One comments. . .
As I "mushed" on into a little clearing, walking towards the sun, I had a glimpse of a winter effect I always like to see. On the tops of the trees the wind was blowing, and just ahead of me there suddenly fell from a hemlock branch a quantity of snow which disintegrated to powder in the sunlit air. As it thus dissolved, the snow dust turned to a mist of rainbow brilliance, a certain coppery, bronzy glow seeming to hang for a moment against the sun.
The other replies . . .
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
The paragraph is from Henry Beston's Northern Farm: A Chronicle of Maine, and the poem is by Robert Frost, "Dust of Snow."
I don't know if they ever met, but I think they would have gotten along very nicely.
Showing posts with label FROST Robert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FROST Robert. Show all posts
Friday, October 13, 2017
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Robert Frost's Invitation
The Pasture
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long,--You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long,--You come too.
-- Robert Frost --
Frost: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays
The Library of America
He's inviting us to go along, but to where or to what?
One place, obviously, is the pasture, to watch him do some simple, ordinary, uncomplicated things-- things of no great consequence.
This poem is placed on a page immediately before the rest of his poetry, so I might say that this is an invitation to his poetry. Perhaps I should read this first whenever I decide it's time for Frost.
Is there somewhere else he's inviting us to go?
Friday, June 2, 2017
The Rubaiyat: Second Edition, Quatrain CV
Second Edition: Quatrain CV
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse --if dimly, yet indeed reveal'd,
Toward which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XCVII
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse --if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
FitzGerald made only minimal changes to this quatrain over the next three editions. He added a comma in the fifth edition after "indeed," but that might have simply been adding one that had been left out in the second edition. The other change was the substitution of "To" for "Toward" in the third line. I think "To" makes it more specific as "Toward" suggests only moving in that direction, but not necessarily that being the destination.
Again, this quatrain brings up the theme that we don't know where we are going and laments that we can't even get a glimpse. Robert Frost expresses the same idea in his poem "For Once, Then, Something."
For Once, Then, Something
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven, godlike,
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths--and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
The mystery of existence has tormented and bedeviled the human race for thousands of years. This has brought about the various religious traditions, each with their own unique answer. Each of these answers have their own adherents, but no answer to date has been shown to be satisfactory to the human race as a whole, except, of course, to its followers.
Do I have an answer? No. But, like Khayyam and Frost, I keep looking and hoping.
Monday, March 20, 2017
Robert Frost: Spring Pools
Spring Pools
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods--
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only recently.
--Robert Frost --
Another of Frost's enigmatic poems. Those summer woods, celebrated by other poets and writers, are portrayed somewhat differently here for they "darken nature." Even more ominous is Frost's warning to those trees with "their pent-up buds."
"Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only recently."
What is dangerous about that snow that melted only recently"? Or, is it something other than that melted snow?
As usual, his poem is characterized by a straightforward, almost conversational sentence structure and simple, everyday words, and yet he manages to hint at something behind all this deceptive simplicity.
Now that I've finished my brief ramblings, go back and read the poem again. That's what's important--the poem..
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods--
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only recently.
--Robert Frost --
Another of Frost's enigmatic poems. Those summer woods, celebrated by other poets and writers, are portrayed somewhat differently here for they "darken nature." Even more ominous is Frost's warning to those trees with "their pent-up buds."
"Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only recently."
What is dangerous about that snow that melted only recently"? Or, is it something other than that melted snow?
As usual, his poem is characterized by a straightforward, almost conversational sentence structure and simple, everyday words, and yet he manages to hint at something behind all this deceptive simplicity.
Now that I've finished my brief ramblings, go back and read the poem again. That's what's important--the poem..
Friday, August 5, 2016
Thomas Hardy: "The Subalterns" and "Hap"
Who's in charge here?
The Subalterns
I
"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky,
"I fain would lighten thee,
But there are laws in force on high
Which say it must not be."
II
--"I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried
The North, "knew I but how
To warm my breath, to slack my stride;
But I am ruled as thou."
III
--"To-morrow I attack thee, wight,"
Said Sickness. "Yet I swear
I bear thy little ark no spite,
But am bid enter there."
IV
--"Come hither, Son," I heard Death say:
"I did not will a grave
Should end thy pilgrimage to-day,
But I, too, am a slave!"
V
We smiled upon each other then,
And life to me had less
Of that fell look it wore ere when
They owned their passiveness.
-- Thomas Hardy --
from The Works of Thomas Hardy
I had to think of another, later poem by Hardy, "Hap" in which he seems to express the same feeling but comes to a different conclusion as to the real situation.
======================================
Hap
If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
The thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan...
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
From a previous blog post, I wrote the following:
Hardy begins by saying that he could bear his sufferings if they were caused by a vengeful god, similar, I suppose, to those frequently preached about on TV or in various pulpits. He could endure and even die more easily, strengthened by his anger over his unjust pains and miseries, especially if all was caused by something more powerful than he.
However, Hardy concludes otherwise--"But not so"--that there is no vengeful god behind it all, for what happens is the result of "Crass Casuality" and "dicing Time," that it all happens by chance. There is no grand design or a plan behind it all, for "These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown/Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain."
===================================================
In "Hap," an earlier poem, he states that he would find it more endurable if he thought a more powerful being had caused those ills upon us, but he concludes
that
"These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain."
In other words, pure chance determines that pain and happiness come randomly and not by a plan of some higher power. Chance rules the universe.
In "The Subalterns," a later poem, he discovers that, while all the things that bedevil our existence down here come at us not of their own wish, they are commanded by something far more powerful than they are. Death insists they are "slaves." The narrator smiles when he hears this, for they are commanded by a higher power. "Subalterns" are those who simply follow orders, therefore, there must be something issuing those orders. Consequently, something must have a plan.
On the other hand, just to confuse the situation a bit, I will place Robert Frost's little poem, "Design" on the table for consideration.
Design
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
-- Robert Frost --
Does Robert Frost agree with Hardy, and, if so, with which Hardy? Is Chance or Design in charge here?
The Subalterns
I
"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky,
"I fain would lighten thee,
But there are laws in force on high
Which say it must not be."
II
--"I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried
The North, "knew I but how
To warm my breath, to slack my stride;
But I am ruled as thou."
III
--"To-morrow I attack thee, wight,"
Said Sickness. "Yet I swear
I bear thy little ark no spite,
But am bid enter there."
IV
--"Come hither, Son," I heard Death say:
"I did not will a grave
Should end thy pilgrimage to-day,
But I, too, am a slave!"
V
We smiled upon each other then,
And life to me had less
Of that fell look it wore ere when
They owned their passiveness.
-- Thomas Hardy --
from The Works of Thomas Hardy
I had to think of another, later poem by Hardy, "Hap" in which he seems to express the same feeling but comes to a different conclusion as to the real situation.
======================================
Hap
If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
The thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan...
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
From a previous blog post, I wrote the following:
Hardy begins by saying that he could bear his sufferings if they were caused by a vengeful god, similar, I suppose, to those frequently preached about on TV or in various pulpits. He could endure and even die more easily, strengthened by his anger over his unjust pains and miseries, especially if all was caused by something more powerful than he.
However, Hardy concludes otherwise--"But not so"--that there is no vengeful god behind it all, for what happens is the result of "Crass Casuality" and "dicing Time," that it all happens by chance. There is no grand design or a plan behind it all, for "These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown/Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain."
===================================================
In "Hap," an earlier poem, he states that he would find it more endurable if he thought a more powerful being had caused those ills upon us, but he concludes
that
"These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain."
In other words, pure chance determines that pain and happiness come randomly and not by a plan of some higher power. Chance rules the universe.
In "The Subalterns," a later poem, he discovers that, while all the things that bedevil our existence down here come at us not of their own wish, they are commanded by something far more powerful than they are. Death insists they are "slaves." The narrator smiles when he hears this, for they are commanded by a higher power. "Subalterns" are those who simply follow orders, therefore, there must be something issuing those orders. Consequently, something must have a plan.
On the other hand, just to confuse the situation a bit, I will place Robert Frost's little poem, "Design" on the table for consideration.
Design
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
-- Robert Frost --
Does Robert Frost agree with Hardy, and, if so, with which Hardy? Is Chance or Design in charge here?
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Robert Frost and Sarangapani: Cynical, realistic, or pragmatic?
As readers of poetry know, there are various types: romance, epic, nature, philosophical . . . There is also another that might be seen, depending on the eye of the beholder, as cynical, practical, realistic, or pragmatic. As is true of all poetic themes, this is also found across various cultures and eras. Here are two examples I thought you might be interested in
Provide, Provide
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag.
The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good
For you to doubt the likelihood.
Die early and avoid the fate.
Or if predestined to die late,
Make up your mind to die in state.
Make the whole stock exchange your own!
If need be occupy a throne,
Where nobody can call you crone.
Some have relied on what they knew;
Others on being simply true.
What worked for them might work for you.
No memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard.
Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!
-- Robert Frost --
The Madam to the Young Courtesan
Grab whatever cash he has,
that Venugopala,
and think nothing of the rest.
As they say about lentils,
don't worry
abut the chaff.
Des it matter
to which woman he goes,
or how late he stays there?
Just pass the days
saying yes and no,
til the month is over
and grab the cash
What is it to you
if he runs into debt
or if he has an income?
Quietly, tactfully,
lie in wait
like a ca on a wall
and grab the cash
What if he makes love
to her
and only then to you?
What's there
to be jealous abut?
When youth passes,
nothing will go your way,..
so grab the cash
-- Sarangapani --
18th century India
from World Poetry
trans by A. K. Ramanujan, Velcheru Narayana Ran, and David Shulman
How would you classify these poems? Cynical? Practical? Realistic? Pragmatic?
Provide, Provide
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag.
The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good
For you to doubt the likelihood.
Die early and avoid the fate.
Or if predestined to die late,
Make up your mind to die in state.
Make the whole stock exchange your own!
If need be occupy a throne,
Where nobody can call you crone.
Some have relied on what they knew;
Others on being simply true.
What worked for them might work for you.
No memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard.
Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!
-- Robert Frost --
The Madam to the Young Courtesan
Grab whatever cash he has,
that Venugopala,
and think nothing of the rest.
As they say about lentils,
don't worry
abut the chaff.
Des it matter
to which woman he goes,
or how late he stays there?
Just pass the days
saying yes and no,
til the month is over
and grab the cash
What is it to you
if he runs into debt
or if he has an income?
Quietly, tactfully,
lie in wait
like a ca on a wall
and grab the cash
What if he makes love
to her
and only then to you?
What's there
to be jealous abut?
When youth passes,
nothing will go your way,..
so grab the cash
-- Sarangapani --
18th century India
from World Poetry
trans by A. K. Ramanujan, Velcheru Narayana Ran, and David Shulman
How would you classify these poems? Cynical? Practical? Realistic? Pragmatic?
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Robert Frost's commemorative poem: Edward Thomas March 3, 1878--April 9, 1917
Sadly, Edward Thomas is another of those artists, from many countries, whose artistic life was cut short during the Great War. He enlisted in the army in 1915 and was sent to France as an
artillery officer at the end of January 1917. Thomas was at a forward
observation post when he was killed.
I posted a sample of his poetry on June 8, 2014 and Dec. 23, 2013 and prose on March 20, 2015. Robert Frost, a friend and mentor, published the following poem in 1923 in his collection, New Hampshire.
To E. T.
I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you.
I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.
I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.
You went to meet shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge, and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.
How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you
And see you pleased once more with words of mine?
-- Robert Frost --
"E.T. . . .British essayist Edward Thomas . . ., a close friend of Frost's in England, began writing poetry with Frost's encouragement. He joined the army in 1915, the year that Frost returned to the United States. Several of Thomas's poems were published pseudonomously from 1915 to 1917 and Frost succeeded in having a collection of Thomas's poems published in America."
from "Notes"
Robert Frost: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays
Richard Poirier and Mark Richardson, Editors
Following is one of Thomas's last poems, written on December 24, 1916, while in England at home with his family.
Out in the dark
Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.
Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when a lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Then the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned,
And star and I and wind and deer
Are in the dark together, -- near,
Yet far, -- and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.
How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.
-- Edward Thomas --
The "Notes" regarding this poem in Edward Thomas: The Annotated Collected Poems suggest that Thomas Hardy's poem, "The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House," may have been influenced by Thomas's poem. As Hardy is another favorite of mine, I must take a look at his poem. It's intriguing to find Thomas as sort of a link between Frost and Hardy, both favorite poets of mine. And, that "If" at the end sounds a note of ambiguity that is reminiscent of both Hardy and Frost.
You will be seeing more of Edward Thomas's poetry here in the future. If you haven't read anything by him yet, I would recommend you take a look. And, thanks again to Stephen Pentz at "First Known When Lost" for introducing Thomas to me.
It's a remarkable poem, considering it was written some four months before his death, and he knew he would be sent to France within the month. Is it prophetic?
I posted a sample of his poetry on June 8, 2014 and Dec. 23, 2013 and prose on March 20, 2015. Robert Frost, a friend and mentor, published the following poem in 1923 in his collection, New Hampshire.
To E. T.
I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you.
I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.
I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.
You went to meet shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge, and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.
How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you
And see you pleased once more with words of mine?
-- Robert Frost --
"E.T. . . .British essayist Edward Thomas . . ., a close friend of Frost's in England, began writing poetry with Frost's encouragement. He joined the army in 1915, the year that Frost returned to the United States. Several of Thomas's poems were published pseudonomously from 1915 to 1917 and Frost succeeded in having a collection of Thomas's poems published in America."
from "Notes"
Robert Frost: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays
Richard Poirier and Mark Richardson, Editors
Following is one of Thomas's last poems, written on December 24, 1916, while in England at home with his family.
Out in the dark
Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.
Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when a lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Then the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned,
And star and I and wind and deer
Are in the dark together, -- near,
Yet far, -- and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.
How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.
-- Edward Thomas --
The "Notes" regarding this poem in Edward Thomas: The Annotated Collected Poems suggest that Thomas Hardy's poem, "The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House," may have been influenced by Thomas's poem. As Hardy is another favorite of mine, I must take a look at his poem. It's intriguing to find Thomas as sort of a link between Frost and Hardy, both favorite poets of mine. And, that "If" at the end sounds a note of ambiguity that is reminiscent of both Hardy and Frost.
You will be seeing more of Edward Thomas's poetry here in the future. If you haven't read anything by him yet, I would recommend you take a look. And, thanks again to Stephen Pentz at "First Known When Lost" for introducing Thomas to me.
It's a remarkable poem, considering it was written some four months before his death, and he knew he would be sent to France within the month. Is it prophetic?
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Robert Frost: "Dust of Snow"
This is a short poem by Robert Frost, but it speaks of something important--the way small or seemingly inconsequential events can affect us even though the event itself has really nothing in common with its effect. Why does this affect the narrator the way it does?
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
I think Frost's genius is in his ability to see the little things that are of real consequence though few of us see them at the time. His poetry isolates those moments, those events, and shows us what we have missed.
Perhaps next time we may be more observant.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
I think Frost's genius is in his ability to see the little things that are of real consequence though few of us see them at the time. His poetry isolates those moments, those events, and shows us what we have missed.
Perhaps next time we may be more observant.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Robert Frost: Putting in the Seed
Putting in the Seed
You come to fetch me from my work tonight
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for the early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with the weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and and shedding the earth crumbs.
-- Robert Frost --
Why do I get the feeling that there's something going on behind the words on the page?
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
It's April
I know--April is two-thirds gone already, but as the old cliche goes--better late than never. Following are several poems about April, and not all agree about April. That's what makes poetry so interesting, for me anyway.
While this first poem doesn't specially refer to April, in the Midwest, where I grew up, April would seem to be the best fit. A frost in March wouldn't really be considered a late frost, while one in May is extremely unlikely. Moreover, the blossoming appears to be more like April, which seems, to me anyway, to be set between the "orchard bare" and the "orchard green." But, I'm sure there will be those who disagree with my weather observations.
Frost here uses his name to signify something dangerous, which he has done several times in the past in a number of poems. Other writers have also suggested that reading can be dangerous to one's ideas or one's perspective.
A Peril of Hope
-- T. S. Eliot --
from The Wasteland
Here's another view of April, very different than that of Eliot. It's very simple and straightforward and echoes Chaucer's "April with his shoures sote ."
April Rain Song
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night--
And I love the rain.
-- Langston Hughes --
I can't leave out my favorite haiku, even though I've posted it several times already.
April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves. . . a butterfly
Floats and balances.
-- Basho --
While this first poem doesn't specially refer to April, in the Midwest, where I grew up, April would seem to be the best fit. A frost in March wouldn't really be considered a late frost, while one in May is extremely unlikely. Moreover, the blossoming appears to be more like April, which seems, to me anyway, to be set between the "orchard bare" and the "orchard green." But, I'm sure there will be those who disagree with my weather observations.
Frost here uses his name to signify something dangerous, which he has done several times in the past in a number of poems. Other writers have also suggested that reading can be dangerous to one's ideas or one's perspective.
A Peril of Hope
It is right in there
Betwixt and between
The orchard bare
And the orchard green,
When the boughs are right
In a flowery burst
Of pink and white,
That we fear the worst.
For there's not a clime
But at any cost
Will take that time
For a night of frost.
-- Robert Frost --
The following opening lines to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales provides a different feeling about April--partly I think as a reaction to the escape from winter, as well as recognition of the beauties of Spring.
Prologue to Canterbury Tales
WHANNE that April with his shoures sote
The droughte of March hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veine in swiche licour,
Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe
Enspired hath in every holt and hethe
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foules maken melodie,
That slepen alle night with open eye,
So priketh hem nature in hir corages;
Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,
-- Geoffrey Chaucer --
from The Canterbury Tales
For those who don't have a glossary for Middle English handy:
When April's gentle rains have pierced the drought
Of March right to the root, and bathed each sprout
Through every vein with liquid of such power
It brings forth the engendering of the flower;
When Zephyrus too with his sweet breath has blown 5
Through every field and forest, urging on
The tender shoots, and there's a youthful sun,
His second half course through the Ram now run,
And little birds are making melody
And sleep all night, eyes open as can be 10
(So Nature pricks them in each little heart),
On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.
I think the opening lines of this poem plays on Chaucer's opening lines. Of course, the difference can be seen as due primarily to the differing locations for each poem: Chaucer's set in England, "Now that Aprils' here," while Eliot's is set in a wasteland. It's sort of related to Frost's poem, in that both speak of thwarted hope.
The Wasteland, first stanza
-- Robert Frost --
The following opening lines to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales provides a different feeling about April--partly I think as a reaction to the escape from winter, as well as recognition of the beauties of Spring.
Prologue to Canterbury Tales
WHANNE that April with his shoures sote
The droughte of March hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veine in swiche licour,
Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe
Enspired hath in every holt and hethe
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foules maken melodie,
That slepen alle night with open eye,
So priketh hem nature in hir corages;
Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,
-- Geoffrey Chaucer --
from The Canterbury Tales
For those who don't have a glossary for Middle English handy:
When April's gentle rains have pierced the drought
Of March right to the root, and bathed each sprout
Through every vein with liquid of such power
It brings forth the engendering of the flower;
When Zephyrus too with his sweet breath has blown 5
Through every field and forest, urging on
The tender shoots, and there's a youthful sun,
His second half course through the Ram now run,
And little birds are making melody
And sleep all night, eyes open as can be 10
(So Nature pricks them in each little heart),
On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.
I think the opening lines of this poem plays on Chaucer's opening lines. Of course, the difference can be seen as due primarily to the differing locations for each poem: Chaucer's set in England, "Now that Aprils' here," while Eliot's is set in a wasteland. It's sort of related to Frost's poem, in that both speak of thwarted hope.
The Wasteland, first stanza
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
-- T. S. Eliot --
from The Wasteland
Here's another view of April, very different than that of Eliot. It's very simple and straightforward and echoes Chaucer's "April with his shoures sote ."
April Rain Song
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night--
And I love the rain.
-- Langston Hughes --
I can't leave out my favorite haiku, even though I've posted it several times already.
April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves. . . a butterfly
Floats and balances.
-- Basho --
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Robert Frost: Trial by Existence
Robert Frost: "Trial by Existence"
Normally I don't post poems this long, but this one I just have to. It is, to me anyway, one of Frost's most unusual and inexplicable poems. It is fairly straightforward and understandable on the surface level, but something else is going on here. Just what this is, I have no idea, which is why I have posted it. I'm hoping somebody can help me understand this poem and Frost's thinking as he wrote it. Perhaps that's too much to ask, and I should just read and go with it. But, I have this itch . . .
TRIAL by EXISTENCE
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;--
And binding all is the hushed snow
Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!
And the more loitering are turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial care.
And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
And tenderly, life's little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
Setting the thing that is supreme.
Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end:
'One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
To which you give the assenting voice.'
And so the choice must be again,
But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.
'Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.
Do you find this a strange poem when put up against others of his that you know about?
What does this say about the various religious traditions that concern themselves with guilt and everlasting punishment for sins committed here in this life?
Choosing the life of a saint or hero or some remarkable person would be understandable. And perhaps choosing a martyr's life could also be understood. But, choosing to live the life of Hitler?
In the post immediately preceding this one, Hoffer talked about freedom to choose or not to choose. I wonder if there's any connection between Hoffer's comments and my sudden decision to provide this poem a day later. And, it was a sudden decision.
Normally I don't post poems this long, but this one I just have to. It is, to me anyway, one of Frost's most unusual and inexplicable poems. It is fairly straightforward and understandable on the surface level, but something else is going on here. Just what this is, I have no idea, which is why I have posted it. I'm hoping somebody can help me understand this poem and Frost's thinking as he wrote it. Perhaps that's too much to ask, and I should just read and go with it. But, I have this itch . . .
TRIAL by EXISTENCE
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;--
And binding all is the hushed snow
Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!
And the more loitering are turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial care.
And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
And tenderly, life's little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
Setting the thing that is supreme.
Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end:
'One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
To which you give the assenting voice.'
And so the choice must be again,
But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.
'Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.
Do you find this a strange poem when put up against others of his that you know about?
What does this say about the various religious traditions that concern themselves with guilt and everlasting punishment for sins committed here in this life?
Choosing the life of a saint or hero or some remarkable person would be understandable. And perhaps choosing a martyr's life could also be understood. But, choosing to live the life of Hitler?
In the post immediately preceding this one, Hoffer talked about freedom to choose or not to choose. I wonder if there's any connection between Hoffer's comments and my sudden decision to provide this poem a day later. And, it was a sudden decision.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Robert Frost: "Misgiving"
An Autumn Poem----
Misgiving
All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind !'
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring
The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.
And now they answer his summoning blast
With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free
As they are free to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
It may not seem better to me to rest.
-- Robert Frost --
The usual debate is whether there is life after death. Is the soul or some sort of life force immortal and does it survive the death of the body? Frost, being Frost, doesn't see it that way in this poem, naturally. In the last stanza, Frost's usual place for mischief, he posits it a different way. He fears that he may follow the lead of leaf and branch and flower and take his final rest instead of attempting to go beyond what knowledge we have gained from life and finding out if there is something more.
A very disturbing thought. We spend much of our lives wondering about, speculating about, arguing about, even killing others who disagree about the possibility of life after death and then be too tired to find out when we have the opportunity. Typical Frost--always off on his own somewhere.
Misgiving
All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind !'
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring
The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.
And now they answer his summoning blast
With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free
As they are free to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
It may not seem better to me to rest.
-- Robert Frost --
The usual debate is whether there is life after death. Is the soul or some sort of life force immortal and does it survive the death of the body? Frost, being Frost, doesn't see it that way in this poem, naturally. In the last stanza, Frost's usual place for mischief, he posits it a different way. He fears that he may follow the lead of leaf and branch and flower and take his final rest instead of attempting to go beyond what knowledge we have gained from life and finding out if there is something more.
A very disturbing thought. We spend much of our lives wondering about, speculating about, arguing about, even killing others who disagree about the possibility of life after death and then be too tired to find out when we have the opportunity. Typical Frost--always off on his own somewhere.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Robert Frost: "Into My Own"
Into My Own
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I hold them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
-- Robert Frost --
This is one of his early poems, first published in A Boy's Will which first came out in 1913 and then a second edition in 1915. For some strange reason, whenever I've opened my collection of Frost's poems, I have always skimmed by this one and never really looked closely at it, until now. While it may be one of his early poems, it is still a classic example of Frost being his usual perverse self.
It's a growing up poem, in that the narrator hopes that the darkness of the future is ever-present: one will never know just what one will encounter, or what will encounter him. Some of his later poems take up this issue more specifically, I think. But, here, it is enough that he realizes that he must go on, even though he may never see a clearing or "Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand." That's a great line: I can see that wagon wheel rolling down the road, catching up and dropping the sand and dust of the road.
He sees no reason for turning back. And, he realizes that others who miss him may wish to follow him to see if he still "hold(s) them dear." But, the last two lines, as frequently happens in Frost's poems, turns expectancies around. What should happen when those who have come in pursuit find him. Why, they should find him different, for after all, people have always gone off into the wilderness to seek a vision or a new life or a new philosophy to share with others. Aren't we products of our environment, conditioned by those around us? Different environment = a different person,
Many psychological theories insist that there is no hard core to the personality, that there really is no "I," that the "I" is really a delusion, a construct of desires, momentary flitting ideas, sensory impressions, responses to our environment. Therefore, setting off alone, without the familiar, should result in a change in the personality over a period of time as the person adjusts to the new environment and as new ideas and behaviors are incorporated.
But--
"They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true. "
Frost disagrees for he says that they won't find him changed for this isolation, this time of separation will allow him to get a clearer view of what he is, to see himself as he really is, and, therefore, more secure in his self-image.
Another example of Frost being Frost.
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I hold them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
-- Robert Frost --
This is one of his early poems, first published in A Boy's Will which first came out in 1913 and then a second edition in 1915. For some strange reason, whenever I've opened my collection of Frost's poems, I have always skimmed by this one and never really looked closely at it, until now. While it may be one of his early poems, it is still a classic example of Frost being his usual perverse self.
It's a growing up poem, in that the narrator hopes that the darkness of the future is ever-present: one will never know just what one will encounter, or what will encounter him. Some of his later poems take up this issue more specifically, I think. But, here, it is enough that he realizes that he must go on, even though he may never see a clearing or "Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand." That's a great line: I can see that wagon wheel rolling down the road, catching up and dropping the sand and dust of the road.
He sees no reason for turning back. And, he realizes that others who miss him may wish to follow him to see if he still "hold(s) them dear." But, the last two lines, as frequently happens in Frost's poems, turns expectancies around. What should happen when those who have come in pursuit find him. Why, they should find him different, for after all, people have always gone off into the wilderness to seek a vision or a new life or a new philosophy to share with others. Aren't we products of our environment, conditioned by those around us? Different environment = a different person,
Many psychological theories insist that there is no hard core to the personality, that there really is no "I," that the "I" is really a delusion, a construct of desires, momentary flitting ideas, sensory impressions, responses to our environment. Therefore, setting off alone, without the familiar, should result in a change in the personality over a period of time as the person adjusts to the new environment and as new ideas and behaviors are incorporated.
But--
"They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true. "
Frost disagrees for he says that they won't find him changed for this isolation, this time of separation will allow him to get a clearer view of what he is, to see himself as he really is, and, therefore, more secure in his self-image.
Another example of Frost being Frost.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Robert Frost: Stopping by Desert Places
No, I haven't gotten the title wrong. I just conflated the titles of two of Robert Frost's poems: "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" and "Desert Places." I find that juxtaposing two different poems can give me some ideas about one or both that I might never have seen by looking at them separately.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Desert Places
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express
They cannot not scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
Some obvious similarities are that they have four stanzas of four lines each. However, the rhyme pattern is different. In "Stopping," the first, second, and fourth lines rhyme, while the third line provides a link to the next stanza (aaba, bbcb, and ccdc) until the last stanza in which all four lines rhyme, including the famous doubled last two lines--dddd.
In "Desert Places," Frost has also rhymed the first, second, and fourth lines, but the third line does not provide a link to the next stanza. Moreover, the fourth stanza does follow the pattern of the first three stanzas: aaba, ccdc, eefe, and gghg.
Both poems are set in winter and are located in rural settings. Both focus on snow and the attitude of the person viewing the snow covered landscape. However, it seems, to me anyway, that the attitudes of the poet/narrator differ considerably in them.
Stopping By Woods: First Stanza
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Desert Places: First Stanza
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
In both poems, the narrator is out in the countryside--either in the woods or by a field. Snow is falling in both, but the mood differs considerably. In "Stopping" the narrator has stopped in a forested area, supposedly to watch the snow fall. But, he concerns himself with something quite different than snow. The owner lives in the village and won't see him here. He stresses that he is alone out here. The question, for me, anyway, is why is this an issue, important enough to make it the central point of this introductory stanza.
The first stanza of "Desert Places" is quite different: Frost concentrates on the physical scene before him. It seems to be a far less pleasant place than the woods in "Stopping." The snow falls and darkness is coming on, fast. This seems to bother him, as if he doesn't want to be out at night when it's snowing. The snow covers everything but "a few weeds and stubble." This does not appear to be an attractive view. The second "fast" in the first line--does that refer to the "night" or to him as he hurries past the "weeds and stubble." There is no thought here of stopping to watch the snow fall, as we find in "Stopping.
Stopping by Woods--second stanza
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
Desert Places--second stanza
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
He imagines, in the second stanza, what his horse must be thinking, but of course, it is really what he is thinking at this moment. There's something strange here about stopping in away from any human habitation, with only a frozen lake and woods around him. It is also strange that he calls this the darkest evening of the year. First, how does he know it is the darkest of the year? Second, the snow is falling and snow reflects ambient light, so it is actually much lighter than if it wasn't snowing. Perhaps the "darkest evening" refers to an internal state, rather than the actual condition around him.
While the second stanza of "Desert Places" also reflects an internal state of the narrator, the tone again is very different. Instead of being connected in some way to his horse, he is now completely isolated from everything about him. The woods belong to something else. Even his perception of the animals about him is distorted by his isolation. The animals 's lairs are seen as smothering them, yet in reality the lairs are protecting the animals from the snow and cold. Depressed, he transforms the life-preserving lairs into the graves of "smothered" animals.
Whatever life he may possess seems gone, for he is so "absent-spirited" that the loneliness he perceives about him doesn't even notice him. He is a non-entity, a void that is ignored even by a scene he sees as a graveyard. He is neither there nor not-there.
"Stopping by Woods"--third stanza
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
"Desert Places"--third stanza
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express
In "Stopping" he again imagines what his horse might be thinking, but it is he who really questions his decision to stop here. The mood here is questioning but not bleak. He is accompanied by his horse who communicates with him, and his natural surroundings are pleasant. I think the last two lines of this stanza are the most beautiful in the poem:
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
Each time I read this poem I find myself slowing down when I get to "sweep" and drag out "easy wind" and "downy flake."
Contrast this with the third stanza in "Desert Places." "Lonely" appears twice, and "loneliness" once. The snow is "a blanker whiteness of benighted snow" that possesses "no expression" and "nothing to express." It is the silence of nothingness, not that of "an easy wind and downy flake." Moreover, that loneliness will get worse:
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
To call this a bleak stanza would be an understatement. A loneliness that can only get worse and the silence of nothingness provide a stark contrast to the third stanza of "Stopping." But there still is a glimmer of hope for the loneliness will get worse "ere it will be less."
"Stopping by Woods"--fourth stanza
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
"Desert Places"--fourth stanza
They cannot not scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
While my interpretation of the poem differs from the commonly accepted interpretation (I think he is contemplating suicide), the fourth stanza clearly suggests that some decision has been made. He decides that it isn't time to sleep (sleep frequently is a euphemism for death, not only in poetry but among many people) because he has tasks to perform and "miles to go before I sleep." I think it is significant that the last two lines are the same. Perhaps some doubt still remains, and he needs to repeat it to convince himself. I wonder if this stanza is perhaps one of the most memorized stanzas of any of Frost's poems. I know I knew it by heart long before I had memorized the entire poem.
Overall I feel that this is an optimistic stanza, and therefore an optimistic poem, for he has decided to go on. There are still things to do and promises to keep before it's time to sleep.
Compare this to the fourth stanza of "Desert Places." While the third stanza does suggest hope
"And lonely as it is that loneliness/Will be more lonely ere it will be less--"
the fourth stanza does not carry that hope forward and end optimistically as does the fourth stanza of "Stopping." The despair and desolation he feels is inside him. Frost draws a contrast here between himself and Blaise Pascal, the 17th century mathematician and philosopher, who once wrote "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces [the heavens] terrifies me." Frost remarks that those spaces don't frighten him because he has those desert places so much closer than outer space.
Now, forget what I've just written, go back to the top, and read and enjoy both poems.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Desert Places
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express
They cannot not scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
Some obvious similarities are that they have four stanzas of four lines each. However, the rhyme pattern is different. In "Stopping," the first, second, and fourth lines rhyme, while the third line provides a link to the next stanza (aaba, bbcb, and ccdc) until the last stanza in which all four lines rhyme, including the famous doubled last two lines--dddd.
In "Desert Places," Frost has also rhymed the first, second, and fourth lines, but the third line does not provide a link to the next stanza. Moreover, the fourth stanza does follow the pattern of the first three stanzas: aaba, ccdc, eefe, and gghg.
Both poems are set in winter and are located in rural settings. Both focus on snow and the attitude of the person viewing the snow covered landscape. However, it seems, to me anyway, that the attitudes of the poet/narrator differ considerably in them.
Stopping By Woods: First Stanza
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Desert Places: First Stanza
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
In both poems, the narrator is out in the countryside--either in the woods or by a field. Snow is falling in both, but the mood differs considerably. In "Stopping" the narrator has stopped in a forested area, supposedly to watch the snow fall. But, he concerns himself with something quite different than snow. The owner lives in the village and won't see him here. He stresses that he is alone out here. The question, for me, anyway, is why is this an issue, important enough to make it the central point of this introductory stanza.
The first stanza of "Desert Places" is quite different: Frost concentrates on the physical scene before him. It seems to be a far less pleasant place than the woods in "Stopping." The snow falls and darkness is coming on, fast. This seems to bother him, as if he doesn't want to be out at night when it's snowing. The snow covers everything but "a few weeds and stubble." This does not appear to be an attractive view. The second "fast" in the first line--does that refer to the "night" or to him as he hurries past the "weeds and stubble." There is no thought here of stopping to watch the snow fall, as we find in "Stopping.
Stopping by Woods--second stanza
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
Desert Places--second stanza
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
He imagines, in the second stanza, what his horse must be thinking, but of course, it is really what he is thinking at this moment. There's something strange here about stopping in away from any human habitation, with only a frozen lake and woods around him. It is also strange that he calls this the darkest evening of the year. First, how does he know it is the darkest of the year? Second, the snow is falling and snow reflects ambient light, so it is actually much lighter than if it wasn't snowing. Perhaps the "darkest evening" refers to an internal state, rather than the actual condition around him.
While the second stanza of "Desert Places" also reflects an internal state of the narrator, the tone again is very different. Instead of being connected in some way to his horse, he is now completely isolated from everything about him. The woods belong to something else. Even his perception of the animals about him is distorted by his isolation. The animals 's lairs are seen as smothering them, yet in reality the lairs are protecting the animals from the snow and cold. Depressed, he transforms the life-preserving lairs into the graves of "smothered" animals.
Whatever life he may possess seems gone, for he is so "absent-spirited" that the loneliness he perceives about him doesn't even notice him. He is a non-entity, a void that is ignored even by a scene he sees as a graveyard. He is neither there nor not-there.
"Stopping by Woods"--third stanza
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
"Desert Places"--third stanza
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express
In "Stopping" he again imagines what his horse might be thinking, but it is he who really questions his decision to stop here. The mood here is questioning but not bleak. He is accompanied by his horse who communicates with him, and his natural surroundings are pleasant. I think the last two lines of this stanza are the most beautiful in the poem:
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
Each time I read this poem I find myself slowing down when I get to "sweep" and drag out "easy wind" and "downy flake."
Contrast this with the third stanza in "Desert Places." "Lonely" appears twice, and "loneliness" once. The snow is "a blanker whiteness of benighted snow" that possesses "no expression" and "nothing to express." It is the silence of nothingness, not that of "an easy wind and downy flake." Moreover, that loneliness will get worse:
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
To call this a bleak stanza would be an understatement. A loneliness that can only get worse and the silence of nothingness provide a stark contrast to the third stanza of "Stopping." But there still is a glimmer of hope for the loneliness will get worse "ere it will be less."
"Stopping by Woods"--fourth stanza
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
"Desert Places"--fourth stanza
They cannot not scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
While my interpretation of the poem differs from the commonly accepted interpretation (I think he is contemplating suicide), the fourth stanza clearly suggests that some decision has been made. He decides that it isn't time to sleep (sleep frequently is a euphemism for death, not only in poetry but among many people) because he has tasks to perform and "miles to go before I sleep." I think it is significant that the last two lines are the same. Perhaps some doubt still remains, and he needs to repeat it to convince himself. I wonder if this stanza is perhaps one of the most memorized stanzas of any of Frost's poems. I know I knew it by heart long before I had memorized the entire poem.
Overall I feel that this is an optimistic stanza, and therefore an optimistic poem, for he has decided to go on. There are still things to do and promises to keep before it's time to sleep.
Compare this to the fourth stanza of "Desert Places." While the third stanza does suggest hope
"And lonely as it is that loneliness/Will be more lonely ere it will be less--"
the fourth stanza does not carry that hope forward and end optimistically as does the fourth stanza of "Stopping." The despair and desolation he feels is inside him. Frost draws a contrast here between himself and Blaise Pascal, the 17th century mathematician and philosopher, who once wrote "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces [the heavens] terrifies me." Frost remarks that those spaces don't frighten him because he has those desert places so much closer than outer space.
Now, forget what I've just written, go back to the top, and read and enjoy both poems.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Robert Frost: Happiness Makes Up in Height for What It Lacks in Length
One point to make about this title is that it certainly grabs my attention. Usually I glance over the title, perhaps consider it for a very short time, and then move on to the work. Not this time, for I really stop and contemplate it at length. Why did Frost create such a long and unwieldy title? It almost beats me over the head as it says, "This is the moral, the theme. I don't want you to miss it and, therefore, not understand the poem." The intensity of happiness overcomes its brevity is the meaning, or so it seems to be saying. Anyway, here's the poem.
Enjoy
Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It lacks in Length
O stormy, stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun's brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view--
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day's perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude.
I find the syntax of the first seven lines very tangled. Then when "Were days so very few" appeared, I had to stop to go went back to work out just which days those were. Each line is simple and straightforward in itself, but the flow is rather murky at first.
Frost really stresses the point of this being, perhaps, one of those rare clear days in the following lines:
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
The point seems to be that summer weather isn't quite as perfect as he remembers, and he may have been misled into thinking so because one perfect day overshadows many stormy, cloudy, rainy days. It certainly seems as though that's what the poet is suggesting. But, the problem is that this is Robert Frost and it's seldom as simple and straightforward as that.
"No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude."
As usual with Frost, the last lines of the poem frequently bring up questions or bring into question what appears to be the overall theme. Frost tells us here at the end that there are two of them, something not even hinted at earlier. "No shadow" suggests that it was a clear day and also that they were alone. They did not go into the wood for solitude but for a "change of solitude." They went for a different type of solitude, the kind found in the wood which was different from the kind found in a house. And again, as usual with Frost, he leaves it up to us to discover or even perhaps to create those differences.
Enjoy
Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It lacks in Length
O stormy, stormy world,
The days you were not swirled
Around with mist and cloud,
Or wrapped as in a shroud,
And the sun's brilliant ball
Was not in part or all
Obscured from mortal view--
Were days so very few
I can but wonder whence
I get the lasting sense
Of so much warmth and light.
If my mistrust is right
It may be altogether
From one day's perfect weather,
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude.
I find the syntax of the first seven lines very tangled. Then when "Were days so very few" appeared, I had to stop to go went back to work out just which days those were. Each line is simple and straightforward in itself, but the flow is rather murky at first.
Frost really stresses the point of this being, perhaps, one of those rare clear days in the following lines:
When starting clear at dawn
The day swept clearly on
To finish clear at eve.
The point seems to be that summer weather isn't quite as perfect as he remembers, and he may have been misled into thinking so because one perfect day overshadows many stormy, cloudy, rainy days. It certainly seems as though that's what the poet is suggesting. But, the problem is that this is Robert Frost and it's seldom as simple and straightforward as that.
"No shadow crossed but ours
As through its blazing flowers
We went from house to wood
For change of solitude."
As usual with Frost, the last lines of the poem frequently bring up questions or bring into question what appears to be the overall theme. Frost tells us here at the end that there are two of them, something not even hinted at earlier. "No shadow" suggests that it was a clear day and also that they were alone. They did not go into the wood for solitude but for a "change of solitude." They went for a different type of solitude, the kind found in the wood which was different from the kind found in a house. And again, as usual with Frost, he leaves it up to us to discover or even perhaps to create those differences.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LVIII
Quatrain LVIII is related to the previous one by its opening and by its focus on sin, something that hasn't come up in earlier quatrains.
First Edition: Quatrain LVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake,
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
Second Edition: Quatrain LXXXVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Eden didst devise the Snake:
For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man
Is black with--Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
Fifth Edition: Quatrain LXXXI
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake,
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
As usual, FitzGerald made some changes to the Second Edition, but what is unusual, he restored some of the changes by the Fifth Edition. He dropped the term "wherewith" from the second quatrain but put it back in by the fifth edition. I suspect FitzGerald may have felt that the original version flowed much more smoothly than did the revision.
The first line is the same in all three versions. In the second line, FitaGerald refers to Eden in the first and second editions but replaces it with "Paradise" in the fifth. Why the change is not clear to me. "Eden" clearly refers to the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve resided until the Fall. The snake, of course, is Satan the tempter of Eve. "Paradise," on the other hand, could refer to the Garden of Eden, but it could also refer, and does so much more frequently, to heaven. In this case, the Snake would then suggest Hell, where Satan lives. FitzGerald also dropped "didst" in the second line after the second edition, which necessitated another syllable, which could explain the substitution of "Paradise" which has three syllables for "Eden" which has only two.
As I mentioned earlier, this is the second quatrain in which the Poet brings up the issue of Sin. And, as in the previous quatrain, he discusses it in a way that isn't in line with received dogma, either in Islam or Christianity, at least as far as I can tell. In the previous quatrain, he suggests that Man should not be blamed for giving into temptations because the Creator created them. If there were no temptations, then Man would not give into them.
In this quatrain, the Poet goes considerably further in the last two lines of the quatrain when he insists that the Creator not only forgive Mankind for its transgressions but also accept Man's forgiveness! He seems to be saying that if the Creator insists on attributing certain behaviors as sins or transgressions against him, then the Creator also needs to be forgiven for putting temptations in the path of humanity. I believe none of the major religions would accept this for this would mean that the Creator is imperfect, something none of the monotheistic religions could accept--an imperfect Creator--and that the Creator must accept Man's judgement just as It judges Man.
I couldn't but help think of Robert Frost here:
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.
.
First Edition: Quatrain LVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake,
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
Second Edition: Quatrain LXXXVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Eden didst devise the Snake:
For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man
Is black with--Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
Fifth Edition: Quatrain LXXXI
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake,
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
As usual, FitzGerald made some changes to the Second Edition, but what is unusual, he restored some of the changes by the Fifth Edition. He dropped the term "wherewith" from the second quatrain but put it back in by the fifth edition. I suspect FitzGerald may have felt that the original version flowed much more smoothly than did the revision.
The first line is the same in all three versions. In the second line, FitaGerald refers to Eden in the first and second editions but replaces it with "Paradise" in the fifth. Why the change is not clear to me. "Eden" clearly refers to the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve resided until the Fall. The snake, of course, is Satan the tempter of Eve. "Paradise," on the other hand, could refer to the Garden of Eden, but it could also refer, and does so much more frequently, to heaven. In this case, the Snake would then suggest Hell, where Satan lives. FitzGerald also dropped "didst" in the second line after the second edition, which necessitated another syllable, which could explain the substitution of "Paradise" which has three syllables for "Eden" which has only two.
As I mentioned earlier, this is the second quatrain in which the Poet brings up the issue of Sin. And, as in the previous quatrain, he discusses it in a way that isn't in line with received dogma, either in Islam or Christianity, at least as far as I can tell. In the previous quatrain, he suggests that Man should not be blamed for giving into temptations because the Creator created them. If there were no temptations, then Man would not give into them.
In this quatrain, the Poet goes considerably further in the last two lines of the quatrain when he insists that the Creator not only forgive Mankind for its transgressions but also accept Man's forgiveness! He seems to be saying that if the Creator insists on attributing certain behaviors as sins or transgressions against him, then the Creator also needs to be forgiven for putting temptations in the path of humanity. I believe none of the major religions would accept this for this would mean that the Creator is imperfect, something none of the monotheistic religions could accept--an imperfect Creator--and that the Creator must accept Man's judgement just as It judges Man.
I couldn't but help think of Robert Frost here:
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.
.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Robert Frost: "The Vantage Point"
This is one of Robert Frost's earlier poems. It appeared in his first collection of poetry, A Boy's Will, which was published in April 1913 in London.
The Vantage Point
If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
Well I know where to hie me--in the dawn,
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
There amid lolling juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.
And if by noon I have too much of these,
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
The sun burned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
I smell the earth, I smell the bruised plant,
I look into the crater of the ant.
I always have to be careful, if not wary, when reading a Frost poem. I think I know what's going on, and then, at the end, he manages somehow to introduce a question as to just exactly what is going on here. This poem is no exception. It seems very straightforward at first. He is tired of looking at nature and wishes to see something of humankind. And, he knows the spot from where he can see homes and also cattle owned by humans. But, then, there's those ". . . graves of men on an opposing hill." He can think of humans "Living or dead, whichever are to mind." This strikes me as being a strange way when "tired of trees" to contemplate humankind. To me, anyway, it suggests some sort of ambiguity in his attitude towards his fellow humans. It seems the only differences between the living and the dead are the ways in which one wishes to think of them or as Frost puts it --"whichever are to mind."
The second stanza now reverses his original thought, and now he's tired of humankind. He once again selects nature, and all that is required is "to turn on my arm." This is a very nice vantage point. Now he has a view of nature--sun, earth, plants. Then, comes the last line, the end of the poem: "I look into the crater of the ant." Is he drawing a comparison between the human habitations and the crater of the ant? As is typical with Frost, one may think he's providing answers, but there's always that last line.
The Vantage Point
If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
Well I know where to hie me--in the dawn,
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
There amid lolling juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.
And if by noon I have too much of these,
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
The sun burned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
I smell the earth, I smell the bruised plant,
I look into the crater of the ant.
I always have to be careful, if not wary, when reading a Frost poem. I think I know what's going on, and then, at the end, he manages somehow to introduce a question as to just exactly what is going on here. This poem is no exception. It seems very straightforward at first. He is tired of looking at nature and wishes to see something of humankind. And, he knows the spot from where he can see homes and also cattle owned by humans. But, then, there's those ". . . graves of men on an opposing hill." He can think of humans "Living or dead, whichever are to mind." This strikes me as being a strange way when "tired of trees" to contemplate humankind. To me, anyway, it suggests some sort of ambiguity in his attitude towards his fellow humans. It seems the only differences between the living and the dead are the ways in which one wishes to think of them or as Frost puts it --"whichever are to mind."
The second stanza now reverses his original thought, and now he's tired of humankind. He once again selects nature, and all that is required is "to turn on my arm." This is a very nice vantage point. Now he has a view of nature--sun, earth, plants. Then, comes the last line, the end of the poem: "I look into the crater of the ant." Is he drawing a comparison between the human habitations and the crater of the ant? As is typical with Frost, one may think he's providing answers, but there's always that last line.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Fall Equinox
Like last year, the first day of autumn, or the Fall Equinox, doesn't seem much like fall here in Tucson, where the temperature is expected to hit 100. But, the Sun and the Stars have decreed that today is the day, so here's a few poems that may be closer to reality in a month or so.
For you in northern climes, therefore:
Under the Harvest Moon
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the fragrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
with a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
-- Carl Sandburg --
(Autumn--the season of memories . . .)
Yellow autumn moon . . .
Unimpressed the scarecrow stands
Simply looking bored
-- Issa --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
Autumn Refrain
The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of the sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never--shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness that comes to me out of this, beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never--shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.
--Wallace Stevens --
(I find this the most puzzling of the autumn poems.)
#656
The name - of it - is "Autumn" -
The hue - of it - is Blood -
An Artery - upon the Hill -
A Vein - along the Road -
Great Globules - in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain -
When winds - upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -
It sprinkles Bonnets - far slow -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then - eddies like a Rose - away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
ed. Thomas H. Johnson
Autumn Note
The little flowers of yesterday
Have all forgotten May.
The last gold leaf
Has turned to brown.
The last bright day is grey.
The cold of winter comes apace
And you have gone away.
-- Langston Hughes --
Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
-- Robert Frost --
(That last line raises some questions, doesn't it? Frost has a habit of doing that. Does the poem end on an ominous note?)
Dry cheerful cricket
Chirping, keeps the autumn gay . . .
Contemptuous of frost
-- Basho --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
(This poem also seems to end on an ominous note.)
(Just noticed the double tie-ins with the previous poem.)
For you in northern climes, therefore:
Under the Harvest Moon
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the fragrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
with a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
-- Carl Sandburg --
(Autumn--the season of memories . . .)
Yellow autumn moon . . .
Unimpressed the scarecrow stands
Simply looking bored
-- Issa --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
Autumn Refrain
The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of the sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never--shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness that comes to me out of this, beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never--shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.
--Wallace Stevens --
(I find this the most puzzling of the autumn poems.)
#656
The name - of it - is "Autumn" -
The hue - of it - is Blood -
An Artery - upon the Hill -
A Vein - along the Road -
Great Globules - in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain -
When winds - upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -
It sprinkles Bonnets - far slow -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then - eddies like a Rose - away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
ed. Thomas H. Johnson
Autumn Note
The little flowers of yesterday
Have all forgotten May.
The last gold leaf
Has turned to brown.
The last bright day is grey.
The cold of winter comes apace
And you have gone away.
-- Langston Hughes --
Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
-- Robert Frost --
(That last line raises some questions, doesn't it? Frost has a habit of doing that. Does the poem end on an ominous note?)
Dry cheerful cricket
Chirping, keeps the autumn gay . . .
Contemptuous of frost
-- Basho --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
(This poem also seems to end on an ominous note.)
(Just noticed the double tie-ins with the previous poem.)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Summer Solstice
It's that time again--the Summer Solstice, the First Day of Summer, and the Longest Day of the Year. I thought the following quotation from Joseph Wood Krutch would be appropriate to begin the day. It is from The Voice of the Desert, and the voice speaks from Tucson, Arizona.
"On the brightest and warmest days my desert is most itself because sunshine and warmth are the very essence of its character. The air is lambent with light; the caressing warmth enfolds everything in its ardent embrace. Even when outlanders complain that the sun is too dazzling and too hot, we desert lovers are prone to reply, 'At worst that is only too much of a good thing.'"
. . . . . .
"It so happens that I am writing this not long after the twenty-first of June and I took especial note of that astronomically significant date. This year summer began at precisely ten hours and no minutes, Mountain Standard Time. That means that the sun rose higher and stayed longer in the sky than on any other day of the year. In the north there is often a considerable lag in the seasons as the earth warms up, but here, where it is never very cold, the longest day and the hottest are likely to coincide pretty closely. So it was this year. On June 21 the sun rose almost to the zenith so that at noon he cast almost no shadow. And he was showing what he is capable of.
Even in this dry air 109 Fahrenheit in the shade is pretty warm. Under the open sky the sun's rays strike with an almost physical force, pouring down from a blue dome unmarked by the faintest suspicion of even a fleck of cloud. The year has been unusually dry even for the desert. During the four months just past no rain--not even a light shower--has fallen. The surface of the ground is as dry as powder. And yet, when I look out of the window the dominant color of the landscape is incredibly green."
Well, today is June 21st, the summer solstice. It hasn't rained for 72 days now, and it looks as though we have a good chance of reaching 80 days if the weekly forecast is accurate. The high for today is predicted to be 102, Wednesday 110, and Thursday 109.
That's Joseph Wood Krutch's thinking about summer. Following are some different reflections.
moonflower,
with a short night's sleep:
daytime
summer in the world:
floating on the lake
over waves
Both haiku are by Basho
Basho's Haiku
trans David Landis Barnhill
SUMMER SOLSTICE
Come, bring the children. Let them
feel for a moment the rhythm
of the hoe. Let them experience
the wonder of green shoots emerging
from earth, earth given us
in guardianship from the Creation.
Body, mind, and spirit full to bursting
with ripe, sweet berries, the first
tender green beans, and corn. We give
thanks, and thanks again. The twin
concepts of Reason and Peace are
seen in each kernel of an ear of corn.
Perhaps we repair our lodges
as do the beavers living close by.
Our children swim like river otters
and as their laughter reaches us,
we join them for a while
in these hottest of summer days.
- Peter Blue Cloud (Aronialwenrate)
Mohawk , b. 1935
from When the Seasons
SUMMER SCHEMES
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go--we two--to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; bug who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
-- Thomas Hardy --
No. 122
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon--
A depth -- an Azure --a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the Sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
-- Emily Dickinson--
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
SUMMERING
I would arise and in a dream go on--
Not very far, not very far--and then
Lie down amid the sunny grass again,
And fall asleep till night-time or next dawn.
In sleepy self-sufficiency I'd turn;
I 'd seek new comfort and be hard to please--
Far in a meadow by an isle of trees,
All summer long amid the grass and fern.
Forests would have to be all round about,
And the mead silent, and the grass deep,
Else I might not gain such a tireless sleep!
I could not slumber if the wains were out!
-- Robert Frost --
Summer has many faces. Robert Frost's summer is closest to mine. Which one is yours?
"On the brightest and warmest days my desert is most itself because sunshine and warmth are the very essence of its character. The air is lambent with light; the caressing warmth enfolds everything in its ardent embrace. Even when outlanders complain that the sun is too dazzling and too hot, we desert lovers are prone to reply, 'At worst that is only too much of a good thing.'"
. . . . . .
"It so happens that I am writing this not long after the twenty-first of June and I took especial note of that astronomically significant date. This year summer began at precisely ten hours and no minutes, Mountain Standard Time. That means that the sun rose higher and stayed longer in the sky than on any other day of the year. In the north there is often a considerable lag in the seasons as the earth warms up, but here, where it is never very cold, the longest day and the hottest are likely to coincide pretty closely. So it was this year. On June 21 the sun rose almost to the zenith so that at noon he cast almost no shadow. And he was showing what he is capable of.
Even in this dry air 109 Fahrenheit in the shade is pretty warm. Under the open sky the sun's rays strike with an almost physical force, pouring down from a blue dome unmarked by the faintest suspicion of even a fleck of cloud. The year has been unusually dry even for the desert. During the four months just past no rain--not even a light shower--has fallen. The surface of the ground is as dry as powder. And yet, when I look out of the window the dominant color of the landscape is incredibly green."
Well, today is June 21st, the summer solstice. It hasn't rained for 72 days now, and it looks as though we have a good chance of reaching 80 days if the weekly forecast is accurate. The high for today is predicted to be 102, Wednesday 110, and Thursday 109.
That's Joseph Wood Krutch's thinking about summer. Following are some different reflections.
moonflower,
with a short night's sleep:
daytime
summer in the world:
floating on the lake
over waves
Both haiku are by Basho
Basho's Haiku
trans David Landis Barnhill
SUMMER SOLSTICE
Come, bring the children. Let them
feel for a moment the rhythm
of the hoe. Let them experience
the wonder of green shoots emerging
from earth, earth given us
in guardianship from the Creation.
Body, mind, and spirit full to bursting
with ripe, sweet berries, the first
tender green beans, and corn. We give
thanks, and thanks again. The twin
concepts of Reason and Peace are
seen in each kernel of an ear of corn.
Perhaps we repair our lodges
as do the beavers living close by.
Our children swim like river otters
and as their laughter reaches us,
we join them for a while
in these hottest of summer days.
- Peter Blue Cloud (Aronialwenrate)
Mohawk , b. 1935
from When the Seasons
SUMMER SCHEMES
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go--we two--to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; bug who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
-- Thomas Hardy --
No. 122
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon--
A depth -- an Azure --a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the Sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
-- Emily Dickinson--
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
SUMMERING
I would arise and in a dream go on--
Not very far, not very far--and then
Lie down amid the sunny grass again,
And fall asleep till night-time or next dawn.
In sleepy self-sufficiency I'd turn;
I 'd seek new comfort and be hard to please--
Far in a meadow by an isle of trees,
All summer long amid the grass and fern.
Forests would have to be all round about,
And the mead silent, and the grass deep,
Else I might not gain such a tireless sleep!
I could not slumber if the wains were out!
-- Robert Frost --
Summer has many faces. Robert Frost's summer is closest to mine. Which one is yours?
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Robert Frost: March 26, 1874 --Jan 29, 1963
While browsing through Frost's Collected Poems, this poem jumped out at me. It was an interesting poem in its own right, it reminded me of another of Frost's poems, and it seemed to make an interesting match to a poem by Wallace Stevens that I had just posted several days ago. So, here is one of Frost's lesser known poems:
Good Hours
I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin,
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
O youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.
-- Robert Frost --
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white nightgowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
-- Wallace Stevens --
Both are set at ten o'clock in the evening. I wonder why that's such a popular hour. And in both poems, it appears as though the narrator is out walking along the city street.
Is the mood of the two walkers similar?
Good Hours
I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin,
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
O youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.
-- Robert Frost --
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white nightgowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
-- Wallace Stevens --
Both are set at ten o'clock in the evening. I wonder why that's such a popular hour. And in both poems, it appears as though the narrator is out walking along the city street.
Is the mood of the two walkers similar?
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