THE JAMES MASON COMMUNITY BOOK CLUB discussion

for sure John Donne and DEATH BE NOT PROUD

Wow! Thank you for that looming introduction! Haha! Hello everyone. I love poetry.

My favorite poet has always been Walt Whitman. Though he is far from perfect, I find his mistakes as endearing as his moments of soaring brilliance. In fact, if you read the different editions of Leaves of Grass, in chronological order, you can watch Walter Whitman become Walt. Very good stuff for a poets psyche! =)

And Rick, if you love the poem "Death Be Not Proud," you must must must see the film WIT with Emma Thompson: http://ow.ly/5vMp5

Charles wrote: "And Rick, if you love the poem "Death Be Not Proud," you must must must see the film WIT with Emma Thompson: http://ow.ly/5vMp5"

will do Charles- still I think Arthur Hill and Robby Benson- when I think of that Poem as Hill Played John Gunther who wrote a book about his son Ricky who died of cancer at 16 and called it Death Be Not Proud- made into a film with Hill and Benson

Rick wrote: "Charles wrote: "And Rick, if you love the poem "Death Be Not Proud," you must must must see the film WIT with Emma Thompson: http://ow.ly/5vMp5"

will do Charles- still I think Arthur Hill and Ro..."

I will check out your film recommendation. I love movies about poets and poetry. We should start a list!

Charles wrote: "Rick wrote: "Charles wrote: "And Rick, if you love the poem "Death Be Not Proud," you must must must see the film WIT with Emma Thompson: http://ow.ly/5vMp5"

will do Charles- still I think Arthur ..."

agree!!!

TS Eliot- CATS ect ect

T.S. Eliot is another favorite of mine. I was very pleased to read that the Waste Land App was a hit. That poem is one of the most relevant pieces of literature for our moment in history. Allen Ginsberg's HOWL is another, in my humble opinion. =)

"April is the cruelest month..." when everything in nature is reborn, except humanity.

...breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

[But we have no roots. Europe--aka The West--lost touch with its cultural roots long long ago. Our roots aren't "dull" and "stirring..with spring rain." Our roots are dead, turned to dust so long ago that we scarcely remember them. They are merely ghosts in our everyday language now. And so, we have become strangers to ourselves. T.S. Eliot thought so. In "The Waste Land," he set out to prove it.]

Charles I enjoy Ezra Pound's work- yet find it hard to read him- given his terrible past

We all struggle with Pound's past. But his poetry is unquestionably great. It helps to focus on the poems and not the poet, in his case. Great writer, bad person. You find a lot of that in literature, unfortunately.

I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!

In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound

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

--

This poem used to be several pages long. Unquestionably great poet, and kind of a bastard.

Imagine the discipline Ezra Pound had, to delete everything from the draft of his poem, but those two lines. Three lines, if we count the title, which I think we should.

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

I will ask my friend Jack Lynch. He's an 18th Century Scholar over at Rutgers-Newark. And he's my Yoda. Stay tuned! =)

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

I love Eliot, too. Have you read Four Quartets?

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

I used to love Ben Jonson. Jack got me hooked on him, for some reason. Favorite Jonson Poem?

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

So far the only Jonson Critical Edition I've found in the Norton Critical"Jonson & the Cavalier Poets"--maybe not good for annotations, but Norton's Essays are usually very useful for unpacking of difficult poetry.

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

Ben Jonson and the Cavalier Poets (Norton Critical Editions) [Paperback] http://ow.ly/5vOpb

Edna wrote: "I so love Ben Jonson, Charles- but so very difficult to find an annotated volume to fully appreciate his genius- any suggestions?
PS I love Eliot!"

I'm sure Jack Lynch will have a heftier Ben Jonson suggestion, he wrote his dissertation on Shakespeare and is a HUGE Jonson Fan. I left him a Facebook Comment asking for suggestions. Stay tuned! =)

indeed!

A Farewell to the World


FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear
As little as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst not show nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse and then betray;
Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride and ignorance the schools;

Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,
But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed;
Where every freedom is betray'd,
And every goodness tax'd or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here,
If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind-that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.

Edna wrote: "indeed!

A Farewell to the World


FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy..."

--

Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.

__

A pitch for the inner life of the mind? What does this poem mean to you?

Charles wrote: "Edna wrote: "indeed!

A Farewell to the World


FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended o..."

Charles- it just reminds me of the value of the inner spirit- a sense of peace comes over me when I read it-
how do you know so much about poetry Charles?

A very good fourth grade teacher introduced me to poetry and before I knew it, I was in a PhD program and running around taking poetry writing workshops. So, a lifetime of reading, and studying, and writing poetry, is how I learned so much about poetry. =)

Charles wrote: "A very good fourth grade teacher introduced me to poetry and before I knew it, I was in a PhD program and running around taking poetry writing workshops. So, a lifetime of reading, and studying, an..."

I think that is wonderful Charles

My favorite poets:
Gwendolyn Brooks
EE Cummings
Emily Dickenson
Robert Frost
Nikki Giovanni
Langston Hughes
William Wordsworth (after I had to do a project on him)

Jotale wrote: "My favorite poets:
Gwendolyn Brooks
EE Cummings
Emily Dickenson
Robert Frost
Nikki Giovanni
Langston Hughes
William Wordsworth (after I had to do a project on him)"
great list!!!!!!!!

I'm not much for poetry, but I did enjoy E.E. Cummings and in Grade 13, we studied The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot and our teacher was so enthusiastic about it, that we could not help but enjoy it.. 'I grow old, I grow old, I wear my pant cuffs rolled...".. Sort of applies nowadays.. :0)

I love poetry and treasure my copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse. Call me old fashioned but I am a great fan of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. My two favorites are: "Crossing the Bar", and "The Charge of the Light Brigade".
I learned a bit of trivia on The Charge while reading a history of that event. Tennyson wrote the poem and it was published almost immediately after the Charge occurred......he then was disconcerted to find that there were closer to 700 men involved, rather than 600. It was too late to modify the work but he was pleased to find that "700" didn't scan into the meter of the poem......so, into history and the valley of death rode the 600, right or wrong.

Jill wrote: "I love poetry and treasure my copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse. Call me old fashioned but I am a great fan of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. My two favorites are: "Crossing the Bar", ..."

was made into a great film with Errol Flynn too!

I love T.S. Eliot's works! Also a Pablo Neruda fan.

Rick wrote: "Jill wrote: "I love poetry and treasure my copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse. Call me old fashioned but I am a great fan of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. My two favorites are: "Crossi..."

I loved that film too but, as you know, it was not even close to what really happened......but it made a rousing good tale!!!!!

I still love Wordsworth. Coleridge, and Keats. Ode On A Grecian Urn, and Rime of The Ancient Mariner are my all time favorites.

I've always loved Walter De La Mare's "The Listeners" and Kipling's "The Way Through The Woods": I love the hints of further stories behind the poem, the mystery.

Totally differently, I also love e e cummings' Christmas tree poem.

Annette wrote: "I've always loved Walter De La Mare's "The Listeners" and Kipling's "The Way Through The Woods": I love the hints of further stories behind the poem, the mystery.

Totally differently, I also love ..."

wonderful poem!!!


little tree

by: e.e. cummings (1894-1962)

ITTLE tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

I love T.S. Eliot, e.e.Cummings, some Yeats, but I found this today, and think it's so pretty.


We Are Made One with What We Touch and See

We are resolved into the supreme air,
We are made one with what we touch and see,
With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair,
With our young lives each springimpassioned tree
Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range
The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.

With beat of systole and of diastole
One grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart,
And mighty waves of single Being roll
From nerveless germ to man, for we are part
Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,
One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill

One sacrament are consecrate, the earth
Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,
The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth
At daybreak know a pleasure not less real
Than we do, when in some freshblossoming wood
We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good

Is the light vanished from our golden sun,
Or is this daedalfashioned earth less fair,
That we are nature's heritors, and one
With every pulse of life that beats the air?
Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,
New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.

And we two lovers shall not sit afar,
Critics of nature, but the joyous sea
Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star
Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be
Part of the mighty universal whole,
And through all Aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!.

We shall be notes in that great Symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!

--Oscar Wilde

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."
— Emily Dickinson
This little Northern Cardinal, that is my avatar, lived in my yard for 7 yrs. Even tho he is gone, he still perches in my soul and sings and never stops at all.

Not really into poetry all that much but the poetry books I own (only three) are A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems, Gasoline and finally Love is a Dog From Hell: Poems, 1974-1977. These would probably go down as favorites of mine.

Dorothy wrote: ""Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."
— Emily Dickinson
This little Northern Cardinal, that is my avatar, lived..."

what a wonderful poem- Cardinals have always been my favorite birds- remember when I lived in NY- there was a nest near my front door

This poem really affects me everytime I read it- by Donne

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

A poignant poem of WWI: In Flanders Field by Dr. John McCrae who wrote it after witnessing the deaths of so many of his friends and fellow soldiers.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Jill wrote: "A poignant poem of WWI: In Flanders Field by Dr. John McCrae who wrote it after witnessing the deaths of so many of his friends and fellow soldiers.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Betwe..."

quite amazing- thanks for posting that Jill

You are welcome Rick......the sad thing about the Flanders Fields is that the British did not bring back their dead from WWI (except for their Unknown Soldier) and they remain there today.

Jill wrote: "You are welcome Rick......the sad thing about the Flanders Fields is that the British did not bring back their dead from WWI (except for their Unknown Soldier) and they remain there today."

never knew that part of history- so wonderful that we have a place to inform each other of historical facts that have been long (unjustly) forgotten

Jill wrote: "A poignant poem of WWI: In Flanders Field by Dr. John McCrae who wrote it after witnessing the deaths of so many of his friends and fellow soldiers.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Betwe..."
yes, Jill, a great poem

One of my favourite poems is Night Mail by W H Auden:

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Carol wrote: "One of my favourite poems is Night Mail by W H Auden:

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop..."

WOW!!!!!!!!

Loved the poem Night Mail....I will have to read more Auden.

The final three stanzas from A.E. Housman's "To An Athlete Dying Young". One of those high school English Lit poems that has always stuck with me..

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.


Create Date : Friday, January 03, 2003


Alfred Edward Housman