A Poetry Thread

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Prayer

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom, my father, let my country awake.

---- from Geetanjali (Rabindranath Tagore)​
 
hedge said:
This is not poetry (and not even that good, really), but for some reason I just took this. I thought we had a “pictures you’ve taken” thread, but I guess not…

IMG_5261.jpeg
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Search ‘Photos’ in thread title.
 
"Man it’s a hot one
Like seven inches from the midday sun..."
~ Rob Thomas and Itaal Shur

"As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse."
~ Will Shakespeare

"Out for those small town hot summer nights
Radio 'bout to blow
Top-down under the lights
Feel the heat, wild and sweet"
~ Michael Jay, Alan Roy Scott, and Roy Freeland
 

Recuerdo​

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
 
Kore
Robert Creeley - 1926-2005

As I was walking
I came upon
chance walking
the same road upon.

As I sat down
by chance to move
later
if and as I might,

light the wood was,
light and green,
and what I saw
before I had not seen.

It was a lady
accompanied
by goat men
leading her.

Her hair held earth.
Her eyes were dark.
A double flute
made her move.

"O love,
where are you
leading
me now?"
 

The Graduate Leaving College​

BY GEORGE MOSES HORTON
SHARE
What summons do I hear?
The morning peal, departure’s knell;
My eyes let fall a friendly tear,
And bid this place farewell.

Attending servants come,
The carriage wheels like thunders roar,
To bear the pensive seniors home,
Here to be seen no more.

Pass one more transient night,
The morning sweeps the college clean;
The graduate takes his last long flight,
No more in college seen.

The bee, which courts the flower,
Must with some pain itself employ,
And then fly, at the day’s last hour,
Home to its hive with joy.
 
Here's one close to Tar Heel hearts...

“Bewailing mid the ruthless wave-I lift my feeble hand to thee-Let me no longer be a slave,-But drop the fetters and be free.
-Why will regardless Fortune sleep-Deaf to my penitential prayer-Or leave the struggling bard to weep-Alas, and languish in despair?
-He is an eagle void of wings,-Aspiring to the mountain’s height,-Yet in the vale aloud he sings-For pity’s aid to give him flight.
-Then listen all who never felt-For fettered genius heretofore,-Let hearts of petrification melt,-And bid the gifted Negro soar.”
— ‘Poet’s Petition,’ by George Moses Horton

Attribution: Martha McMakin. “N.C.’s First Negro Poet.” The Rocky Mount Telegram (Rocky Mount), March 20, 1966. Accessed July 2, 2023, https://www.newspapers.com/image/340717920/...

George Moses Horton was born, enslaved, in #NorthhamptonCounty in the early 1800s. His enslaver, James Horton, moved to #ChathamCounty around 1815 and soon after George Moses Horton began journeying to Chapel Hill on errands. There, after his mission was realized he paused often to recite, and eventually sell, poems that he had composed to #UNC students. Eventually he purchased his time, 50 cents daily paid to James Horton, and spent much of his day as a poet in Chapel Hill, composing poems on demand for his clientele, the students and other Chapel Hillians.

The Words of George Moses Horton of #ChathamCounty - enslaved - speak for millions subjected to human bondage as a result of The Atlantic Slave Trade and The Legal Institution recognized from Day One in the Founding Documents of this Nation and then defended to the death from 1861 to 1865 by citizens determined to preserve it. Horton experienced 19 years of Freedom beginning with the Union victory over the southern Confederacy in 1865 until his death, likely in Philadelphia, in 1884.

#OTD (July 2) in 1829 the first book by an African American in The South was published in Raleigh. George Moses Horton was enslaved in Pittsboro yet authored ‘The Hope of Liberty,’ a collection of poems. UNC students and faculty noted his genius but sadly turned away from any requests for cooperation or help in his quest to gain his freedom. https://www.ncdcr.gov/.../the-sable-orator-and-poet...

In Recent Times: Horton was an inaugural inductee into the N.C. Literary Hall of Fame in 1996.
A dormitory was named in his honor @UNC in 2006. https://unchistory.web.unc.edu/bui.../horton-residence-hall/
 
nycfan said:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Reading this as I’m having a beer not far from this spot (which still stands), where Thomas drank himself to death, having something like 20 whiskeys the night before he passed.

I think you could safely call that not going gentle, but raging, raging.
 
hedge said:
This is interesting. This poem is quoted in one of my favorite movies, Synecdoche, New York, but the translation in the movie reads

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

I'm not sure if that's a dramatic difference or not. Translation in interesting. The idea of having no house, I think, is different from the idea of being homeless. Certainly if you think of "house" as the name and identity of a family or a dynasty. Something to think about...
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That’s a great catch. I’ve seen Synecdoche exactly twice, it’s incredible. About 10 years apart. Maybe I’m due, but it drags me to the depths and ruins me every time. Especially now that Philip Seymour Hoffman is gone.
 
duluoz said:
That’s a great catch. I’ve seen Synecdoche exactly twice, it’s incredible. About 10 years apart. Maybe I’m due, but it drags me to the depths and ruins me every time. Especially now that Philip Seymour Hoffman is gone.
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According to ChatGPT this is the Original Italian of the poem. I am skeptical of course, especially because of the insertion of the English word ‘ letter' in the second stanza/verse.


Dopo R.M. Rilke

by Primo Levi

Signore, è tempo: già fermenta il vino.
L’estate fu grande e troppo breve.
Fa’ scendere le ombre sulle meridiane,
Sciogli il vento sopra la pianura.

Fa’ che chi non ha casa non l’abbia mai,
E chi è solo, resti solo a lungo.
Legga, scriva, vegli lunghe letter

E vaghi inquieto per i viali,
Mentre le foglie vanno e vengono.
 
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duluoz said:
That’s a great catch. I’ve seen Synecdoche exactly twice, it’s incredible. About 10 years apart. Maybe I’m due, but it drags me to the depths and ruins me every time. Especially now that Philip Seymour Hoffman is gone.
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I couldn't say how many times I've watched it, but I couldn't count it on my fingers. I see (and feel like I lean) something new every time I watch it. I envy you having only seen it twice, you're in for some treats on your next viewing, although I suspect I will be, too..
 
"One Summer," by W.S. Merwin
It is hard now to believe that we really
went back that time years ago to the small town
a mile square along the beach and a little more
than a century old where I had been taken
when I was a child and nothing seemed to have changed
not the porches along the quiet streets
nor the faces on the rockers nor the sea smell
from the boardwalk at the end of the block
nor the smells from the cafeteria in a house
like the others along the same sidewalk
nor the hush of the pebbled streets without
cars nor the names of the same few hotels
nor the immense clapboard auditorium
to which my mother had taken me
to a performance of Aida
and you and I walked those streets in a late
youth of our own and along the boardwalk
toward music we heard from the old carousel

(Copyright 2014 by W. S. Merwin, from The Moon Before Morning: Poems.)
 
Andrea Gibson died of cancer today. Too bad. Not sure which of their poems is best, but here's one.

 

Bars Fight by Lucy Terry Prince​

August, twas the twenty-fifth,
Seventeen houndred forty-six,
The Indians did in ambush lay,
Some very valiant men to slay
Twas nigh unto Sam Dickinson's mill,
The Indians there five men did kill.
The names of whom I'll not leave out,
Samuel Allen like a hero foute,
And though he was so brave and bold,
His face no more shall we behold.
Eleazer Hawks was killed outright,
Before he had time to fight,
Before he did the Indians see,
Was shot and killed immediately.
Oliver Amsden he was slain,
Which caused his friends much grief pain.
Simeon Amsden they found dead
Not many rods from Oliver's head.
Adonijah Gillett, we do hear,
Did lose his life which was so dear.
John Sadler fled across the water,
And thus escaped the dreadful slaughter.
Eunice Allen see the Indians comeing
And hoped to save herself by running:
And had not her petticoats stopt her,
The awful creatures had not cotched her,
Not tommyhawked her on the head,
And left her on the ground for dead.
Young Samuel Allen, Oh! lack-a-day!
Was taken and carried to Canada.

This is first known poem written by an enslaved African American. Lucy Terry Prince was around 22 years old when she composed this poem. She lived in Bars, Massachusetts, thus the name. "This poem is a straightforward account of a deadly ambush by Native Americans in 1746. It lists the names of the victims and describes the circumstances of their deaths, as well as the escape of one survivor."

Bars Fight by Lucy Terry Prince

Comments & analysis: August, twas the twenty-fifth, / Seventeen houndred forty-six, / The Indians did in ambush
allpoetry.com allpoetry.com
 
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