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As stood the sun to the salute of planets
Upon the day that gave you to the earth,
You grew forthwith, and prospered, in your growing
Heeded the law presiding at your birth.
Sibyls and prophets told it: You must be
None but yourself, from self you cannot flee.
No time there is, no power, can decompose
The minted form that lives and living grows.
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode;
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode,
To his hills that encircle the sea.
Wandering I found, in my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
A rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk
To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of his race
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew
from each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace
For the night-shade and thorn had overshadowed the place
Where the flowers of my forefathers grew.
Jane Montgomery Campbell (1817-1878)
On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.
I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.
Mystery, Intrigue, Counter Espionage, Clavichord
I often wonder whether Plath knew German and didn't take over the couplet form from my favourite Jewish-German poet(ess), Else Lasker-Schüler:
TO GISELHEER THE TIGER
Jungles creep across your face.
How strange you are!
Your tiger’s eyes have sweetened
In the sun.
I always carry you around
Between my teeth.
You book of Indian tales
Chieftain of the Sioux tribe!
In the twilight I languish
Bound to the box-tree-trunk.
I can no longer live
Without the scalping game.
Your knife paints red kisses
On my breast - (Benn was a surgeon!
Until my hair flutters on your belt.
Sathyaji (Lac Jemaye, France) carole satyamurti
Dusk, and the boathouse keeper
calls the late, scattered boats
from beyond the curve
in the lake; calls them by name,
Hirondelle! Angelique! George Sand!
Are they real or imagined,
those smudges of black
in the shade of the far bank?
Again his call, carrying, returning.
What’s in a name? You are –
in the name I called you by;
its weight and shape hard to convey
except – it lent itself to tenderness,
teasing and respect; closeness
and a certain distance.
Now it’s a vessel
for the far-flung
only sure reality of you.
Love draws you back.
In saying your name, I see it
boat-shaped and luminous
stitching the dark,
returned from formless drift
about the world. Let me
recall you. I’ve words enough –
a sheaf of versions. My pen
engraves you differently each time.
Nothing can be held, or hurried.
Wind casts a shiver on the water;
shallows uncertain in withdrawing light.
A phalarope races its image
and is gone; reflected, relinquished,
discarnate as the distant boats
the boathouse keeper calls and calls,
only a name to summon each of them.
Yet, here they come.
Last edited by stephen w; 21-03-13 at 04:31 PM. Reason: formatting
Short roadside verses like this one helped a shaving cream
maker stay solvent (or "in the lather") longer than they would have.
[it is not Robert Frost or John Keats; however, no ambiguity either!]
Let out a WHOOP!
Felt his Chin
And Flew the Coop.
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