As might be apparent from my posts, I just bought a Faber selection of Gunn chosen by August Kleinzahler today.  I had already noticed the two poems about his mother.

This sentence struck me in the intro, which lead me to think I might come to like him

"If there was one writer these poets (Gunn, Larkin, Elizabeth Jennings) were trying not to sound like it would have been Dylan Thomas, first and foremost."  Sorry, antheil and tinners.  This made me think this guy must be worthwhile.

I think I must be a unique forerunner of a new generation which will be far enough removed from the aesthetic debates of the period in order to appreciate Thomas as well as Larkin and Gunn.

I've never really got into August Kleinzahler's poetry but maybe I will in time. He seems to like aligning himself with Gunn - is that his good taste, or just that they knew each other in San Francisco?

Here's another Gunn poem - a short one:


To another Poet

You scratch my back, I like your taste it's true,
But, Mister, I won't do the same for you,
Though you have asked me twice. I have taste, too.

Here are some lovely lines:

  . . .

  How subtle-secret is your smile! Did you love none then? Nay, I know
  Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with you beside the Nile!

  The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when they saw him come
  Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with thyme.

  He came along the river bank like some tall galley argent-sailed,
  He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters sank.

  He strode across the desert sand: he reached the valley where you lay:
  He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts with his hand.

  You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god your own:
  You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name.

  You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his ears:
  With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous miracles.

  White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your chamber was the steaming Nile!
  And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come and go.

  With Syrian oils his brows were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at noon
  His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger light.

  His long hair was nine cubits' span and coloured like that yellow gem
  Which hidden in their garment's hem the merchants bring from Kurdistan.

  His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of new-made wine:
  The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his eyes.

  His thick soft throat was white as milk and threaded with thin veins of blue:
  And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing silk.

  On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was too bright to look upon:
  For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous ocean-emerald,

  That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of the Colchian caves
  Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the Colchian witch.

  Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed corybants,
  And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his chariot,

  And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter as he rode
  Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding peacock-fans.

  The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon in their painted ships:
  The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a chrysolite.

  The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel bound with cords:
  His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to be his guests.

  Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon's altar day and night,
  Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon's carven house--and now

  Foul snake and speckled adder with their young ones crawl from stone to stone
  For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble monolith!

  Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches in the mouldering gates:
  Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted drums.

  And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced ape of Horus sits
  And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the peristyle

  The god is scattered here and there: deep hidden in the windy sand
  I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent despair.

  And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes silken-shawled,
  Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can span.

  And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his yellow-striped burnous
  To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin.

  Go, seek his fragments on the moor and wash them in the evening dew,
  And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour!

  Go, seek them where they lie alone and from their broken pieces make
  Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions in the senseless stone!

  Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved your body! oh, be kind,
  Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round his limbs!

  Wind round his head the figured coins! stain with red fruits those pallid lips!
  Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren loins!

  Away to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one God has ever died.

  . . .

It's from Wilde's Sphinx isn't it?
I'd like to say that I recognised it immediately, but then I'd be lying.

Some more:

Lest we forget Robert Burns, I present To a Louse:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/oct/13/poem-of-the-week

Tomorrow, DG, tomorrow. (Strangely enough, a word that appears nowhere in the libretto for Peter Grimes.)

Made fame-ful by Carl Orff-eus and Dominick Argento (!) and perhaps others. Any actual luminaries try to set this text? Just wondering.

Here is a poem inspired by Moderator Dough in the Photograph thread! It is quite camp now but presumably was not when first published. Can any one say how the stress in line nine should go? - it can't be "THE ab-BOT of ABER-bro-THOK" can it? One version adds "good old" and that must be the correct one.

            The Inchcape Rock

  No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
  The ship was still as she could be,
  Her sails from heaven received no motion,
  Her keel was steady in the ocean.
 
  Without either sign or sound of their shock
  The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
  So little they rose, so little they fell,
  They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

  The [good old] Abbot of Aberbrothok
  Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
  On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
  And over the waves its warning rung.

  When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
  The mariners heard the warning bell;
  And then they knew the perilous Rock,
  And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

  The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
  All things were joyful on that day;
  The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
  And there was joyaunce in their sound.

  The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
  A darker speck on the ocean green;
  Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
  And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
 
  He felt the cheering power of Spring.
  It made him whistle, it made him sing;
  His heart was mirthful to excess,
  But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

  His eye was on the Inchcape float;
  Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
  And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
  And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

  The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
  And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
  Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
  And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

  Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound.
  The bubbles rose and burst around;
  Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock
  Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

  Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
  He scour'd the seas for many a day;
  And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
  He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

  So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
  They cannot see the Sun on high;
  The wind hath blown a gale all day,
  At evening it hath died away.

  On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
  So dark it is they see no land.
  Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
  For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

  "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
  For methinks we should be near the shore."
  "Now where we are I cannot tell,
  But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

  They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
  Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
  Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,--
  "Oh, Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

  Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
  He curst himself in his despair;
  The waves rush in on every side,
  The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

  But even in his dying fear
  One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
  A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
  The Devil below was ringing his knell.