James Joyce - Lean Out of the Window - Golden Hair
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Posted:May 29, 2015 11:07 am
Last Updated:May 29, 2015 4:36 pm
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Love ol' James - my project this summer is to get through at least two of his books.
Stumbled on this poem - set to music by Syd Barrett - ex of Pink Floyd - and it entranced me in its duality - simple yet complex.
btw... Marilyn loved reading James Joyce aloud - another reason to love her.
Lean Out Of The Window - Poem by James Joyce
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.
My book was closed,
I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.
I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.
Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.
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I Dreamt of a Butterfly
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Posted:Oct 10, 2014 6:08 am
Last Updated:Oct 10, 2014 6:31 am
4667 Views
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Once I dreamt that I was a butterfly, fluttering here and
there; in all ways a butterfly. I enjoyed my freedom as a
butterfly, not knowing that I was Chou. Suddenly I awoke
and was surprised to be myself again. Now, how can I tell
whether I am a man who dreamt that he was a butterfly, or
whether I am a butterfly who dreams that he is a man?
~ Chuang Tsu
In this dream, Tsu is perfectly clear who he is.
Once he awakens - he is no longer quite so sure
Or maybe it should be written as:
Once upon a time, Chuang Tzu dreamed that he was a butterfly, flying about enjoying itself. It did not know that it was Chuang Chou. In fact, it did not know whether it was Chuang Chou dreaming that he was a butterfly, or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was Chuang Chou. Suddenly he awoke, and veritably was Chuang Chou again. Between Chuang Chou and the butterfly there must be some distinction. This is a case of what is called the transformation of things.
This is the dichotomy in out lives
Which reading do you embrace?
I think - as you become who you are - you can embrace both of them.
What does your conscience say? — 'You should become who you are'
~ Nietzsche
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How Fortunate the Man with None - Bertolt Brecht
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Posted:Jan 22, 2014 5:33 pm
Last Updated:Mar 15, 2014 6:42 am
6012 Views
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This is so strange - Dead Can Dance did a song incorporating this piece. It resonated in my brain for a week before I finally solved the puzzle - it is part of a play by Brecht: "Mother Courage"
I find it so haunting so poignant - it makes me pause in my everyday running about
I hope you may like it too!
And check out the Dead Can Dance version - search for it on youtube
How Fortunate the Man with None
You saw sagacious Solomon
You know what came of him,
To him complexities seemed plain.
He cursed the hour that gave birth to him
And saw that everything was vain.
How great and wise was Solomon.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's wisdom that had brought him to this state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You saw courageous Caesar next
You know what he became.
They deified him in his life
Then had him murdered just the same.
And as they raised the fatal knife
How loud he cried: you too my !
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's courage that had brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You heard of honest Socrates
The man who never lied:
They weren't so grateful as you'd think
Instead the rulers fixed to have him tried
And handed him the poisoned drink.
How honest was the people's noble .
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's honesty that brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
Here you can see respectable folk
Keeping to God's own laws.
So far he hasn't taken heed.
You who sit safe and warm indoors
Help to relieve our bitter need.
How virtuously we had begun.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's fear of god that brought us to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
Bertolt Brecht
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To all of the Mothers out there - In a Time of Reflection
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Posted:Dec 16, 2013 7:01 am
Last Updated:Dec 16, 2013 7:57 am
6464 Views
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Lovely work by a Brazilian poet: Carlos Drummond de Andrade
For all of the mothers who may be a little bit lonely over the Christmas holidays.
For Always -- English translation of Para Sempre
Why does God allow
that mothers go away?
A mother has no limit,
she is time without hour,
light that does not fade
when the wind blows
and the rain falls.
A velvet hidden
on wrinkled skin,
pure water, clean air,
pure thought.
Death happens
to what is brief and goes by
without leaving a trace.
a mother, in her grace,
is eternity.
Why must God remember
- profound mystery -
to take her away someday?
Were I the king of the world,
I would create a law:
a mother does never die,
she will always stay
with her
and her , though old,
will be little
like a maize grain
Por que Deus permite
que as mães vão-se embora?
Mãe não tem limite,
é tempo sem hora,
luz que não apaga
quando sopra o vento
e chuva desaba,
veludo escondido
na pele enrugada,
água pura, ar puro,
puro pensamento.
Morrer acontece
com o que é breve e passa
sem deixar vestígio.
Mãe, na sua graça,
é eternidade.
Por que Deus se lembra
- mistério profundo -
de tirá-la um dia?
Fosse eu Rei do Mundo,
baixava uma lei:
Mãe não morre nunca,
mãe ficará sempre
junto de seu filho
e ele, velho embora,
será pequenino
feito grão de milho.
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Paul Klee - Angelus Novus
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Posted:Mar 23, 2013 6:03 am
Last Updated:Mar 23, 2013 6:05 am
7223 Views
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I am not sure why - but this little anecdote entranced me.
In his ninth thesis in the essay 'Theses on the Philosophy of History' Walter Benjamin, who owned the Klee print for many years, describes:
His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread.
This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet.
The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them.
The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.
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Neruda's Sonnets 11 & 17 - For a Wily Cricket!
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Posted:Feb 18, 2013 7:08 am
Last Updated:May 27, 2024 10:19 am
7248 Views
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Cien sonetos de amor (100 Love Sonnets) is a collection of sonnets written by the Chilean poet and Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda originally published in Argentina in 1959.
It was dedicated to his beloved wife -at the time-, Matilde Urrutia, but that is another long and complicated story.
It is divided into the four stages of the day: morning, afternoon, evening, and night.
This collect has always been a bit of a Rorschach test for me: which poem do you like the best and why. The easy answer has always been No. 11 – it is obvious – vulgar in an appealing way – soft and gooey in an unappealing way.
I have always loved No. 17 – almost dropped it when it appeared in Patch Adams (horrible movie!) but it always draws me in when I go on a Neruda jag.
Take a look – let me know what you think – if you have another candidate, I am always delighted to find new avenues to explore.
Love Sonnet XI
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
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Happy 50th Sylvia: Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus
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Posted:Feb 9, 2013 12:45 pm
Last Updated:Feb 9, 2013 12:46 pm
7469 Views
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Ahh Sylvia... high school crush - never aging - poetess extraordinaire.
In her poetry, she forces us to see her death as a destiny and a culmination:
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity,
But on to the main event, behold the latter part of her Poem: Lady Lazarus
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr god, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
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The Drowned - Part of Glück’s collection “Descending Figure” (1980):
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Posted:Jan 19, 2013 10:26 am
Last Updated:Jan 19, 2013 10:26 am
7903 Views
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I was reading some of my Louise Gluck material this past week.
What a strange poet - flying in the face of modern sensibilities - but so moving and engaging none-the-less.
With apologies ahead of time, for those of you with phobias, consider the following.
The Drowned
You see, they have no judgment.
So it is natural that they should drown,
first the ice taking them in
and then, all winter, their wool scarves
floating behind them as they sink
until at last they are quiet.
And the pond lifts them in its manifold dark arms.
“So it is natural”: of course it isn’t natural for to drown — or to the extent it is natural, we wonder what we mean by the word.
This is Glück’s idea.
The impersonal forces that really do control our lives operate in a way that transcends the day-to-day demands of car payments and deadlines. They’re not so much irrational as unrational - outside of rationality, and they brook no bribery.
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Ulysses - Alfred Lord Tennyson - Dare For One More Journey
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Posted:Oct 31, 2012 7:42 pm
Last Updated:Nov 5, 2012 7:49 pm
7962 Views
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This is one of my favorite poems.
It follows up on the protagonist from Homer’s The Odyssey after he has finally made it home. However, this poem also concerns the poet’s own personal journey - it was composed in the first few weeks after Tennyson learned of the death of his friend Arthur Henry Hallam in 1833.
Ulysses, who symbolizes the grieving poet, proclaims his resolution to push onward in spite of the awareness that “death closes all”. As Tennyson himself stated, the poem expresses his own “need of going forward and braving the struggle of life” after the loss of his friend.
The poem’s final line, “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,”
Here is a small piece – if you like, you can google it to see the entire thing.
Ulysses
Alfred Lord Tennyson
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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Before I got my eye put out - Miss Emily D
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Posted:Oct 23, 2012 12:06 pm
Last Updated:Oct 23, 2012 12:09 pm
7807 Views
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I love all of the subtle strengths on display in this poem. Dickinson sets up a binary between the outdoors and the inner life - our secret personal life.
I love the use of dashes in this piece - some anthologies totally remove them - that is a mistake!
We can read this poem literally as a poem from a blind person, but I prefer to think she is exploring our spiritual side and quality.
There is also a connection between sight of something and owning it - if her sight were returned, she wouldn’t just see the “Meadows” and “Mountains” and “Stars.”
She would own them: “That I might have the sky/ For mine.” This possibility is so overwhelming that it might kill her, so “safer—guess—with just my soul/ Upon the windowpane.”
Before I got my eye put out – (336)
By Emily Dickinson {1830–1886}
Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –
But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –
The Meadows – mine –
The Mountains – mine –
All Forests – Stintless stars –
As much of noon, as I could take –
Between my finite eyes –
The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine – to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead –
So safer – guess – with just my soul
Upon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes –
Incautious – of the Sun –
Without sight, she waits inside her house and puts her soul in the place that is usually reserved for looking. Maybe we can all do this - maybe she is encouraging us to do it!
Perhaps. What troubles me about this last stanza is that word “guess” in the first line. She could be saying, “so safer — I guess” this way, and if so, the lack of the word “I” does two things.
For one, it adds a tone of apathy to the speaker’s voice, making her sound exhausted and sad. But it also recalls the speaker’s missing eye: she is missing both an “I” and an “eye.”
An interesting pun, but I think it does more than that. It suggests that in losing her sight, she has lost her self / soul.
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Fall Poetry - To Autumn by John Keats
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Posted:Oct 9, 2012 6:11 am
Last Updated:Oct 23, 2012 11:57 am
7918 Views
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That time of the year again... I always turn to the English romantics.
This piece is arguably one of the greatest short poems ever written.
One of my favs from way back... actually from when I was 14.
A meditation on death...a celebration of life... the possibilities encapsulated here are endless... I always get something new every time I read it
Hope you enjoy.. as I much as I do
TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Vladimir Nabakov and Pale Fire
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Posted:Jul 22, 2012 10:25 am
Last Updated:Jul 22, 2012 10:28 am
8180 Views
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I was reading today about the intersection of the set of writers and poets. It is remarkably small - perhaps James Dickey, Margaret Atwood, Thomas Hardy.... maybe more you might argue... but none-the-less small.
I would include Vladimir Nabokov. If you have ever read Pale Fire, then you are familiar with the poem within the book. He also wrote several separately... in his native tongue and in English as well.
I think specifically of a fav of mine:
Lines Written in Oregon
And I rest where I awoke
In the sea shade — l’ombre glauque —
Of a legendary oak;
Where the woods get ever dimmer,
Where the Phantom Orchids
glimmer —
Esmeralda, immer immer.
You might think he is showing off a bit... but it is a poem about the old world and the new... hence the mingling of various languages (and yeah... he is showing off a bit! lol)
But back to Pale Fire.
Here are the first few lines
If you get a chance... have a look at Pale Fire - it is a fairly modest book and arguably one of the masterpieces of the past 100 years - (I would argue all-time!)
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane
I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky,
And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
10 Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake
Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque,
A dull dark white against the day's pale white
And abstract larches in the neutral light.
And then the gradual and dual blue
As night unites the viewer and the view,
And in the morning, diamonds of frost
20 Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed
From left to right the blank page of the road?
Reading from left to right in winter's code:
A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat:
Dot, arrow pointing back...A pheasant's feet!
Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse,
Finding your China right behind my house.
Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose
Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes?
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