Literature & Poetry
- Thread starter Lara
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This is one of my favorites:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Lara
Friend of the Arts
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic Coast
One of my favorites too Radrook. I can feel being drawn to the quiet solitude before he pulls himself away for his duties. You know, Nehru used to keep this poem folded on a piece of paper under his pillow and would read it every morning to remind him of his commitment to his Nation of India as their Prime Minister...the last 4 lines.
I didn't know that Nehru read Robert Frost. I think that your suggestion of having a special area for members to post their literary work for peer review is an excellent one.
In fact, I was hoping that thee would be one here. You have my full cooperation if you manage to set one up.
Lara
Friend of the Arts
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic Coast
Thank you Radrook for your show of support but I suggested a forum for member's literary work a while back and was told that the place for that is in the "Diaries" forum.
Lara
Friend of the Arts
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic Coast
Nehru (Born1889-1964/PM of India1947-64) studied at Trinity college, Cambridge; Law School, London in 1907so maybe that's where he picked up on it.
Dr. B ILANGO, "
A beautiful poem in simple language but with a deeper connotation. It subtly extols the finer aspects of life, namely, righteousness, humanism, love for animals and commitment to duty without indulgence in selfish pleasures. He expresses his feeling of guilt, for having entered or trespassed into woods belonging to another person, without informing him, in the first stanza. Next, he feels sorry for the little horse, left in the dark, without food or water, displaying his humanism for animals. Although he loves the sight of nature, he is urged to move away due to his commitment to duty.
The last 4 lines are oft quoted by many; Jawaharlal Nehru loved this poem and used it to remind him of his commitment to the nation, by keeping this poem in a piece of paper underneath his pillow and reading it every night before retiring to bed! In a way, Nehruji gave a boost to the popularity of this poem."Sometimes I tend to forget that India acquired a second language via English colonization. They speak it with an accent but speak and understand it very well indeed.
When I first started writing poetry Robert Frost was one of the poets I tried to emulate. His rhyme scheme in this particular poem provided me with a method that I enjoy using. Another poet whom I read frequently was Emily Dickinson, even though sometimes her innovative off-rhymes were a bit distracting. But she has so many good ones and her ability to convey so much depth with so few words greatly impressed me. Alfred Lord Tennyson was the one who impressed me most. Especially with his poem Marianna. I will post it for those who might be unfamiliar with it. It is truly demonstrates his great command of language.
Mariana
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
Welcomed! Thanks for the info. I will go there and take a look.
Pink Biz
SF VIP
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- Suburban Chicago
Pink Biz
SF VIP
- Location
- Suburban Chicago
Old&InTheWay
Member
From a recent winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature:
"the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face."
"the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face."
Old&InTheWay
Member
From this edition:
| |
I've always longed for a Literature and Poetry forum in the Senior Forums...but a thread might work well enough here in the "English Language" forum. I'll start with Edgar Allan Poe since tomorrow is Halloween. After a day or two of Poe (or others from the dark side suitable for halloween), feel free to move on to other literary figures or poets or subjects at any time. Post your thoughts or quotes or pics, or serious discussions, etc.
Edgar Allan Poe, 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 name 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 mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 marveled 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore.”
Lara, I suggest ordering the book The Everything guide to Edgar Allan Poe, subtitled The life, times, and work of a tormented genius.I've always longed for a Literature and Poetry forum in the Senior Forums...but a thread might work well enough here in the "English Language" forum. I'll start with Edgar Allan Poe since tomorrow is Halloween. After a day or two of Poe (or others from the dark side suitable for halloween), feel free to move on to other literary figures or poets or subjects at any time. Post your thoughts or quotes or pics, or serious discussions.
by Shelley Costa Bloomfield, PhD.
Excellent reading. In it she writes that Poe said it took him 3 months to write The Raven.
I toured his home in Philadelphia, the basement was spooky. I also stopped by his house in Baltimore but it was closed for the season, so I just walked around looking. I visited his grave in Baltimore, it sits on the corner of the church graveyard you can see clearly from the street.
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/822/edgar-allan-poe
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Trees, was set to music in an episode of the Little Rascals, Alfalfa sings it, not a bad melody.
One of my favourite Australian poems...
My Country….
The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!
A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold -
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
By Dorothea Mackellar.
Dorothea Mackellar was born in Sydney in 1885 into a well-established, wealthy family, and was educated privately at the University of Sydney. At 19 years old she wrote a poem, 'My Country', the second verse of which is perhaps the best known stanza in Australian poetry. Her family owned substantial properties in the Gunnedah district of New South Wales and it is in this town which claims her as their own, there a statue of her on horseback has been erected.
Dorothea died in 1968
My Country….
The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!
A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold -
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
By Dorothea Mackellar.
Dorothea Mackellar was born in Sydney in 1885 into a well-established, wealthy family, and was educated privately at the University of Sydney. At 19 years old she wrote a poem, 'My Country', the second verse of which is perhaps the best known stanza in Australian poetry. Her family owned substantial properties in the Gunnedah district of New South Wales and it is in this town which claims her as their own, there a statue of her on horseback has been erected.
Dorothea died in 1968
Shalimar
SF VIP
- Location
- Vancouver Island Canada
How magnificent
Thanks
woud love to read Lara's opinion on my Aussie choice!
Lara
Friend of the Arts
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic Coast
@ohioboy Thank you for bringing my thread to my attention. I forgot all about it. I even said in the OP that I'd always longed for a Literature and Poetry thread...then didn't post anything after the middle of 2018. But I guess the thread got hidden and life got in the way. I was MIA for awhile. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying rereading everyone's posts and poems from the beginning now. So many wonderful poems! This makes me happy.
Dana, yes that's a beautiful Aussie poem. I wonder what she meant by "A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"? Maybe that the whiteness of the bark was so bright it upstaged the moonlight? I couldn't quite place her accent in the video. It didn't sound quite aussie to me...maybe British? I'm probably wrong about that. I read she was born in Sydney and her family owned a lot of land there but did she move to England? Anyway, I love when poets read their own poetry because only they know when to pause, emphasize, and add just the right degree of emotion.
Dana, yes that's a beautiful Aussie poem. I wonder what she meant by "A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"? Maybe that the whiteness of the bark was so bright it upstaged the moonlight? I couldn't quite place her accent in the video. It didn't sound quite aussie to me...maybe British? I'm probably wrong about that. I read she was born in Sydney and her family owned a lot of land there but did she move to England? Anyway, I love when poets read their own poetry because only they know when to pause, emphasize, and add just the right degree of emotion.
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RnR
Member
- Location
- Gold Coast, Queensland
"A stark white ring-barked forest; All tragic to the moon"
A 'stark white ring-barked forest' in the Clarence valley of northeastern New South Wales in 1997. These trees, eucalypts of various species, were killed in the early 1970s. Such land-clearing scenes were common across the pastoral lands of eastern Australia around the turn of the century when Mackellar wrote 'My Country'. Source.
Hi Lara, back in the 1870s during the earliest years of British settlement in New South Wales, Australia, a system of “ringbarking” trees existed and even done to a lesser extent today. This is a method used to destroy trees by completely stripping off a part of the bark of a tree around the circumference of the main trunk or branches.
The tree died without the hard work of actually felling them. In that way, the tree population was controlled but this left a “stark” and thinned out forest which greatly upset young Dorothea who adored her Australia …I suppose her lament to the moon reflects this.
She was born in Australia but left with her parents at age 18 or so to spend years travelling around Europe. All the time she was abroad she missed Australia and I believe she was 19 when she wrote My Country. She spoke four languages, so I guess her accent might have been a mix of languages!
Glad you enjoyed the poem
and the reading by Dorothea herself!.
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There Will Come Soft Rain
by Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
by Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Lara
Friend of the Arts
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic Coast
I never read that poem before. It's very tender and poignant. I really liked it.