Poem of the Day: Henry David Thoreau

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
          By a chance bond together,
     Dangling this way and that, their links
          Were made so loose and wide,
                    Methinks,
               For milder weather.

A bunch of violets without their roots,
          And sorrel intermixed
     Encircled by a wisp of straw
          Once coiled about their shoots,
                    The law
               By which I'm fixed.

A nosegay which Time clutched from out
          Those fair Elysian fields,
     With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
          Doth make the rabble rout
                    That waste
               The day he yields.

And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
          Drinking my juices up,
     With no root in the land
          To keep my branches green,
                    But stand
               In a bare cup.

--Henry David Thoreau

Poem of the Day: Hart Crane

Chaplinesque 

We make our meek adjustments, 

Contented with such random consolations 

As the wind deposits 

In slithered and too ample pockets. 

For we can still love the world, who find

A famished kitten on the step, and know 

Recesses for it from the fury of the street, 

Or warm torn elbow coverts. 

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk 

Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb 

That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us, 

Facing the dull squint with what innocence 

And what surprise! 

And yet these fine collapses are not lies 

More than  the pirouettes of any pliant cane; 

Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise. 

We can evade you, and all else but the heart: 

What blame to us if the heart live on. 

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen 

The moon in lonely alleys make 

A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, 

And through all sound of gaiety and quest 

Have heard a kitten in the wilderness. 

--Hart Crane 

True, there are poems by Crane that seem to me to be nothing more than word salad, but this is not one of them. I think it perfectly conveys both the comic and the sentimental Chaplin, even if like all of Crane's poems it's really about Hart (see "heart" above).

Poem of the Day: Robert Browning

A Toccata of Galuppi's 

1

Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! 

I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; 

But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

2

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings, 

What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, 

Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed to sea with rings?

3 

Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you call

... Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival: 

I was never out of England -- it's as if I saw it all. 

4 

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? 

Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,

When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? 

5 

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red -- 

On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bellflower on its bed, 

O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head? 

6 

Well, and it was graceful of them -- they'd break talk off and afford 

-- She, to bite her mask's black velvet -- he, to finger on his sword,

While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord? 

7 

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, 

Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions -- "Must we die?" 

Those commiserating sevenths -- "Life might last! we can but try!" 

8 

"Were you happy?" "Yes." "And are you still as happy?" "Yes. And you?" 

"Then, more kisses!" "Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?" 

Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to! 

9

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say! 

"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay! 

"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!" 

10 

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one, 

Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,

Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. 

11 

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, 

While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, 

In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. 

12 

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: 

"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.

"The soul, doubtless, is immortal -- where a soul can be discerned.

13 

"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology, 

"Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; 

"Butterflies may dread extinction -- you'll not die, it cannot be! 

14 

"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 

"Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop. 

"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

15 

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. 

Dear dead women, with such hair, too -- what's become of all the gold 

Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

--Robert Browning 

Memento mori. Ubi sunt. Où sont les neiges d'antan? This is Browning's essay into the genre, and a poem I've always rather liked. But I guess I'll have to spoil it for you the way someone did for me, by pointing out that trochaic octameter makes for a rather unwieldy poetic line, even if you drop the last unstressed foot -- as Browning does here, and as Tennyson did in "Locksley Hall." And that the resulting fifteeners in both poems (and Poe's "The Raven") can be sung to the tunes of both "Clementine" and the "Ode to Joy" from the last movement of Beethoven's ninth. (And, of course, you can sing "Herring boxes without topses sandals were for Clementine" to the tune of "Freude, schöne Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium," and vice versa.) But you wouldn't want to do that, would you?

Poems of the Day: Robert Graves

The Cool Web 

Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,
How hot the scent is of the summer rose,
How dreadful the black wastes of the evening sky,
How dreadful the tall soldiers drumming by.

But we have speech, to chill the angry day,
And speech, to dull the rose's cruel scent.
We spell away the overhanging night,
We spell away the soldiers and the fright.

There's a cool web of language winds us in,
Retreat from too much joy or too much fear:
We grow sea-green at last and coldly die
In brininess and volubility.

But if we let our tongues lose self-possession,
Throwing off language and its watery clasp
Before our death, instead of when death comes,
Facing the wide glare of the children's day,
Facing the rose, the dark sky and the drums,
We shall go mad no doubt and die that way.

--Robert Graves

A prolific poet, Graves is probably better known today for his prose, including the harrowing war memoir Good-bye to All That, the historical novel I, Claudius, and his idiosyncratic interpretations of Greek myth. In short, he knew his way about the web of language -- hence, the ambivalence about mediated experience expressed splendidly by this poem. For good measure, here's another wonderful Graves poem about innocence and experience:

Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel --
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
he lives -- he then unties the string.

Poem of the Day: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Tithonus 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
     Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man --
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed
To his great heart none other than a God!
I asked thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,
And beat me down and marred and wasted me,
And though they could not end me, left me maimed
To dwell in presence of immortal youth.
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,
Close over us, the silver star thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift.
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
     A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born,
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renewed.
Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, an the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
     Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
     Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
     Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch -- if I be he that watched --
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dark curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
    Yet hold me not for ever in thine East;
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy bowers of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground.
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn,
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I've always thought that immortality has its downside. Imagine spending eternity in the company of the kind of people who are supposed to merit it, with no one to gossip with and no one to gossip about. The Greeks imagined it differently in the Tithonus myth: an immortal soul in an ever-aging body. If Tennyson had had a sense of humor, he might have made more of that premise, but his poem does have some lovely sounds and images.

Poem of the Day: Jean Toomer

Georgia Dusk 

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
     The setting sun, too indolent to hold
     A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbecue,

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,
     An orgy for some genius of the South
     With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.

The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
     And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
     Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.

Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
     Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
     Where only chips and stumps are left to show
The solid proof of former domicile.

Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
     Race memories of king and caravan,
     High priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.

Their voices rise ... the pine trees are guitars,
     Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain ...
     Their voices rise ... the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars.

O singers, resinous and soft your songs
     Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
     Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.

--Jean Toomer

A great, strange talent, Toomer almost got lost in the infamous "tragic mulatto" myth, becoming a kind of one-book-wonder after the success of Cane. (He lived for 44 years after its publication, never producing another book to be compared with it.) But what gives a poem like this one its unique power is its sense of double consciousness: looking at a scene that's almost a Southern stereotype from both inside and outside, and reporting it in a voice that (as Toomer was himself able to do) merges black participant with white observer.

Poem of the Day: Edgar Allan Poe

Sonnet--To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
     Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
     Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?
     Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To search for treasure in the jeweled skies,
     Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
     And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
     Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

--Edgar Allan Poe

Well, okay, Diana and the Hamadryads and Naiads have pretty much bought it. But wouldn't Poe, and the other Romantics who decried the inroads of science on the territory of the mythic be surprised that, at the beginning of the 21st century, our bestsellers are about vampires and wizards and more Americans reportedly believe in angels than in evolution?              

Poem of the Day: E.E. Cummings

my father moved through dooms of love 

through sames of am through haves of give, 

singing each morning out of each night 

my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where 

turned at his glance to shining here; 

that if (so timid air is firm) 

under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which 

floats the first who,his april touch 

dove sleeping selves to swarm their fates 

woke dreamers to their ghostly roots 

and should some why completely weep 

my father's fingers brought her sleep: 

vainly no smallest voice might cry  

for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea 

my father moved through griefs of joy; 

praising a forehead called the moon 

singing desire into begin 

joy was his song and joy so pure 

a heart of star by him could steer 

and pure so now and now so yes 

the wrists of twilight would rejoice 

keen as midsummer's keen beyond 

conceiving mind of sun will stand, 

so strictly (over utmost him 

so hugely ) stood my father's dream 

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood: 

no hungry man but wished him food;

no cripple wouldn't creep one mile 

uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the pomp of must and shall

my father moved through dooms of feel; 

his anger was as right as rain 

his pity was as green as grain 

septembering arms of year extend 

less humbly wealth to foe and friend 

than he to foolish and to wise 

offered immeasurable is 

proudly and(by octobering flame

beckoned) as earth will downward climb, 

so naked for immortal work 

his shoulders marched against the dark 

his sorrow was as true as bread: 

no liar looked him in the head; 

if every friend became his foe 

he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree 

(and every child was sure that sprin 

danced when she heard my father sing) 

then let men kill which cannot share, 

let blood and flesh be mud and mire, 

scheming imagine,passion willed,

freedom a drug that's bought and sold 

giving to steal and cruel kind, 

a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,

to differ a disease of same,

conform the pinnacle of am 

though dull were all we taste as bright,

bitter all utterly things sweet, 

maggoty minus and dumb death 

all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth 

--i say though hate were why men breathe--

because my father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all

--E.E. Cummings 

I'm not, I fear, a Cummings fan. But many are, so this is for them. And for me it's one of the few Cummings poems that truly justify his typographic trickery and syntactical twists. They depict the struggle to articulate a deep and genuine feeling. (And no, he didn't insist on spelling his name with lowercase letters.)

Poem of the Day: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Chaucer 

An old man in a lodge within a park;
     The chamber walls depicted all around
     With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
     And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
     Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
     He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
     Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
     The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
     Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
     Of lark and linnet, and from every page
     Rise odors of plowed field or flowery mead.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

We suffered through "Hiawatha" or "Evangeline" in school way back when. I don't think they have to put up with all that Gitche Gumee and murmuring pines and hemlocks stuff anymore. In a way it's a pity: 14-year-olds need a good laugh at the moldy oldies. (In my ninth-grade English class, we discovered that  "Evangeline's" dactylic hexameter could be sung to the tunes of several church hymns.) But of course it soured us on old Longfellow and on rumty-tum-tum poetry, and alienated us from our parents and grandparents who cherished it. And it deprived us from learning that Longfellow was not such a bad poet when he wasn't trying to write the Great American Epic. And maybe from encountering this simple and fresh appreciation by a pretty minor poet of a really great one.

Poem of the Day: Wilfred Owen

Dulce et Decorum Est 

Bent  double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 
Pro patria mori.

--Wilfred Owen

Anger is not an emotion conducive to great poetry, except perhaps when it finds its outlet in satire, as in the best poems of Dryden and Pope. And except when the anger is the great anger of war. (The Wrath of Achilles, for example.) And except when the poet is as equal to the task as Owen was, and the war was as futile, brutal, causeless and useless as the First World War.