Walls, portière, bulkheads, and fences! Things that separate your space from mine. In today's world, firms opt for contemporary roomy and open layout to the fractal cubicles. But Frost's immemorial poem about two neighbours tells us why we need these fences. Does it? No, it just narrates one man's staunch assertion on "Good fences make good neighbours." Mending Wall by Robert Frost Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
When you think of Alan Ginsberg, what do you think of? His most acclaimed poem "Howl". Well, there is more to Howl as in more in the book that published this resounding poem and the full title of the book is Howl and Other Poems. "A Supermarket in California" in that other poems is as spacey as it can get where Alan chinwags with Walt Whitman and Federico García Lorca (Spanish poet). The poem reads out like a commentary on a road trip. Yes, a road trip from house to the supermarket. Faces poke and fade but the poem has deeper resonance if you pay close attention. This is Alan Ginsberg (1926- 1997). You cannot imagine someone who winding poems to be bland and stiff. The man has some flamboyant grooming style. He skipped the shaving and hair styling aisle in that supermarket. A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA What thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
You are cautioned not to argue with a child and you better believe it. When you summon William Wordsworth, you visualise him walking across those swaying daffodils to reach you but all that slush imagery has been overthrown by "We are seven". The poem is a dialogue between the speaker and child who refuses to discount her dead siblings. She insists that she still has seven siblings though two have perished. She can reach them, play around them any time she wants unlike her other siblings who are afar out in the sea In their death and burial her loved ones remain close to each other and also close to her in her backyard. We Are Seven ———A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.” Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.” “You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.” “Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. “My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. “And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. “The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. “So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.” “How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” Quick was the little Maid’s reply, “O Master! we are seven.” “But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
With a name like Siegfried Sassoon, you would suspect he is a German but he is as English and wealthy as anyone raised in an affluent Jewish family. Sassoon was disheartened with the wartime horrors that he publicly denounced the valour and pride tied to such military avowal. In his book Counter-Attack and Other Poems, he wrote poetry that not only reminds us of the atrocities sanctioned as national pride during the First World War but also the grim prospects of a sparring and apathetic world. Here are two of my favourite poems from his collection. The Hero 'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said, And folded up the letter that she'd read. 'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed. Quietly the Brother Officer went out. He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine, Had panicked down the trench that night the mine Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried To get sent home, and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care Except that lonely woman with white hair. Does it matter Does it matter? -losing your legs? For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter? -losing you sight? There’s such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light. Do they matter-those dreams in the pit? You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won't say that you’re mad; For they know that you've fought for your country, And no one will worry a bit.
After all the gloom I put you through with death and burial, here is some cheerful dust. Not really, one is about a shooting and the other is about a cremation but before you wallop me for the misery I am putting you through, here is the real "cheer". The poems are witty and narrative. The words are tossed playfully like the slugs from a shotgun in a Western movie. Robert W. Service wrote a book called "Songs of a sourdough". Not it is not a talking bread! sourdough is a person who travelled and explored Northwestern Canada during the Gold Rush. No this is not Californian Gold Rush but this is Yukon Gold Rush in Canada. So we have our sourdough (reminder: The meaning "Arctic prospector or pioneer" is from 1898 Yukon gold rush, from the practice of saving a lump of fermented dough as leaven for raising bread baked during the winter) and Gold Rush (reminder: canada), herein the only thing missing is a poem to commemorate this chilled excitement. "The Cremation of Sam McGee" is funny and full of jest. In short, the speaker fulfils his promise to cremate his friend Sam thinking he is dead. What follows shocks him when gelid Sam kicks back to life from the warmth during cremation which he badly needed in the icy cold. I told you there was cheer if not gold at the end of the digging but you flatly refused to believe me. You may want to follow up his writing with "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" after this. The Cremation of Sam McGee There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. continued here
This poem is gory maybe I should have a Halloween sign "Not advised for younger audience born after 90's or those who are squeamish of razor cuts when they shave". Mark Strand's "Eating Poetry" is macabre and surreal. If Billy Collins made us perform nifty acrobatics on poetic trampoline, Strand has taken it to new levels with his rapacity to eat poetry. Read on... the more I shriek, the more you may faint. Eating Poetry Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
If I say Sir Philip Sidney, you may inquire if I am from the era when dinosaurs roamed on Earth. There's a reason I selected this poem. The year is 1590, a man is wooing his Lady Love, there is no internet or snapchat. But the heart flutters and wants the same tingles back then also and that is how sonnets were born and sold to people. A forlorn and dejected lover reads these lines in the sonnets like self-help tips in lifehack blogs of today and nods his head, "Philipphi I totally get what you are saying. I've been there. You are way cool then I thought broh". Our Philip wrote such poetry and his most acclaimed work is folio of 108 sonnets and 11 songs called "Astrophil and Stella". Astrophil , from "aster" ("star" in Greek) + "phil" ("lover" in Greek) Stella, from "stella" ("star" in Latin) Our hero, Astrophil, the star lover chases his star-eyed Stella in this romance drama which is not different from the melodrama on our cable. In the below sonnet, Astrophil finds solace in his sidekick or satellite mate, the pensive moon, and reflects whether his counteract in the sky is having similar courtship challenges with the celetial wiles of heavenly companions. With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies (Sonnet in Astrophil and Stella) With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case: I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call ‘virtue’ there—ungratefulness?
When you know that a man is from Mexico, won Nobel prize in 1990, and takes a royal name, he must have written striking poetry in that amalgamation of inheritance and introspection. In fact , he did! I love these below poems of Octavio Paz. Proem is about a poem. Why Pro-em then? It is a poem about poem in prose. Yes, proh-em. Mark Strand ate poems, Billy Collins freed enslaved poems from a chair, but Octavio sends poems on a voyage and relays its experience to us. Proem At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death; the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens; the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments; the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page; the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses, for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert; the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self; the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl; the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought; the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands; the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language; the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love. Syllables seeds. (Read again to understand the ending "Syllables seeds") His poems make a nice read. Another one, this time a short one. In my body you search the mountain for the sun buried in its forest. In your body I search for the boat adrift in the middle of the night.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (STC) is preeminent amongst Romantic poets of the 18th century. He boldly went on foot where no poet has gone before. Except, they were not his feet, they were the metrical feet of poetry. In a letter to his son, Coleridge devises a mnemonic sequence to memorise the metrical feet in poetry. I wish all dads were like him who could lend a hand or foot to memorise dense formulas in science and mathematics. Toast to the papa-sonny bonding time. Here's an amusing poem from STC to unscrew tight and clunky jargon in poetry. Metrical Feet Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks, strong foot!, yet ill able Ever to come up with Dactyl's trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long. With a leap and a bound the swift Anapests throng. One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride – First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred Racer. If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise, And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies; Tender warmth at his heart, with these meters to show it, With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet – May crown him with fame, and must win him the love Of his father on earth and his father above. My dear, dear child! Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge See a man who so loves you as your fond S.T. Coleridge.
