A Poetry Thread

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Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

--The New Colossus By Emma Lazarus
 
"To Autumn."
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

~John Keats
 
IMG_1075.jpeg


When we lived in Greensboro near Guilford College I walked by this sign as well as the grave of Randall Jarrell almost every day. Eventually I sought out his work and followed that by investigating his biography. His poems were to their own rhythm and often rough and about war and/or death and killing.

&&&&&&&&&&&

One of his most famous was the short “Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.”

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur

froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

&&&&&&&&&

Despite the grim nature of this example (he served as a navigator in the US Army Air Corps during WWII) he reportedly had a wry sense of humor. Post-Hot War in 1956 he served in the position that in 1985 became that of national poet laureate. We still have someone in that position, it is Arthur Sze, born and raised in New York City and the son of Chinese immigrants.

Back to the tale telling: Not only did Jarrell’s life come close by my own in Greensboro but it turns out that he died quite near the place where we had lived last in Chapel Hill (on Dogwood Acres Drive). As best as can be figured on the evening of October 14, 1960, he was struck by a car somewhere just south of where the old Watts Motel was located, perhaps along where the lighted soccer fields are today. The full measure of the circumstances have never been satisfactorily settled. Seems fitting.

Today is the 60th anniversary of the day he died.

To close here is one of Jarrell’s poems from 1960 that illustrates a combo of his morbid AND dry-wry wit.


“The House in the Wood

The hunter crouches in his blind

’Neath camouflage of every kind,
And conjures up a quacking noise

To lend allure to his decoys.

This grown-up man, with pluck and luck,

Is hoping to outwit a duck.”
 
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From A German War Primer

AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED
It is considered low to talk about food.
The fact is: they have
Already eaten.

The lowly must leave this earth
Without having tasted
Any good meat.

For wondering where they come from and
Where they are going
The fine evenings find them
Too exhausted.

They have not yet seen
The mountains and the great sea
When their time is already up.

If the lowly do not
Think about what's low
They will never rise.

THE BREAD OF THE HUNGRY HAS
ALL BEEN EATEN
Meat has become unknown. Useless
The pouring out of the people's sweat.
The laurel groves have been
Lopped down.
From the chimneys of the arms factories
Rises smoke.

THE HOUSE-PAINTER SPEAKS OF
GREAT TIMES TO COME
The forests still grow.
The fields still bear
The cities still stand.
The people still breathe.

ON THE CALENDAR THE DAY IS NOT
YET SHOWN
Every month, every day
Lies open still. One of those days
Is going to be marked with a cross.

THE WORKERS CRY OUT FOR BREAD
The merchants cry out for markets.
The unemployed were hungry. The employed
Are hungry now.
The hands that lay folded are busy again.
They are making shells.

THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE
Teach contentment.
Those for whom the contribution is destined
Demand sacrifice.
Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry
Of wonderful times to come.
Those who lead the country into the abyss
Call ruling too difficult
For ordinary men.

WHEN THE LEADERS SPEAK OF PEACE
The common folk know
That war is coming.
When the leaders curse war
The mobilization order is already written out.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: PEACE
AND WAR
Are of different substance.
But their peace and their war
Are like wind and storm.

War grows from their peace
Like son from his mother
He bears
Her frightful features.

Their war kills
Whatever their peace
Has left over.

ON THE WALL WAS CHALKED:
They want war.
The man who wrote it
Has already fallen.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY:
This way to glory.
Those down below say:
This way to the grave.

THE WAR WHICH IS COMING
Is not the first one. There were
Other wars before it.
When the last one came to an end
There were conquerors and conquered.
Among the conquered the common people
Starved. Among the conquerors
The common people starved too.

THOSE AT THE TOP SAY COMRADESHIP
Reigns in the army.
The truth of this is seen
In the cookhouse.
In their hearts should be
The selfsame courage. But
On their plates
Are two kinds of rations.

WHEN IT COMES TO MARCHING MANY DO NOT
KNOW
That their enemy is marching at their head.
The voice which gives them their orders
Is their enemy's voice and
The man who speaks of the enemy
Is the enemy himself.

IT IS NIGHT
The married couples
Lie in their beds. The young women
Will bear orphans.

GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE
It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men.
But it has one defect:
It needs a driver.

General, your bomber is powerful.
It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant.
But it has one defect:
It needs a mechanic.

General, man is very useful.
He can fly and he can kill.
But he has one defect:
He can think.

~Bertoldt Brecht
 
For this conversation would you consider music lyrics to be poetry?

Just listening to 3 Doors Down "When I'm Gone".

Sometimes music lyrics speak to me.

I really like this song and the lyrics, but I don't understand these lines:
When your education X-ray cannot see under my skin
I won't tell you a damn thing that I could not tell my friends


Full Lyrics:

There's another world inside of me that you may never see
There's secrets in this life that I can't hide
But somewhere in this darkness, there's a light that I can't find
Or maybe it's too far away, yeah, or maybe I'm just blind
Or maybe I'm just blind
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Love me when I'm gone
When your education X-ray cannot see under my skin
I won't tell you a damn thing that I could not tell my friends
Been roaming through this darkness, I'm alive, but I'm alone
And part of me is fighting this, but part of me is gone
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Or maybe I'm just blind
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone
Everything I am and everything in me
Wants to be the one you wanted me to be
I'll never let you down, even if I could
I'd give up everything if only for your good
So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong
You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there
So love me when I'm gone
Love me when I'm gone, oh-whoa, whoa
Love me when I'm gone, when I'm gone
Oh, when I'm gone, oh, when I'm gone



To me it's seems to be about the vulnerability of loving someone. Maybe some longing for love or love lost.
 

If We Must Die​

By Claude McKay
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
 
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