The poetry thread

[stephen w]

[QUOTE=maureen;6982]for shame for him bringing up such hard things


but steph started it with this;

"Oh how meagre life's weft,
How threadbare the language of rejoicing!
Everything existed of old, everything happens again,
And only the moment of recognition is sweet."


Part of the function of poets or poetry, perhaps, is somehow to express the heart of a state (or event) so simply and powerfully that it speaks for you: it becomes an understood, and in a strange way shared, experience. Often the words, or lines might just pass you by, and then in the midst of a bereavement you open the book as it were by chance at a certain page, and a series of simple words, it might be

Who can know from the word goodbye
What kind of parting is in store for us

goes straight to the heart, and having your experience communicated is on some level releasing and healing.


I came across a poem today:




The stillborn

The stillborn have no claim
on this world. They are quiet
and distant, taking care of themselves,
as starfish navigating point by point
along the shallows,
as the smallest seahorses
grazing in the sands.

They have nothing in common with death.
No, it's as if a path
had been traced for them across a clean beach
with footprints ready for them to fall into step,
to walk into the dazzling wind of their lives.
And when they turned back,
remained crustacean,
slowly the footprints unmade themselves,
each grain of sand, one after the other,
tumbled back into the sea...

Nina Bogan

[The Sparrow]

From the prairies of Canada
http://www.lornacrozier.ca/


Blizzard

Walking into wind, I lean into my mother's muskrat coat;
around the cuffs her wristbones have worn away the fur.

If we stood still we'd disappear. There's no up or down,
no houses with their windows lit. The only noise is wind

and what's inside us. When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.

I could lie down and stay right here where snow is all
that happens, and silence isn't loneliness just cold

not talking. My mother tugs at me and won't let go.
Then stops to find her bearings. In our hoods of stars

we don't know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.
-Lorna Crozier

[maureen]

thank you spotty
as you may know i am originally from maine
this poem describes life there
my childhood
my friends experiences
walking in a blizzard
what that sort of climate
that cold does to the soul
great poem


both these poems have great lines

"They have nothing in common with death"

a dificult topic but not maudlin just accurate as hell and beautiful

[The Sparrow]

I really know very little about poetic theory and such.
What I think I like though are things 'visual' and 'moody' rather than literal. If there is some sort of specific 'message' to be found out, I don't think I'm really interested. I don't want it to be a puzzle to be solved. I want a feeling, a visual mood, to be imparted to me, something that then sits with me for a few hours after.

The absolute best one I have read so far is The Man-Moth by Elizabeth Bishop.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-moth/

Yet if someone pointed out to me some specific metophorical idea that I had missed. I would feel dissapointed as if I had failed.
I just wanna go with the feeling of it.

[The Sparrow]

Originally Posted by maureen

thank you spotty
as you may know i am originally from maine
this poem describes life there
my childhood
my friends experiences
walking in a blizzard
what that sort of climate
that cold does to the soul
great poem


both these poems have great lines

"They have nothing in common with death"

a dificult topic but not maudlin just accurate as hell and beautiful

Yeah. Anyone who's been out in a snowstorm, you can kinda relate to the world she 'paints'. I like her, she opens up my imagination/fantasy world.

[The Sparrow]

Oh, and one more thing. I can only read and appreciate maybe 1 or 2 poems a day. And its better if I stick to just one.
Any more than that and I start to not take proper time with them.


Anyway, that's the world according to Spotty!

[Herzeleide]

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.


W.H. Auden

[stephen w]

A Day in Autumn

It will not always be like this,
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening

In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.

R.S. Thomas

[stephen w]

Originally Posted by spotty

From the prairies of Canada
http://www.lornacrozier.ca/


Blizzard

Walking into wind, I lean into my mother's muskrat coat;
around the cuffs her wristbones have worn away the fur.

If we stood still we'd disappear. There's no up or down,
no houses with their windows lit. The only noise is wind

and what's inside us. When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.

I could lie down and stay right here where snow is all
that happens, and silence isn't loneliness just cold

not talking. My mother tugs at me and won't let go.
Then stops to find her bearings. In our hoods of stars

we don't know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.
-Lorna Crozier

What absolutely wonderful lines, so spare -

When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.


- and so powerful. They mean something very strong, but you wouldnt necessarily be able to say what, other than how it's already put by the poem:

In our hoods of stars
we don't know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.

What is 'home'? That would be a good poetry thread.

[Florestan]

Originally Posted by stephen wainman

The stillborn

The stillborn have no claim
on this world. They are quiet
and distant, taking care of themselves,
as starfish navigating point by point
along the shallows,
as the smallest seahorses
grazing in the sands.

They have nothing in common with death.
No, it's as if a path
had been traced for them across a clean beach
with footprints ready for them to fall into step,
to walk into the dazzling wind of their lives.
And when they turned back,
remained crustacean,
slowly the footprints unmade themselves,
each grain of sand, one after the other,
tumbled back into the sea...

Nina Bogan

It's beautiful because it is so unsentimental.