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Author Topic: Poetry Appreciation Thread.  (Read 19823 times)
Andy D
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Posts: 3061



« Reply #255 on: 23:33:50, 18-10-2007 »

Went to hear Roger McGough and Brian Patten tonight reading poems to celebrate the 40th anniversary of their Penguin Modern Poets No.10 collection (with Adrian Henri) The Mersey Sound. I've got a copy of the original edition, published in 1967 (and it cost 3/6)



which I took along, but I didn't queue at the end to get it signed - unlike the friend I went with. Hers dates from 1979 but includes a lot more poems than mine, they must have been added later.
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Sydney Grew
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« Reply #256 on: 13:29:40, 21-10-2007 »

. . . this thing of fire
That will not go away.

Mr. Harmony appears to be a Pater enthusiast and we hope the hôtel room suffered no permanent damage.

Here is one we came across to-day in fact just now:

                    UNCLAIMED

  To make love to a stranger is the best.
  There is no riddle and there is no test -

  To lie and love, not aching to make sense
  Of this night in the mesh of reference.

  To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
  And understand, as only strangers may.

  To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
  Preferring neither to prolong nor part.

  To rest within the unknown arms and know
  That this is all there is; that this is so.
                                              --Vikram Seth
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Andy D
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Posts: 3061



« Reply #257 on: 00:53:10, 23-10-2007 »

A very interesting programme about Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress on Radio 4 on Sunday. I heard a bit when I was driving and then caught up on LA. It's a poem I do like very much.

To his Coy Mistress by 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 winged 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 preserv'd 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 am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

It's pretty depressing though isn't it?
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harmonyharmony
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Posts: 4080



WWW
« Reply #258 on: 19:52:58, 23-10-2007 »

It's pretty depressing though isn't it?
Um. No.
Can't read it like that! It's a celebration of the shortness of life. The last stanza is just simply gorgeous to my ear and eye.
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'is this all we can do?'
anonymous student of the University of Berkeley, California quoted in H. Draper, 'The new student revolt' (New York: Grove Press, 1965)
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pim_derks
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Posts: 1518



« Reply #259 on: 10:09:08, 24-10-2007 »

A very interesting programme about Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress on Radio 4 on Sunday. I heard a bit when I was driving and then caught up on LA. It's a poem I do like very much.

That programme will be repeated on Radio 4 coming Saturday at half past eleven in the evening:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/adventuresinpoetry/pip/ub64h/

Here's my favourite poem by Andrew Marvell:


Bermudas

Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean’s bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song.
  'What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs.
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms' and prelates’ rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels everything;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his Name.
Oh let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven’s vault,
Which thence, perhaps, rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.'
  Thus sung they, in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note,
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
Don Basilio
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Posts: 2682


Era solo un mio sospetto


« Reply #260 on: 18:59:41, 25-10-2007 »

Quite extraordinary that the same man, with the same style, celebrates Puritan assertion (in Bermuda) and erotic fun in the earlier poem - I agree with hh rather than Andy - certainly not depressing.
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
Antheil
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« Reply #261 on: 19:22:21, 25-10-2007 »

A site which I like very much to hear poets reading their own works is

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/poetsHome.do
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Reality, sa molesworth 2, is so sordid it makes me shudder
Andy D
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Posts: 3061



« Reply #262 on: 19:35:36, 25-10-2007 »

Reactions to Coy Mistress will, I suspect, depend on personal circumstances, religious beliefs, age, etc. I can't find these lines anything other than depressing:

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
......
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

I've always assumed, as I think Al Alvarez said on the programme, that it wasn't addressed to a real woman - it seems to be more of a metaphysical conceit

I never knew Mar'vell/Mar-vell' lived in Hull, always thought that city's only poetic claim to fame was Larkin.

Another poet I'm never sure how to pronounce is Robert Lowell.
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Don Basilio
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Posts: 2682


Era solo un mio sospetto


« Reply #263 on: 09:40:57, 26-10-2007 »

He was actually MP for Hull.  Two jags Marvell.   (I don't think it grown up to mock the former Deputy Prime Minister, but the contrast is extraordinary...)
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
time_is_now
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Gender: Male
Posts: 4653



« Reply #264 on: 10:05:22, 26-10-2007 »

Another poet I'm never sure how to pronounce is Robert Lowell.
Rhymes with 'bowl' (in the Yorkshire pronunciation Wink).
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
Don Basilio
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Gender: Male
Posts: 2682


Era solo un mio sospetto


« Reply #265 on: 17:24:23, 26-10-2007 »

Captain Marvel and Persil washes whitest are a bit naff, but MarVELL and PurCELL can sound affected.  I recommend stressing the second syllable, but lightly.

(time_is_now - the Schubert avatar looks even sweeter now the distortion has been ironed out.)
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
time_is_now
*****
Gender: Male
Posts: 4653



« Reply #266 on: 17:42:50, 26-10-2007 »

Another poet I'm never sure how to pronounce is Robert Lowell.
Rhymes with 'bowl' (in the Yorkshire pronunciation Wink).
It also half-rhymes with 'bold', as in this poem by Seamus Heaney:


Elegy

The way we are living,
timorous or bold,
will have been our life.
Robert Lowell,

the sill geranium is lit
by the lamp I write by,
a wind from the Irish Sea
is shaking it -

here where we all sat
ten days ago, with you,
the master elegist
and welder of English.

As you swayed the talk
and rode on the swaying tiller
of yourself, ribbing me
about my fear of water,

what was not within your empery?
You drank America
like the heart's
iron vodka,

promulgating art's
deliberate, peremptory
love and arrogance.
Your eyes saw what your hand did

as you Englished Russian,
as you bullied out
heart-hammering blank sonnets
of love for Harriet

and Lizzie, and the briny
water-breaking dolphin -
your dorsal nib
gifted at last

to inveigle and to plash,
helmsman, netsman, retiarius.
That hand. Warding and grooming
and amphibious.

Two a.m., seaboard weather.
Not the proud sail of your great verse ...
No. You were our night ferry
thudding in a big sea,

the whole craft ringing
with an armourer's music
the course set wilfully across
the ungovernable and dangerous.

And now a teem of rain
and the geranium tremens.
A father's no shield
for his child -

you found the child in me
when you took farewells
under the full bay tree
by the gate in Glanmore,

opulent and restorative
as that lingering summertime,
the fish-dart of your eyes
risking, 'I’ll pray for you.'
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
pim_derks
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Gender: Male
Posts: 1518



« Reply #267 on: 17:55:56, 26-10-2007 »

A site which I like very much to hear poets reading their own works is

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/poetsHome.do

Many thanks, Antheil!

I never heard Tennyson before. Cool
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
Andy D
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Posts: 3061



« Reply #268 on: 18:46:46, 26-10-2007 »

It also half-rhymes with 'bold', as in this poem by Seamus Heaney:

Elegy

The way we are living,
timorous or bold,
will have been our life.
Robert Lowell,

Thanks t_i_n, that's a good aide-memoire. I've always tried to link it to how you say Powell but then I can never remember whether it's the same or different. And don't say you rhyme Powell with bowl!
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time_is_now
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Posts: 4653



« Reply #269 on: 18:54:10, 26-10-2007 »

Don't say you rhyme Powell with bowl!
Not unless your first name's Anthony you don't. Wink

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Powell
Quote
According to his memoirs, Powell rhymes with pole (not towel).
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
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