Birds and poetry (14 Viewers)

[Merlin]

Andrew,
You have just echoed what I was trying to say on a recent post. It is an opinion that I have harboured since I was at college (so many years ago).
In honesty it is the reason, rightly or wrongly why I have 'ignored ' the poetry of Yeats.
Well enough said! It's a personal feeling but I find that 'War Poetry' is the most evocative of all and I have studied it for decades. The saddest thing of all, is that it is still being written.

Merlin

 

[christineredgate]

Interesting selection,Poppy field has to be my fave.Many thanks everyone for keeping this thread running,you all really are a very dedicated little group of true poetry enthusiasts.

 

[Bascar]

Christine, great to hear from you, and to know you still keep an eye on your thread!

Merlin, I can understand how Yeats’s views on the war poets will have coloured your attitude to him. I suspect I approached him from the opposite angle, becoming familiar with, and appreciating, the main body of his work before becoming aware of this aberration on his part. Perhaps Auden had the right perspective when he wrote (in ‘In Memory of W B Yeats’):

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

Something completely different now, a poem from ‘Poetical Sketches’ by that wonderful genius, William Blake, written when he was about 14 years of age:

Mad Song

The wild winds weep
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault
Of paved heaven,
With sorrow fraught
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe,
After night I do crowd,
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east,
From whence comforts have increas'd;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

William Blake


Andrew

 

[Mickymouse]

Thanks for posting the Brian Turner poems Bascar, there must be something wrong with me but I like that style of poetry most of all, wistful sad and short to the point. Not sure like is the right word but I can't think of another.

Mick

 

[rozinante]

How many poems can you think of where birds are either the main topic of the poem or they are given a mention.

I can't believe we haven't had this one yet:-

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 named 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 mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 marvelled 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe

 

[scampo]

Wonderful stuff from Poe, Rozinante. Once you start reading you can't stop!

 

[scampo]

Mad Song

The wild winds weep
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.
...

William Blake
Andrew

Amazing for a fourteen year old. I am fascinated with Blake's work and am currently struggling (truly) through Northrop Frye's "Fearful Symmetry - A Study of William Blake"! I was hoping it would enlighten me to Blake's complex symbolism but sadly, it's having the opposite effect!

 

[deborah4]

Think this thread's rejuvenated a childhood love of poetry! Loved Poe's 'Raven', Rozinante.

Here's one of my favorite Tennyson poems - great imagery and some great Classical verse to ponder the meaning of:

The Progress of Spring

THE groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea,
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold
That trembles not to kisses of the bee:
Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves
The spear of ice has wept itself away,
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves
O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.
She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run;
The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;
Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,
Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bar
To breaths of balmier air;

Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her,
About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays,
Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker,
The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze,
While round her brows a woodland culver flits,
Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks,
And in her open palm a halcyon sits
Patient--the secret splendour of the brooks.
Come Spring! She comes on waste and wood,
On farm and field: but enter also here,
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood,
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere,
Lodge with me all the year!

Once more a downy drift against the brakes,
Self-darken'd in the sky, descending slow!
But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes
Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow.
These will thine eyes not brook in forest-paths,
On their perpetual pine, nor round the beech;
They fuse themselves to little spicy baths,
Solved in the tender blushes of the peach;
They lose themselves and die
On that new life that gems the hawthorn line;
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by,
And out once more in varnish'd glory shine
Thy stars of celandine.

She floats across the hamlet. Heaven lours,
But in the tearful splendour of her smiles
I see the slowl-thickening chestnut towers
Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles.
Now past her feet the swallow circling flies,
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand;
Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes,
I hear a charm of song thro' all the land.
Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is glad
To roll her North below thy deepening dome,
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad,
And these low bushes dip their twigs in foam,
Make all true hearths thy home.

Across my garden! and the thicket stirs,
The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets,
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs,
The starling claps his tiny castanets.
Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove,
And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew,
The kingcup fills her footprint, and above
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue.
Hail ample presence of a Queen,
Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay,
Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green,
Flies back in fragrant breezes to display
A tunic white as May!

She whispers, 'From the South I bring you balm,
For on a tropic mountain was I born,
While some dark dweller by the coco-palm
Watch'd my far meadow zoned with airy morn;
From under rose a muffled moan of floods;
I sat beneath a solitude of snow;
There no one came, the turf was fresh, the woods
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales below
I saw beyond their silent tops
The steaming marshes of the scarlet cranes,
The slant seas leaning oll the mangrove copse,
And summer basking in the sultry plains
About a land of canes;

'Then from my vapour-girdle soaring forth
I scaled the buoyant highway of the birds,
And drank the dews and drizzle of the North,
That I might mix with men, and hear their words
On pathway'd plains; for--while my hand exults
Within the bloodless heart of lowly flowers
To work old laws of Love to fresh results,
Thro' manifold effect of simple powers--
I too would teach the man
Beyond the darker hour to see the bright,
That his fresh life may close as it began,
The still-fulfilling promise of a light
Narrowing the bounds of night.'

So wed thee with my soul, that I may mark
The coming year's great good and varied ills,
And new developments, whatever spark
Be struck from out the clash of warring wills;
Or whether, since our nature cannot rest,
The smoke of war's volcano burst again
From hoary deeps that belt the changeful West,
Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of men;
Or should those fail, that hold the helm,
While the long day of knowledge grows and warms,
And in the heart of this most ancient realm
A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms
Sounding 'To arms! to arms!'

A simpler, saner lesson might he learn
Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Spring.
Thy leaves possess the season in their turn,
And in their time thy warblers rise on wing.
How surely glidest thou from March to May,
And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind,
Thy scope of operation, day by day,
Larger and fuller, like the human mind '
Thy warmths from bud to bud
Accomplish that blind model in the seed,
And men have hopes, which race the restless blood
That after many changes may succeed
Life, which is Life indeed.

Alfred Tennyson

 

[scampo]

"Thro' manifold effect of simple powers—
I too would teach the man
Beyond the darker hour to see the bright,"

Tennyson doesn't get the attention he used to, that's for sure. Thanks for posting this, Deborah, and reminding us of why he was once so revered. I suppose my favourite lines of his come from his poem, "Ulysses". I think I've posted them before but they're worthy of a repeat, I'm sure:

from Ulysses

‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are—
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

[Bascar]

Deborah and Steve, wonderful poems from Tennyson.

“One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Reminiscent of Paradise Lost?

“What though the field be lost?
All is not lost—the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?”

By the way, good luck with ‘Fearful Symmetry’, Steve! Strong meat indeed!

Rozinante, thanks for posting ‘The Raven’. As you say, strange it hasn’t been included before. I was reminded of the splendid spoof-horror film of the same name from the early 1960s, where Vincent Price quoted extracts from the poem in his wonderfully distinctive voice and made it sound really chilling!

Mick, I’m glad the Brian Turner poems struck a chord with you. I found them very compelling.

Andrew

 

[scampo]

By the way, good luck with ‘Fearful Symmetry’, Steve! Strong meat indeed!

Andrew

To be honest it's lost me and I count myself as a reasonably capable thinker with a fairly wide literary experience. I read the first couple of hundred pages then skipped through the rest not in awe but in confusion. I'm not sure that the study makes sense or holds water - but I bow down to his clearly massive knowledge of myth and religious writing. Paradise Lost and Milton received lots of space, too - there is clearly a whole raft of theological/cosmological allusion out there that needs a very special kind of brain to come to terms with.

What is certain, trying to understand what Blake's "Songs" mean is a near impossibility. They are certainly parable like in their density with layer after layer of potential meaning.

 

[Nerine]

‘The Crock of Gold’. Have you ever read it? If not, do try and get hold of a copy for I think you would enjoy it.


Andrew

Hi Andrew, no I have not read this, thanks so much for the recommendation!

"Mad Song" - what an extraordinary brain Blake had. Fancy writing that at 14 years old!

Thanks for posting that fine poem by Poe, "The Raven", Rozinante. I enjoyed reading it.

Some wonderful lines in Tennyson's "The Progress of Spring", Deborah. I love:
"The starling claps his tiny castanets." Wonderful poem.

And Steve, you've chosen beautiful lines by Tennyson too. Great reading.


Where I live it's PELTING down with RAIN at this moment, the longest day and first of summer. I came across this by Philip Larkin which I'll post. I don't actually feel the same way as "Mother", nor the author, Summer is probably my favourite time of year and I don't mind thunderstorms but I love the words in this delightful little poem.

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunderstorms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost.

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone;
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

Philip Larkin

Nerine

 

[scampo]

A Larkin poem I hadn't read in years, Nerine - and a little beauty. One of our finest poets.

 

[rozinante]

This one doesn't do a lot for me but is on topic.


THE WATCHERS

THE cottages all lie asleep;
The sheep and lambs are folded in
Winged sentinels the vale will keep
Until the hours of life begin.


The children with their prayers all said
Sleep until cockcrow shall awake
The gardens in their gold and red
And robins in the bush and brake.


The fields of harvest golden-white,
The fields of pasture rich and green,
Sleep on nor fear the kindly night,
The watching mountains set between.


The river sings its sleepy song,
Nought stirs the wakeful owl beside:
Our peace is builded sure and strong
No evil beast can creep inside.


St Patrick and St Brigid hold
The vale its little houses all,
While men-at-arms in white and gold
Glide swiftly by the outer wall.


St Brendan and St Kevin pluck
The robes of God that He may hear--
And Colum: "Keep the Irish flock
So that no shame or sin come near."


What news of Belgian folk to-day?
How fare the village and the town?
O Belgium's all on fire they say,
And all her towers are toppling down.


What are her angels doing then,
And are the Belgian saints asleep,
That in this night of dule and pain
The Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep?

from Flower of Youth: Poems in War Time, Tynan, Katharine

 

[rozinante]

He Reproves The Curlew
by William Butler Yeats

O CURLEW, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.

 

[scampo]

THE WATCHERS

THE cottages all lie asleep;
The sheep and lambs are folded in
...

What are her angels doing then,
And are the Belgian saints asleep,
That in this night of dule and pain
The Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep?

from Flower of Youth: Poems in War Time, Tynan, Katharine

An odd poem with its imagery. I wonder when in the war it was written.

 

[Bascar]

What is certain, trying to understand what Blake's "Songs" mean is a near impossibility. They are certainly parable like in their density with layer after layer of potential meaning.

Eg this little gem from Songs of Experience?


The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

William Blake

Interesting comments about Fearful Symmetry, Steve. I only know Frye from The Anatomy of Criticism, which I have dipped into on occasion, and that is quite daunting enough. I don’t think I will be putting FS on my Christmas list, even though I would welcome some help with The Fly!!

Andrew

 

[Bascar]

Nerine, that is a superb little poem from Larkin (‘Mother, Summer, I’). He touches on the same theme in the last stanza of this poem:


May Weather

A month ago in fields
Rehearsals were begun;
The stage that summer builds
And confidently holds
Was floodlit by the sun
And habited by men.

But parts were not correct:
The gestures of the crowd
Invented to attract
Need practice to perfect,
And balancing of cloud
With sunlight must be made;

So awkward was this May
Then training to prepare
Summer’s impressive lie –
Upon whose every day
So many ruined are
May could not make aware.

Philip Larkin


Andrew

 

[Bascar]

Rozinante, thanks for posting the poem from Katharine Tynan. I was intrigued to note that she had written a poem called ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’ and wondered if this was the origin of the title of Ken Loach’s film last year about the Black and Tans. Apparently not, however: both the film and Tynan’s poem derived their titles from an earlier ‘Fenian’ ballad written by Robert Dwyer Joyce. Here is Katharine Tynan’s (less dramatic) poem.

The Wind that Shakes the Barley

There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Above the uplands drenched with dew
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.

Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.

Katharine Tynan


Andrew

 

[Tyke]

Great poems!

Rozinante-The Raven still makes the blood run cold-what a master of "Gothic Horror" Poe was!

Nerine-Mother, Summer, I is a lovely poem-must say I have a similar seasonal preference myself!

Andrew-I liked your Larkin poem too, and The Wind that Shakes the Barley appeals very much.This also is from Katherine Tynan :-

The Doves


The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.

Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.

Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.

What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place ?

What wind, bitter and wild,
Has swept the towering trees
Beneath whose shade a child
Long since gathered heartease ?

Under the golden eaves
The house is still and sad,
As though it grieves and grieves
For many a lass and lad.

The cushat doves complain
All day in the still weather;
Where once were nine or ten
But two keep house together.

Katharine Tynan

________________________
Colin