Jump to content
guilluamezenz

Do not go gentle into that good night

Recommended Posts

Auguries of Innocence

 
To see a World in a Grain of Sand 
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Not to be mentioned in the same breath as Blake;  But a minor oddity in the world of poetry was Black Bart.

 

https://www.parks.ca.gov/pages/22491/files/black_barts_poetry.pdf

On Aug 3, 1877, the Wells Fargo & Co. stage, between Point Arenas and Duncan Mills on the Russian River, just north of San Francisco, was robbed.  It was notable for the scrap of paper left behind, in the empty treasure box, missing $300 dollars and a check drawn on Granger's Bank, of San Francisco, on back of a waybill was written:

 

      "I've labored long and hard for bred
               For honor and for riches
        But on my corns to long you've tred
           You fine-haired sons of b*itches"
                   Black Bart , 1877
 
   This was one of many daring thefts by the same highwayman,  Charles E. Boles, alias Black Bart, "The PO8".   On July 25, 1878, he held up the stage between Quincy and Oroville, taking $379.00 in currency, along with jewelry and the US Mail.  He left behind this    message:
                            
Here I lay me down to Sleep    
To wait the coming morrow
Perhaps Success perhaps defeat
And everlasting Sorrow
Let come what will I’ll try it on
My condition can’t be worse
And if there’s money in that Box
‘Tis munny in my purse.”
Black Bart –The PO8
 
 
                                     
 
 
 
Black Bart’s

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Vulture

by Robinson Jeffers

 

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-
feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time
here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.' But how
beautiful
he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the
sea-light
over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak
and
become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes--
What a sublime end of one's body, what an enskyment; what a life
after death.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The Bloody Sire

by Robinson Jeffers

 

It is not bad. Let them play.
Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane
Speak his prodigious blasphemies.
It is not bad, it is high time,
Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values.

What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk’s head?
Violence has been the sire of all the world’s values.

Who would remember Helen’s face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the world’s values.

Never weep, let them play,
Old violence is not too old to beget new values.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
On 11/14/2018 at 5:17 PM, bludog said:

what an enskyment; what a life
after death.

 

That line alone makes the poem worth reading.

 

On 11/14/2018 at 5:33 PM, bludog said:

Never weep, let them play,
Old violence is not too old to beget new values.

 

The fact that reading this made me feel a little ill is proof that it is a great poem, and true.

When a poem can make you feel something, it has something of worth.

 

Thanks for sharing these. I need to get to know the work of this poet.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
1 hour ago, laripu said:

I need to get to know the work of this poet.

 

Me too.  He's little-known, but really should be recognized as one of the greats.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

This is part two of my Trump trio. The first, the Coman's Sonnet, I posted here.  A rondeau will follow one day, to complete the Trump trio.

 

A villanelle is a much harder form than a sonnet. The repetition means it better be interesting. The first poem in this thread (Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night) is a masterful example, a brilliant villanelle. Well, I'm not even 1% as good as that,  so the Villain's Villanelle below is the best I can manage.

 

Villain's Villanelle

 

Easily fooled by a scowling con,

who embraces the flag but misuses the cross.

They love him, who are spat upon.

 

Freedom eroding, by stages gone,

and people barely feel its loss,

easily fooled by a smiling con.

 

And though he brings no greatness on,

they bear no grudge against their boss.

They love him, who are spat upon.

 

Trodden down, they still feed on

the worthless gilt, the flashy dross,

easily fooled by a smiling con.

 

The braggart on the White House lawn

never could have come across.

They love him, who are spat upon.

 

Will they learn this when he is gone:

Their poverty has grown because

they were easily fooled by a smiling con

and loved him, who were spat upon.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl)
by T. S. Eliot

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair —
Lean on a garden urn —
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair —
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise —
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The Wendigo, by Ogden Nash

 

The Wendigo,
The Wendigo!
Its eyes are ice and indigo!
Its blood is rank and yellowish!
Its voice is hoarse and bellowish!
Its tentacles are slithery,
And scummy,
Slimy,
Leathery!
Its lips are hungry blubbery,
And smacky,
Sucky,
Rubbery!

The Wendigo,
The Wendigo!
I saw it just a friend ago!
Last night it lurked in Canada;
Tonight, on your veranada!
As you are lolling hammockwise
It contemplates you stomachwise.
You loll,
It contemplates,
It lollops.
The rest is merely gulps and gollops.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
4 hours ago, bludog said:

The Wendigo!

 

Last night it lurked in Canada;
Tonight, on your veranada!

 

I knew a girl. Saw Wendy go

with an old friend in Ottawa.

I thought she was resplendent, oh!

But all I did was look in awe

and maybe moped a bit, alone.

And sad regret came over me

when Peter took his Wendy home.

 

I sometimes think of Wendy still

though it was thirty years ago, 

and wonder, all against my will,

where did the time, and Wendy, go?

And though this rhymes like crap poems do,

I swear that every word is true. 

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
2 hours ago, laripu said:

I swear that every word is true. 

 

Not to worry.  Had she stayed with you, she probably would have turned out like her namesake, the Wendigo.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
2 hours ago, bludog said:

Not to worry.  Had she stayed with you, she probably would have turned out like her namesake, the Wendigo.

 

Possibly. One never knows. She was a military brat, bit of a tomboy, loved ballet and modern dance, but was too tall to make a career of it.  Instead she got a degree in computer science with a minor in mathematics.

 

The Peter of the story had been my student in a linear algebra course. He became a friend.  Both were considerably younger than me, which explains my (uncharacteristic) restraint.

 

He ended up marrying someone else and they became business owners. I never knew what happened to Wendy, or even her last name.

 

In my mind she's still 21. ☺️

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

 

On 12/3/2018 at 4:22 PM, laripu said:

I thought she was resplendent, oh!

22 hours ago, laripu said:

I never knew what happened to Wendy, or even her last name.

 

Opportunity lost.  It will always remain an infatuation which was not meant to go farther. 

 

23 hours ago, laripu said:

In my mind she's still 21. ☺️

 

Don't we all do this.

 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now

×