiet everywhere
Is town and field. It followed you in flight -
The nightingale.

Oh do return! Already herds and shepherds
Recall you anxiously.
Oh, come back soon! Else there will be winter
In the month of May.