Poems that drop you in your tracks

[flyguy69]

I attended a discussion by Wisconsin's Poet Laureate and a poetry teacher recently, at which they seriously dissed "academic" poetry. They strongly feel that the future of poetry is on street corners and in basements. Afterwards I talked with the teacher a bit and he said that, despite his convictions about the future of poetry, in every poetry course he teaches he somehow returns to Frost.

 

[Maria2394]

I attended a discussion by Wisconsin's Poet Laureate and a poetry teacher recently, at which they seriously dissed "academic" poetry. They strongly feel that the future of poetry is on street corners and in basements. Afterwards I talked with the teacher a bit and he said that, despite his convictions about the future of poetry, in every poetry course he teaches he somehow returns to Frost.

Lots of people dont like him, both my daughters cringe when I mention him. I cringe at a few others, no matter. But a good poetry teacher will expose his/her students to a variety of poets and while they sit in class and learn, out on the streets somewhere is someone who was born with poetry in his or her soul, that needs no classes ( specific instruction), and they have the gift and will find the future with or without the teachers "dissings" and forecasts

come Fly, let me stroke some of that delicious poetry from your soul

 

[flyguy69]

Lots of people dont like him, both my daughters cringe when I mention him. I cringe at a few others, no matter. But a good poetry teacher will expose his/her students to a variety of poets and while they sit in class and learn, out on the streets somewhere is someone who was born with poetry in his or her soul, that needs no classes ( specific instruction), and they have the gift and will find the future with or without the teachers "dissings" and forecasts

come Fly, let me stroke some of that delicious poetry from your soul

Do that out on a street corner and we are gonna get arrested!

On the other hand, we'd have some pretty darn good subject matter for poetry....

 

[wildsweetone]

...a very wide range considering all the differing types of streets and corners.

 

[annaswirls]

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

one of my all time favorites that hits me in the gut. I tried to pick my favorite sections, but they all hit me in different places.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

 

[Maria2394]

...a very wide range considering all the differing types of streets and corners.

You are absolutely right, wildsweetone!! and that is the beauty of street poetry!! or just poetry in general. what a sad state of t he world when it all sounds the same

 

[flyguy69]

I agree. This one cannot be pulled apart because the overall effect is essential to the poem.

I actually struggled with this in my satire of Christopher Smart's Jubliate Agno (on... some other thread)-- the genius (or insanity, in his case) of his poem is in the overall effect, and for me to pick out pieces to satirize significantly hurt the poem!

one of my all time favorites that hits me in the gut. I tried to pick my favorite sections, but they all hit me in different places.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

 

[SeattleRain]

I attended a discussion by Wisconsin's Poet Laureate and a poetry teacher recently, at which they seriously dissed "academic" poetry. They strongly feel that the future of poetry is on street corners and in basements. Afterwards I talked with the teacher a bit and he said that, despite his convictions about the future of poetry, in every poetry course he teaches he somehow returns to Frost.

this kind of street poetry is getting popular in Baltimore. People pay good cover charges to listen to these poets. And many are quite good, not just entertaining, but good poetry.

 

[flyguy69]

...a very wide range considering all the differing types of streets and corners.

Not to mention jails.

 

[Maria2394]

one of my all time favorites that hits me in the gut. I tried to pick my favorite sections, but they all hit me in different places.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

I dunno, anna, but it seems metaphysical, like Burnt Norton, reminding us that we are not all powerful. V and VII would have done it for me.

why do you thin men of Haddam imagine the golden bird?
( why do you people aspire, wish for other than the beauty around you?"


V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
***

its all good, be content, recognize the beauty around you.


Wonderful poem, Anna, thanks for posting it!!

 

[Guest]

Coming

by Philip Larkin (1950)

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-surrounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon-
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.​

I read and re-read this beautiful poem and it always takes my breath away. To me it paints a perfect picture, sound, colour and the feel of this moment in a life. It's both joyous and deeply sad.

I think it is the single-most poem to influence my writing.

 

[Guest]

I dunno, anna, but it seems metaphysical, like Burnt Norton, reminding us that we are not all powerful. V and VII would have done it for me.

why do you thin men of Haddam imagine the golden bird?
( why do you people aspire, wish for other than the beauty around you?"


V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
***

its all good, be content, recognize the beauty around you.


Wonderful poem, Anna, thanks for posting it!!

How odd anna! I get the same feeling from your pick. Lovely. (I hadn't read this thread before posting - going to now.)

*waving to maria.*

 

[Maria2394]

Coming

by Philip Larkin (1950)

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-surrounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon-
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.​

I read and re-read this beautiful poem and it always takes my breath away. To me it paints a perfect picture, sound, colour and the feel of this moment in a life. It's both joyous and deeply sad.

I think it is the single-most poem to influence my writing.

Dear Tess, I do see the influence of this in your work It is like knowing something new that you knew all along, isnt it.

Ps, CONGRATS on getting out there, I have seen your talent out there,thanks to Anna's tooting thread!!

 

[wildsweetone]

worth reading is Raymond Patterson's 'Twenty-Six Ways of Looking at a Blackman' - i can't find it in full online but i have it here - i'll type it out if anyone wants it.

 

[wildsweetone]

Not to mention jails.

i wasn't going to mention those.

 

[flyguy69]

Wow. That is beautiful, Tess. This particular line:

[
...Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter....​

is a wonderful response to so many poets who write "somehow" in a poem. Larkin has taken an indescribable feeling and described it beautifully.

 

[Guest]

i wasn't going to mention those.

Could it be he speaketh of that which he knoweth?


Thinkest thou?

 

[wildsweetone]

i can't speak for Fly, but, as far as i'm concerned, i'm admitting to nothing.

 

[flyguy69]

Could it be he speaketh of that which he knoweth?


Thinkest thou?

She was seventeen and 3/4, for God's sake.

 

[Guest]

She was seventeen and 3/4, for God's sake.

What ever you say, Hum.

 

[Du Lac]

Great Poem..

Anna
One of my all time favs! I love Wallace Stevens and how he makes my mind meddle in areas that twist my soul. I recently mentioned this one on the lyrics and poetry thread hence I picked another poem. Nice to see another Wallace fan and so many who appreciate his works
du lac~

one of my all time favorites that hits me in the gut. I tried to pick my favorite sections, but they all hit me in different places.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

 

[Curiouswife]

Is that "Love Alone," Julia? This author is new to me, and I want to read more.

I was referring to Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir.

Julia

 

[bogusbrig]

One of the most beautiful poems I ever read, written on the eve of his execution. Who says I've got no feelings?

Chidiock Tichborne (ca. 1558-1586)

My Prime of Youth is but a Frost of Cares

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

somehow Loren Eiseley is always overlooked...

The Inheritors

What is seen in the rain is seen forever.
I do not know why, but there is a truth
beyond illusion
beyond the sadness of leaves in autumn.
Call it the truth of asphalt,
call it the truth of the parking lot,
but it is still
the truth of rain and crows.
I know because there was a field here once,
I know because I wrote about it in a book:
the old stark tree,
the path through the brambles,
the crows driven low in the fog
who almost collieded
with my face
and knew arising
man was not to be trusted
and sometimes walked on air
in the grey days.
What is seen in the fog is also to be seen forever.
The crows have a right to their distrust.
The field has been gone
twenty years.
There is a shopping center;
the old tree has been felled,
the brambles and the path are gone;
there is a parking lot
acres in extent,
but is the wild
truly gone?

Today I skirted the storefronts in the rain
hurrying as men always hurry
from one furture to the next.
That was how I saw truth and kenw in the rain
truth would last forever
and need not be seen by me or anyone
but it was in the rain
on the wet pavement
to be grasped by anyone
who hurried by.
I just happened to be alone. It is the way
one see's best.
It is the way the rain cleanses one's vision
to see truth forever
on an empty car lot
on an equally empty Sunday.
There were three crows there,
black, big as chickens,
some would say ugly,
but their feathers
glistened, intimate with rain,
blunt lives
amidst forgotten elements.
They did not
pity themselves. They were the unseen masters
of truth men had better learn.
The tree has been gone twenty years,
the field mice have perished,
but the black undertakers
in the rainswept car lot
were quarreling over
something stark
and unmentionable.
Their voices had the ring of truth spoken
through the rain of centuries.
They were untouchable by DDT.
They were too smart for guns,
for man, and certainly for hope.
I saw them alone out of the corner of my hurrying eye.
They ignored me,
but I saw truth in the cold rain forever,
a black truth
written forever
on black asphalt.
They were the inheritors in spite of man;
in spite of man
they were more formidable.
They had the proper garments
and the avaricious bearing of mourners.
For one single moment I was in another era.
I was the last man.
I saw truth forever in the cold rain.

 

[flyguy69]

You've got to admire a guy who, even as the executioner whets the blade, can focus on form!

This is one of those poems that is a dramatic confluence of words and circumstance. I think also of Warren Zevon's cover of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door."

One of the most beautiful poems I ever read, written on the eve of his execution. Who says I've got no feelings?

Chidiock Tichborne (ca. 1558-1586)

My Prime of Youth is but a Frost of Cares

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.