Poetry that grabs you by the throat.

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
41

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread.
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream,
And caught a little silver trout.

And when I laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled by the door,
And someone called me by my name.
It had become a glittering girl,
With apple blossom in her hair,
Who called me by my name and ran,
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering,
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

—William Butler Yeats

“His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

42

What, no William Blake? Do we all have the same book of poetry? Here’s the last part of “Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold:

"Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie befoe us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darklling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
…There are two others I can’t remember. One ends with Margaret weeping, weeping for Margaret. The other is the old couple going up and down the hill together, you and I, Maggie. People in both the poems are foreseeing their eventual deaths.

43

What, no William Blake? Do we all have the same book of poetry?

Tyger, tyger, my mistake
I thought that you were William Blake.

—Ogden Nash

“His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

44

The cruel war was over – oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
“Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming – it’s the Army of the Dead.”

They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn’t hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!

“They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn’t stop
On this, our England’s crowning festal day;
We’re the men of Magersfontein, we’re the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso – we’re the men who had to pay.
We’re the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before.”

The folks were white and stricken,
and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands – oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then – it was a dream.

There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.
“The March of the Dead”
By Robert W Service

and in the same vein:

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.

“In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae
Makes ya think, don’t it.

Cecil said it. I believe it. That settles it.

45

And now I have to lighten the thread with my all time favorite poem, taght to me by my dad:There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that he’d “sooner live in hell”.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain’t being dead – it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here”, said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared – such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about 'ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”;. . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm –
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

“The Cremation of Sam McGee”
By Robert W Service
I love that verse!

Cecil said it. I believe it. That settles it.

46

Here is the only poem I have ever written that didn’t suck. ( just to give you an idea, I remember thes lines from a poem I wrote after being dumped:

so if life were a castle,
with rank and all that,
the men would be kings,
the women, the rats.

pretty sad, no?)

here it is:

Gently crashing onto the shore,
with hidden power inside
their curls,
the waves roll on.

Fleeing the glowing crimson ball,
suspended on invisible threads,
above the horizion,
the waves roll on.

In blind rush,
their flight suddenly thwarted
by the unseen sand,
the waves roll on.

“The Waves Roll On”
By me!

Cecil said it. I believe it. That settles it.

47

Does Sullivan Ballew’s (sp?) last letter to his wife count as poetry? I wept like a child the first time I heard it on tape.

48

Spoke - you’ll probably not look back here at this late date to see my answer (I can’t check boards over the weekend), but the first is one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The second is by…um…Browning? I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve known it for so many years that I’ve apparently forgotten just whose it is. Now will have to find out the answer before I can rest.

But I don’t want to pay the penalty.
I just want to go home.

49

The Donkey

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me:
I am dumb, I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.

  • G.K. Chesterton

You took away all the oceans and
all the room

You took away the all the oceans and all the room.
You gave me my shoe-size in earth with bars around it.
Where did it get you? Nowhere.
You left me my lips, and they shape words, even in silence.
-Osip Mandelstam
To Our Eyes The Blind Man

-To our eyes the blind man’s lover was ugly
when she would guide him each evening, patient, past dirty windows and the slandering eyes
of our neighborhood- she never tired
of the gauntlet, the grins, the whispering
gathered schoolboys or their poised
silence so much worse than whispering…

And there I was with the others- the lean one,
laughing, while streetlamps at the butt of long
late-summer days grew bright and spotlit
the two of them: scapegoats in a circus ring
without roof or limit, so our laughter
leapt free, grew up as it hardened
into the walls and streets and crowds we knew as
cities…

Ugly, the boys sang, and I sang, but he clutched
her hand so tight, so tight it seemed
he was the one guiding her to the sweet
dark city of his love- free
from the bitter half-lit boroughs of the seeing.
Steve Heighton

50

More Parker:

RAINY NIGHT

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.

Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.

I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?

Sail, tonight, the Styx’s breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,

Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.

From Émile Nelligan:

THE SHIP OF GOLD

She was a proud, tall ship, carved out of solid gold;
Asail on unknown seas, her masts reached to the sky;
The nude Goddess of love let her scattered hair fly
Stretched out at the prow, with the sun shining bold.

But one night on the singing Siren’s treacherous wave,
The ship collided with a reef that lurked below;
And the appalling wreck dove down to settle low
In the Pit’s dreadful depths, the ineluctible grave.

She was a ship of gold, whose diaphanous beams
Revealed treasures about which the sailors obscene,
Neurosis, Hatred, and Disgust bickered and yelled.

What is left after the calming of the storm’s screams?
What’s become of my heart, an abandoned ship’s shell?
Alas! it has sunk into the depths of dreams…

From Arthur Rimbaud:

THE VALLEY SLEEPER

'Tis a green crevice where a river sings,
In frenzy snatching at the silver grass;
The sun, reflecting off the mountain, brings
A spray of light into the narrow pass.

A soldier young, mouth open and head bare,
His neck reclining in the crisp blue cress,
Lies in the verdant grass in the fresh air,
Pale in the shower of this loveliness.

His feet amidst the flowers, soft he sleeps
And smiles like an ill child, while nature keeps
Him from becoming chilly in his rest.

The sweet aromas do not touch his nose,
And undisturb’d is his sunlit repose.
There are two bloody holes in his right breast.
From Gerrit Berveling:

HOMOSEXUAL

starved of a lover he wandered in shadows
oh who understands such emotions!
down streets that were glistening with puddles
he walked the same way as the last night
this loneliness you can imagine -

this storefront he’d already seen, last night, maybe -
or possibly some night beforehand -
he roamed in his solitude, causing the buildings
to echo with click-clacking footfalls
as starved of a lover he wandered in search of
some tenderness, friendship, a soulmate?

he noticed the door to a washroom
and dimly it dragged up some past recollection
of wandering, starved of a friend or companion

  • and all the cafés had already closed now -
    he entered, relieved himself, washed, dried his hands off
    made sure that his clothing was neatly in order
    and stepped out -

and stopped short -
and found that the washroom
was ringed by a group of young men wearing jeans
grimacing, menacing, threatening and circling
and who here has known such a terror?

starved of a lover he’d merely been wandering
through the dark streets void of love and of people -
now lies on the ground
without fear, without sound
he was killed by young men wearing jeans.

God! How he had loved men in jeans…

(the last three translated by yours truly)

51

Forgot to add:

Thomas Nashe.

A LITANY IN TIME OF PLAGUE

ADIEU, farewell earth’s bliss,
This world uncertain is :
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us.

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health ;
Physic himself must fade,
All things to end are made ;
The plague full swift goes by :
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us.

Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour ;
Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closèd Helen’s eye :
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us.

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry,
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us.

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny ;
Heaven is our heritage
Earth but a player’s stage,
Mount we unto the sky :
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us.
A vicious modern relevance…

52

This thread I had to open
I knew it would be wordy
With replies that number fifty
To views that number thirty.

53

Hey, um…doesn’t this thread do exactly what the sticky in the Cafe Society asks us not to, in regards to song lyrics? Copyright violations and all.

http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?threadid=120313

Anyway,

“Her kind” by Anne Sexton would be my choice. http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton/herkind.shtml

54

“Asleep in the Valley”
by Rimbaud, translated by Paul Schmidt

A small green valley where a slow stream runs
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the sun’s
Rays; they fill the hollow full of light

A soldier, very young, lies open-mouthed,
A pillow made of ferns beneath his head,
Asleep; stretched in the heavy undergrowth,
Pale in his warm, green, sun-soaked bed.

His feet among the flowers, he sleeps. His smile
Is like an infant’s-gentle, without guile.
Ah, Nature, keep him warm; he may catch cold.

The humming insects don’t disturb his rest;
He sleeps in sunlight, one hand on his breast,
At peace. In his side there are two red holes.
The Leaden-Eyed
By Vachel Lindsay

Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and full flaunt their pride.
It is the world’s one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are oxlike, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve, but that they starved so dreamlessly;
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

55

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

– John McCrae

56

Hey Fionn, how did you like my translation of the same one?

57

Hey Mega, that is also my absolute all-time, best of the bunch, veritable crowner of all poetry, (and Arnold as poet too). If ever I am in need of a good self-indulgence session, ‘The Buried Life’ always does it for me.

Also, ‘Self-Dependence’ is another excellent poem that gets to my throat whenever I read it:

Oh, it’s Arnold again btw

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.

 And a look of passionate desire
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea’s unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silver’d roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

“Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God’s other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.”

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
“Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery!”

58

Rainer Maria Rilke - Der Panther

Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müde geworden, dass er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein grosser Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf–. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille–
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

and here is one of the better translations:

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

59

Bearing in mind copyright and all that, I won’t post the whole of Louis MacNeice’s Prayer before Birth [sub](but here’s a link)[/sub]

60

ooh, i have been known to openly sob at the local bookhouse right into the book across my lap:

poem by ee cummings that begins with “i like my body when it is with your body”

“without” by donald hall (or most everything after kenyon)