Literature & Poetry

Lara

Lara

Friend of the Arts
Location
Mid-Atlantic Coast
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.
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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.”

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Good find RadishRose (oops, where'd it go?). I didn't know there was also a song like that. And it's a little creepy too. Perfect for Halloween.

My favorite line in The Raven was "And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain". Okay, it loses it's appeal when taken out of context. It has to be read with the natural rhythm of the rest of the poem, and then it rolls off the tongue like butter.

"Quoth the Raven, Evermore" is probably the most familiar phrase from the poem, so I enlarged it a little.
 

The poems of Poe, his contemporaries and predecessors, are epic. I have a book of Tennyson's poetry, and one poem about a lost ship goes on for something like 4 pages.

I like haiku. The writer has to tell a complete story, or paint a complete picture, in 3 lines that adhere to 4 rules and a syllable count.

Here's one I like:

Her tears in silence
The strong arms that held her up
Through his thoughts and deeds
 
RadishRose said:
I did like Poe's story, "The Telltale Heart".
Click to expand...
This is a popular quote that I also like from The Tale Tale Heart:

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

And I like how he is offended when he overhears someone say he's mad but goes on to give his own insight first-hand of his own experience with madness:

"Why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?"


 
Cap'n Sacto. I love trying my hand at Haiku sometimes. It's harder than it looks when you're trying to minimally express something profound and/or clever...while following the 3-line rule and 5-7-5 syllable rule. And as you say, "tell a complete story or paint a complete painting." I really like your examples. I just did this one for November...

harvest moon, dark skies
speckled stars shine their light
messengers of hope

`
 
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I don't know much about poetry either, but this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow always is first to pop into my mind.


The Village Blacksmith


Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

​



​
 
I was unfamiliar with that poem SeaBreeze, and I loved it! I got hung up on the line that reads "He needs must think of her once more" in the 6th stanza. I thought it must be a typo until I watched your video. The way the narrator read that line unwavering as though it made perfect sense, made it sound perfect. I'm so glad you posted the video along with the typed version.
 
This is one of my favorites

[h=3]Big Ed[/h]
Now my tale is of the early years, when the century was new
And the rankest critters in the Basin were cows and buckaroos.

Picture a saloon in Prineville, where the liquor's flowing free,
Where gamblers deal up faro and the girls smile easily.

It's early on a weekend - maybe three in the afternoon,
The pianer's playin somthin 'bout love and a silver moon.

When suddenly the doors burst open and boys, it's a terrible sight...
A cowboy staggers forward his eyes rolled back to white.

His hands they fairly tremble and his face is chalky pale
" I come to warn you, Big Ed's comin'... I seen him on the trail!"

There's a moment of deepest silence, but before another breath is drawn,
The bar empties out like a winter cup when the last of the coffee's gone.

The barkeep, fresh from Ireland, stands frozen to the spot,
Mindful of his immigration and having second thoughts.

Now the windows start to rattle and the chairs begin to dance
And the danger hanging in the air holds the barkeep in a trance.

There's a sound of heavy galloping comin' down the street
And ahead of it an odor like week old vulture meat.

Crashing through the swinging doors and tearing out the wall
Comes a grizzly being ridden by a man near eight feet tall.

He's got a rattler for a bullwhip and he cracks it overhead.
And the grizzly's got a logging chain between his teeth instead

Of a snaffle bit and rein, and the rider draws 'em tight
As he screeches to a halt and slides off to the... right.

Two strides he's to the railin', and he growls to make his point,
" Barkeep give me whiskey, the best that's in the joint.

Now the Darbyman's been hidin' behind the tavern sink,
But he hastens with a shotglass and pours the man a drink.

With a look of raw impatience the stranger knocks it to the floor,
Bites the neck off of the bottle and spits it out the door.

He tosses back the contents and downs it with a swallow
And the look he gives the Irishman is cold and grim and hollow.

The barkeep says his rosary, he's thinkin' of his mother
But trembling courage prompts his lips "Would you care to have another?"

The stranger turns away in silence, he offers not a word,
Then says "There ain't no time, son, I'm surprised you haven't heard.
If I was you I'd close this joint and set my mount a'runnin',
I'm just a step ahead of death... Ain't you heard?...Big Ed's a comin'!"


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oops, I edited my post #9. The syllable count for a 3-line Haiku is correctly 5-7-5.

SeaBreeze, "I Wander Lonely as a Cloud" is near and dear to me because it was my "first love" and and the first poem I ever memorized. Plus, it always makes me happy. It hasn't lost it's magic over the years either.

rkunsaw, haha at the last line...didn't see that comin'. What a fun poem and new to me. Thanks for posting it. It's appealing to men too as it's got grit. Men like Sea Ballads too, as do I. Do you know any good ones? I used to have some favorites. Let me dig into this old brain and see if I can recall a short one (they tend to be very long)

Here we go, a Ballad of the Sea... "Ballad of the Tempest

WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,--
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,--
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring
And the breakers talked with death.

As thus we sat in darkness
Each one busy with his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spake in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

James T. Fields
 
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...And another favorite ballad of the sea. It's longer but well worth the time.


A Nautical Ballad

A CAPITAL ship for an ocean trip
Was The Walloping Window-blind --
No gale that blew dismayed her crew
Or troubled the captain's mind.
The man at the wheel was taught to feel
Contempt for the wildest blow,
And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,
That he'd been in his bunk below.

The boatswain's mate was very sedate,
Yet fond of amusement, too;
And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,
While the captain tickled the crew.
And the gunner we had was apparently mad,
For he sat on the after-rail,
And fired salutes with the captain's boots,
In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore's hat
And dined, in a royal way,
On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
And gummery bread, each day.
But the cook was Dutch, and behaved as such;
For the food that he gave the crew
Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns,
Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,
On a diet that's cheap and rude;
And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook
In a tub of his gluesome food.
Then nautical pride we laid aside,
And we cast the vessel ashore
On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,
And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,
And trimmed with cinnamon straws;
And pink and blue was the pleasing hue
Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws.
And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge
And shot at the whistling bee;
And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats
As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,
We fed, till we all had grown
Uncommonly shrunk, -- when a Chinese junk
Came by from the torriby zone.
She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care,
And we cheerily put to sea;
And we left the crew of the junk to chew
The bark of the rubagub tree.

Charles Edward Carryl
 
Another poem I've known since childhood, weird but just listening to the video while reading the words brought a tear near the end.

JOYCE KILMER - TREES

Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was a young American poet who suffered a tragic death in World War I at the age of 31. His poem Trees is probably the most quoted poem in American history.

Joyce Kilmer was born in Brunswick, New Jersey. Following graduation from Columbia University in 1908, he married Aline Murray on June 9, 1908. They had five children - Kenton, Michael, Deborah, Rose, and Christopher. His first collection of poetry, Summer of Love, was published in 1911, and was well received. However, it was the publication of Trees that established his reputation as a major American poet.

Trees was first published in August 1913 in Poetry Magazine, and then became the title poem in his second collection in 1914, Trees and Other Poems. He became quite prolific and produced three publications in 1917: Literature in the Making, Main Street and Other Poems, and Dreams and Images: An Anthology of Catholic Poets. A Catholic convert in 1913, his poetry exhibits humility and a deep respect for God and nature.

Kilmer joined the National Guard and was transferred to France in October of 1917, where he was shot and killed in the line of duty on July 30, 1918. He was buried there at Oise-Aisne, Fere-eu-Tardenois, and received the Croix de Guerre of France. The Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina was named after him.

We include the poem Trees, The Singing Girl, and his last poem, written on the battlefield in France during World War I six weeks before his death, The Peacemaker.


TREES

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

written February 2, 1913
​

 
Lara said:
oops, I edited my post #9. The syllable count for a 3-line Haiku is correctly 5-7-5.
Click to expand...

Lara, there is an alternative form of haiku that consists of 11 morae (syllables), in three lines of 3, 5, and 3, that has become more popular than traditional 17 morae haiku. It's growing popularity is probably because it requires more skill.
 
Cap'n, thank you for that reminder. The 3-5-3 syllable count Haiku would be less fun for me than the 5-7-5 because I enjoy a little more freedom to fully express. The former is too confining but that's just me.

I like easier crossword puzzles than the one in the NY Times too. The Thomas Joseph-King syndicated one in the daily newspaper is my speed. I used to do it everyday with my mother by phone. The one who finished first would call and go over the answers. Both speed and accuracy are good for the brain (not that kind of speed lol). We had a lot of fun with it. She passed a year ago and I haven't touched it...but now that I'm reminded, it's time to get back to it.

SeaBreeze, I can't believe this. I'm embarrassed to admit it but, even though the Joyce Kilmer's Tree poem is the most familiar of all poems, at my age I never knew there was more to it than the first 2 lines. I always thought it was Minimalist poetry. That's all I've ever seen as far as I can remember...which may not be that far these days:rolleyes:. What a treat because it's a beautiful poem and the last two lines are so humble.

Here's another Ballad of the Sea...

The Sea Gypsy

I AM fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture
In the wonder of the sea.

Richard Hovey
 
Lara said:
SeaBreeze, I can't believe this. I'm embarrassed to admit it but, even though the Joyce Kilmer's Tree poem is the most familiar of all poems, at my age I never knew there was more to it than the first 2 lines. I always thought it was Minimalist poetry. That's all I've ever seen as far as I can remember...which may not be that far these days:rolleyes:. What a treat because it's a beautiful poem and the last two lines are so humble.
Click to expand...

I was never really a poetry buff Lara, and I only knew the first two stanzas. When you started this thread though, a few poems I knew of years ago just popped into the ol' noggin'. :sentimental:
 
I just knew the first stanza of this well know poem, actually used to sing it with a little tune.

The Barefoot Boy

by John Greenleaf Whittier

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace:
From my heart I give thee joy—
I was once a barefoot boy!

O, for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,

O, for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey bees;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

"The Barefoot Boy" by John Greenleaf Whittier. 1855. Public domain.

 
I like "Big Ed."

Also like some of these:
Over the wintryforest,
winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.

by Soseki (1275-1351)​
 
Also, one of my long time favorites is Jennny Joseph's, "Warning."
 


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