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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 percioche 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 towards 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.

Possibly the first poem that exposed me to the infinite possibilities of poetry, T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ (1915) continues to evoke new images, emotions, and realisations every time I re-read it. The charm of the poem hasn’t lessened even after I studied it extensively for a class on Modernism in college; in fact, it appeals to the fragmented soul inside me even more. Some lines resonate with me still, and I have a feeling that they’ll resonate with me all my life.

#ts eliot #the love song of j. alfred prufrock #modernist #modernism #1915 #poetry #poetrydaily #itsapoemeveryday #poems #a poem a day #love #images #college #favorite #quotes #qotd #poem of the day #potd

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Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Percy Bysshe Shelley on the ultimate futility of everything. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #ozymandias #pb shelley #percy bysshe shelley #romanticism #romantic #egyptian

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On the Hills

Through the pungent hours of the afternoon, On the autumn slopes we have lightly wandered Where the sunshine lay in a golden swoon And the lingering year all its sweetness squandered. Oh, it was blithesome to roam at will Over the crest of each westering hill, Over those dreamy, enchanted lands Where the trees held to us their friendly hands!

Winds in the pine boughs softly crooned, Or in the grasses complained most sweetly, With all the music of earth attuned In this dear ripe time that must pass so fleetly: Golden rod as we idled by Held its torches of flame on high, And the asters beckoned along our wy Like fair fine ladies in silk array.

We passed by woods where the day aside Knelt like a pensive nun and tender, We looked on valleys of purple pride Where she reigned a queen in her misty splendor; But out on the hills she was wild and free, A comrade to wander right gipsily, Luring us on over waste and wold With the charm of a message half sung, half told,

And now, when far in the shining west She has dropped her flowers on the sunset meadow, We turn away from our witching quest To the kindly starshine and gathering shadow; Filled to the lips of our souls are we With the beauty given so lavishly, And hand in hand with the night we come Back to the light and the hearth of home.

This poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery makes my mountain-born soul feel at ease. Born on 30/12/1874, she is best known for her Anne series. I have this ritual in which I read one book of that series every year, starting with Anne of Green Gables in 2014. This year, it’s Anne in Windy Poplars! Oh, how time flies. :)

#on the hills #lucy maud montgomery #lm montgomery #anne of green gables #canadian #poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #mountains #poemsdaily #art #home #birthday #sagittarius #anne in windy poplars

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This Little Bag

This little bag I hope will prove To be not vainly made-- For, if you should a needle want It will afford you aid. And as we are about to part T'will serve another end, For when you look upon the Bag You'll recollect your friend.

In honour of Jane Austen’s birthday. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #jane austen #birthday #british #georgian #this little bag #cute #friendship #love

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Goblin Market

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen.

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.”

Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest.

Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?”

Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look.

Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”—

“Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter.

She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

This 1862 poem by Christina Rossetti remains one of my favourite testimonies to something that has always been very close to my heart: sisterhood and female bonding. In a world where women are taught to despise each other, compete with each other over the most trivial things, and treat each other as enemies, we need to remember the message of this wonderful narrative poem. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems #christina rossetti #victorian #literature #female bonding #sisterhood

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Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,   Enwrought with golden and silver light,   The blue and the dim and the dark cloths   Of night and light and the half light,   I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams;   I have spread my dreams under your feet;   Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Ever since I first read this 1899 poem by William Butler Yeats, I’ve felt that love was only love if it made one feel this way.

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven #william butler yeats #irish #love #dreams #beautiful

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Learning to Read

If I had to look up every fifth or sixth word, so what. I looked them up. I had nowhere important to be.

My father was unavailable, and my mother looked like she was about to break, and not into blossom, every time I spoke.

My favorite was the Iliad. True, I had trouble pronouncing the names, but when was I going to pronounce them, and

to whom? My stepfather maybe? Number one, he could barely speak English;

two, he had sufficient intent to smirk or knock me down without any prompting from me.

Loneliness, boredom and terror my motivation fiercely fuelled.

I get down on my knees and thank God for them.

Du Fu, the Psalms, Whitman, Rilke. Life has taught me to understand books.

Here, Franz Wright explores the deep relationship between a reader’s life and his books: the sense of escape from the drudgery of one’s life is something I can relate to on a personal level. I do thank God every day for books, because they have been there when no one else was, when I didn’t even know I needed someone. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #franz wright #learning to read #books #literature #love for books #love for literature #life #loneliness #escape #du fu #psalms #whitman #rilke #iliad

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The Red Poppy

The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me. I have a lord in heaven called the sun, and open for him, showing him the fire of my own heart, fire like his presence. What could such glory be if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters, were you like me once, long ago, before you were human? Did you permit yourselves to open once, who would never open again? Because in truth I am speaking now the way you do. I speak because I am shattered.

Written in 1943 by Louise Gluck, this poem evokes not just a deeply-rooted love for flowers in me, but also makes me profoundly sad.

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #the red poppy #louise glück #american #flowers #shattered

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Advertisement for the Mountain

There are two versions of every life.

In the first one, you get a mother, a father, your very own room.

You learn to walk, which is only done by walking. You learn the past tense of have, which is hunger.

You learn to ask almost anything is to ask it to be over, as when the lover asks the other

“Are you sleeping? Are you beginning to go away?”

(And whether or not you learn it, life does not penetrate more than five miles above the earth or reach more than three miles beneath the sea.

Life is eight miles long.

You could walk it, and be there before sundown. Or swim it, or fall it, or crawl it.)

The second is told from the point of view of the sky.

This gem by Christina Davis has been very close to my heart since 2013. In certain moments of troubling reflection, I go through this again, just to make sure of things that are hard to define in words. I hope this helps you gain a little perspective too. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #poetrydaily #poems on tumblr #poems #apoemaday #christina davis #advertisement for the mountain #love #life

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Dejection: An Ode

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms; And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. (Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence) 

I Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made       The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,       This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,                Which better far were mute.         For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!         And overspread with phantom light,         (With swimming phantom light o'erspread         But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling         The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,         And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,                And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

                           II A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,         A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,         Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,                In word, or sigh, or tear— O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,         All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky,         And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

                           III                My genial spirits fail;                And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?                It were a vain endeavour,                Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

                           IV O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live: Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!         And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,         Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud                Enveloping the Earth— And from the soul itself must there be sent         A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

                             V O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power.         Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower         A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—                We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,         All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.

                           VI There was a time when, though my path was rough,         This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff         Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;                But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,         My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel,         But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal         From my own nature all the natural man—         This was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

                           VII Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,                Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind,         Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,         Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,         Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.         Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!                What tell'st thou now about?                'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,         With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds— At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!         And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—         It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!                A tale of less affright,                And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,—                'Tis of a little child                Upon a lonesome wild, Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way: And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

                          VIII 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,         And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,         Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!                With light heart may she rise,                Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,         Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; To her may all things live, from pole to pole, Their life the eddying of her living soul!         O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

Despite its emo-ish name, this poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge never fails to make me see and value the brighter and better side of life when I’m down. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #dejection an ode #dejection #samuel taylor coleridge #romantic #romanticism #beautiful #love

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

The Moment

The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose their soft arms from around you, the birds take back their language, the cliffs fissure and collapse, the air moves back from you like a wave and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing. You were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. We never belonged to you. You never found us. It was always the other way round.

A poem by Margaret Atwood to put our lives into perspective.

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #canadian #margaret atwood #the moment #nature #perspective #beautiful

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

R Alcona to J Brenzaida

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee! Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains on Angora's shore; Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers From those brown hills have melted into spring-- Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee While the World's tide is bearing me along: Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven; No other Star has ever shone for me: All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion, Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine!

And even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

This beautiful poem by Emily Jane Brontë, written on March 3, 1845, perfectly encapsulates the loneliness of winter for those who have lost someone.

PS. listen to Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” after reading this. 

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #emily bronte #gothic #loneliness #separation #snow #winter #victorian #hallelujah #jeff buckley #music

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Advice to Women

Keep cats if you want to learn to cope with the otherness of lovers. Otherness is not always neglect -- Cats return to their litter trays when they need to. Don't cuss out of the window at their enemies. That stare of perpetual surprise in those great green eyes will teach you to die alone.

I love Eunice de Souza. She’s one of the few Indian poets I’ve read (must read more!) and I must say, her minimalism is startling and a very welcome change from the much over-drawn trend of flowery language used in most of the Indian poems I’ve read in English. Also, I’m a huge cat lover, so it makes this poem all the more endearing to me!!

#advice to women #poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #eunice de souza #indian #love #cats #lovers #otherness #indian poetry

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

I’m Wife; I’ve Finished That

I’m wife; I’ve finished that, That other state; I’m Czar, I’m woman now: It’s safer so.

How odd the girl’s life looks        5 Behind this soft eclipse! I think that earth seems so To those in heaven now.

This being comfort, then That other kind was pain;        10 But why compare? I’m wife! stop there!

Emily Dickinson was born on this day in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1830, a place where she would spend the rest of her life. Her poetry reflects her unease with marriage and the Church, and also foregrounds her solitude and her ease with it. Unpublished in her lifetime, the posthumous publication of her poetry ensured her lasting fame, and till this day, her work remains a legacy for people all over the world.

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #emily dickinson #birthday #american #i'm wife

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Dostoevsky

against the wall, the firing squad ready. then he got a reprieve. suppose they had shot Dostoevsky? before he wrote all that? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered not directly. there are billions of people who have never read him and never will. but as a young man I know that he got me through the factories, past the whores, lifted me high through the night and put me down in a better place. even while in the bar drinking with the other derelicts, I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a reprieve, it gave me one, allowed me to look directly at those rancid faces in my world, death pointing its finger, I held fast, an immaculate drunk sharing the stinking dark with my brothers.

Written by Charles Bukowski, this is a special appreciation post for Fyodor Dostoyevsky, an author I recently became obsessed with Crime and Punishment.  

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems #fyodor dostoevsky #dostoevsky #dostoyevsky #fyodor dostoyevsky #poems on tumblr #charles bukowski #reprieve

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Despite the Splinters in My Heart, I Still Love

I love like the moon can wash me anew, like the tide can take me away. I love like the sun will kiss my skin golden and confuse my eyes until I see everything with cheer. I still love, despite the daggers slashed at my heart, despite the splinters left from the time you stabbed me with glass.

I love like heaven is filled with my friends, and hell is empty. I love like kisses given away aplenty. I love like a child, drawing hearts and figures, and pointing to each one in turn. I love like the angels, like singing in clouds is not enough. I love, despite heartbreak, despite past failures in love.

I love, I love, I love. That doesn’t mean I have to love you.

Lines that resonate, that give me strength; by Laala Kashef Alghata

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems on tumblr #poems #love #strength #lines that resonate #qotd #potd #poem of the day #laala kashef alghata #despite the splinters in my heart i still love #beautiful #favourite #bahrain