Sevenling: At The Intellect's Wake

 Sevenling: At The Intellect's Wake

At the Intellect's wake--what will you have, scotch mist

watered wine or hot spleen juice for tea? We serve it in numb;

no china pots, crystal cups in an ape's auditorium.

Are there teeth anywhere? Please open wide--

they'll be gently extracted; the buffet is cold mush

lukewarm spoonfuls of treacle, with thin cabbage soup.

Where are the mourners? Out in the rain in a graveyard of swallows.

~September 2012

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Sunday Mini-Challenge: The Sevenling

This form was first used by Russian Poet Anna Akhmatova. See the link for details.

Photo copryright and courtesy of Margaret Bednar. Used with permission. Thank you , Margaret.

Off the Shelf Archive ~July

The archivist has been even more remiss than usual in replenishing the shelves this month. Let's blame it on the mind-melting heat. But she has been reading a lot of poetry in her thirst for some cooling and some relief. Ruth Mowry, of syn-chro-ni-zing, posted an excerpt from  a poem by D.H. Lawrence  accompanied by some deliciously cool paintings of  ocean scenes by Spanish painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida earlier in the month, a post which got me back into reading Lawrence's rebellious and ingenious poetry, so I've decided to share two of his shorter poems I particularly enjoyed this month while broiling in the heat.

Most know Lawrence (1885-1930) as a novelist, the author of the shibboleth-defying Lady Chatterley's Lover, which in my childhood always had the dubious rider "banned in Boston" following it around, and for which he spent the latter half of his life treated as a pariah by the literary establishment. He also wrote several more ambitious novels, novelettes, short stories, essays, critiques, plays, and innumerable poems, and his contemporary reputation is of a writer whose 
" ...collected works represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanizing effects of modernity and industrialization. In them, Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vitality, spontaneity, and instinct."  as wikipedia puts it.

So without further ado, this link will take you to the Off the Shelf Archive for August where Won't it Be Strange---? and The Gods! The Gods! by D.H.Lawrence are preserved for re-reading.

As usual, the former selection, three short poems by the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, appears below for a final read before going into the archives. Feel free to comment on either selection here, as comments are disabled off the main page. (And suggestions for next time are always welcome.)

Three Short Poems by Anna Akhmatova

Lot' s Wife

And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.

Everything

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?

By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.

And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.

You Thought I Was That Type

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you. 

by Anna Akhmatova 

Image: Portrait of Anna Akhmatova, by Olga Della-Vos-Kardovskaya, 1914

courtesy wikimedia commons

Off the Shelf Archive ~June #2

The month slips by once again, and the archivist wakes up out of her heat induced coma long enough to realize it's time for a new Off the Shelf selection. This time, we're looking at a woman, from another but eerily similar time and another land, the modernist Russian poet Anna Akhmatova (pen name of Anna Andreyevna Gorenko.) Akhmatova (1889-1966) began writing before the Communist Revolution  and was a well-known lyric poet and free spirit when Stalin came to power. After the rise of Stalin she was one of the few artists of her generation who chose to stay and record the atrocities of that regime rather than emigrate, for which she paid a high price, her work banned for years. Her best known long poem is called Requiem, about this time of terrors.

I've picked three of her poems, all short, one for concept, Lot's Wife, one for language, Everything, and one for emotion, You Thought I Was that Type.

You can enjoy them all here, in the July Off The Shelf Archives. 

Thanks to Fireblossom for pointing me to this selection, and the good people at Poet's United, who profiled her recently.

Making room for Akhmatova is the previous selection, a fine poem by Ted Hughes entitled The Howling of Wolves, archived here in the main stream for a last perusal. As always, you may comment on either piece here as comments are disabled off the main page, and suggestions for next time are always welcome.

Last look at The Howling of Wolves, by Ted Hughes:

The Howling of Wolves

Is without world.

What are they dragging up and out on their long leashes of sound

That dissolve in the mid-air silence?

Then crying of a baby, in this forest of starving silences,

Brings the wolves running.

Tuning of a viola, in this forest delicate as an owl’s ear,

Brings the wolves running—brings the steel traps clashing

  and slavering.

The steel furred to keep it from cracking in the cold,

Their eyes that never learn how it has come about

That they must live like this,

That they must live

Innocence crept into minerals.

The wind sweeps through and the hunched wolf shivers.

It howls you cannot say whether out of agony or joy.

The earth is under its tongue,

A dead weight of darkness, trying to see through its eyes.

The wolf is living for the earth.

But the wolf is small, it comprehends little.

It goes to and fro, trailing its haunches and whimpering horribly.

It must feed its fur.

The night snows stars and the earth creaks.

by Ted Hughes

Image: Come Play with Me, by Tambako the Jaguar on flick'r

Tambako the Janguar's photostream

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