Category Archives: Poetry

June 19, 2012

Hot Summer Nights

By Joe
Hot Summer Nights 
by Mary Hamrick

It haunts me so
those summer nights
in dim lit homes

where music flows
and tempers flare
and lullabies fill the air.

I while away the hours
under the electric swell of light,
(pulse-scorched out).

Bone-idle and coral pink,
this dry spell grills,
but Southern nights do fill me.

Spider-blue legs peddle tales
as gossips-a-brewing
and roaming by my streets.

Scuttling through like marsh rabbit,
neighbors wave their charmed hellos.
Feverish and swollen together,

they inhale the blossoms,
riding high, and move through summer
as the lake declines.

It haunts me so
those summer nights
in dim lit homes

where music flows
and tempers flare
and lullabies fill the air.

Mary Hamrick was born in New York and moved to Florida as a young girl; her writing often reflects the contrast between her Northern and Southern upbringing. Her work appears online in Mad Hatters’ Review and Tattoo Highway.

3 Comments | posted in Nudity, Poetry

June 12, 2012

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 33

By Joe

No. 35, Gay or Bi Shakespeare (or was deVere his ghost writer?) Shakespeare is in love with a younger man, but is lamenting his loss of what had been a loving relationship.

SONNET 33

Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

Even so my sun one early morn did shine

With all triumphant splendor on my brow

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,

The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

 

Comment: “Between the time Shakespeare wrote Sonnet 32 and 33, the poet’s entire attitude toward his relationship with his young friend had changed. While he had been focused on his own mortality throughout Sonnets 27-32, now the poet has a new and more pressing dilemma to jar him from his previous obsession. In Sonnets 33-35 the poet makes it clear that he has been deeply hurt by his young friend, who many believe to be the historical Earl of Southampton, Shakespeare’s patron. We cannot say what specific wrong-doing prompted such displeasure, although we can assume that the young man had many interests other than the poet, and he may have surrounded himself with other friends (and possibly other lovers), leaving the poet feeling isolated and unwanted. The poet’s dislike of his friend’s actions are clear from the overall reading, but also from his choice of words: “ugly”, “disgrace”, “basest”, “disdaineth”, and “staineth.” Moreover, the sun permits the clouds to cover his face as he cowers off to the west, and the direct comparison is made between the sun and the poet’s friend in the third stanza. Even though he denies it in the concluding couplet, the poet seems to resent the friend for causing a rift in their relationship. 

“As mentioned, the sonnet does end on a positive note with the poet ready to forgive his friend, content to accept that disappointment in this life is wholly natural. “Two Renaissance commonplaces, the sun-king comparison and the sun-son word play, are put to such good use in the friend’s behalf that ‘out alack’, the emphatic but conventional phrase denoting the speaker’s regret, seems no more than a polite formula.”

Source of Sonnet and comment: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/33.html 

Mabillard, Amanda. An Analysis of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 33. Shakespeare Online. 2000. (day/month/year you accessed the information) <http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/33detail.html >. 

 

Comment and Notes of Another Shakespeare Scholar: “A sonnet that hardly needs an introduction. This and the following record a rejection by the youth of the poet. How serious or real this was we have no means of knowing. Perhaps it is an imaginary interlude in the sonnet sequence. Most readers however take it as having autobiographical content, and that approach is given credence by what appears to be the genuineness of the sorrow, and by the fact that the episode of estrangement, whatever caused it, is dealt with in this and the following three sonnets. 

“The fact that we are more disposed to believe in the biographical truth of the sonnet because of its beauty of imagery and language is a reality of human nature which cannot be easily dispensed with. It would be disapponting to learn that the youth and the poet’s impassioned love for him were mere creations of an idle brain, with deliberate intent to lay a false trail and make truth out of fiction. For while we may allow that a Macbeth and a Hamlet are engendered in the heat of artistic creation, their existence gives us a vicarious experience which is not harmed by their fictional reality. I am not convinced that this is so with the sonnets, for we long to trust their sincerity, and to see what it teaches us of our own capacity for love, what it explores and what it defines. Therefore I always assume what I take to be the standard or Wordsworthian approach (pace Browning), that this is a true record of love, no doubt edited and embellished, (for who could ever be word perfect in such matters?). 

“But we have to acknowledge also that the lover’s frown and her (in this case his) overcast brow, like the sun clouding over on a fine morning, was also a part of the sonnet tradition. Shakespeare was here making use of that rich tradition, as well as recording in his own inimitable way the feelings of one so cast down by his beloved’s disdain.” 

Notes: 

1. Full many a glorious morning have I seen: Full many = very many.

2. Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye: Flatter – also has the meaning to stroke. In its normal sense it conveys the idea of insincerity and deception, and ultimate disillusionment. Hence the morning sun was making the mountains appear more brilliant than they in fact were.  sovereign eye = majestic, kingly gaze. Note that here the usual flattery of king by subject has been reversed. The king flatters his courtiers, the mountains.

3. Kissing with golden face the meadows green: The sun kisses the earth. The glorious morning is partly subsumed into the character of the sun, as a result of sovereign eye and kissing.

4. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy: Gilding = turning to gold; covering with gold. alchemy – this was the science which sought to discover how to turn base metals into gold. It was considered to be part magic, part science, and had a reputation for trickery and deceit. Nevertheless Elizabeth employed an alchemist in the early years of her reign, having been lured by the prospect of large sums of gold…

5. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride: Anon = very soon, almost immediately; permit – the subject is morning line 1, and, by implication, the sky and the sun.basest = blackest, dirtiest, of humble origin; low born. Cf. Edmund in King Lear:…Why brand they us With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base? I.2.9-10. There is also a contrast with gilding and alchemy. Base metals were the ugly materials of the alchemist’s study, which were destined to be turned into gold, the noblest metal of all.to ride – as horsemen. The clouds ride on the face of heaven as horsemen ride on the face of the earth.

6. With ugly rack on his celestial face: rack = a line or procession of moving clouds; thin, flying, broken clouds, or any portion of floating vapor in the sky.(Webster’s) The winds in the upper region, which move the clouds above, which we call the rack, … pass without noise. Bacon. his = the sun’s, the sky’s, the morning’s.

7. And from the forlorn world his visage hide:the forlorn world – the world becomes forlorn, presumably because it is darkened by the ugly rack of clouds, which hide the sun’s celestial face (visage).

8. Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Stealing = moving furtively, stealthily, like a thief.  with this disgrace = with the disgrace of having his visage blotted out. disgrace could also refer to physical disfigurement.

9. Even so my sun one early morn did shine:my sun = the youth whom I love; you; the heavenly eye of my life. This is however the first mention ofsun in the sonnet.

10. With all triumphant splendour on my brow: all triumphant splendour = gloriously arrayed, in total splendour. triumph conveys the idea of a triumphal procession, a procession to commemorate the victory of a famous commander. on my brow = upon my forehead, upon my face.

11. But out, alack, he was but one hour mine:But, out, alack – editors gloss this as being an emphatic way of saying ‘Alas’, out being an intensifier, and cognate with its use in expressions such as ‘out upon it!’. However I think it also has reference here to the sun, which was only ‘out’, i.e. shining, for one hour. he was but one hour mine = I enjoyed his (the sun’s, my love’s) presence for only one hour.

12. The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now: The region = the upper air, the upper region of the sky. him = my love, (the sun).

13. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth: him….my love – these cannot both refer to the youth. If my love = the youth, then him must be the sun of 5-8 and 9-12, which has been disgraced by clouds ruining his face. But if him refers to the youth, then my love is ‘my love for him’, personified, which does not disdain him (the youth) for having become inaccessible. no whit = not in the least, not a jot.

14. Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth: The homophonic meaning, sons, is played upon. Sons of the flesh are also liable to blemish and disgrace, as heavenly suns are. stain can be used transitively or intransitively, so that the youth, as well as becoming stained himself, has passed the infection on to others.

Source of 2nd scholar’s comment/notes: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet/33

For more on Shakespeare:http://artofmalemasturbation.tumblr.com/Shakespear and http://artofmalemasturbation.tumblr.com/sonnets (NSFW)

2 Comments | posted in Nudity, Poetry

May 29, 2012

Le cancre

By Joe



Le cancre


Il dit non avec la tête
Mais il dit oui avec le coeur
Il dit oui à ce qu’il aime
Il dit non au professeur
Il est debout
On le questionne
Et tous les problèmes sont posés
Soudain le fou rire le prend
Et il efface tout
Les chiffres et les mots
Les dates et les noms
Les phrases et les pièges
Et malgré les menaces du maître
Sous les huées des enfants prodiges
Avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
Sur le tableau noir du malheur
Il dessine le visage du bonheur.

Jacques Prévert

The dunce

He says no with his head
But he said yes with heart
He said yes to what he loves
He said no to the teacher
He stands
He is questioned
And all problems are posed
Sudden laughter seizes him
And he erases all
The words and figures
Names and dates
Sentences and snares
And despite the teacher’s threats
To the jeers of infant prodigies
With chalk of every color
On the blackboard of misfortune
He draws the face of happiness.

Jacques Prévert

Jacques Prévert (4 February 1900 – 11 April 1977) was a French poet and screenwriter. His poems became and remain very popular in the French-speaking world, particularly in schools. Some of the movies he wrote are extremely well regarded, with Les Enfants du Paradis considered one of the greatest films of all time.

4 Comments | posted in Nudity, Poetry

May 22, 2012

School’s Out by WH Davies

By Joe
“School’s Out” may have been Alice Cooper’s first big hit single but did you know it’s also the title of a poem by a Welsh poet born in 1871? If you left school a few decades ago, you’re probably more familiar with the poet as the author of “Leisure”, with its famous opening couplet: “What is this life if, full of care, / We have no time to stand and stare.” No doubt “Leisure” was once, for many young people, their first encounter with printed poetry. The author, of course, is William Henry Davies, sometimes nicknamed “the tramp poet”.
Davies began writing after a serious accident in which, trying to jump onto an express train in Renfrew, Ontario, he was dragged under the wheels. His work doesn’t usually dwell on the uglier side of vagrancy, but celebrates the pleasure and joy (two emotions which he was at pains to distinguish) to be had from nature and the simple life. His exuberance seems entirely unforced. There is no self-pity, although he endured a good deal of hardship in prisons and doss-houses before accomplishing his dream of publication, and his “leisure” must surely have been painful at times. Limping on a primitive wooden leg, he had good reason to slow down and gaze around him.
Davies delivers homilies in some of his verses, but he is never pompous or pious. He is the poet as everyman, using his eyes, his humor and his common sense; a natural lyricist with a direct line to the rhythmic vitality of our dear unfashionable old friend, the Common Muse.
As often with Davies’s poems, “School’s Out” is glancingly autobiographical. It is not a child’s-eye view, and it was not intended, as far as I know, to be a children’s poem. But then, I’m not entirely sure what a children’s poem is. Before writing for children became an industry, children simply looked over the adults’ shoulders, and found plenty to enjoy.
This little poem could be a medieval lyric: it could be a nursery rhyme or a carol. It’s as timeless as the liberation it delights in. A wry self-mockery reveals to the knowing reader the poet’s personal story: the “old man” he orders to “hobble home” may well be himself. But the dimeter rhythm gives the poem a gusty, bouncing pace, the staccato verses succeeding each other like short sharp flurries of March wind. Everything is in fugue – the children, the animals and birds as they hasten out of the way – and the tramps, at possible risk from so much vitality. Any hint of darkness is banished in the cheery apostrophe of the last two lines. There’s a lovely contrast between the skippety dactyl of “Merry mites” and the surprising, ceremonious spondee, “Welcome”. Perhaps it’s not strictly a spondee, but, in bagging a line all to itself, the word seems to insist on taking two full stresses: well come!
So this Poem of the week welcomes anybody who can remember what Alice Cooper described as one of the best moments in life: “the last three minutes of the last day of school when you’re sitting there and it’s like a slow fuse burning.”
School’s Out
Girls scream,
    Boys shout;
Dogs bark,
    School’s out.
Cats run,
    Horses shy;
Into trees
    Birds fly.
Babes wake
    Open-eyed;
If they can,
    Tramps hide.
Old man,
    Hobble home;
Merry mites,
    Welcome.
I also have to add this cute little poem, though I do not know who it is by:
Great Expectations
It’s time to say good-bye
Our year has come to an end.
I’ve made more cherished memories
and many more new friends.
I’ve watched your child learn and grow
and change from day to day.
I hope that all the things we’ve done
Have helped in some small way.
So it’s with happy memories
I send them out the door,
With great hope and expectations
for what next year holds in store.

1 Comment | posted in Poetry, Video

May 15, 2012

Belle of Amherst

By Joe
This image, just reminds me of something very Emily Dickinson-esque.

448
Emily Dickinson

This was a Poet — It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings —
And Attar so immense
From the familiar species
That perished by the Door —
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it — before —
Of Pictures, the Discloser —
The Poet — it is He —
Entitles Us — by Contrast —
To ceaseless Poverty —
Of portion — so unconscious —
The Robbing — could not harm —
Himself — to Him — a Fortune —
Exterior — to Time —
Was Emily Dickinson a Lesbian?

A question that intrigues scholars and readers alike: was Emily Dickinson a lesbian? While there’s not (to this date, anyway) direct evidence that Dickinson was sexually active with either men or women, she did write passionate letters to women (as did many women of that age). Some historians find this as evidence of what today would be called lesbianism — others point to incidents where she seemed to be in love with men as counter-evidence.

3 Comments | posted in Nudity, Poetry

May 8, 2012

Romance Sonambulo

By Joe

Photograph by Gregorio Prieto Muñoz (1897-1992), born in Valdepeñas, Spain, he was one of the lovers of Federico Garcia Lorca. I love how the man is superimposed with the tree trunks.

Romance Sonambulo
by Federico García Lorca
translated by William Logan
(Original poem in Spanish after the jump)

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain. 
With the shade around her waist 
she dreams on her balcony, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Under the gypsy moon, 
all things are watching her 
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green. 
Big hoarfrost stars 
come with the fish of shadow 
that opens the road of dawn. 
The fig tree rubs its wind 
with the sandpaper of its branches, 
and the forest, cunning cat, 
bristles its brittle fibers. 
But who will come? And from where? 
She is still on her balcony 
green flesh, her hair green, 
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade 
my horse for her house, 
my saddle for her mirror, 
my knife for her blanket. 
My friend, I come bleeding 
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy, 
I'd help you fix that trade. 
But now I am not I, 
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed. 
Of iron, if that's possible, 
with blankets of fine chambray. 
Don't you see the wound I have 
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown 
thirsy dark brown roses. 
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash. 
But now I am not I, 
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least, 
up to the high balconies; 
Let me climb up! Let me, 
up to the green balconies. 
Railings of the moon 
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up, 
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood. 
Leaving a trail of teardrops. 
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines 
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green, 
green wind, green branches. 
The two friends climbed up. 
The stiff wind left 
in their mouths, a strange taste 
of bile, of mint, and of basil 
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you! 
How many times would she wait for you, 
cool face, black hair, 
on this green balcony! 
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water. 
The night became intimate 
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Green wind. Green branches. 
The ship out on the sea. 
And the horse on the mountain.











Portrait de Federico Garcia Lorca by Gregorio Prieto Muñoz.






Courtesy of Homodesiribus





Verde que te quiero verde. 
Verde viento. Verdes ramas. 
El barco sobre la mar 
y el caballo en la montaña. 
Con la sombra en la cintura 
ella sueña en su baranda, 
verde carne, pelo verde, 
con ojos de fría plata. 
Verde que te quiero verde. 
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando 
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde. 
Grandes estrellas de escarcha 
vienen con el pez de sombra 
que abre el camino del alba. 
La higuera frota su viento 
con la lija de sus ramas, 
y el monte, gato garduño, 
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...? 
Ella sigue en su baranda, 
Verde came, pelo verde, 
soñando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito, 
este trato se cerraba. 
Pero yo ya no soy yo, 
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir 
decentemente en mi cama. 
De acero, si puede ser, 
con las sábanas de holanda. 
¿No ves la herida que tengo 
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca. 
Tu sangre rezuma y huele 
alrededor de tu faja. 
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos 
hasta las altas barandas;
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme, 
hasta las verdes barandas. 
Barandales de la luna 
por donde retumba el agua. 
Ya suben los dos compadres 
hacia las altas barandas. 
Dejando un rastro de sangre. 
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas. 
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata. 
Mil panderos de cristal 
herían la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas. 
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba 
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?
¿Donde está tu niña amarga? 
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo, 
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana. 
Verde carne, pelo verde, 
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna 
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima 
como una pequeña plaza. 
Guardias civiles borrachos 
en la puerta golpeaban. 
Verde que te qinero verde. 
Verde viento. Verdes ramas. 
El barco sobre la mar. 
Y el caballo en la montaña.

















































				

				

				

					Leave a comment																				| posted in Poetry														

				

			

						

				

					
						May 1, 2012					
				

				
April Showers, Bring May Flowers

				

					By Joe				

				

					




The Flower Garden 


by Wayne Jarus 




 A blur of color in the wind


Fertile soil as nature’s palette


A fragrance so seductive we think of sin




A gardener’s work must begin


Work the soil before he sees


A blur of color in the wind




Damp earth the gardener’s canvas


Spring warmth brings the seed to sprout


A fragrance so seductive we think of sin




A fiery sun nurtures the seed to begin


Emerald leaves open to feed and bring


A blur of colour in the wind




A palace of wild beauty within


The gardeners reward of toil is


A fragrance so seductive we think of sin




And within this plot of raging color


The worker’s castle for months to stay


A blur of color in the wind


A fragrance so seductive we think of sin.




©2007, Wayne Jarus 




Wayne Jarus lives near Toronto, Canada and discovered an interest in poetry while trying to write songs. He prefers structured poetry styles and enjoys writing poems about nature.  

				

				

				

					3 Comments																				| posted in Nudity, Poetry														

				

			

						

				

					
						April 24, 2012					
				

				
Morning Express

				

					By Joe				

				

					





Morning Express




Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white, 


The travellers stand in pools of wintry light, 


Offering themselves to morn’s long slanting arrows. 


The train’s due; porters trundle laden barrows. 


The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds 


Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about, 


Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds. 


The officials seem to waken with a shout, 


Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans 


Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans.




Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back, 


Question each face; a man with a hammer steals 


Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack, 


Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels. 


Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock 


With brandished flag, and on his folded flock 


Claps the last door: the monster grunts; ‘Enough!’ 


Tightening his load of links with pant and puff. 


Under the arch, then forth into blue day; 


Glide the processional windows on their way, 


And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease 


To view the world like kings taking the seas 


In prosperous weather: drifting banners tell 


Their progress to the counties; with them goes 


The clamour of their journeying; while those 


Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell.






A poem written by:




SIEGFRIED SASSOON






An English war poet, Sassoon was also known for his fictionalised autobiographies, praised for their evocation of English country life.


Siegfried Sassoon was born on 8 September 1886 in Kent. His father was part of a Jewish merchant family, originally from Iran and India, and his mother part of the artistic Thorneycroft family. Sassoon studied at Cambridge University but left without a degree. He then lived the life of a country gentleman, hunting and playing cricket while also publishing small volumes of poetry.


In May 1915, Sassoon was commissioned into the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and went to France. He impressed many with his bravery in the front line and was given the nickname ‘Mad Jack’ for his near-suicidal exploits. He was decorated twice. His brother Hamo was killed in November 1915 at Gallipoli.


In the summer of 1916, Sassoon was sent to England to recover from fever. He went back to the front, but was wounded in April 1917 and returned home. Meetings with several prominent pacifists, including Bertrand Russell, had reinforced his growing disillusionment with the war and in June 1917 he wrote a letter that was published in the Times in which he said that the war was being deliberately and unnecessarily prolonged by the government. As a decorated war hero and published poet, this caused public outrage. It was only his friend and fellow poet, Robert Graves, who prevented him from being court-martialled by convincing the authorities that Sassoon had shell-shock. He was sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh for treatment. Here he met, and greatly influenced, Wilfred Owen. Both men returned to the front where Owen was killed in 1918. Sassoon was posted to Palestine and then returned to France, where he was again wounded, spending the remainder of the war in England. Many of his war poems were published in The Old Huntsman (1917) and Counter-Attack (1918).


After the war Sassoon spent a brief period as literary editor of the Daily Herald before going to the United States, travelling the length and breadth of the country on a speaking tour. He then started writing the near-autobiographical novel Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man (1928). It was an immediate success, and was followed by others including Memoirs of an Infantry Officer (1930) and Sherston’s Progress (1936). Sassoon had a number of homosexual affairs but in 1933 surprised many of his friends by marrying Hester Gatty. They had a son, George, but the marriage broke down after World War Two.


He continued to write both prose and poetry. In 1957, he was received into the Catholic church. He died on 1 September 1967.

				

				

				

					1 Comment																				| posted in Poetry														

				

			

						

				

					
						April 17, 2012					
				

				
Sailors Kissing

				

					By Joe				

				

					









Courtesy of Indiana University






Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900. 




60. What think You I take my Pen in Hand? 


WHAT think you I take my pen in hand to record? 
The battle-ship, perfect-model’d, majestic, that I saw pass the offing to-day under full sail? 
The splendors of the past day? Or the splendor of the night that envelopes me? 
Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around me?—No; 
But I record of two simple men I saw to-day, on the pier, in the midst of the crowd, parting the parting of dear friends;
The one to remain hung on the other’s neck, and passionately kiss’d him, 
While the one to depart, tightly prest the one to remain in his arms. 


An excerpt from this poem is featured in my post for tomorrow, so stay tuned.

				

				

				

					5 Comments																				| posted in Poetry														

				

			

						

				

					
						April 10, 2012					
				

				
Give All To Love

				

					By Joe				

				

					


Last night, I was teaching about antebellum Amercan culture, one of my favorite topics.  In fact I have a passion for nineteenth century culture: art, literature, poetry, philosophy, etc.  A major part of antebellum culture in America is the transcendentalist movement.  I actually find most of the transcendentalists to be a bit crazy with their touchy-feely commune with nature philosophy.  It’s a bit too much flower child/hippie, before hippies even existed.  Take Thoreau’s Walden Pond experiment and his passion for talking to vegetables.  Or better yet, the founder of the utopian community Fruitlands, Bronson Alcott, the father of Louisa May Alcott.  I scoffed at some of his educational techniques while discussing him last night, particularly his rejection of corporal punishment for what he termed “vicarious atonement,” a method of child discipline in which Alcott had naughty children spank him. When his own daughters misbehaved, Alcott went without dinner.


There are two figures in the Transcendentalist movement which I greatly admire: Ralph Waldo Emerson and Margaret Fuller. Often mocked as an egotist, Margaret Fuller once said: “I know all the people worth knowing in America, and I find no intellect comparable to my own.” She did indeed possess one of 19th century America’s towering minds and she was a truly remarkable woman. As for the former, Emerson should be considered one of Americas greatest philosophers and admired if for nothing else but his essay Self-Reliance.  So for the poem this Tuesday, I thought I would present you one of Emerson’s poems which is a beautiful capsule of his philosophy.


Give All To Love




Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.


‘Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But ’tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
‘Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such ’twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.


Leave all for love;—
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her bosom young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.


Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho’ her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.


From: Emerson, Ralph Waldo.  Early Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson. New York, Boston, Thomas Y. Crowell & Company: 1899. Introduction by Nathan Haskell Dole. 


Emerson, as a poet, carries common themes throughout his works. In comparing this poems to an essay such as Self Reliance, the ideas of conviction, confidence, respect, choice, and a handful of others resonate throughout. “Give All to Love” relates to Self Reliance in subject and message. Emerson’s own thoughts about various aspects of human nature become apparent, and each concept stems from the basic idea of relying on one’s self.  


In “Give All to Love,” Emerson reiterates from Self Reliance that a person should respect the beliefs of others, including the changes they make. In Self Reliance, he says, “If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will seek to deserve that you should.” And, in “Give All to Love,” he writes


Free be she, fancy-free,Do not thou detain a hem,Nor the palest rose she flungFrom her summer diadem.


The idea that the beliefs of any one person are sacred to that person is present in both quotations. The respect for change and acceptance of it, as well as differing thought, is central.


Common themes run through any author’s works, especially when the comment on humanity and existence. Here, Emerson portrays his own Self-Reliance in his ability to express and discuss such issues. Since his ideas often seemingly contradict one another, his speech comes across with the same indefinable quality as in the soul and nature itself. One thing is true, however: Emerson believes in what he says, and he says it often in many different contexts, hoping that the reader will only gain understanding from his writing.

				

				

				

					1 Comment																				| posted in History, Poetry