Poet of the Week

[P_R]

Poetry is quite widely acknowledged as the Queen of Literature.
Like all queens are mysterious, misunderstood and they take your breath away. However, who is a good queen and who is not here is a matter of intense subjectivity.

Let us use this thread to share with each other who, in our opinon, are poets who attracted us and what is it about their works that makes them special to us.

[Shakthiprabha.]

PR

My suggestion is, Lets take one poet per week and post some of their good works. Lets try to appreciate /analyse them.

[crazy]

interesting ... :P

there was a poem in my 5th grade English book...somebody's mother. That was the first english poem I read/ liked :)


Somebody's mother - Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)

"The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.

The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.

Nor offered a helping hand to her -
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

courtesy http://www.potw.org/archive/potw135.html

cant really think of many poems :oops:

[P_R]

PR

My suggestion is, Lets take one poet per week and post some of their good works. Lets try to appreciate /analyse them.

Yup ! That is why I titled it Poet of the Week.

I invite you to start.

[Shakthiprabha.]

Thanks pr. I shall do the next week. Now that crazy has started u can change ur title to 'Mary dow brine'. And lets share if we have any works of hers which we love to share.

[crazy]

oh no akka ....i havent ready any of her poems .... :oops: except for this one :)

u go ahead akka :thumbsup:

[Shakthiprabha.]

My thoughts on this poem

When I was newly wed, there was an uncle who stayed opposite to our house. He voluntarily used to come home and take me out to post office, banks and other important places (within 10 days of my shifting).

When I thanked him he said

"You are like my daughter, when I help someone's child, I take the role of her father, I feel I am helping my daughter. I am sure somewhere...someone would take my place and help my daughter too"

"ஊரார் பிள்ளையை ஊட்டி வளர்த்தால் தன் பிள்ளை தானே வளரும்"

[pavalamani pragasam]

Exactly! Generally in all our altruistic acts there is this subconscious desire/expectation that we will be paid back in our own coin.

The poem quoted by Crazy is beautifully simple & sincere, silently spreading a message of aiming to be a good samaritan.

[Wibha]

can i digress a little and kind of change the poet for a while :oops:

i have a research paper due for my literature class.

[P_R]

Ok. Let's have it this way. Someone can start off with proposing a poet and proceed to quote the impressive poems. Each poem can be followed by an analysis - we'll try and stop short of the regular academic post-morterm but need not hesitate to paraphrase/interpret and what not. After all, the aim of the thread is to share. Hubbers are encouraged to go off on tangents of nostalgia and anecdotes as sparked by the poets.

We shall proceed this way till we move on to the next poem of the poet or even the poet. With obeisance to the patron saints of indiscipline I would like to assure that we need not take the 'week' very seriously. We could go on as long as the contents demands and permit. I think history has never had a short-supply souls who have made it a point to churn out poems in numbers such that it would we'd have enough cud to chew for a week.One can expect as inevitable cross references and re-opening of 'past'-discussed poets.

Start ....

[rangan_08]

Dear PR,

Great start :thumbsup: Good to see people making their posts. SP, Crazy & Wibha - pls keep going.

As I told you, my knowledge about poems are very meagre....hence don't take my contributions seriously. But, I will always be there to encourage you guys and at the same time learn a lot from everyone. At times, if I come across a familiar poem / poet, will definitely share it with you all.

ALL THE VERY BEST. :clap:

[Shakthiprabha.]

Wibha,

Start of with who ever you want.

[Wibha]

[tscii:91892f9cae]


As I told you, my knowledge about poems are very meager....hence don't take my contributions seriously.

same here..... :)

thanks PR and SP :)

i would like to start with Langston Hughes'

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.


[/tscii:91892f9cae]

[crazy]

VW, we had this poem in 5th (or maybe 6th) grade in india :)

[Wibha]

OOh..if you can remember can you pour your thoughts on it? :D

it'll be of great help :)

i'm very bad at poetry

[crazy]

cant remember ...of course like every other poem we had in our books ...we wrote an essay about it :oops:


go on coz u never knew what u will get :?

[Wibha]

hmmm yea :)

ll write later :)

[Shakthiprabha.]

Thats about him

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Langston_Hughes

[P_R]

While these one off-ers are interesting I suggest we present poems , poets we cherish a lot so that we can discuss in detail (why we like what we quote etc.) and introduce him/her to the rest of us.

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:c0c4e7927a]I adore Shakespeare! Next, Shelley is my favourite- our Bharathi's English counterpart in rich, bold, fantastic imagination & usage of words. This is my favourite from Shelley for its sheer beauty of imagery, passion & pathos:


P. B. Shelley

Ode to the West Wind

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes!-O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill-
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere-
Destroyer and Preserver-hear, O hear!

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height-
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst-O hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
And tremble and despoil themselves:-O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable!-if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision,-I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
[/tscii:c0c4e7927a]

[P_R]

I have struggled to enjoy Shelley. Most of the Shelley (and Wordsworth) I learnt were in classrooms in middle school where we were given to understand that these folks were good for learning of the language. Much like : "eat the vegetables they are good for you" So these metaphysical wrestlings have never been my cup of tea. I always felt very distant from these poems.


If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? :clap: Beautiful line.

Bharathi was a famous Shelley fan. In Gnanarajasekaran's biopic Bharathi, there is a scene where the Raja of Ettaiyapuram is on his royal procession. All townfolk pay respect to the Raja as he passes his house. When Bharathi is asked by his anxious well-wisher to come down down and pay his respects to the King - who was also his employer - Bharathi refuses citing that the Shelley society is session. The soceity - consists of Bharathi and two other fellows who listen on as he recites Shelley.

The enraged Raja dismisses the arrogant Bharathi who adds insult to injury by thanking the king for dismissing him. He walks away reading aloud: "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"

[Querida]

[tscii:511eb06d4e]
I have taken my share of poetry classes and there are days (like when we did P.B. Shelley...you could hear the silent groans as students waited out prof and profs quietly challenged students to speak up! And oddly enough it was simply amazing how when the first courageous person said something...as simple as I think this poem means or....i liked the part where...and this is why or how...anyway to explain rather than just appreciate is a welcome courtesy to poem...many times we admitted to not knowing at all what the poem or part of the poem was about....but the important thing was....everyone's contribution small or in depth became crucial to everyone's understanding of the poem...

that all said I will just like to show what I always love about poems...the verbage is just rich....look at how many times colour and colour related words are used to express a colourless wind....

Furthermore look at all the rich coloured images that he uses...all are being charged and invigorated by the winds power..these i have hi lighted in red....as simple as saying fire brings to mind all these crackling, ferocious crimsons, yellows, whites, fiery oranges....see how many times leaves is mentioned..and specifically autumn leaves...the most colourful leaves of all...and then see how the colours and colour images fade into gray and ash to the bleakness of winter...see how much death imagery is associated with winter (highlighted in brown)

NOW someone else (as inexperienced as you may declare yourself to be)...please find and highlight all the words that have to do with the five senses...see how a wind that we can neither see or hear or smell can be all these things...

PP Maam it would really help us if you could point out the imagery that you really like....i know as anyone else just the sheer length of a poem can be scary but when broken up into bits of pictures....it is more kinder to every reader :)

P. B. Shelley

Ode to the West Wind

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes!-O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her *clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill-
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere-
**Destroyer and Preserver-hear, O hear!
*clarion is a trumpet
** did you know /shelley was really into eastern religions? destroyer/preserver ring any bells??? :wink:

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height-
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge*
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre*,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst-O hear!

*dirge is a mourning song
*sepulchre is a tomb

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
And tremble and despoil themselves:-O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable!-if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision,-I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy *lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
[/tscii:511eb06d4e][/quote]

lyre is an instrument resembling a guitar

[pavalamani pragasam]

I have struggled to enjoy Shelley. Most of the Shelley (and Wordsworth) I learnt were in classrooms in middle school where we were given to understand that these folks were good for learning of the language. Much like : "eat the vegetables they are good for you" So these metaphysical wrestlings have never been my cup of tea. I always felt very distant from these poems.


If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? :clap: Beautiful line.

Bharathi was a famous Shelley fan. In Gnanarajasekaran's biopic Bharathi, there is a scene where the Raja of Ettaiyapuram is on his royal procession. All townfolk pay respect to the Raja as he passes his house. When Bharathi is asked by his anxious well-wisher to come down down and pay his respects to the King - who was also his employer - Bharathi refuses citing that the Shelley society is session. The soceity - consists of Bharathi and two other fellows who listen on as he recites Shelley.

The enraged Raja dismisses the arrogant Bharathi who adds insult to injury by thanking the king for dismissing him. He walks away reading aloud: "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"

The quoted incident makes both Bharathi & Shelley dearer still to me! :D That unbending, dauntless spirit is a sparkling extra dimension to a true poet!

Q, your analysis is simply AWESOME! :clap: I am very glad you UNDERSTOOD, EMPATHISED! Length is no problem with me any time so long as the matter is relishable like this one. You may let yourself immersed into the richness of imagery & imagination of this poem & just enjoy the luxury of FEELING every beat/throb of the poet's poignant soul!

The wind as a cyclone is a destroyer & as rain-bearing gales preserver is how I interpret it!

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:47e88c5d24]Ode to the West Wind

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes!-O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill-
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere-
Destroyer and Preserver-hear, O hear!

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height-
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst-O hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
And tremble and despoil themselves:-O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable!-if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision,-I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
[/tscii:47e88c5d24]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:a2ac278083]Q, I love every bit of the poem, not one single line, imagery or message.

Yet, particularly special are these lines:

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill-
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere-
Destroyer and Preserver

Thou dirge
Of the dying year,
Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them!


If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power,

O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! ----VERY VERY POIGNANT LINES! IT RENDS MY HEART TO HEAR A BRAVE HEART TORN!


Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy!----A DARING, DESPERATE ASPIRATION/AMBITION!

O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? ---WORDS OF GOLD! QUINTESSENCE OF OPTIMISM/POSITIVE THINKING. MY VERY FAVOURITE QUOTE!





[/tscii:a2ac278083]

[P_R]

When one reads a poem and fails to connect to it - one can't but help feel a sense of loss. The poet's preoccuppations and their intensity are there but the experience reaches a high only if the reader is able to connect to it. The effort to go beyond the words, abandon the shells of cynicism is not always fruitful. It is a pure hit or miss :-( Mrs.PP and Q, I must say I really envy how you have experienced this poem.


The quoted incident makes both Bharathi & Shelley dearer still to me! :-) Bharathi's KuyilpAttu is supposed to be inspired by Shelley's Ode to a Skylark.

I recall a lovely line from a different Shelley poem that I unable to place:

an ever moving joyless eye
finds nothing worth its constancy

I've forgotten the poem but this line just stayed with me. Even with the context you just cannot say whether the line is judgemental or not :-)

[podalangai]

I recall a lovely line from a different Shelley poem that I unable to place:

an ever moving joyless eye
finds nothing worth its constancy


It's from a fragment of a poem he never finished, which his wife published under the title "To the moon" The words are slightly different from what you remember:

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a Joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

[podalangai]

I have struggled to enjoy Shelley. Most of the Shelley (and Wordsworth) I learnt were in classrooms in middle school where we were given to understand that these folks were good for learning of the language. Much like : "eat the vegetables they are good for you" So these metaphysical wrestlings have never been my cup of tea. I always felt very distant from these poems.

How did you get on with Ozymandias?

Actually, I had a similar difficulty when I encountered Shelley in middle school - the problem was that his poems are long, and definitely not modern in tone, which means it is often hard work at the start. It's a question of how the poems are introduced to readers, I think. I remember that my grandfather cured me of my unwillingness to read "To a skylark" by pointing me to a verse towards the end:

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

This, and the three verses that come after, convinced me that the poem - and much else that Shelley wrote - was worth reading, and I pretty soon came to love his imagery and his choice of words, even if I don't quite agree with his attitude to life. :)

[pavalamani pragasam]

Yes, shelley's 'Ode to a skylark' is another gem!

podalangai, I don't quite get what you mean by not being able to agree to Shelley's attitude to life. Please elaborate on your opinion!

[Shakthiprabha.]

Wow guys... feast to our creative minds!

To the limited extent I knew shelly, I always find him, though easy
enough to comprehend the overall beauty of the poem, very laborious and complicated to enjoy the bits and pieces. I had to strain and take that extra step to chew the tastiest bits hidden behind sheilded similies. Its like kamalhassan's comedy movies with crazy mohan's dialogue, u miss a minute, then u skip one of those choicest comedy. U wink your eye, you miss minute body language and subtler dialogue deliveries.

When I tend to read past in a hurry, I miss lot of beautiful dreamy picturisque beauty poet tried to capture, then I read , and read and read again.

Ah Finally I suppose my mind is painting those yellow and red and withered leaves which fall and dance in the air. As ever, there are messages left behind for mankind.

Thanks a lot to our dear Q, who multiplied my enjoyment and made it very easy for me, with her analysis and interpretation. As much as I enjoyed shelley, I enjoyed Q's post which acted as a torch and pointed out the beauty decors with right emphasis.



[tscii]


Furthermore look at all the rich coloured images that he uses...all are being charged and invigorated by the winds power..these i have hi lighted in red....as simple as saying fire brings to mind all these crackling, ferocious crimsons, yellows, whites, fiery oranges....see how many times leaves is mentioned..and specifically autumn leaves...the most colourful leaves of all...and then see how the colours and colour images fade into gray and ash to the bleakness of winter...see how much death imagery is associated with winter (highlighted in brown)


:clap:

Finally all I could picture is, you, me and everybody, mechanically following a cycle. Few on the ground sore and low as fallen leaves, few in their prime beauty and life blooming blossoming on trees, and we all helplessly wait for our next change.

Like a cycle...

waiting for snow, rain, heat, and sometimes... somewhere... spring too for split seconds.

[Shakthiprabha.]

I recall a lovely line from a different Shelley poem that I unable to place:

an ever moving joyless eye
finds nothing worth its constancy


It's from a fragment of a poem he never finished, which his wife published under the title "To the moon" The words are slightly different from what you remember:

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a Joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Goodone ! :) I remember lot of such tamizh poems, where moon is tugged along as a companion, to describe poet's own plight.

I remember jeevan's confusion which, on acquisition, dismisses all earthly joys as "neti neti" to seeking something permanent.

[Shakthiprabha.]

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.



Suga raagam sogam thanE!!?!! Why?

Is it always because of 'other sides of coin' concept?

Belief! Faith! (which keeps the world rotating)

Always on wait for the next cycle, like those leaves waiting for another season with hope.

[P_R]

It's from a fragment of a poem he never finished, which his wife published under the title "To the moon" The words are slightly different from what you remember:

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a Joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy? Beautiful.
Thanks podalangai.


How did you get on with Ozymandias? Must say we are not the best of friends :-|
My strained relationship with Shelley can be attributed to the fact I was introduced to his poems in school. So I had to approach them with dread that I had to be prepared to paraphrase and innocent looking couplet. Plus something like Ozymandias so easily lends the teacher an opportunity to go on a didactic tangent. Immaterial whether the poet wanted to get moral.

While I have never had problems with didactism in Tamil, in English I was cynic just too early. Thinking about it, it is perhaps founded on some deep-rooted impression that Tamil is much more naive a language/culture. Till date naive's equivalent in Tamil is almost a compliment.


Actually, I had a similar difficulty when I encountered Shelley in middle school - the problem was that his poems are long, and definitely not modern in tone, which means it is often hard work at the start. :exactly:

The verses you quote are indeed the ones that stand-out in Ode to a Skylark

[P_R]

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.



Suga raagam sogam thanE!!?!! Why?

Is it always because of 'other sides of coin' concept?

Belief! Faith! (which keeps the world rotating)

Always on wait for the next cycle, like those leaves waiting for another season with hope.

:-)

Wodehouse in the preface to his short story collection :"The Clicking of Cuthbert":


As a writer of light fiction, I have always till now been handicapped by the fact that my disposition was cheerful, my heart intact, and my life unsoured. Handicapped, I say, because the public likes to feel that a writer of farcical stories is piquantly miserable in his private life, and that, if he turns out anything amusing, he does it simply in order to obtain relief from the almost insupportable weight of an existence which he has long since realized to be a wash-out. Well, today I am just like that. :lol:

[podalangai]

podalangai, I don't quite get what you mean by not being able to agree to Shelley's attitude to life. Please elaborate on your opinion!
He had strong ideas about things such as free love, with which I don't agree, but which were an intrinsic component of his philosophy of what an ideal life should be like.

A character in one of Aldous Huxley's books calls Shelley a cross between a fairy and a white slug (Huxley didn't quite go that far himself - he was parodying some of Shelley's critics). I think I personally, like Huxley, love the intensity of Shelley's vision of what he called "intellectual beauty", but I don't always like the results of applying it in the real world.

[podalangai]

[tscii:29debc7746]
While I have never had problems with didactism in Tamil, in English I was cynic just too early. Thinking about it, it is perhaps founded on some deep-rooted impression that Tamil is much more naive a language/culture. Till date naive's equivalent in Tamil is almost a compliment.

Didacticism in Tamil is qualitatively different. Much of the body of didactic poetry in English carries the huge burden that English classicism is rooted in a different - and alien - tradition. Tamil classicism, on the other hand, is native to the Tamil soil and Tamil thinking - which gives much didactic poetry in Tamil a wonderful freshness. This isn't universally true - Tamil poetry, too, can be awful when it tries to artifically root itself in a foreign tradition, as a comparison of Manimegalai (incredibly bad didacticism) and Sivaga Sintamani (incredibly beautiful didacticism) shows. It's the same in English. Didactic Anglo-Saxon poetry, for example, has the same freshness to it that Tamil poetry had. Consider this beautiful example from the Seafarer:


gedroren is þeos duguð eal dreamas sind gewitene
wuniað þa wacran ond þas woruld healdaþ
brucað þurh bisgo blæd is gehnæged
eorþan indryhto ealdað ond searað
swa nu monna gehwylc geond middangeard
yldo him on fareð onsyn blacað
gomelfeax gnornað wat his iuwine
æþelinga bearn eorþan forgiefene

"All this splendour has fallen, visions have withered. The weak remain and hold the world, worn with toil. The leaves fall, earth's glories grow old and fade. And now every man, throughout Middle-earth, meets age bleak-faced and withered-haired, grieving, knowing that his old friends, children of noble ones, have been given to earth."

My translation is not perfect - the original has much more power - but I think even this should convey that it has much of the direct, unartificed ("natippaRRa") quality that gives Tamil didacticism its beauty. This is pretty common in Anglo-Saxon poems, and in the best Middle English didactic poetry, when there were still roots in the native tradition strong enough that poets could combine classical allusions with a very English (or Scottish) expression - Dunbar's "Lament for the makaris" (Lament for the poets) is a particularly fine example. Or for that matter, in contemporary poetry, which has more or less abandoned poetic convention in favour of directness of expression. In Shelley's time, though, things were different, which is why his poetry can seem a lot more artificed, and difficult to relate to, unless you're used to the classicised way of expression which was natural to the time. [/tscii:29debc7746]

[pavalamani pragasam]

That bit of info about Shelley's preference for the concept of 'free love' is news to me. Anyway, do we not wink at idiosyncracies, vagaries, waywardness or even serious personal 'weaknesses' of geniuses, for the sake of respecting their genius?

[podalangai]

That bit of info about Shelley's preference for the concept of 'free love' is news to me. Anyway, do we not wink at idiosyncracies, vagaries, waywardness or even serious personal 'weaknesses' of geniuses, for the sake of respecting their genius?

:exactly: It took me a while to come around to that point of view. I was bitterly disappointed when I found out about his views on love!

[pavalamani pragasam]

Glad to see you concurring with me, podalangai!

[P_R]

Didactism-la ivvaLO matter irukkA. As always, thanks for the info podalangai.


This isn't universally true - Tamil poetry, too, can be awful when it tries to artifically root itself in a foreign tradition, as a comparison of Manimegalai (incredibly bad didacticism) and Sivaga Sintamani (incredibly beautiful didacticism) shows. Ok. Haven't had the chance to read either.
I just read a SilappadhikAram-for-beginners book. And the last kaaNdam kind of dragged. Not entirely because of any didacticism but also because of repetitive, seemingly empty, paens and a near complete lack of drama (atleast in comparison to the previous kaaNdam).

But at the very end there is also a tightly packed and stuff didactic passage which seems like ThirukkuRaL quick-reader in the sense that there so much content overlap. But I didn't find it enjoyable at all. It sounded so much like a sermon and seemed to sucked out what makes the kuRaL beautiful. In the view of the lay first time reader, it left a bad taste for the whole epic. So much so that I was reluctant to start on ManimEgalai. I will ride on your dismissal to add justification to my postponing that epic :P

But I don't get what is the foreign-tradition in this whole thing.(i.e. Manimekalai vs. SivacintAmaNi). Thanks for the efforts to translates the poem, I get a feel of the difference (from Shelley). But I am still trying to see what is native about the poem you quoted which isn't there in Shelley.

To be precise...
combine classical allusions with a very English (or Scottish) expression....which was not the case in Shelley's time, right ? An example....?

[podalangai]

I'll PM you, Prabhu Ram. I don't want to divert too much attention from the topic. :)

[P_R]

Got it :-) Thanks podalangai.

[P_R]

Poetry is serious business.Supposed to ruminate on heavy aspects of life, the weight of human existence, the milk of human kindness that makes the misery bearable and not to be missed is the morning dew and sunshine that reflect Nature's hope in new beginnings. Within this framework the temperament that is required to read poetry may be described by the odd expression "studied exuberance".

Humour is supposed to be the other end. A trifling to kept at a good distance from the any notion of literature - particularly poetry.
The unspeakable limericks, the passing rhymes can at best be parlour games and after-dinner funny-liners. Not poetry. Nowhere near the stirring of the soul.

After constructing the above straw-man I present to you the poet of the week who punched him dead: Ogden Nash (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogden_Nash).

The great American champion of 'light-verse'. He was known for the near traditional rhythm in his poems and the appealing sense of humour. But those who do not take humour - not to mention craft- itself to be sufficient argument for admittance into the hallowed halls of literature : Nash has more. As, I hope, we will proceed to see during the course of this week, many of Nash's poems came have more to offer beyond the first laugh. Here's a taste:

The Ant
The ant has made himself illustrious
Through constant industry industrious
So what?
Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid

[Shakthiprabha.]

So what?
Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid

:lol2:

Humour is difficult, to bring humour in poetries more so.

:clap:

I am waiting to relax more.

[P_R]

SP :-) Of course humour is a great relaxant but Nash actually challenges you.

Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid

remind me of

தோற்றமும் பொய்களோ
அதன் குணங்களும் பொய்களோ in Bharathi's நிற்பதுவே நடப்பதுவே.

As you are a person inclined towards philosophy you may like - even if not agree - with that poem. That whole poem, as you would know, is a Bharathi raising questions about reality versus sensory perception and finally settles in firmly on perception (காண்பதல்லால் உறுதியில்லை/காண்பது சக்தியாம் அந்த காட்சி நித்யமாம்). In the course of that quest he throws the line about தோற்றம்-குணம் at us.

Consider an ant - the form in which it exists can be dismissed as Maya. It is just a three dimensional object and can be conjured by illuson. But what about it's nature (குணம்) ? Can that also be conjured ? Doesn't its nature seem to be an attribute of the ant. But is the nature a conscious choice of the creature or is it also a mechanical fact ?

Would you be calm and placid
If you were full or formic acid

Perhaps not. You perhaps can't be a slob, you can't help but bite if you are an ant. Quit the traditional allusions, the didactic recommendations to learn from the ant to be busy, just stop trying to understand and fit into a human context every damn thing you see and care to write a poem about. Just observe. With the hopeless inadequacy that you can never become the observed or feel what the observed feels. You can only get a bit closer thanks to a good poem.

That's what makes Nash very special for me.

[Shakthiprabha.]

:)

I supp thats where judging, 6th sense, differentiating and the whole mecahnism of BRAIN AND INTELLECT comes into picture!

EVolvement of nth order.

Most of them dont achieve though to perfection :?

[pavalamani pragasam]

An attempt at empathy? Putting oneself in the shoes of an ant? Attributing human intellect to an insect, a demonstration of milk of human kindness? A reasoning ant is an interesting idea!

[podalangai]

The Ant
The ant has made himself illustrious
Through constant industry industrious
So what?
Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid
This reminds me of a Norwegian poem by Inger Hagerup, a wonderful poet who is in many ways similar to Ogden Nash - she wrote poems that were simultaneously funny and profound. The poem I'm thinking of is called "Mauren" ("The Ant"). Vasavi will know the one I'm talking of. It goes something like this:

Little?
Me?
Far from it.
I'm exactly big enough.
I fill myself compeletly,
length and width
and from top to bottom.
Are you too big for yourself
perhaps?

[pavalamani pragasam]

Wow! That is a classic statement of self-confidence!

[podalangai]

Back to Ogden Nash, here're a couple of lines I rather like from one of his poems:

The only incurable troubles of the rich are the troubles that money can't cure,
Which is a kind of trouble that is even more troublesome if you are poor.
Certainly there are lots of things in life that money won't buy, but it's very funny -
Have you ever tried to buy them without money?

[pavalamani pragasam]

Irony!!!

[P_R]

The only incurable troubles of the rich are the troubles that money can't cure,
Which is a kind of trouble that is even more troublesome if you are poor.
Certainly there are lots of things in life that money won't buy, but it's very funny -
Have you ever tried to buy them without money?

Great one !
I am trying to re-read them with some pauses to get the rhyme to fit one. In that way it is different from the other ones he has written (or to be precise, the other ones I have read).

The first two lines are themselves so complete :D

Reminded of the line which is thinly related in context to this. It is by Ernest Hemingway (in conversation with F.Scott Fitzgerald): The only difference between the rich and other people is that the rich have more money

[Shakthiprabha.]

Little?
Me?
Far from it.
I'm exactly big enough.
I fill myself compeletly,
length and width
and from top to bottom.
Are you too big for yourself
perhaps?

So much unsaid here. Too many sensitive points to grasp.
Thats makes it more special.

[P_R]

Another half-rhym-ey one.

Just Keep Quiet and Nobody Will Notice

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

[Shakthiprabha.]

:rotfl2:

There goes another person, who ought live like mougli in a jungle! Welcome to our world! :D

How much dramatisation in our daily life! Sometime we get sick of over-action :rotfl2:

However I get a feel of reading a good prose! and hey... no apologies plz :D

[P_R]

True the rhyme scheme is a little subtle and inconsistent (and even forced) in places.

As opposed to

The Termite
Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.

[Shakthiprabha.]

:rotfl2: :rotfl2: :rotfl2:

thanks. I needed it :D

[podalangai]

Not to forget:

The Cow
The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk.

[pavalamani pragasam]

:)

[P_R]

One of my all time favourites:

The Purist

I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."


Once you have laughed....read again

[pavalamani pragasam]

konjam over! :rotfl:

[podalangai]

Adhu koncham over-na, idhu eppadi-ndu solluvingal :)

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

[pavalamani pragasam]

:rotfl: A typical girl child's father & his idiotic dotage!!!

[P_R]

Mrs.PP the Purist is biting in its sarcasm. A parallel that I feel would be interesting is a paragraph that writer Sujatha had to say about the play Rhinosceros- by Ionesco.


அயனஸ்கோவின் ரைனோசரஸ் என்ற நாடகத்தில் ஒரு காட்சி ஞாபகம் வருகிறது. நாடக பாத்திரங்கள் ஒரு பொது இடத்தில் பேசிக் கொண்டிருக்கும் போது முழுசாக ஒரு காண்டாமிருகம் குறுக்கே திடும் திடும் என்று
புழுதியைக் கிளப்பிக் கொண்டு அவர்கள் எதிரே ஓடி மறைகிறது. இந்தக் காட்சியின் அபத்தம் அவர்களைப்
பாதிப்பதில்லை. ஓடிய மிருகம் ஆசிய வகையா ஆப்பிரிக்க வகையா என்று சர்ச்சையில் தீவிரமாக
இறங்கி விடுகிறார்கள். நம் தின வாழ்க்கையில் எத்தனை காண்டாமிருகங்கள்!
It is in this way that I approched the Purist and found it so wonderful in its appeal.

Lovely one podalangai :ty:

Even though his signature was rhyme, look at how he tosses the artificality of the craft in our face:

But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.


Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony. :rotfl:

The last stanza is just violent....and the way he slips in Aristotle in the list is :lol:

[Roshan]

பெரியவர்கள் பேசிக்கொண்டிருக்கும்போது குறுக்கிடுவதற்கு மன்னிக்கவும்.. :) I am only a silent reader here in this thread.

I have seen writer Sujatha mentioning Ogden Nash quite a bit in his write ups and recently I came across this, in his Katrathum Petrathum - Part IV.

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the lvoing cup
Whenever you're wrong admint it;
When ever you're right, shut up.


Another (small) one..

இப்போதெல்லாம் பல் பிடுங்கும்போது வலி இருப்பதில்லை. அதற்கு முன் மரத்துப் போக, கூரையில் தரப்படும் ஊசிதான் வலிக்கிறது. அந்த ஊசி வலிக்காமல் இருக்க, முன் மரப்புக்காக ஒரு ஊசிகூடப் போடுகிறார்கள்.

எழுபது ஆண்டுகள் என்னுடன் வாழ்ந்த பல்லை ஏழே நிமிஷங்களில் நீக்கி, ட்ரேயில் 'ப்ளங்க்' என்று போட்டபோது அதை வாஞ்சையுடன் பார்த்து 'போய் வா நண்பா!' என்று விடைகொடுத்தேன். இன்னும் கொஞ்சம் காலம் தாழ்த்தியிருக்கலாம் ஆனால் நாஷ் சொன்னது நினைவுக்கு வந்தது..

'Some tortures are physical
And some are mental
But the one that is both
is dental'

[podalangai]

From the growing stillness on this thread, I think we're probably done with Ogden Nash. Before Prabhu Ram nominates the next poet, here's a "break" post.

A poet I've always liked, but who probably isn't well known enough in Tamil circles to have a whole week dedicated to him, is Louis MacNeice. MacNeice was an Anglo-Irish poet born in Belfast, who during the 1930s and early 1940s was amongst the most highly regarded poets in England. His poems aren't as political as many poets of the time were, and his subjects aren't as clearly defined, but his best poems are quite beautiful. He's modern in a way which, in my opinion, not many 20th century poets matched. His language was always colloquial, yet at his best, he manages to be wonderfully lyrical, with his words and thoughts flowing in an easy, unartificed way that at the same time keeps to conventions of poetry. That combination is something I miss in many "modernist" poets, both in English and Tamil.

Here's a poem he wrote in the 1940s, Apple Blossom. It's not his best-known poem, but it's one that had a fairly strong impact on me when I first read it, many many years ago, and I think it represents him well:


Apple Blossom
The first blossom was the best blossom
For the child who never had seen an orchard;
For the youth whom whiskey had led astray
The morning after was the first day.

The first apple was the best apple
For Adam before he heard the sentence;
When the flaming sword endorsed the Fall
The trees were his to plant for all.

The first ocean was the best ocean
For the child from streets of doubt and litter;
For the youth for whom the skies unfurled
His first love was his first world.

But the first verdict seemed the worst verdict
When Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden,
Yet when the bitter gates clanged to
The sky beyond was just as blue.

For the next ocean is the first ocean
And the last ocean is the first ocean
And, however often the sun may rise,
A new thing dawns upon our eyes.

For the last blossom is the first blossom
And the first blossom is the last blossom
And when from Eden we take our way
The morning after is the first day.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Deep thoughts & beautiful presentation!

[podalangai]

I'm glad you liked the poem, PP ma'am :)

[P_R]

Can't say I was able to immerse myself in this poem completely. Was completely drawn to the first four stanzas. The fourth in particular was very impressive.

I kind of lost it after that. Owe this a revisit.

I had an prof. who began his "Information Economics" course with the "first judgement". A sort of meeting point of epistemology and mythology. I find it one of the most fascinating, introspective fables ever. So perhaps it is my rush to approach the poem in that light that is standing in the way.

[P_R]

Any nominees for poet of the week ?

[pavalamani pragasam]

Robert Frost's 'Miles to go before I sleep'?

[P_R]

Robert Frost's 'Miles to go before I sleep'?

Done Mrs. PP. Frost it is...

Can you start off posting the first poem.

[pavalamani pragasam]

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.

-- Robert Frost


Vaguely remember having read about this being a favourite of Jawaharlal Nehru!

A very good favourite of mine inspiring me to write Tamil kavithai basing the same metaphor used here.

Frost in some way resembles tagore.

[P_R]

Vaguely remember having read about this being a favourite of Jawaharlal Nehru!
The famous last couplet were the last lines Nehru had written in his diary. He passed away the next morning.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Oh! How dim my memory is getting! :(
Hence my desperate ardour to be among young minds to retain what little remains of my cherished memories!

[P_R]

That anecdote itself puts a different spin on how the poem can be approached.

Do we surely know we have miles to go before we sleep ? Will we pass by the lovely woods again ? The promises to keep is not a proud chest thumping of a dutiful man - as teachers would love to have us believe - but a heavy sigh under the yoke of reality.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Incorrigible cynic! :lol:

Even with one foot in the grave, is it unnatural for an aspiring soul to wish for more and more noble achievements?

When a vey old person is in deathbed clinging on to life, is it not customary for the experienced relatives around saying the dying person has some wish unfulfilled, wants to see someone etc? If even an unconscious dying person can have unfulfilled wishes why not a comparatively healthy old man have dreams and desires.

The uncertainty of passing the woods again is a real feeling experienced by many: sometime back, my hubby, 2 and 1/2 years older than me & my sis-in-law's hubby, my age were agreeing with surprise how they both shared the same thought while visiting certain tourist spots, far-off temples etc, 'will I ever come here again? is this my last visit to the place?' Fortunately I never get such thoughts that come to people even before completing 60 years! My favourite is a tamil seyyuL about death standing behind your shoulder- 'pinnaiyE ninRathu kooRRamenReNNi..'

But the role of the poet's lines in Nehru's life is really astonishing- dinning into our unprepared hearts the REALITY & INEVITABILITY of death!

[P_R]

Well Mrs.PP :-)


If even an unconscious dying person can have unfulfilled wishes why not a comparatively healthy old man have dreams and desires. Exactly ! I think we are making the same point here

It is not always necessary for a poet to let the flame of optimism glow in his poems. Here is one by Frost again:

Nothing Gold can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

[Shakthiprabha.]

oh Frost! :thumbsup:

and miles to go before I sleep....

The whole poem actually makes my heart weigh.

[Shakthiprabha.]

Oh thats another again!
Were most poems of his this low in spirits?

[crazy]

The only poem I know/ read by Frost - The Road Not Taken :thumbsup: had this one in our 10th syllabus :)


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

[pavalamani pragasam]

A sad philosophical understone is ever present!

[anbu_kathir]

dinning into our unprepared hearts the REALITY & INEVITABILITY of death!

Not by Frost, but by another famous poet, Alexander Pope -
-----------------------------------------------------
The Dying Christian To His Soul

Vital spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh, quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?

The world recedes; it disappears;
Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?
_____________________________

Love and Light.

[Shakthiprabha.]

The only poem I know/ read by Frost - The Road Not Taken :thumbsup: had this one in our 10th syllabus :)


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

We had it in our school syllabus too.
This poem reminds me of the movie

"MR.DESTINY"

:)

[P_R]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

crazy, this poem again has more than one version to it.
One the straightforward one which we get taught in schools about the ode to choice, the limits of foresight and the celebration of daring. All quite well.

But the poem has a certain naughty ring to it. Man's capacity for justifying his actions. Look at the line in bold above. Seems to indicate that the paths were not very different after all. Did it really make a difference ? Perhaps not. "All the difference" may just come from the way the narrator is trying to recollect his life and choices.

The poem can also be read as the dismissal of regret, not through contentment or inspirational daring, but rather through human capacity for building convenient memories.

[podalangai]

I have always liked Nothing gold can stay. Thanks for posting it, Prabhu Ram.

Here's another of Frost's poems.



A Patch of Old Snow

There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.


Prabhu Ram's reading of "The road not taken" could apply equally well to this poem.

This poem more or less captures much of the essence of Frost's poetical techniques, I think. One of the things I like about Frost's poetry is the "snapshot" quality of his poems - which, in some ways, gives them a quality akin to the best Sangam poems. Many of his poems take one scene, and use imagery principally to describe the details of that scene in a beautiful, but naturalistic (i.e., not romanticised) way - unlike poets like Shelley and even Wordsworth, but like the Sangam poets. Yet he manages to use these details to craft implicit metaphors that conceal shades and levels of meaning, almost a sort of "ullurai uvamam". There're none of the complex similies and metaphors that're the standard tools of English poetry. The scene itself is the metaphor, as it was in Sangam poetry, particularly akam poetry, that used ''ullurai uvamam''.

This is the most "sangam"-like of his poems, so one sees it most clearly here. There are elements of this in all his poems, but here are other similarities too. The narrator is intimately connected with the action being described - he is a key actor, not a disconnected observer as the narrator of "Solitary Reaper" or "Ode to a Skylark". And the poem deal with emotions, feelings and thoughts created in a particular moment - while the passage of time and the past itself may be spoken of or alluded to, the poem itself is clearly set in a single instant.

[pavalamani pragasam]

:clap: Absolutely right!

[P_R]

Ok....who's next ?
Any suggestions podalangai, SP, Mrs.PP ?

[pavalamani pragasam]

The modern poets often elude my comprehension & hence appreciation! Can anyone make T.S.Eliot make dearer to me? I am still at a loss to understand why my cantab PG HOD was agog about him!

[P_R]

If someone volunteers to write about Eliot - we can freeze on him.

[Querida]

Oh good for you all to have discussed Robert Frost...there is something that deters me from reading poetry books...i still have not touched emily dickinson....

TS Eliot on the other hand is melancholy but bitter as well, i would think the most well known of his poems is the following...it works for me more on "oh i like this line for it's sound rather than its meaning..it seems the struggle of an average, immasculated, middle aged man...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet,nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[Querida]

Translation of Italian Passage: A passage from Dante Alighieri's Inferno (Canto 27, lines 61-66) spoken by Guido da Montefeltro in response to the questions of Dante, who Guido supposes is dead, since he is in Hell:. The flame in which Guido is encased vibrates as he speaks: "If I thought that that I was replying to someone who would ever return to the world, this flame would cease to flicker. But since no one ever returns from these depths alive, if what I've heard is true, I will answer you without fear of infamy."

There are key allusions to people associated with death:

I know only the gist of Dante's inferno i would rather have the quote speak for itself.

For Hamlet I am sure we all know his famous preoccupation with death

Lazarus- the man raised from the dead by Jesus

John the Baptist -"Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;"

Herod had imprisoned John because he reproved Herod for divorcing his wife (Phasaelis), and unlawfully taking his brother Philip's wife, Herodias. On Herod's birthday, Herodias' daughter (traditionally named Salome) danced before the king and his guests. Her dancing pleased Herod so much that in his drunkenness he promised to give her anything she desired, up to half of his kingdom. When the daughter asked her mother what she should request, she was told to ask for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Although Herod was appalled by the request, he reluctantly agreed and had John executed in the prison. (wiki)


Prufrock claims he is none of aforementioned figures, it is like he knows what Dante, Lazarus and Hamlet know but he sorely lacks the confidence tell us...just as Hamlet he is stuck in indecision, cowardice or just lack of confidence to do so, all in all he is not a great figure...:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; [...] Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.


but he knows of aging, death, misery,...note how many questions litter this poem especially of "do i dare?", "how should I presume?"...each confessing a lack of confidence and motivation.

He seems to be among the bourgeois...of women who know of Michaelangelo, of affording desserts such as cakes, ice cream, of braceleted women, picnics, parties, it seems he knows that this society is all an act a facade that he too joins in...

Yet he begins with the lower classes "Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent "

There are parts of the poem that to me are incongruent....some lines I find almost too easy and childish:

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo."

yet other parts oddly stand alone such as the living creature of yellow fog, who brings to mind more of a dog:

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


His almost physical inability to move forward, held back and weakened:

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized (2) upon a table;

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,


I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

OVERALL:
He is mired in melancholy, a desire to be desired and praised yet lacking appealing qualities (his age, his lack of hair, his thin figure, his modest attire). He is afraid, lonely, and seems to only know how to be those things...death is impending upon him yet he has accomplished nothing...Prufrock is a pathetic character whose misery makes you want to pity yet also repel his lack of any motivation...it is not how a love song should be...it is too full of human faults, worries, fears, anxieties, and of what ifs? or how comes? Yet they are not met with hope...there is no solution...we know he will do nothing about his inabilities...it is quite fustrating and admittingly quite human...never is a answered let alone spoken it is all thought and put aside...and let to be withered away...He is afraid of life and of death...and in the end this is a love song to a life never lived...

[pavalamani pragasam]

An excellent poem, I must agree. Stunning simplicity of words- a simplicity which is however treacherous since it implies so many unsaid meanings. Rich figures of speech, nice sarcasm, very deep interpretations philosophical & down to earth at once!

[podalangai]

Would there be interest in discussing Wordsworth? He's a poet I had to learn to appreciate, but I'm now glad I did.

Perhaps we could start with his five "Lucy poems"?

[pavalamani pragasam]

Please go on!

[P_R]

Do go on podalangai
I have found him quite uninteresting - I was fed with him as a schoolboy by eager teachers who seemed to think much of him.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Esp. Daffodils!!! :lol:

[P_R]

Esp. Daffodils!!! :lol:
Oh yeah ! The recitation contest favourite.

[pavalamani pragasam]

And The solitary reaper!!!

[podalangai]

Sorry - having serious internet connection problems - will be back online in a couple of days, hopefully.

[P_R]

Base Words Are Uttered

Base words are uttered only by the base
And can for such at once be understood,
But noble platitudes:--ah, there's a case
Where the most careful scrutiny is needed
To tell a voice that's genuinely good
From one that's base but merely has succeeded.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Sarcasm that is best sharpened and deliberately targeted!