1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;   That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.         125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

This is an illustration done
by Blake himself.
Every original copy of his
poetry books were hand drawn,
 and each one was unique.
They are now very rare and
worth a fortune.

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

                                                 William Blake, 1794

I love this poem. At first glance, it seems fairly simple. I think that many of us are easily deceived by rhyming couplets in this way. There are many interpretations of this poem¹, many of which focus on the spiritual aspect of it. It can be said that “The Tyger” deals particularly with the age-old theological debate of the reason for evil or terror in a world that was supposedly made by a good and loving God. Many have said that the entire collection of poems from which this poem comes, called Songs of Innocence and Experience, is commentary on that sole question. When he mentions the Lamb, that is a reference to one of the poems² in the Songs of Innocence, where “The Tyger” comes from Songs of Experience. The contrast between the two poems, although written in the same form, is striking, to mirror the contrast of the two animals.

What is your interpretation of this poem? What kind of questions does it raise? Does it answer any? What else did you think of it?

1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6LsMoUtBlDk  <-- An amazing short film based on the poem.

2. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172926  <-- "The Lamb" by William Blake

Surrounded, detatched

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,

I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,

Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge that you need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
                                                                                   
                                                                                      Walt Whitman

There is another poem written by Whitman with the famous lines, "Oh Captain, my captain", as quoted in the film that everyone should watch at least once, Dead Poet's Society.  In terms of this poem, I get a very distinct feeling of an emptiness waiting to be filled. Like there is some sort of potential energy that hasn't yet been manifested in the universe. I love how it is conveyed first by the image of the spider in the middle of its web, the structure that took hours to construct and that will eventually be destroyed, just waiting for something to fall in. I also love that the human soul is made parallel with the spider, just suspended in space.

Another aspect to this poem is the repetition, The filament launching forth, like life is going on and on and on, with no end in sight and with not much foresight, like the soul constantly reaching for something more.

What do you think about using the spider as a metaphor to the human soul? Is it a weird image?

Thy eternal summer shall not fade

William Shakespeare’s 18^th sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while.  Technology has won many battles, but I seem to have won the war!  *maniacal laugh*   

One of Shakespeare’s most famous sonnets, Sonnet 18, or “Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer;s Day?” is probably one of the loveliest poems ever written.  I use the word lovely in the most blatant sense possible.  It’s a love poem.  It is also pleasing to the ear, and it has beautiful summer imagery.  This is one of those poems that, if recited, will make women swoon and blush (if they like that kind of thing).  Pretty easy to understand, it’s no wonder it is the most well-known of Shakespeare’s non-dramatic works.

How would you feel if your significant other (or a complete stranger?) recited this to you?  Would you ever think of reciting poetry to woo another, and why?  What else do you think of this poem?

Two and Seventy Stenches

Cologne

In Köhln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne ;
But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

                                         Samuel T. Coleridge

Köhln, Germany

The context of this poem is very simple.  Coleridge liked to do a lot of travelling, and he spent some time in Germany.  At the time this was written (1825), sanitation was not one of Europe’s strong suits, and the town of Köhln (pronounced “cologne”), was one of those that was particularly malodorous.  So, to combat the stench, the people would often wear perfumes and the usage of cologne was born.

 

The poem itself is fun to read, a very distinct tone being set in the first line.  A stinky, dirty, all round unpleasant place to be.  I love the last four lines.  I feel like they make a strong statement regarding pollution and the usage of the rivers to deposit our waste.  A couple of centuries later, it is still done.

What do you think?  Did you like this poem? 

All That We See or Seem

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep—while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! Can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

What a beautiful work of art! I recommend reading this poem a few times, just to bathe in it. Absorb the imagery, and the emotion in which it steeps. I especially love the development of the poem. The first stanza is only an introduction to the notion of hopelessness, and that our lives are but a dream. The second stanza drives the feeling home with the use of prayer. You also get a sense of falling: the grains of sand falling through fingers, tears falling from desperate eyes. It definitely leaves one contemplating life's nature.

What kinds of feelings do these words pull from you? What do you think?

Rain in my head

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head

                                                    Shel Silverstein

I thought I'd post this one because we've been experiencing a lot (and I mean a lot) of rain here in Southern Ontario. I like this poem because it is kind of different, fun and fairly light-hearted. Plus it's fun to say! It has such a fantastic rhythm. Hope the weather clears up soon!

What did you like about this poem?