# Literature & Poetry



## Lara (Oct 30, 2017)

I've always longed for a Literature and Poetry forum in the Senior Forums...but a thread might work well enough here in the "English Language" forum.  I'll start with Edgar Allan Poe since tomorrow is Halloween. After a day or two of Poe (or others from the dark side suitable for halloween), feel free to move on to other literary figures or poets or subjects at any time. Post your thoughts or quotes or pics, or serious discussions, etc.








*Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven*

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; —
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore.”


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## RadishRose (Oct 30, 2017)

He's just a Poe boy, from a Poe family   :lofl:


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## Lara (Oct 30, 2017)

Good find RadishRose (oops, where'd it go?). I didn't know there was also a song like that. And it's a little creepy too. Perfect for Halloween.

My favorite line in The Raven was "And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain". Okay, it loses it's appeal when taken out of context. It has to be read with the natural rhythm of the rest of the poem, and then it rolls off the tongue like butter.

"Quoth the Raven, Evermore" is probably the most familiar phrase from the poem, so I enlarged it a little.


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## RadishRose (Nov 1, 2017)

I took it out Lara, it was a famous clip from the band Queen, "Bohemian Rhapsody". The quality was very bad. I don't know much about poetry so have nothing to offer here, sadly.


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## RadishRose (Nov 1, 2017)

I did like Poe's story, "The Telltale Heart".


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## Cap'nSacto (Nov 1, 2017)

The poems of Poe, his contemporaries and predecessors, are epic. I have a book of Tennyson's poetry, and one poem about a lost ship goes on for something like 4 pages.

I like haiku. The writer has to tell a complete story, or paint a complete picture, in 3 lines that adhere to 4 rules and a syllable count.

Here's one I like:

Her tears in silence
The strong arms that held her up
Through his thoughts and deeds


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## Cap'nSacto (Nov 1, 2017)

Deep wounds that leave scars
One moment much more must flow
Shadows from the soul


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## Lara (Nov 2, 2017)

RadishRose said:


> I did like Poe's story, "The Telltale Heart".


This is a popular quote that I also like from The Tale Tale Heart:

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

And I like how he is offended when he overhears someone say he's mad but goes on to give his own insight first-hand of his own experience with madness: 

"Why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?"


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## Lara (Nov 2, 2017)

Cap'n Sacto. I love trying my hand at Haiku sometimes. It's harder than it looks when you're trying to minimally express something profound and/or clever...while following the 3-line rule and 5-7-5 syllable rule. And as you say, "tell a complete story or paint a complete painting." I really like your examples. I just did this one for November...

harvest moon, dark skies 
speckled stars shine their light
messengers of hope

`


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## SeaBreeze (Nov 2, 2017)

I don't know much about poetry either, but this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow always is first to pop into my mind.


*The Village Blacksmith
*

         Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

​





​


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## Lara (Nov 2, 2017)

I was unfamiliar with that poem SeaBreeze, and I loved it! I got hung up on the line that reads "He needs must think of her once more" in the 6th stanza. I thought it must be a typo until I watched your video. The way the narrator read that line unwavering as though it made perfect sense, made it sound perfect. I'm so glad you posted the video along with the typed version.


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## SeaBreeze (Nov 2, 2017)

*I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud - William Wordsworth (1770-1850)*


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## rkunsaw (Nov 3, 2017)

This is one of my favorites

[h=3]Big Ed[/h]
Now my tale is of the early years, when the century was new
 And the rankest critters in the Basin were cows and buckaroos.

Picture a saloon in Prineville, where the liquor's flowing free,
 Where gamblers deal up faro and the girls smile easily.

It's early on a weekend - maybe three in the afternoon,
 The pianer's playin somthin  'bout love and a silver moon.

When suddenly the doors burst open and boys, it's a terrible sight...
 A cowboy staggers forward his eyes rolled back to white.

His hands they fairly tremble and his face is chalky pale
 " I come to warn you, Big Ed's comin'... I seen him on the trail!"

There's a moment of deepest silence, but before another breath is drawn,
 The bar empties out like a winter cup when the last of the coffee's gone.

The barkeep, fresh from Ireland, stands frozen to the spot,
 Mindful of his immigration and having second thoughts.

Now the windows start to rattle and the chairs begin to dance
 And the danger hanging in the air holds the barkeep in a trance.

There's a sound of heavy galloping comin' down the street
 And ahead of it an odor like week old vulture meat.

Crashing through the swinging doors and tearing out the wall
 Comes a grizzly being ridden by a man near eight feet tall.

He's got a rattler for a bullwhip and he cracks it overhead.
 And the grizzly's got a logging chain between his teeth instead

Of a snaffle bit and rein, and the rider draws 'em tight
 As he screeches to a halt and slides off to the... right.

Two strides he's to the railin', and he growls to make his point,
 " Barkeep give me whiskey, the best that's in the joint.

Now the Darbyman's been hidin' behind the tavern sink,
 But he hastens with a shotglass and pours the man a drink.

With a look of raw impatience the stranger knocks it to the floor,
 Bites the neck off of the bottle and spits it out the door.

He tosses back the contents and downs it with a swallow
 And the look he gives the Irishman is cold and grim and hollow.

The barkeep says his rosary, he's thinkin' of his mother
 But trembling courage prompts his lips "Would you care to have another?"

The stranger turns away in silence, he offers not a word,
 Then says "There ain't no time, son, I'm surprised you haven't heard.
If I was you I'd close this joint and set my mount a'runnin',
 I'm just a step ahead of death... Ain't you heard?...Big Ed's a comin'!"


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## Lara (Nov 3, 2017)

oops, I edited my post #9. The syllable count for a 3-line Haiku is correctly 5-7-5. 

*SeaBreeze*, "I Wander Lonely as a Cloud" is near and dear to me because it was my "first love" and and the first poem I ever memorized. Plus, it always makes me happy. It hasn't lost it's magic over the years either.

*rkunsaw*, haha at the last line...didn't see that comin'. What a fun poem and new to me. Thanks for posting it. It's appealing to men too as it's got grit. Men like Sea Ballads too, as do I. Do you know any good ones? I used to have some favorites. Let me dig into this old brain and see if I can recall a short one (they tend to be very long)

Here we go, a Ballad of the Sea...* "Ballad of the Tempest *

WE were crowded in the cabin, 
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- 
It was midnight on the waters, 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 
And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!" 

So we shuddered there in silence,-- 
For the stoutest held his breath, 
While the hungry sea was roaring 
And the breakers talked with death. 

As thus we sat in darkness 
Each one busy with his prayers, 
"We are lost!" the captain shouted, 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand, 
"Isn't God upon the ocean, 
Just the same as on the land?" 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spake in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James T. Fields


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## Lara (Nov 3, 2017)

...And another favorite ballad of the sea. It's longer but well worth the time.


*A Nautical Ballad*

A CAPITAL ship for an ocean trip 
Was The Walloping Window-blind -- 
No gale that blew dismayed her crew 
Or troubled the captain's mind. 
The man at the wheel was taught to feel 
Contempt for the wildest blow, 
And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, 
That he'd been in his bunk below.

The boatswain's mate was very sedate, 
Yet fond of amusement, too; 
And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, 
While the captain tickled the crew. 
And the gunner we had was apparently mad, 
For he sat on the after-rail, 
And fired salutes with the captain's boots, 
In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore's hat 
And dined, in a royal way, 
On toasted pigs and pickles and figs 
And gummery bread, each day. 
But the cook was Dutch, and behaved as such; 
For the food that he gave the crew 
Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns, 
Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will, 
On a diet that's cheap and rude; 
And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook 
In a tub of his gluesome food. 
Then nautical pride we laid aside, 
And we cast the vessel ashore 
On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, 
And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land, 
And trimmed with cinnamon straws; 
And pink and blue was the pleasing hue 
Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws. 
And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge 
And shot at the whistling bee; 
And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats 
As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, 
We fed, till we all had grown 
Uncommonly shrunk, -- when a Chinese junk 
Came by from the torriby zone. 
She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, 
And we cheerily put to sea; 
And we left the crew of the junk to chew 
The bark of the rubagub tree. 

Charles Edward Carryl


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## RadishRose (Nov 3, 2017)

Rkunsaw, I loved Big Ed and was hoping you'd post it- I remember you posted it a long time ago, elsewhere. I even read it to my grandson, who laughed like I did.


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## RadishRose (Nov 3, 2017)

Lara, I also enjoyedA Nautical Ballad!


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## SeaBreeze (Nov 3, 2017)

Another poem I've known since childhood, weird but just listening to the video while reading the words brought a tear near the end.

JOYCE KILMER - TREES

Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was a young American poet who suffered a tragic death in World War I at the age of 31. His poem Trees is probably the most quoted poem in American history.

Joyce Kilmer was born in Brunswick, New Jersey. Following graduation from Columbia University in 1908, he married Aline Murray on June 9, 1908. They had five children - Kenton, Michael, Deborah, Rose, and Christopher. His first collection of poetry, Summer of Love, was published in 1911, and was well received. However, it was the publication of Trees that established his reputation as a major American poet. 

Trees was first published in August 1913 in Poetry Magazine, and then became the title poem in his second collection in 1914, Trees and Other Poems. He became quite prolific and produced three publications in 1917: Literature in the Making, Main Street and Other Poems, and Dreams and Images: An Anthology of Catholic Poets. A Catholic convert in 1913, his poetry exhibits humility and a deep respect for God and nature.

Kilmer joined the National Guard and was transferred to France in October of 1917, where he was shot and killed in the line of duty on July 30, 1918. He was buried there at Oise-Aisne, Fere-eu-Tardenois, and received the Croix de Guerre of France. The Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina was named after him.

We include the poem Trees, The Singing Girl, and his last poem, written on the battlefield in France during World War I six weeks before his death, The Peacemaker.


TREES

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

written February 2, 1913 ​


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## Cap'nSacto (Nov 4, 2017)

Lara said:


> oops, I edited my post #9. The syllable count for a 3-line Haiku is correctly 5-7-5.



Lara, there is an alternative form of haiku that consists of 11 morae (syllables), in three lines of 3, 5, and 3, that has become more popular than traditional 17 morae haiku. It's growing popularity is probably because it requires more skill.


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## Lara (Nov 4, 2017)

*Cap'n,* thank you for that reminder. The 3-5-3 syllable count Haiku would be less fun for me than the 5-7-5 because I enjoy a little more freedom to fully express. The former is too confining but that's just me. 

I like easier crossword puzzles than the one in the NY Times too. The Thomas Joseph-King syndicated one in the daily newspaper is my speed. I used to do it everyday with my mother by phone. The one who finished first would call and go over the answers. Both speed and accuracy are good for the brain (not that kind of speed lol). We had a lot of fun with it. She passed a year ago and I haven't touched it...but now that I'm reminded, it's time to get back to it.

*SeaBreeze, *I can't believe this. I'm embarrassed to admit it but, even though the Joyce Kilmer's Tree poem is the most familiar of all poems, at my age I never knew there was more to it than the first 2 lines. I always thought it was Minimalist poetry. That's all I've ever seen as far as I can remember...which may not be that far these days.  What a treat because it's a beautiful poem and the last two lines are so humble. 

Here's another Ballad of the Sea...

*The Sea Gypsy*

I AM fevered with the sunset, 
I am fretful with the bay, 
For the wander-thirst is on me 
And my soul is in Cathay. 

There's a schooner in the offing, 
With her topsails shot with fire, 
And my heart has gone aboard her 
For the Islands of Desire. 

I must forth again to-morrow! 
With the sunset I must be 
Hull down on the trail of rapture 
In the wonder of the sea. 

Richard Hovey


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## Cap'nSacto (Nov 4, 2017)

Lara said:


> *Cap'n,* thank you for that reminder. The 3-5-3 syllable count Haiku would be less fun for me than the 5-7-5 because I enjoy a little more freedom to fully express. The former is too confining but that's just me.



I thought you did quite well, actually.


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## SeaBreeze (Nov 4, 2017)

Lara said:


> *SeaBreeze, *I can't believe this. I'm embarrassed to admit it but, even though the Joyce Kilmer's Tree poem is the most familiar of all poems, at my age I never knew there was more to it than the first 2 lines. I always thought it was Minimalist poetry. That's all I've ever seen as far as I can remember...which may not be that far these days.  What a treat because it's a beautiful poem and the last two lines are so humble.



I was never really a poetry buff Lara, and I only knew the first two stanzas.  When you started this thread though, a few poems I knew of years ago just popped into the ol' noggin'. :sentimental:


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## SeaBreeze (Nov 4, 2017)

I just knew the first stanza of this well know poem, actually used to sing it with a little tune.

The Barefoot Boy

by John Greenleaf Whittier

    Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace:
From my heart I give thee joy—
I was once a barefoot boy!

     O, for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,

     O, for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey bees;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!

     Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

"The Barefoot Boy" by John Greenleaf Whittier. 1855. Public domain.


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## drifter (Nov 4, 2017)

I like "Big Ed."

Also like some of these: 
Over the wintryforest, 
winds howl in  rage
with no leaves to blow.

by Soseki (1275-1351)​


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## drifter (Nov 4, 2017)

Also, one of my long time favorites is Jennny Joseph's, "Warning."


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## drifter (Nov 9, 2017)

After 1992 and because the Japanese use sound whereas the English use syllables due to the differ3endce in the two languages, free form is now also used to write Haiku poetry. As 
this:

across the arroyo
deep scars
of a joy ride


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## Meanderer (Nov 9, 2017)




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## Radrook (Apr 20, 2018)

*This is one of my favorites:






Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening*


BY ROBERT FROST

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.


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## Lara (Apr 20, 2018)

One of my favorites too Radrook. I can feel being drawn to the quiet solitude before he pulls himself away for his duties. You know, Nehru used to keep this poem folded on a piece of paper under his pillow and would read it every morning to remind him of his commitment to his Nation of India as their Prime Minister...the last 4 lines.


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## Radrook (Apr 20, 2018)

Lara said:


> One of my favorites too Radrook. I can feel being drawn to the quiet solitude before he pulls himself away for his duties. You know, Nehru used to keep this poem folded on a piece of paper under his pillow and would read it every morning to remind him of his commitment to his Nation of India as their Prime Minister...the last 4 lines.




I didn't know that Nehru read Robert Frost. I think that your suggestion of having a special area for members to post their literary work for peer review is an excellent one. 
In fact, I was hoping that thee would be one here.  You have my full cooperation if you manage to set one up.


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## Lara (Apr 20, 2018)

Thank you Radrook for your show of support but I suggested a forum for member's literary work a while back and was told that the place for that is in the "Diaries" forum.


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## Lara (Apr 20, 2018)

Radrook said:


> I didn't know that Nehru read Robert Frost.


Nehru (Born1889-1964/PM of India1947-64) studied at Trinity college, Cambridge; Law School, London in 1907so maybe that's where he picked up on it.

Dr. B ILANGO, "A beautiful poem in simple language but with a deeper connotation. It subtly extols the finer aspects of life, namely, righteousness, humanism, love for animals and commitment to duty without indulgence in selfish pleasures. He expresses his feeling of guilt, for having entered or trespassed into woods belonging to another person, without informing him, in the first stanza. Next, he feels sorry for the little horse, left in the dark, without food or water, displaying his humanism for animals. Although he loves the sight of nature, he is urged to move away due to his commitment to duty.​The last 4 lines are oft quoted by many; Jawaharlal Nehru loved this poem and used it to remind him of his commitment to the nation, by keeping this poem in a piece of paper underneath his pillow and reading it every night before retiring to bed! In a way, Nehruji gave a boost to the popularity of this poem."


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## Radrook (Apr 21, 2018)

Lara said:


> Nehru (Born1889-1964/PM of India1947-64) studied at Trinity college, Cambridge; Law School, London in 1907so maybe that's where he picked up on it.
> 
> Dr. B ILANGO, "A beautiful poem in simple language but with a deeper connotation. It subtly extols the finer aspects of life, namely, righteousness, humanism, love for animals and commitment to duty without indulgence in selfish pleasures. He expresses his feeling of guilt, for having entered or trespassed into woods belonging to another person, without informing him, in the first stanza. Next, he feels sorry for the little horse, left in the dark, without food or water, displaying his humanism for animals. Although he loves the sight of nature, he is urged to move away due to his commitment to duty.​The last 4 lines are oft quoted by many; Jawaharlal Nehru loved this poem and used it to remind him of his commitment to the nation, by keeping this poem in a piece of paper underneath his pillow and reading it every night before retiring to bed! In a way, Nehruji gave a boost to the popularity of this poem."



Sometimes I tend to forget that India acquired a second language via English colonization. They speak it with an accent but speak and understand it very well indeed.
When I first started writing poetry Robert Frost was one of the poets I tried to emulate. His rhyme scheme in this  particular poem provided me with a method that I enjoy using. Another poet whom I read frequently was Emily Dickinson, even though sometimes her innovative off-rhymes were a bit distracting. But she has so many good ones and her ability to convey so much depth with so few words greatly impressed me. Alfred Lord Tennyson was the one who impressed me most. Especially with his poem Marianna. I will post it for those who might be unfamiliar with it.  It is truly demonstrates his great command of language.


*Mariana
*

*BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON*

_"Mariana in the Moated Grange" 
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure) 
_


With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all: 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 

The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: 

Unlifted was the clinking latch; 

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 

Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



Her tears fell with the dews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 

She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 

After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 

She drew her casement-curtain by, 

And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 

The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 

Came to her: without hope of change, 

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 

About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 

And o'er it many, round and small, 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 

Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark: 

For leagues no other tree did mark 

The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said "I am aweary, aweary 

I would that I were dead!" 



And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 

In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 

But when the moon was very low 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 

The shadow of the poplar fell 

Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, 

Or from the crevice peer'd about. 

Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors 

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 

Old voices called her from without. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 

Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then said she, "I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said; 

She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were dead!"


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## Radrook (Apr 21, 2018)

Lara said:


> Thank you Radrook for your show of support but I suggested a forum for member's literary work a while back and was told that the place for that is in the "Diaries" forum.



Welcomed! Thanks for the info. I will go there and take a look.


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## Pink Biz (Apr 5, 2020)




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## Pink Biz (Apr 11, 2020)




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## Old&InTheWay (Apr 26, 2020)

From a recent winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature:
"the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face."


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## Old&InTheWay (Apr 26, 2020)

From this edition: 


 


> _Edna St. Vincent Millay_
> 
> 
> *Even in the moment of our earliest kiss*
> ...


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## ohioboy (Apr 17, 2021)

Lara said:


> I've always longed for a Literature and Poetry forum in the Senior Forums...but a thread might work well enough here in the "English Language" forum.  I'll start with Edgar Allan Poe since tomorrow is Halloween. After a day or two of Poe (or others from the dark side suitable for halloween), feel free to move on to other literary figures or poets or subjects at any time. Post your thoughts or quotes or pics, or serious discussions, etc.
> 
> 
> 
> ...





Lara said:


> I've always longed for a Literature and Poetry forum in the Senior Forums...but a thread might work well enough here in the "English Language" forum.  I'll start with Edgar Allan Poe since tomorrow is Halloween. After a day or two of Poe (or others from the dark side suitable for halloween), feel free to move on to other literary figures or poets or subjects at any time. Post your thoughts or quotes or pics, or serious discussions.


Lara, I suggest ordering the book The Everything guide to Edgar Allan Poe, subtitled The life, times, and work of a tormented genius.

by Shelley Costa Bloomfield, PhD.

Excellent reading. In it she writes that Poe said it took him 3 months to write The Raven.

I toured his home in Philadelphia, the basement was spooky. I also stopped by his house in Baltimore but it was closed for the season, so I just walked around looking. I visited his grave in Baltimore, it sits on the corner of the church graveyard you can see clearly from the street.

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/822/edgar-allan-poe


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## ohioboy (Apr 17, 2021)

SeaBreeze said:


> Another poem I've known since childhood, weird but just listening to the video while reading the words brought a tear near the end.
> 
> JOYCE KILMER - TREES
> 
> ...


Trees, was set to music in an episode of the Little Rascals, Alfalfa sings it, not a bad melody.


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## Dana (Apr 17, 2021)

One of my favourite Australian poems...



My Country….

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!

A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold -
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

By Dorothea Mackellar.

Dorothea Mackellar was born in Sydney in 1885 into a well-established, wealthy family, and was educated privately at the University of Sydney. At 19 years old she wrote a poem, 'My Country', the second verse of which is perhaps the best known stanza in Australian poetry. Her family owned substantial properties in the Gunnedah district of New South Wales and it is in this town which claims her as their own, there a statue of her on horseback has been erected.

Dorothea died in 1968


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## Shalimar (Apr 17, 2021)

How magnificent


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## Dana (Apr 18, 2021)

Shalimar said:


> How magnificent


Thanks   woud love to read Lara's opinion on my Aussie choice!


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## Lara (Apr 18, 2021)

@ohioboy Thank you for bringing my thread to my attention. I forgot all about it. I even said in the OP that I'd always longed for a Literature and Poetry thread...then didn't post anything after the middle of 2018. But I guess the thread got hidden and life got in the way. I was MIA for awhile. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying rereading everyone's posts and poems from the beginning now. So many wonderful poems! This makes me happy.

Dana, yes that's a beautiful Aussie poem. I wonder what she meant by "A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"? Maybe that the whiteness of the bark was so bright it upstaged the moonlight? I couldn't quite place her accent in the video. It didn't sound quite aussie to me...maybe British? I'm probably wrong about that. I read she was born in Sydney and her family owned a lot of land there but did she move to England? Anyway, I love when poets read their own poetry because only they know when to pause, emphasize, and add just the right degree of emotion.


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## Meanderer (Apr 18, 2021)




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## RnR (Apr 18, 2021)

Lara said:


> @ohioboy Thank you for bringing my thread to my attention. I forgot all about it. I even said in the OP that I'd always longed for a Literature and Poetry thread...then didn't post anything after the middle of 2018. But I guess the thread got hidden and life got in the way. I was MIA for awhile. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying rereading everyone's posts and poems from the beginning now. So many wonderful poems! This makes me happy.
> 
> Dana, yes that's a beautiful Aussie poem. I wonder what she meant by "A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"? Maybe that the whiteness of the bark was so bright it upstaged the moonlight? I couldn't quite place her accent in the video. It didn't sound quite aussie to me...maybe British? I'm probably wrong about that. I read she was born in Sydney and her family owned a lot of land there but did she move to England? Anyway, I love when poets read their own poetry because only they know when to pause, emphasis, and add just the right degree of emotion.


_"A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"_

A 'stark white ring-barked forest' in the Clarence valley of northeastern New South Wales in 1997. These trees, eucalypts of various species, were killed in the early 1970s. Such land-clearing scenes were common across the pastoral lands of eastern Australia around the turn of the century when Mackellar wrote 'My Country'. Source.


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## Dana (Apr 18, 2021)

Lara said:


> @ohioboy Thank you for bringing my thread to my attention. I forgot all about it. I even said in the OP that I'd always longed for a Literature and Poetry thread...then didn't post anything after the middle of 2018. But I guess the thread got hidden and life got in the way. I was MIA for awhile. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying rereading everyone's posts and poems from the beginning now. So many wonderful poems! This makes me happy.
> 
> Dana, yes that's a beautiful Aussie poem. I wonder what she meant by "A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"? Maybe that the whiteness of the bark was so bright it upstaged the moonlight? I couldn't quite place her accent in the video. It didn't sound quite aussie to me...maybe British? I'm probably wrong about that. I read she was born in Sydney and her family owned a lot of land there but did she move to England? Anyway, I love when poets read their own poetry because only they know when to pause, emphasis, and add just the right degree of emotion.



Hi Lara, back in the 1870s during the earliest years of British settlement in New South Wales, Australia, a system of “ringbarking” trees existed and even done to a lesser extent today. This is a method used to destroy trees by completely stripping off a part of the bark of a tree around the circumference of the main trunk or branches.

The tree died without the hard work of actually felling them. In that way, the tree population was controlled but this left a “stark” and thinned out forest which greatly upset young Dorothea who adored her Australia …I suppose her lament to the moon reflects this.

She was born in Australia but left with her parents at age 18 or so to spend years travelling around Europe. All the time she was abroad she missed Australia and I believe she was 19 when she wrote My Country. She spoke four languages, so I guess her accent might have been a mix of languages!

Glad you enjoyed the poem  and the reading by Dorothea herself!
.


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## Dana (Apr 20, 2021)

There Will Come Soft Rain
by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn

Would scarcely know that we were gone.


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## Lara (Apr 20, 2021)

I never read that poem before. It's very tender and poignant. I really liked it.


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