The Poetry Thread

[Snarky]

Inspired by discussion of Blake and Dylan in General Discussion: a thread to post a poem you like.

Here's one that could be about sex and love and sin, or STDs, or twisted obsession, or about corruption in general... It's enigmatic enough to resist any one simple explanation, but the poetic image it paints is strikingly vivid.

The Sick Rose
William Blake

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

[jwalt]

Thomas Hardy (1840â€"1928).  Wessex Poems and Other Verses.  1898.
 
San Sebastian
 
“Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way, 
As though at home there were spectres rife? 
From first to last 'twas a proud career! 
And your sunny years with a gracious wife 
  Have brought you a daughter dear.         
 
“I watched her to-day; a more comely maid, 
As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue, 
Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.” 
â€"“Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too, 
  As it happens,” the Sergeant said.         
 
“My daughter is now,” he again began, 
“Of just such an age as one I knew 
When we of the Line, in the Foot-Guard van, 
On an August morningâ€"a chosen fewâ€" 
  Stormed San Sebastian.         
 
“She's a score less three; so about was sheâ€" 
The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days…. 
You may prate of your prowess in lusty times, 
But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays, 
  And see too well your crimes!         
 
“We'd stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light 
Of burning towers, and the mortar's boom: 
We'd topped the breach but had failed to stay, 
For our files were misled by the baffling gloom; 
  And we said we'd storm by day.         
 
“So, out of the trenches, with features set, 
On that hot, still morning, in measured pace, 
Our column climbed; climbed higher yet, 
Past the fauss'bray, scarp, up the curtain-face, 
  And along the parapet.         
 
“From the batteried hornwork the cannoneers 
Hove crashing balls of iron fire; 
On the shaking gap mount the volunteers 
In files, and as they mount expire 
  Amid curses, groans, and cheers.         
 
“Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form, 
As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on; 
Till our cause was helped by a woe within; 
They swayed from the summit we'd leapt upon, 
  And madly we entered in.         
 
“On end for plunder, 'mid rain and thunder 
That burst with the lull of our cannonade, 
We vamped the streets in the stifling airâ€" 
Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayedâ€" 
  And ransacked the buildings there.         
 
“Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white 
We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape, 
Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight, 
I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shapeâ€" 
  A woman, a sylph, or sprite.         
 
“Afeard she fled, and with heated head 
I pursued to the chamber she called her own; 
â€"When might is right no qualms deter, 
And having her helpless and alone 
  I wreaked my lust on her.         
 
“She raised her beseeching eyes to me, 
And I heard the words of prayer she sent 
In her own soft language…. Seemingly 
I copied those eyes for my punishment 
  In begetting the girl you see!         
 
“So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand 
Like Cain's, when he wandered from kindred's ken…. 
I served through the war that made Europe free; 
I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men, 
  I bear that mark on me.         
 
“And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way 
As though at home there were spectres rife; 
I delight me not in my proud career; 
And 'tis coals of fire that a gracious wife 
  Should have brought me a daughter dear!”         
 

[Andail]

Speaking of Blake; for my son's name giving ceremony, I translated (freely) two verses from The Tyger.
I've previously interpreted The Tyger as a discussion on the theodicé problem, as in, did the one who created the lamb also create the tiger (good vs evil).
However, for this version I went with the more basic question of how and where we're all created.

I'll provide the my translation here, for anyone who reads Swedish:

I vilka djup brann först den glöd
som skiljer levande från död
vem smidde gnistan, klar och blå
vem tordes ge dig vingar då?

Vilka fingrar, vilken röst
formgav hjärtat i ditt bröst
vilka händer gav dess slag
den rytm de har till denna dag

I'm generally a sucker for classical poetry, especially from the English romantic period.

One of my favourite poems from more recent times is Pablo Neruda's I'm explaining a few things:
http://www.swans.com/library/art8/xxx081.html

Here's a very powerful segment:

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

I'll also mention Richard Siken's Scheherazade, if only to include somethig modern:
https://penusa.org/blogs/mark-program/poem-week-scheherazade-richard-siken

And (one of Sweden's greatest poets) Karin Boye's Cherub, translated to English here:
http://www.karinboye.se/verk/dikter/dikter-engelska/cherub.shtml

A slightly older Swedish poem is A Lovesong by Fröding. It's translated to English here:

(En kärleksvisa)

I purchased my love for money,
there was nothing else I could get,
sing angelic, you rasping strings,
sing angelic of lovers yet.

That dream, that never came true,
that dream was angelic to get,
for him, who is banished from Eden,
is Eden an Eden yet.

Just taste those two last lines! Quite amazing.

Other mentions: The Raven by Poe, Goblin Market by Rosetti, most things by Shakespeare.

I might return with more stuff here!

[Snarky]

Wow, that's a lot of poetry about atrocities in Spanish wars!

Nice Blake translation, Andail. What I really like about that poem is how it makes the creation process so tangible, imagining the Creator working in some forge or artisan's workshop: "twisting sinews" like a weaver or rope maker, blowing the spark of life and forging the body like a smith. Yes, I agree that the poem is in some sense about theodicy ("Did he smile his work to see? / Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"), but â€" in keeping with Blake's original theological thinking â€" I think he steps outside the good vs. evil dimension and asks us to reflect on the awe-inspiring, frightening or even cruel dimension of creation, and what that implies about the Creator. The tiger is not evil, but it is terrible in its "fearful symmetry". I think that for Blake, evil is hypocrisy, repression, denial (see for example "The Little Vagabond"), and he asks us to accept the terrible and frightening aspects of creation as part of God's true nature, however difficult and shocking that may be.

I knew the couplet "That dream, that never came true, / that dream was angelic to get" ("Den drömmen, som aldrig besannats, / som dröm var den vacker att få") from somewhere, but I don't think I'd ever read the whole poem. Thanks!

To add to this, two famous love poems (my knowledge of poetry is not deep, so my picks will mostly be famous ones), one in Norwegian and one in English:

Ord over grind
Halldis Moren Vesaas

Du går fram til mi inste grind,
og eg går òg fram til di.
Innanfor den er kvar av oss einsam,
og det skal vi alltid bli.

Aldri trenge seg lenger fram,
var lova som gjalt oss to.
Anten vi møttest tidt eller sjeldan
var møtet tillit og ro.

Står du der ikkje ein dag eg kjem
felle det meg lett å snu
når eg har stått litt og sett mot huset
og tenkt på at der bur du.

SÃ¥ lenge eg veit du vil koma i blant
som no over knastande grus
og smile glad når du ser meg stå her,
skal eg ha ein heim i mitt hus.

The poem ("Words across a gate" â€" the Norwegian "grind" means a gate in a fence) is about intimacy that respects that it cannot and should not ever be total. Roughly:

You step up to my innermost gate,
and I too step up to yours.
Inside of that we are each by ourself,
and remain so forever in course.

etc. (Literal translation here.)

And the other, a seduction poem from 1650 or thereabouts:

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
       But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
       Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

The last two lines are particularly fine, I think. (I'm a sucker for enjambment.) Marvell didn't use an exclamation point, but I think one is implied.

[Blondbraid]

The Hangman by Maurice Ogden feels as relevant today as when it was first written in 1951.
In 1964 it was also turned into a short film.

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame on the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.

And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime,
That Hangman judged with the yellow twist
Of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead;
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raise the gallows-tree?"

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope on the gallows-tree."

And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief.

And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his hangman's cloak.

The next day's sun looked mildly down,
On roof and street in our quiet town
And, stark and black in the morning air,
The gallows-tree on the courthouse square.

And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike,
And his air so knowing and businesslike.

And we cried: "Hangman, have you not done,
Yesterday, with the alien one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed:
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."

He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch the rope when the rope is new."

Then one cried, "Murderer!" One cried, "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"With him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"

And he laid his hand on that one's arm,
And we shrank back in quick alarm,
And we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of fear of his hangman's cloak.

That night we saw with dread surprise,
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute
The gallows-tree had taken root;

Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.

The third he took — we had all heard tell —
Was a usurer and infidel,
And: "What," said the Hangman, "have you to do,
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"

And we cried out: "Is this one he,
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
To try the strength of the gallows-beam."

The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched out comfort hard and long;
And "What concern," he gave us back,
"Have you for the doomed - the doomed and black?"

The fifth.The sixth. And we cried again:
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said, "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."

And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score;
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.

The wings of the scaffold opened wide,
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.

Then through the town the Hangman came
And called in the empty streets my name -
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall
And thought: "There is no one left at all,

For hanging, and so he calls to me
to help pull down the gallows-tree."
And I went out with right good hope
to the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.

He smiled at me as I came down,
To the courthouse square through the silent town,
and supple and stretched in his busy hand,
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.

And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap
And it sprang down with a ready snap—
And then with a smile of awful command,
He laid his hand upon my hand.

"You tricked me, Hangman!" I shouted then.
"That your scaffold was built for other men.
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman, foully lied!"

Then a twinkle grew in his buckshot eye:
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said,
"Not I. For I answered straight and I told you true:
The scaffold was raised for none but you.

"For who has served me more faithfully
Than you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others that might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"

"Dead," I whispered; and amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me;
"First the alien, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky,
None had stood so alone as I -
And the Hangman strapped me, and no voice there
Cried "Stay" for me in the empty square.

[Snarky]

Interesting â€" quite similar to Martin Niemöller's famous quotation ("First they came..."), which apparently took shape over time, from 1946 through the fifties and later.

The best poem I know about the Third Reich is a prophetic Norwegian one written in 1936, "Du må ikke sove" ("You must not sleep", or perhaps more emphatically, "Don't you dare to sleep") by Arnulf Øverland, who ended up in a concentration camp himself. It's one of Norway's most famous poems, but it doesn't render as well in English, unfortunately. Still, I've given it a go:

Do Not Dare To Sleep
Arnulf Øverland

I woke one night from an uncanny dream,
It was like a voice was speaking to me
Far like some distant underground stream.
I rose from my bed: why do you call me?

Do not dare to sleep now! Do not dare to sleep now!
Do not dare believe it's just something you dreamt!
I'm one day condemned.
Overnight they have raised the gallows-awning.
They'll come for me at five in the morning!

Packed is the dungeon in which I sit,
And every blockhouse has dungeon upon dungeon,
We lie here freezing in cells we've been plunged in,
We lie here rotting in sunless pits.

We don't know ourselves what we have in store,
Or who is the next they'll be coming for.
We moan and we scream out â€" so why won't you hear?
Can you do nothing, or do you not care?

None get to see us.
None get to know, what there'll be of us.
And there's more:
None would believe what we here endure.

Denying, you say that it can't be true.
Such evil can not be mankind's nature!
There must be some decent ones with them too.
Oh brother, I wouldn't make that wager!

They said: You must give your life if required.
And give it we did: in vain, unrequited!
The world has forgotten us, we were misled.
Do not return tonight to your bed!

Do not tally up all the yield and expense,
Considering what makes the best business sense.
Make no excuses of house and career,
And that your own focus is properly there.

Don't sit there so safely at home and proclaim:
"Oh, those poor devils, it's sad, what a shame!"
Don't dare to endure so exceedingly well
The outrage that causes no harm to yourself!
I cry with my very last lungful of breath:
You have not the right to simply forget!

Do not forgive them - they know what they do!
They blow on the embers of hatred so cruel.
They like to murder, rejoice to cause pain,
They wish to put our world to the flame!
They wish to drown us all in blood!
Don't believe it? How can you not?

You know it: that schoolboys are marching in song,
Playing at soldiers, in streets they all throng,
Enflamed by the falsehood their mothers swore
To fight for their country and go to war!

You know it: the loathsome national lie
Of heroism and honor and glory â€"
You know the boy yearns to be the hero of the story
You know he dreams of watching his banners fly.

And then to walk out in a hail of steel,
Snagging his flesh on a barb-wire maze
To rot there for Hitler's Aryan race!
Isn't that humankind's purpose, ideal?

I didn't believe it. Too late did I learn.
My judgment is just, my sentence well earned.
My faith was in progress, my faith was in peace,
in work and in brotherhood... love at least!

But if you refuse being slaughtered in flock,
You'll brave it alone on the headsman's block!

I cry in the darkness, oh would I could wake you!
There's only one thing remaining to do:
Defend yourself while you have room to turn in
Save your kids - Europe is burning!

â€"â€"â€"

I shook with cold. I got dressed somehow.
Outside was a glittering starry sky.
Only a smoldering glow in the East
Warned of the same as the nightmare speech:

Morning that from the edge of view came
Rose with a hue of blood and flame
Rose with terror so smothering
It seemed as the stars were sputtering.

I thought: Now the world is turning -
Our age's at an end - Europe is burning!

[Babar]

My literature teacher got quite annoyed with my shallow preferences when he asked about our favourite poems and I mentioned Tennyson's Lady of Shalott as one. I guess he was hoping for something "deeper" . I know the beginning from memory:
On either side the river lie,
Long fields of barley and of rye,
that clothe the wold and meet the sky,
and through the field the road runs by,
To many towered Camelot.

And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lillies blow,
Round the island there below,
The Island of Shalott.
_________
Another poem I know from memory is a Yeats one. Apparently it is part of a thematic series he did about roses and crosses, but I just take it in the sense of adversity making one stronger:
He who measures gain and loss,
When he gave to thee the rose,
Gave to me alone the cross.

Where the blood-red blossom blows,
In a wood of dew and moss,
There thy wandering pathway goes,
Mine where waters brood and toss.

Yet one joy have I held close,
He who measures gain and loss,
When he gave to thee the rose,
Gave to me alone the cross.