Poems that you love

[Truerenigma]

from Five Sonnets
on paintings by Vermeer

The Little Street

Listen. The clop of wooden soles still sounds
along this crudely cobbled alleyway,
a washerwoman sings a rondelet,
and two young truants haggle over rounds
of jacks. Somewhere an unseen bell resounds,
tolling the passage of an August day;
yet nothing moves. These shutters never sway.
These children never leave their checkered bounds
beside the entryway. The clouds diffuse
a drop of rain or flush with sunset's blush.
No bargeman hauls; no windmill fills a sluice.
Upon some far-off field of war, a truce
as time stands still beneath the artist's brush.

Alan Sullivan

[kindofahippy]

The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service

[rayheinrich]

There was a young lady from Thrace
Whose corsets grew too tight to lace.
Her mother said, "Nelly,
There's more in your belly
Than ever went in through your face."

[ellajam]

I've read it before, but today I just love it.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T. S. Eliot


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
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…
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,
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,
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;
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;
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
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—
[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
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,
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—
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?
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
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
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!
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?
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,
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,
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"—
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,
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:
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."

. . . . .

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,
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…
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.

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
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[John Galt]

Soooo good. JG

[Leanne]

As today is ANZAC Day, I thought I'd post this one, which never fails to move me:

Sonnets to the Unknown Soldier
1. [We did not bury him deep enough: break up the monument]
by Douglas Stewart

We did not bury him deep enough: break up the monument,
Open the tomb, strip off the flags and flowers
And let us look at him plainly, naked Man.
Greet him with silence since all the speeches were lies,
Clothe him in fresh khaki, hand him a rifle,
And turn him loose to wander the city streets
Where eyes so quickly inured to death’s accoutrement
Will hardly spare him a glance, equipped to die for us.

“You see that fellow with the grin, one eye on the girls,
The other on the pub, his uniform shabby already?
Well, don’t let him hear us, but he’s the Unknown Soldier,
They just let him out, they say he lives forever.
They put him away with flowers and flags and forget him,
But he always comes when they want him. He does the fighting.”

[billy]

an excellent write, i notice the lack of end rhyme and that it didn't affect the read. it also shows that you can amend a form, but if you do it has to work as it does here. the turn is perfect as is the couplet.

[Leanne]

It's exactly what I want from a sonnet -- at the end of the day, whatever structure you use, 14 lines do not a sonnet make: this does.

[rayheinrich]

It's exactly what I want from a sonnet -- at the end of the day, whatever structure you use, 14 lines do not a sonnet make: this does.

Yes, so true. This sonnet says it well.


Off topic comments on the military and on sonnets:

Over here in the U.S. they're are hailed as heroes and the politicians
make great use of them. It's all lip service; they are so poorly paid
they qualify for food stamps. And proper medical care, especially
psychological, is routinely denied them.

And yes, the structure of content/meaning in a poetic form,
which is the most important part of its definition, is habitually
ignored and it becomes defined only by its mechanical
specifications. Hate that! (Haiku is another example.)

Someday I would like to take ten years off and actually
learn to write sonnets. (Probably wouldn't be enough.)

[Leanne]

Moderately off-topic stuff that I just wanted to put in a spoiler because spoilers are cool:

Sonnets and haiku have almost exactly the same purpose, with almost exactly the same structure -- haiku just don't have as many words. There should always be a turn and it should make two distinct pieces that fit together perfectly. The whole must be more than the sum of its parts.

PS. I can't talk about how the US treats its military, or any of the "less important" citizens. It makes me too angry and then people think I'm being racist, because they're too ignorant to realise that politicians and media are not people, they're constructs.

[milo]

It's exactly what I want from a sonnet -- at the end of the day, whatever structure you use, 14 lines do not a sonnet make: this does.

which reminds me of the sonnet that most don't realise is sonnet:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

[Leanne]

That's a sonnetette

[abu nuwas]

I've read it before, but today I just love it.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T. S. Eliot


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
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…
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,
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,
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;
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;
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
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—
[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
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,
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—
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?
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
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
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!
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?
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,
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,
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"—
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,
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:
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."

. . . . .

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,
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…
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.

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
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

This has always tickled me:

'For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons'

[milo]

That's a sonnetette

yah. It is written with the first line (8 words) as the octet and the second (6 words) as the sestet.

[billy]

it buggers the couplet concept to shit though

[Leanne]

Sonnets don't need a couplet -- that's just a stupid English idea :p

In a Petrarchan, the sestet summarises.

[RSaba]

My favourite poem of all time is only five lines, and it's actually in French. It sounds beautiful spoken aloud, and it just evokes such a haunting feeling in me. However, it's also in French. I'll post it here in French and then I'll post a translation.

L'adieu, by Guillaume Apollinaire

J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère
L'automne est morte souviens t'en
Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre
Odeur du temps brin de bruyère
Et souviens-toi que je t'attends

The Farewell, by Guillaume Apollinaire

I gathered this sprig of heather
Autumn is dead, remember
We will not see each other again on this earth
Scent of time, sprig of heather
And remember, I am waiting for you

[Leanne]

That's quite beautiful, thank you. Oddly enough, it reminds me of Loch Lomond.

[RSaba]

Same! I think it's the heather and fog (makes me think of moors), and the sort of bittersweet farewell- the idea that they're meeting again, just not on this earth. I love Loch Lomond.

[abu nuwas]

[quote='RSaba' pid='162298' dateline='1398406874']
Same! I think it's the heather and fog (makes me think of moors), and the sort of bittersweet farewell- the idea that they're meeting again, just not on this earth. I love Loch Lomond.



Ah yes, a sprig of lucky white heather....... how I envy those about to visit Caledonia...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00cw2bv