For the poetry buffs, here's an excerpt from Mister God, This is Anna again...
"Do you like poetry?" he asked.
Anna nodded. Old Woody settled the glowing tobacco in his pipe with his thumb.
"Do you," he said, sucking away, "do you know what poetry is?"
"Yes," replied Anna. "It's sort of like sewing."
"I see," Old Woody nodded, "and what do you mean by sewing?"
Anna juggled the words around in her mind. "Well, its making something from different bits that is different from all the bits."
"Um," said Old Woody, "I think that is rather a good definition of poetry."
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I guess we all should have our favorite poets, even if we haven't read them in some time. I can look on my shelf and see a couple of books of poetry I have taken with me from LA to Japan.
Actually there are 8 poets I like, and over the years I have memorized poemes or parts of poems from 4 of them, one is a Bahai, one is Irish, one is American modern, and 2 are American classical, 1 is a collection of Haiku categorized by season, Japanese, one is classical Italian, and the last is a classical British mystic poet.
It doesn't seem like this poetry selection has attracted alot of comments. :-) So before I turn off my Baroque stream and go to bed I will share one of my favorite poems. I memorized this when I was younger and more romantic, and rememorized about 10 years ago, and have now forgotten so I have the book that started it all, still with me. I won't bore you with the whole poem, if you are interested you can see it on the Net.
The Wild Swans at Coole
by W.B. Yeats
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fify swans.
Personally I think this is one of the most beautiful opening stanzas of a poem I have ever encountered, probably because I like autumn, and I have a personal connection with someone else over this poem.
If you do some research you can even get a better idea about why
nine-and-fifty swans. Probably you have some familiarity with W.B. an interesting fellow, for a poet among the world's poets.
I think WB Yeats deseres a little more recognition than the brief words I have given here. Of course you can just search on Wikipaedia and find 0ut all the answers.
I like many many of his poems because they are about the life that he sees around him. Real places and real names of real people. I like that kind of documentary-poetry. Secondly it is more than a newspaper reporter's diary, he has a deeper mythology if you care about that. I have some problems with understanding some of it, as do many. However he has more elements involved in his poetry than you realize. I recommend this poem, The Wild Swans at Coole, because it is about the cooling of a relationship. Haven't we all been there and done that? However I find that Yeats is not as trite about this topic as 99.9% of most modern American Rock, country, and pop songs are on this topic. But please I don't want to get started on this rant. Actually I would defend more country song writers than I will almost any popular rock song writers of the last 15 years.
The last posting is what segues into a topic I have noticed here in Japan among my students as well as in the US. People now days think "poetry" is represented well enough by rock-etc. (name you music genre)". I used to be stunned. I grew up through the standard private school eduction that is still current, I am sure. We read and read and read ALL Summer. Poetry was part of the mix of ancient Greek plays, the standard Shakespeare play or two, the 17th, 18th and 19th century British writers. Then on to US writers. You know who I mean. Poetry was mostly concentrated in British works, after the usual Homer routine, a touch of Gilgamesh, a smattering of Roman writers, and then on to Britain. and finishing with the US, the standard US classic poets. So I admit I have forgotten 90% of what I read from that time. I still have a few things here as I have hinted at.
BUT WHO HAS READ ROGER WHITE??????
MARTHA ROOT 1872-1939
A dowdy girl, was Martha, and a real gadabout... remark by unnamed contemporary
"Have patience, Martha,
we shall forget
the hastily-hemmed hand-me-downs
the laddered hose
the horrent hair
shall understand you yet,
cease to care
whether virtue be photogenic, dare
see in your eye's lens
the apocalyptic images ineffaceably eteched there--
the poisoned air
the towers afire
the maimed trees
the human pyre--these
which sent you hurtling in exquisite arc
across the blackening sky,
your life a solitary warning cry
against the engulfing dark
and ultimate night.
Your eyes were dippers
used against the fire,
purchased brief respite
that on the ramparts might arise
the legioned guardians of light.
Be Patient:
we may yet ourselves become
God's gadabouts,
meteoric, expire
Martha-like,
in conflagrant holy urgency,"
I REST MY CASE
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