He held forever in his hand once when
He bent to fetch a penny shining near
A wishing fountain, that had not sunk in
The shallow water, but lay on the concrete rim.
Silver coins scattered, lonely at bottom--
No copper pennies shone through the ripples.
Not one red cent, and he looked in his hand
Wondering how long this penny could last,
Or what it could buy, or what wish could
It grant, and he saw his reflection fading out
Fading in to waves and forms where
Faith once chided his arrogance when
He didn't stoop to pick up a penny
And save it for a poor box or someone's
Outstretched hand-- he laughed while
She took the penny while rebuffing his
Seeming scorn for those of few pennies-- though
She knew nothing of these having nothing
But their simple wishes drowned in dried up
Jest pools, or corroded in fountains of
Vitriol pumped through neglect--but what could
One penny do he wondered as she dropped
The cuprous coin in her purse of gold mesh,
Snapping shut his thoughts as the pool bottom
Came into view, and he wondered how it
Came to pass that the penny in his hand
Was lying by the side of the wishing
Fountain, imagining that the penny
Might have waited forever to feel him
Come to his senses to know what he held.
--Dr.M
Friday, August 22, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Henry Miller on Writing
Henry Miller was inspired to write and to paint. His book, Henry Miller on Writing, is a desperate work of truth from a writer to anyone, but especially anyone who would like to know what it feels like to be a real writer. What it feels like to want to be a real writer. What it feels like to knowingly elect to take on pain and severe criticism and to surrender to the real voice inside you.
Recently, I was at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan browsing as usual in the section where were revealed treasures of the writing art: writers on writing, collections of letters by noted writers and poets, essay collections. My most recent purchase was a collection of letters by the fervent American poet, Ann Sexton, thankfully reissued by her daughter-- a lovely book that I hope to write about here soon. Another book that caught my eye on this particular day was On the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag, a work that I will one day have, but I have such a large pile of books as it is that I must get to. The Strand is an amazing store, without question the number one used bookstore in New York City, currently they boast over 18 miles of books! Oh yes, one can find many current best-sellers there as well.
I could write about the Strand all day, and I will one day here, but my intention was to describe the setting a little that lead to my seeing Henry Miller on Writing in paperback on the shelf. The cover of the book looked so familiar. There was a bust of the famous writer on the cover (a bronze cast by Marino Marini) I believed that I once bought the book during the time I attended a couple of writing workshops and was grabbing as many books as I could on the craft by real writers. But I wasn't sure. So I decided not to buy it, to go home, and if it were not there, then I would rush back to the Strand. When I got home, I found the book hidden behind a row of other books. I was relieved, but couldn't understand why I had not read the book as I fanned the pages stopping at some gems that I'd want to read aloud. I must confess that I have started the book, but have a ways to go. Miller seemed to have a desperate passion about writing that will take a long time to fully comprehend.
As I read I was reminded of another book, a work of fiction, that conveyed a similar desperation, Martin Eden by Jack London. Martin Eden was London's most autobiographical work in which the leading character singleness of purpose was to conquer the art, to win recognition as a great writer. As Andrew Sinclair wrote in the introduction, "...it (Martin Eden) appealed to young writers determined to succeed by force of will and dedication, without benefit of innate talent." Oddly, a friend, a Russian chess grandmaster recommended Martin Eden to me. I had then become a chess master, and would get together with Anatoly occasionally to look at chess games. He told me that Martin Eden was a favorite novel in Russia (then the Soviet Union) especially among aspiring chess masters who would sacrifice everything for the art and passion of chess. The book made a deep impression on me. I have never forgotten the final sentence of the book, "And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know." "He ceased to know." That is poetry-- a more shocking sensation of what death may be I have not experienced. And I go back to the book every so often-- to see if the sentence is still there.
Henry Miller became famous when Tropic of Cancer was published. But it was a long road, a desperate road, that Miller trod upon alone finding himself, before writing Tropic of Cancer.
Henry Miller on Writing is filled with so many inspiring passages.
He wrote, "The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became-- myself."
When he would show some of his early tries at writing, Miller was told that he would never be a good writer. He tried to find his voice. He found it one day when he wrote about an experience of his mother leading him by the hand one day in his childhood. Miller wrote how reading the passage brought him to tears. He believed that this little piece should never be published, but to put in a drawer. He was amazed at how the writing just came out from inside him because he let it out.
To be continued.
Recently, I was at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan browsing as usual in the section where were revealed treasures of the writing art: writers on writing, collections of letters by noted writers and poets, essay collections. My most recent purchase was a collection of letters by the fervent American poet, Ann Sexton, thankfully reissued by her daughter-- a lovely book that I hope to write about here soon. Another book that caught my eye on this particular day was On the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag, a work that I will one day have, but I have such a large pile of books as it is that I must get to. The Strand is an amazing store, without question the number one used bookstore in New York City, currently they boast over 18 miles of books! Oh yes, one can find many current best-sellers there as well.
I could write about the Strand all day, and I will one day here, but my intention was to describe the setting a little that lead to my seeing Henry Miller on Writing in paperback on the shelf. The cover of the book looked so familiar. There was a bust of the famous writer on the cover (a bronze cast by Marino Marini) I believed that I once bought the book during the time I attended a couple of writing workshops and was grabbing as many books as I could on the craft by real writers. But I wasn't sure. So I decided not to buy it, to go home, and if it were not there, then I would rush back to the Strand. When I got home, I found the book hidden behind a row of other books. I was relieved, but couldn't understand why I had not read the book as I fanned the pages stopping at some gems that I'd want to read aloud. I must confess that I have started the book, but have a ways to go. Miller seemed to have a desperate passion about writing that will take a long time to fully comprehend.
As I read I was reminded of another book, a work of fiction, that conveyed a similar desperation, Martin Eden by Jack London. Martin Eden was London's most autobiographical work in which the leading character singleness of purpose was to conquer the art, to win recognition as a great writer. As Andrew Sinclair wrote in the introduction, "...it (Martin Eden) appealed to young writers determined to succeed by force of will and dedication, without benefit of innate talent." Oddly, a friend, a Russian chess grandmaster recommended Martin Eden to me. I had then become a chess master, and would get together with Anatoly occasionally to look at chess games. He told me that Martin Eden was a favorite novel in Russia (then the Soviet Union) especially among aspiring chess masters who would sacrifice everything for the art and passion of chess. The book made a deep impression on me. I have never forgotten the final sentence of the book, "And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know." "He ceased to know." That is poetry-- a more shocking sensation of what death may be I have not experienced. And I go back to the book every so often-- to see if the sentence is still there.
Henry Miller became famous when Tropic of Cancer was published. But it was a long road, a desperate road, that Miller trod upon alone finding himself, before writing Tropic of Cancer.
Henry Miller on Writing is filled with so many inspiring passages.
He wrote, "The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became-- myself."
When he would show some of his early tries at writing, Miller was told that he would never be a good writer. He tried to find his voice. He found it one day when he wrote about an experience of his mother leading him by the hand one day in his childhood. Miller wrote how reading the passage brought him to tears. He believed that this little piece should never be published, but to put in a drawer. He was amazed at how the writing just came out from inside him because he let it out.
To be continued.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Are You Ready to Fall in Love with Me?
or, The Love Song of Possibilities
Prologue
In an emergency room, a physician thought that he heard a patient whisper a lyrical plea to his lover. The patient, a young man, and was in the most critical condition. The patient apparently was not in a full waking state, and, at times, the physician thought the pitch and volume of the patient’s voice changed. He screamed; he spoke in monotone; he whispered; he sang.
It is well to note that the physician had been on duty for twenty-two hours, and was due to be relieved. He studied the patient’s chart, and observed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The physician thought he heard a rhythm to the patient’s speech. A nurse came, and saw the young physician as though he were in a trance. She asked if she could bring him some coffee. He said yes, and also asked for several sheets of blank paper.
The physician claimed that what follows is a verbatim transcript of what he heard the patient say.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I have been waiting for only one answer
An answer from you.
Just as I wait under a tree of life
That keeps me safe from this
Imperial rain -- maybe not as only god knows
From my imperious one track mind
That orders my thoughts to border
On insanity –
I think and think only of you.
Sweet thoughts though.
Sweet delirious thoughts under this bough
That will be gold when you come again
Even before the sunlight does.
I will wait until you are here with me
As these little buds wait to awake when spring
Rules over all -- ecstasies of pollen spray the air
When everyone knows spring is here.
All possible I see under this sacred tree
Sheltering me from the impatient sky
Ready to get on with it and entreat
The soil to soften and lovers to walk in the heat--
Telling stories of outrageous impressions
When they first saw themselves in discretion
As strangers when they met as we did
That misshapen morn when I fawned
All over you though you were oblivious
To any such extravagances of my reserve
I usually kept inside to serve when in company
I’d keep for unromantic trysts and inanity.
You sat by a window to the world of some wrack
Studying some words in a paperback.
Were they translatable?
Were they philosophical?
You never answered me though
I knew that you and not the words were mystical.
And when you turned to the noise
I learned some things that I’ve kept,
Even times when I wept,
Secrets all this time to tell you.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Then you called my bluff -- I never knew
How you knew I wasn’t so tough.
You dropped a glove near where
I sat behind you --what were you doing
With a glove on a spring like day when
The equinox of renewal was less than
Some less than momentous thoughts away?
I stupidly asked if you were challenging
Me to a duel, and you audaciously moved
To my table and I ordered more coffee.
You said that the caffeine would keep me up,
And I said that all I ever wanted to do
Was with you to keep up.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
You said that was a possible impossibility.
No one has to know – like Doris Day
You could say that once you had a secret love
And you’ll decide when to explode
All your earthly delight to bring others
To know of this illusion and come to the hill
Where you shout my name --
My ten or fifteen minutes of fame.
You took my pen and scrawled your
Phone number all over my cahier –
You crossed out my name and wrote
“TAKEN” so loudly that this marking
Could never not be mistaken for taken.
And we didn’t know our names yet.
And then the remark I made
About your blue eyes -- that they were
A mutation maybe six thousand years
Old -- you said I should be more direct--
Just say that I am mesmerized
By your most beautiful blue eyes.
It slipped out of me to my surprise
That I loved your eyes more than
Any I had ever seen, and it was then
That your mascara ran like my reserve.
I wanted to just say, “I love you.”
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
All I could think of was to say
That we could stay up all night
Till first light-- we could go
To Coney Island, wake up everyone
Or, we could break a bottle of champagne
Over the prow of Staten Island’s Ferry
Or, we could next meet at the top
Of the Empire State Building
To take the spaces where
Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr
And Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne
Had before them done, or
Once imagined they would do.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I called and you pretended not to know me.
I laughed so hard you hung up the phone.
And I was all alone by the phone, undone
Until you rang again to say I wasn’t off the hook.
I was a perfect gentleman – I couldn’t tell
You were kidding me until you asked
Whether I could dance and before I could say no
I escorted you to your friend’s wedding
Or, was it that you escorted me? – I felt
Awkward because I couldn’t sit with you --
You the bridesmaid and who knows
Maybe a bride, but I did dance with you --
You who were so light on your feet.
When I asked if you were a dancer
When you danced circles around me
So fast!
There was no time to step on your feet
With my two left ones that I didn’t feel anyway
Because the wine and or you made me dizzy.
I think it was you.
Like I feel now, wondering upside down--
Why can’t I move—pinch me please!
Who is that writing there? What’s keeping you?
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I will live forever in all things that you may do.
Are you coming here to visit me?
That’s the least you could do--
How nice, you will come.
You’ve made a decision.
I know what it is.
Will you bring me flowers?
Will you bring me chocolate?
I can’t move you know.
Will you remember the first time that you saw me?
Or, are you just coming to claim the glove that you dropped?
I love this glove that fits and starts all of this.
I dream that I am in this crazy place
These strange people stare at me,
Dressed in white, so methodical.
They pinch and prick and palpate--
Make me swallow such bitters.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I want to taste your lips again.
Like I did before we left when we first met.
You surprised me with your sweet ambush--
Felled by this shock I couldn’t resist--
Curtains of propriety fell away.
You said I wanted to do that all along.
And I admitted so to your coy smile.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Let’s do something right here in this bed.
You’ll be my nurse and make the rounds
All night when there are no sounds
And you’ll wake me from this state
With your sweet kisses for your mate.
Why am I here?
I wait for you.
Please hurry – there’s not much time
To be together, alone, as one again.
Hurry, but please tell me, darling,
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Epilogue
The physician said that was the last he heard the delirious man say. He saw that the man’s clenched fist held a leather glove, when a pretty woman with the bluest eyes that he had ever seen came in. She went to the bed where the man lay and kissed him lightly on the lips and she held the kiss for a long time. The man did not stir. She cried.
The physician said that the woman told him many things, but that he must promise never to tell anyone her secret. The physician gave his word. He could not help wondering why couldn’t the man have been able to see his fair woman?
His fair woman came in to be with him once more. Just a few minutes more. The physician blamed himself. The woman hugged him, and thanked him for what he did. She said goodbye, looked over at the man once more and left. The physician never saw her again. It was strange that no one came to claim the man’s body. Rather than let the man be taken by the state and to lay in potter’s field, the physician arranged for a beautiful funeral for the man. No family or friends came to see the dead man. The physician called him a dead poet. Yes, no one who knew the man in this life came to see him. The story spread, and almost all the hospital staff came to pay their respects. It was a beautiful service.
Through the stained glass, the morning light cast a mourning light upon the face of the physician, bluer than blue. The physician began his eulogy that stopped time for everyone who came to be with the dead man that the physician called a poet. Some said that they had never heard such a eulogy.
The eulogy began with these words, "Are you ready to fall in love with me?”
or, The Love Song of Possibilities
Prologue
In an emergency room, a physician thought that he heard a patient whisper a lyrical plea to his lover. The patient, a young man, and was in the most critical condition. The patient apparently was not in a full waking state, and, at times, the physician thought the pitch and volume of the patient’s voice changed. He screamed; he spoke in monotone; he whispered; he sang.
It is well to note that the physician had been on duty for twenty-two hours, and was due to be relieved. He studied the patient’s chart, and observed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The physician thought he heard a rhythm to the patient’s speech. A nurse came, and saw the young physician as though he were in a trance. She asked if she could bring him some coffee. He said yes, and also asked for several sheets of blank paper.
The physician claimed that what follows is a verbatim transcript of what he heard the patient say.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I have been waiting for only one answer
An answer from you.
Just as I wait under a tree of life
That keeps me safe from this
Imperial rain -- maybe not as only god knows
From my imperious one track mind
That orders my thoughts to border
On insanity –
I think and think only of you.
Sweet thoughts though.
Sweet delirious thoughts under this bough
That will be gold when you come again
Even before the sunlight does.
I will wait until you are here with me
As these little buds wait to awake when spring
Rules over all -- ecstasies of pollen spray the air
When everyone knows spring is here.
All possible I see under this sacred tree
Sheltering me from the impatient sky
Ready to get on with it and entreat
The soil to soften and lovers to walk in the heat--
Telling stories of outrageous impressions
When they first saw themselves in discretion
As strangers when they met as we did
That misshapen morn when I fawned
All over you though you were oblivious
To any such extravagances of my reserve
I usually kept inside to serve when in company
I’d keep for unromantic trysts and inanity.
You sat by a window to the world of some wrack
Studying some words in a paperback.
Were they translatable?
Were they philosophical?
You never answered me though
I knew that you and not the words were mystical.
And when you turned to the noise
I learned some things that I’ve kept,
Even times when I wept,
Secrets all this time to tell you.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Then you called my bluff -- I never knew
How you knew I wasn’t so tough.
You dropped a glove near where
I sat behind you --what were you doing
With a glove on a spring like day when
The equinox of renewal was less than
Some less than momentous thoughts away?
I stupidly asked if you were challenging
Me to a duel, and you audaciously moved
To my table and I ordered more coffee.
You said that the caffeine would keep me up,
And I said that all I ever wanted to do
Was with you to keep up.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
You said that was a possible impossibility.
No one has to know – like Doris Day
You could say that once you had a secret love
And you’ll decide when to explode
All your earthly delight to bring others
To know of this illusion and come to the hill
Where you shout my name --
My ten or fifteen minutes of fame.
You took my pen and scrawled your
Phone number all over my cahier –
You crossed out my name and wrote
“TAKEN” so loudly that this marking
Could never not be mistaken for taken.
And we didn’t know our names yet.
And then the remark I made
About your blue eyes -- that they were
A mutation maybe six thousand years
Old -- you said I should be more direct--
Just say that I am mesmerized
By your most beautiful blue eyes.
It slipped out of me to my surprise
That I loved your eyes more than
Any I had ever seen, and it was then
That your mascara ran like my reserve.
I wanted to just say, “I love you.”
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
All I could think of was to say
That we could stay up all night
Till first light-- we could go
To Coney Island, wake up everyone
Or, we could break a bottle of champagne
Over the prow of Staten Island’s Ferry
Or, we could next meet at the top
Of the Empire State Building
To take the spaces where
Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr
And Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne
Had before them done, or
Once imagined they would do.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I called and you pretended not to know me.
I laughed so hard you hung up the phone.
And I was all alone by the phone, undone
Until you rang again to say I wasn’t off the hook.
I was a perfect gentleman – I couldn’t tell
You were kidding me until you asked
Whether I could dance and before I could say no
I escorted you to your friend’s wedding
Or, was it that you escorted me? – I felt
Awkward because I couldn’t sit with you --
You the bridesmaid and who knows
Maybe a bride, but I did dance with you --
You who were so light on your feet.
When I asked if you were a dancer
When you danced circles around me
So fast!
There was no time to step on your feet
With my two left ones that I didn’t feel anyway
Because the wine and or you made me dizzy.
I think it was you.
Like I feel now, wondering upside down--
Why can’t I move—pinch me please!
Who is that writing there? What’s keeping you?
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I will live forever in all things that you may do.
Are you coming here to visit me?
That’s the least you could do--
How nice, you will come.
You’ve made a decision.
I know what it is.
Will you bring me flowers?
Will you bring me chocolate?
I can’t move you know.
Will you remember the first time that you saw me?
Or, are you just coming to claim the glove that you dropped?
I love this glove that fits and starts all of this.
I dream that I am in this crazy place
These strange people stare at me,
Dressed in white, so methodical.
They pinch and prick and palpate--
Make me swallow such bitters.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
I want to taste your lips again.
Like I did before we left when we first met.
You surprised me with your sweet ambush--
Felled by this shock I couldn’t resist--
Curtains of propriety fell away.
You said I wanted to do that all along.
And I admitted so to your coy smile.
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Let’s do something right here in this bed.
You’ll be my nurse and make the rounds
All night when there are no sounds
And you’ll wake me from this state
With your sweet kisses for your mate.
Why am I here?
I wait for you.
Please hurry – there’s not much time
To be together, alone, as one again.
Hurry, but please tell me, darling,
Are you ready to fall in love with me?
Epilogue
The physician said that was the last he heard the delirious man say. He saw that the man’s clenched fist held a leather glove, when a pretty woman with the bluest eyes that he had ever seen came in. She went to the bed where the man lay and kissed him lightly on the lips and she held the kiss for a long time. The man did not stir. She cried.
The physician said that the woman told him many things, but that he must promise never to tell anyone her secret. The physician gave his word. He could not help wondering why couldn’t the man have been able to see his fair woman?
His fair woman came in to be with him once more. Just a few minutes more. The physician blamed himself. The woman hugged him, and thanked him for what he did. She said goodbye, looked over at the man once more and left. The physician never saw her again. It was strange that no one came to claim the man’s body. Rather than let the man be taken by the state and to lay in potter’s field, the physician arranged for a beautiful funeral for the man. No family or friends came to see the dead man. The physician called him a dead poet. Yes, no one who knew the man in this life came to see him. The story spread, and almost all the hospital staff came to pay their respects. It was a beautiful service.
Through the stained glass, the morning light cast a mourning light upon the face of the physician, bluer than blue. The physician began his eulogy that stopped time for everyone who came to be with the dead man that the physician called a poet. Some said that they had never heard such a eulogy.
The eulogy began with these words, "Are you ready to fall in love with me?”
Sunday, March 30, 2008
In Flanders Fields
The poem, "In Flanders Fields", by John McCrae, is rendered beautifully in an animated video.
What the creator of the video has done will warm the heart of any lover of poetry. In some ways this is a society of dead poets created by a creative and sensitive artist, Jim Clark. What you will see is a photograph of the poet, John McCrae, animated so that it looks like a film of him actually reciting, "In Flanders Fields". McRae's lips "move", his eyes "blink", and his head "moves", creating a satisfying verisimilitude. Keep in mind that John McCrae, a Canadian physician, was killed in 1918. You must see this.
Mr. Clark has animated images of other poets such as John Keats, Alfred Tennyson, and W.B. Yeats. Clark has brought these poets "back to life" in some profound way to live again with the "eternal lines to time" they wrote. I believe there are over thirty of these animated poetry readings created by Mr. Clark. Please, Mr. Clark, bring us more. From the page: "Heres is a virtual movie of John McCrae reading his famous WW1 poem "In Flanders Fields" The poem is read excellently by Gordon Mackenzie. Kind Regards, Jim Clark All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2008".
Click on the link to witness the video of this beautiful rendering of "In Flanders Fields".
http://www.dailymotion.com/related/x4nwsf_john-keats-ode-on-melancholy-poem-m_music/video/x4kod9_john-mccrae-flanders-fields-poem-mo_music?from=rss
What the creator of the video has done will warm the heart of any lover of poetry. In some ways this is a society of dead poets created by a creative and sensitive artist, Jim Clark. What you will see is a photograph of the poet, John McCrae, animated so that it looks like a film of him actually reciting, "In Flanders Fields". McRae's lips "move", his eyes "blink", and his head "moves", creating a satisfying verisimilitude. Keep in mind that John McCrae, a Canadian physician, was killed in 1918. You must see this.
Mr. Clark has animated images of other poets such as John Keats, Alfred Tennyson, and W.B. Yeats. Clark has brought these poets "back to life" in some profound way to live again with the "eternal lines to time" they wrote. I believe there are over thirty of these animated poetry readings created by Mr. Clark. Please, Mr. Clark, bring us more. From the page: "Heres is a virtual movie of John McCrae reading his famous WW1 poem "In Flanders Fields" The poem is read excellently by Gordon Mackenzie. Kind Regards, Jim Clark All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2008".
Click on the link to witness the video of this beautiful rendering of "In Flanders Fields".
http://www.dailymotion.com/related/x4nwsf_john-keats-ode-on-melancholy-poem-m_music/video/x4kod9_john-mccrae-flanders-fields-poem-mo_music?from=rss
Slow Dance
I suppose when one knows that one's death is imminent, the secret of living a good life is revealed in some mystical way. I have not had this revelation, but the remarkable poetry of this girl gives me hope.
"This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital. It was sent by a doctor - " Source: emule.com/poetry [emule.com]
"This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital. It was sent by a doctor - " Source: emule.com/poetry [emule.com]
Slow Dance
Have you ever watched kids On a merry-go-round? Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground? Ever followed a butterfly's erratic
flight? Or gazed at the sun into
the fading night?
You better slow down. Don't dance so fast. Time is short. The music won't last. Do you run through each day On the fly?
When you ask How are you? Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done Do you lie in your bed With the next hundred chores Running through your head? You'd better slow down Don't dance so fast. Time is short. The music won't last.
Ever told your child, We'll do it tomorrow? And in your haste, Not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch, Let a good friendship die Cause you never had time To call and say hi You'd better slow down. Don't dance so fast. Time is short. The music won't last. When you run so fast to get somewhere You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your
day, It is like an unopened
gift.... Thrown away.
Life is not a race. Do take it slower Hear the music Before the song is over.
-- Anonymous
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Whatever
Please forgive me, but I wish to post another of my own poems called, "Whatever".
This is intense imperfect.
Only when what thing is in me is in truth identified, and when that thing in me is true in and of itself, and if its definition in linguistic expression merits universal agreement, may I entreat my love to respond to the thing with her always virtuous purpose.
Whatever
Whatever is beautiful in me, sense it.
Whatever is truthful in me, believe it.
Whatever is wild in me, tame it.
Whatever is a dream in me, be in it.
Whatever is generous in me, receive it.
Whatever is fi nal in me, remember it.
Whatever is trite in me, embellish it.
Whatever is a cliché in me, find newness in it.
Whatever is noble in me, use it.
Whatever is eternal in me, be it.
Whatever is thoughtful in me, debate it.
Whatever is kind in me, embrace it.
Whatever is first in me, move ahead of it.
Whatever is blind in me, teach it.
Whatever is jealous in me, destroy it.
Whatever is bold in me, temper it.
Whatever is deaf in me, sign to it.
Whatever is language in me, understand it.
Whatever is a song in me, listen to it.
Whatever is dead in me, bury it.
Whatever is moral in me, test it.
Whatever is lost in me, find it.
Whatever is a question in me, answer it.
Whatever is fear in me, make me face it.
Whatever is needed in me, fulfill it.
Whatever is blasé in me about the wonder of the universe, show me the wonder of it.
Whatever is stubborn in me, let me let go of it.
Whatever is mystery in me, let me keep it.
Whatever is taut in me, loosen it.
Whatever is poison in me, neutralize it.
Whatever is impulsive in me, quiet it.
Whatever is lazy in me, stimulate it.
Whatever is hatred in me, excise it.
Whatever is false in me, let truth cleanse it.
Whatever is didactic in me, show me new ways to do it.
Whatever is gluttonous in me, starve it.
Whatever is covetous in me, chasten it.
Whatever is forgetful in me, remind it.
Whatever dwells in the past in me, bring the present to it.
Whatever lives in the future in me, show the present to it.
Whatever you don't want in me, tell me it.
Whatever is excessive in me, make it simple.
Whatever it is that you see in me, thank you for it.
Whatever are lips in me, kiss them.
Whatever is beating in me, it is yours.
Whatever is love in me, it is you.
This is intense imperfect.
Only when what thing is in me is in truth identified, and when that thing in me is true in and of itself, and if its definition in linguistic expression merits universal agreement, may I entreat my love to respond to the thing with her always virtuous purpose.
Whatever
Whatever is beautiful in me, sense it.
Whatever is truthful in me, believe it.
Whatever is wild in me, tame it.
Whatever is a dream in me, be in it.
Whatever is generous in me, receive it.
Whatever is fi nal in me, remember it.
Whatever is trite in me, embellish it.
Whatever is a cliché in me, find newness in it.
Whatever is noble in me, use it.
Whatever is eternal in me, be it.
Whatever is thoughtful in me, debate it.
Whatever is kind in me, embrace it.
Whatever is first in me, move ahead of it.
Whatever is blind in me, teach it.
Whatever is jealous in me, destroy it.
Whatever is bold in me, temper it.
Whatever is deaf in me, sign to it.
Whatever is language in me, understand it.
Whatever is a song in me, listen to it.
Whatever is dead in me, bury it.
Whatever is moral in me, test it.
Whatever is lost in me, find it.
Whatever is a question in me, answer it.
Whatever is fear in me, make me face it.
Whatever is needed in me, fulfill it.
Whatever is blasé in me about the wonder of the universe, show me the wonder of it.
Whatever is stubborn in me, let me let go of it.
Whatever is mystery in me, let me keep it.
Whatever is taut in me, loosen it.
Whatever is poison in me, neutralize it.
Whatever is impulsive in me, quiet it.
Whatever is lazy in me, stimulate it.
Whatever is hatred in me, excise it.
Whatever is false in me, let truth cleanse it.
Whatever is didactic in me, show me new ways to do it.
Whatever is gluttonous in me, starve it.
Whatever is covetous in me, chasten it.
Whatever is forgetful in me, remind it.
Whatever dwells in the past in me, bring the present to it.
Whatever lives in the future in me, show the present to it.
Whatever you don't want in me, tell me it.
Whatever is excessive in me, make it simple.
Whatever it is that you see in me, thank you for it.
Whatever are lips in me, kiss them.
Whatever is beating in me, it is yours.
Whatever is love in me, it is you.
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Sonnet for Friday
It is with trepidation that I post a sonnet of my own. It is Friday and I guess we can dress down.
I just heard a reading of a Shakespeare sonnet (116) by two college girls that they put to their own piano music. The music was innocently sweet and this just got into me as long as the music played. So I typed it out and here I'll move on.
Life's your fate's finger being burned by flames.
Life is reading a sonnet that crushes
Your heart of all life that's never the same
Again when you've kissed and caused her blushes
That rush throughout all your crazy love songs
You saved for her though you never met yet.
And the guitar strings break when your heart longs
To bring her to linger like you first met.
The harmony screams louder now, sweet pain --
Dreaming doesn't assuage the intensity
Of knowing you'll never see her again
Because you once lost love's faith's density.
There's no room in the heart at all for doubt --
Think about what love's really all about.
I just heard a reading of a Shakespeare sonnet (116) by two college girls that they put to their own piano music. The music was innocently sweet and this just got into me as long as the music played. So I typed it out and here I'll move on.
Life's your fate's finger being burned by flames.
Life is reading a sonnet that crushes
Your heart of all life that's never the same
Again when you've kissed and caused her blushes
That rush throughout all your crazy love songs
You saved for her though you never met yet.
And the guitar strings break when your heart longs
To bring her to linger like you first met.
The harmony screams louder now, sweet pain --
Dreaming doesn't assuage the intensity
Of knowing you'll never see her again
Because you once lost love's faith's density.
There's no room in the heart at all for doubt --
Think about what love's really all about.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The Lunar Eclipse
Last evening I was so fortunate to witness two rare events, a lunar eclipse and a crystal clear night in New York City where a fair number of celestial objects were visible. In a way the moon, turning red when the earth's shadow had waxed to a totality over her, transfixed the earth with her beauty.
Great poets have celebrated the beauty of the moon and her goddesses. The most ambitious of these certainly was the epic, "Endymion", by John Keats. The opening lines are justly famous. Here is the first stanza from
Book I:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Here is Emily Dickinson's homage to the moon:
The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
And William Wordsworth wrote a sonnet to this celestial majesty:
Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the stedfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.
And here are the lyrics by Lorenz Hart, (music by Richard Rodgers) to the popular song, "Blue Moon":
Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
Blue Moon, you knew just what I was there for
You heard me saying a prayer for
Someone I really could care for
And then there suddenly appeared before me
The only one my arms will ever hold
I heard somebody whisper, "Please adore me"
And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold
Blue Moon, now I'm no longer alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
So, while we wait again for that "once in a blue moon" event, a total lunar eclipse, we can always celebrate the moon's mystery in verse.
Great poets have celebrated the beauty of the moon and her goddesses. The most ambitious of these certainly was the epic, "Endymion", by John Keats. The opening lines are justly famous. Here is the first stanza from
Book I:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Here is Emily Dickinson's homage to the moon:
The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
And William Wordsworth wrote a sonnet to this celestial majesty:
Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the stedfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.
And here are the lyrics by Lorenz Hart, (music by Richard Rodgers) to the popular song, "Blue Moon":
Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
Blue Moon, you knew just what I was there for
You heard me saying a prayer for
Someone I really could care for
And then there suddenly appeared before me
The only one my arms will ever hold
I heard somebody whisper, "Please adore me"
And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold
Blue Moon, now I'm no longer alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
So, while we wait again for that "once in a blue moon" event, a total lunar eclipse, we can always celebrate the moon's mystery in verse.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
John Keats' Sonnet on Hero and Leander
Today, I am happy to present a sonnet that John Keats composed upon receiving a painting on the Hero and Leander myth from Mrs. John Hamilton Reynolds. I find the final couplet quite striking and sad with Leander's last amorous breath in bubbles escaping from the cold waters.
“On a Picture of Leander"
Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten’d light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch’d, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit’s night,
Sinking bewilder’d ’mid the dreary sea.
’T is young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero’s cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He’s gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!”
“On a Picture of Leander"
Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten’d light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch’d, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit’s night,
Sinking bewilder’d ’mid the dreary sea.
’T is young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero’s cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He’s gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!”
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Beginning of Hero and Leander
I write today of my love of the mythical story of Hero and Leander, a tale having roots in Ovid and in a work by Musaeus Grammaticus writing in Greek sometime in the fifth century of our era. The "beginning" marks only this, my own start, to a series on the literature of this love legend.
Hero, a priestess to Venus, is sublimely beautiful, who had maintained her chaste ways until Leander challenged her sacred virginity. Hero and Leander lived in towns on opposite sides of the Hellespont, the strait that separates the seas of the Aegean and the Black. Leander fell deeply in love with Hero and, each day after dusk fell, he swam to Hero's tower to be with his beloved every night of a glorious summer. Hero had lit a lamp that shone light in the night like a lighthouse to guide Leander's arduous swim to her side. Winter brought rough seas and Hero's lamp still shone for Leander, but the wind blew out her light and Leander lost his way and drowned, his body washing ashore at the foot of her tower. When she saw his lifeless form strewn on the rocks, she tore off her clothing and leapt to her death beside her one true love.
The legend of Hero and Leander flowed like sweet nectar from the quill of Christopher Marlowe, the great Elizabethan playwright and poet, who fashioned perhaps the finest epyllion (an epic poem of short length) ever written, which was published after his tragic death at the hands of a murderer. Alas, Marlowe did not complete "Hero and Leander"; so what we have is a fragment, which I will have something to say in a future blog. Marlowes' great poem has been often compared and contrasted with Shakespeare's great work of the same genre, "Venus and Adonis".
For now I would like to post two poems relevant to this love legend. The first is by Musaeus Grammaticus, translated by John Addington Symonds in 1879. The second is by George Gordon, Lord Byron, who swam the Hellespont in 1810, not for love, but for glory.
Hero and Leander
Tell, goddess, of the lamp, which was the confidant of secret loving, and of the youth who swam by night to wed across the sea; and of his dark marriage upon which no dawn ever shone.
Sestus and Abydus are divided by the sea, but Eros united them with an arrow which struck the fair Hero and Leander. Leander lived at Abydus, and Hero at Sestus, where she dwelt in a tower outside the town with one old servant. Hero ministered to Aphrodite and to her son Eros. Yet even so she did not avoid the boy's shafts, for at a festival of Adonis she met Leander, and they fell in love with one another. In the early evening twilight they stood like beautiful shapes carved upon a relief, and Hero listened to Leander's pleas, and was persuaded. She told him of her home, and he vowed to swim to her by night; she must light a lamp to guide his journey.
They prayed for night to fall, and when it was dark and the lamp shone out, he came to her.
His skin she bathed, and anointed his body fragrantly
With oil of roses, to take away the harsh tang of the sea;
Then in her bed, piled deep with rugs, laid him to rest,
Still breathing hard, and drew him with fond words to her breast-
"Ah love so sorely tried as never lover yet,
O dear and sore-tried love, the bitter waves forget !
Forget the booming breakers, the harsh, fish-reeking brine,
And rest thy weary body within these arms of mine !"
He hearkened, then her girdle he loosened, and the will
Of glorious-hearted Cypris they turned them to fulfil.
A bridal it was where no man danced; no voice of minstrel praised
Hera, Queen of Wedlock; no marriage-hymn was raised.
Round that marriage-bed no torches filled the night with flame,
No revellers light-footed whirling about them came,
Their bridal-song no father and well-loved mother led-
Nay, in Love's crowning hour 'twas Silence strewed their bed
And shut their marriage-chamber;'twas Darkness decked the bride,
And night that gave them blessing.
And so they made love through many summer nights.
But when winter came, and the sea grew stormy, Hero ought to have refrained from lighting her lamp. Yet love and destiny compelled her, and the fatal night arrived. Leander struggled with the waves, but his strength failed him- and Hero's lamp was blown out by the wind. When the grey morning dawned, he still had not reached her tower.
Everywhere over the sea's wide plains with straining eyes
She searched for sight of him, lest perchance his way was lost
When the light of her lamp was gone. And when she saw him dead,
Torm by the rocks and lying at her tower's foundation,
About her breast she tore the wondrous woven mantle
And from the sheer crag plunged in hurtling headlong fall
To find with her dead love a death among the waves
And the joy of love together in life's last separation.
Now here is Byron's poem on his triumphal swim across the storied strait.
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat today.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo -and -Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.
Here are links to the above two works:
http://www.nzscribble.net/ancmusaeus.html
http://www.thewordtravels.com/byrononswimmingthehellespont.html
Hero, a priestess to Venus, is sublimely beautiful, who had maintained her chaste ways until Leander challenged her sacred virginity. Hero and Leander lived in towns on opposite sides of the Hellespont, the strait that separates the seas of the Aegean and the Black. Leander fell deeply in love with Hero and, each day after dusk fell, he swam to Hero's tower to be with his beloved every night of a glorious summer. Hero had lit a lamp that shone light in the night like a lighthouse to guide Leander's arduous swim to her side. Winter brought rough seas and Hero's lamp still shone for Leander, but the wind blew out her light and Leander lost his way and drowned, his body washing ashore at the foot of her tower. When she saw his lifeless form strewn on the rocks, she tore off her clothing and leapt to her death beside her one true love.
The legend of Hero and Leander flowed like sweet nectar from the quill of Christopher Marlowe, the great Elizabethan playwright and poet, who fashioned perhaps the finest epyllion (an epic poem of short length) ever written, which was published after his tragic death at the hands of a murderer. Alas, Marlowe did not complete "Hero and Leander"; so what we have is a fragment, which I will have something to say in a future blog. Marlowes' great poem has been often compared and contrasted with Shakespeare's great work of the same genre, "Venus and Adonis".
For now I would like to post two poems relevant to this love legend. The first is by Musaeus Grammaticus, translated by John Addington Symonds in 1879. The second is by George Gordon, Lord Byron, who swam the Hellespont in 1810, not for love, but for glory.
Hero and Leander
Tell, goddess, of the lamp, which was the confidant of secret loving, and of the youth who swam by night to wed across the sea; and of his dark marriage upon which no dawn ever shone.
Sestus and Abydus are divided by the sea, but Eros united them with an arrow which struck the fair Hero and Leander. Leander lived at Abydus, and Hero at Sestus, where she dwelt in a tower outside the town with one old servant. Hero ministered to Aphrodite and to her son Eros. Yet even so she did not avoid the boy's shafts, for at a festival of Adonis she met Leander, and they fell in love with one another. In the early evening twilight they stood like beautiful shapes carved upon a relief, and Hero listened to Leander's pleas, and was persuaded. She told him of her home, and he vowed to swim to her by night; she must light a lamp to guide his journey.
They prayed for night to fall, and when it was dark and the lamp shone out, he came to her.
His skin she bathed, and anointed his body fragrantly
With oil of roses, to take away the harsh tang of the sea;
Then in her bed, piled deep with rugs, laid him to rest,
Still breathing hard, and drew him with fond words to her breast-
"Ah love so sorely tried as never lover yet,
O dear and sore-tried love, the bitter waves forget !
Forget the booming breakers, the harsh, fish-reeking brine,
And rest thy weary body within these arms of mine !"
He hearkened, then her girdle he loosened, and the will
Of glorious-hearted Cypris they turned them to fulfil.
A bridal it was where no man danced; no voice of minstrel praised
Hera, Queen of Wedlock; no marriage-hymn was raised.
Round that marriage-bed no torches filled the night with flame,
No revellers light-footed whirling about them came,
Their bridal-song no father and well-loved mother led-
Nay, in Love's crowning hour 'twas Silence strewed their bed
And shut their marriage-chamber;'twas Darkness decked the bride,
And night that gave them blessing.
And so they made love through many summer nights.
But when winter came, and the sea grew stormy, Hero ought to have refrained from lighting her lamp. Yet love and destiny compelled her, and the fatal night arrived. Leander struggled with the waves, but his strength failed him- and Hero's lamp was blown out by the wind. When the grey morning dawned, he still had not reached her tower.
Everywhere over the sea's wide plains with straining eyes
She searched for sight of him, lest perchance his way was lost
When the light of her lamp was gone. And when she saw him dead,
Torm by the rocks and lying at her tower's foundation,
About her breast she tore the wondrous woven mantle
And from the sheer crag plunged in hurtling headlong fall
To find with her dead love a death among the waves
And the joy of love together in life's last separation.
Now here is Byron's poem on his triumphal swim across the storied strait.
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat today.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo -and -Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.
Here are links to the above two works:
http://www.nzscribble.net/ancmusaeus.html
http://www.thewordtravels.com/byrononswimmingthehellespont.html
Monday, February 18, 2008
Quantum Theory In The Elizabethan Age?
Funny how quantum theory and particle annihilation can have in some way been thought about by Elizabethan poets. Yet, strange as it may seem, two poets of the golden age, Sir Philip Sidney and William Shakespeare, may have had these seemingly paradoxical thoughts. Were they ahead of their time? Did they have a crystal ball?
Let's see two of the sonnets that contain the paradoxes.
Let's see two of the sonnets that contain the paradoxes.
Here is Sir Philip Sidney's Sonnet 60 from the series "Astrophel and Stella":
When my good Angell guides me to the place
Where all my good I doe in Stella see,
That heau'n of ioyes throwes onely downe on me
Thundring disdaines and lightnings of disgrace;
But when the ruggedst step of Fortunes race
Makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she,
With words wherein the Muses treasures be,
Shewes loue and pitie to my absent case.
Now I, wit-beaten long by hardest fate,
So dull am, that I cannot looke into
The ground of this fierce loue and louely hate.
Then, some good body, tell me how I do,
Whose presence absence, absence presence is;
Blest in my curse, and cursed in my blisse.
Here now is Shakespeare's Sonnet 45:
The other two, slight air, and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life being made of four, with two alone,
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy.
Until life's composition be recured,
By those swift messengers returned from thee,
Who even but now come back again assured,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
This told, I joy, but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.
Sidney, in line thirteen uses, "presence absence, absence presence", which refers to a this love - hate he feels simultaneously -- there and not there, perhaps at the same time. Shakespeare in line four uses, "present-absent," which is a paradox. Shakespeare seems to be saying that thought and desire are both present and absent at once.
Maybe they were just playing with words and not with an incredible idea akin to something being a wave and a particle at the same time a la quantum theory. If there is the presence of absence, then, whatever the subject may be, it is not there. Absence presence could mean the subject is not there -- an absence of presence!
I have no idea of course, but I do wonder what they were really thinking.
And there is another possible meaning for the use of present-absent (Shakespeare) and presence absence (Sidney) and that is that the appearance and disappearance of the entities referred occurred so quickly that they seemed to be and not to be simultaneously. Hah, that makes me think of Hamlet's puzzling "to be or not to be" query ... It seems as though Shakespeare was really caught up in all of this being and non-being stuff. I guess we all are.
Here are the links for these sonnets:
Sir Philip Sidney http://www.uoregon.edu/~rbear/stella.html
William Shakespeare http://poetry.eserver.org/sonnets/045.html
Welcome
Welcome to my blog, "The Angel's Quill", which shall be an effort, hopefully inspired from above, to wax upon all things in poetry and prose literature. In a larger sense, there will sometimes appear a commentary on the arts and humanities.
Here I shall post poems, including some of my own, and stories and anecdotes about the art and craft of this sacred place where the Muses gather as they always have and always will. There may be as well posts related to the theory of this poetry art culled from various sources, scholarly and otherwise. From time to time, there will be posts on short stories, novels and about the writers who graced pages with their wondrous prose.
For the sake of form and function, all works that I post here are copyright © 2008 by doctormate (my pseudonym). Thank you.
I thought it would be well to begin with a poem by Sappho, The Tenth Muse. She was born sometime between 630 an 612 B.C. Sappho was a great Greek "lyrist" who composed lyrical verses to be accompanied by a musical instrument called the lyre. Interestingly, woefully, only one of her complete poems exist, the rest being extant only in fragments ...
Here I shall post poems, including some of my own, and stories and anecdotes about the art and craft of this sacred place where the Muses gather as they always have and always will. There may be as well posts related to the theory of this poetry art culled from various sources, scholarly and otherwise. From time to time, there will be posts on short stories, novels and about the writers who graced pages with their wondrous prose.
For the sake of form and function, all works that I post here are copyright © 2008 by doctormate (my pseudonym). Thank you.
I thought it would be well to begin with a poem by Sappho, The Tenth Muse. She was born sometime between 630 an 612 B.C. Sappho was a great Greek "lyrist" who composed lyrical verses to be accompanied by a musical instrument called the lyre. Interestingly, woefully, only one of her complete poems exist, the rest being extant only in fragments ...
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
--Translated by Mary Barnard
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
