Off the Shelf Archive~November

Time to take down the other-worldly All Hallows selection from last month and move on to the (for me) always grisly holiday season. I'm once again indebted to Karin Gustafson of ManicdDaily for mentioning the poem I've selected, Anecdote of the Jar, by Wallace Stevens.

You'll find it here, in the Off the Shelf Archive for February 2013.


Below for a final perusal is last month's offering,  The Song of Wandering Aengus, by W.B Yeats. Please feel free to comment on either poem here as comments are disabled off the main page.

The Song Of Wandering Aengus

~by William Butler Yeats

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.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering 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.

Image: The Charmer, 1911, John William Waterhouse
Public Domain, via wikimedia commons

Off the Shelf Archive~October

October is at the midpoint, and soon will be winding down to that holiday at the end of the month known variously as Hallowe'en, All Hallows, Dia de Los Muertos, Samhain, and various other appellations, so I felt it was time to change out the Off the Shelf selection to something a bit more...magical. Karin Gustafson (ManicdDaily) mentioned in a comment what I thought might be an appropriate choice, The Song of Wandering Aengus, by the great Anglo-Irish poet W.B. Yeats. 

It now appears on the Off the Shelf page for November 2012, to keep some of the Other world in this one. Thanks, Karin.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

To make room for the change-out, here is the previous selection, If You Forget Me, by Pablo Neruda:

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

~Pablo Neruda

Header Image: Red Autumn, by SouthernPixel-Alby Headrick  on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons License

Footer Image: Canna 'Tropicanna' © joyannjones 2012

Off the Shelf Archive - February #2

Before the month completely slides past, it's time for one more Off the Shelf poem.

This new selection, The City that Does Not Sleep, by Federico Garcia Lorca, came to my attention earlier this week when I rediscovered it after many years posted on twitter. I read it first during the turbulent '60's and perhaps its message of the insanity of our world is even more pertinent today.

It's now up, here on the Off the Shelf page

Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet and dramatist associated with the surreal and avante garde movements of the 1920's, a close friend and collaborator of Salvador Dali and a prolific experimental poet and playwright with leftist leanings and strong ties to the Andalusian culture. He is believed to have been among the many executed by rightist death squads during the Spanish Civil War for his political  views, outspoken writing and homosexuality. Thanks to NellaLou for tweeting this great piece and reminding me of it after many years.


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The previous selection, Sailing to Byzantium by W.B.Yeats, is presented one last time here in the Archive for a final read.

As always feel free to comment on either poem here as comments are disabled off the main page, and also to suggest any favorite poet of your own for next time. You can always access the Archive to view prior selections by clicking on the Off the Shelf Archive tag in the sidebar.

So without further ado, Sailing to Byzantium:

Sailing to Byzantium

I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

William Butler Yeats  1928

Image : Returning Home, by Michael Parkes, 1980

Off the Shelf Archive - February #1

February is well on its way, and the Archivist bestirs herself, finally. I've picked a rather well-known poem this time, from Irish poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), because for one, it's a very fine poem, and secondarily, I'm currently working with the form of which it is one of the prime examples in English. It's always humbling to see a form that is driving you to cross-eyed mania executed with perfect poise, and Yeats definitely humbles me thoroughly with this selection, Sailing to Byzantium. The poem is built from four stanzas in the ottava rima form, and deals with the subject of age and the mind, and how to remain spiritually and intellectually alive. It was written in 1928, when Yeats was about 60.

For those who've read it, I think it's worth a re-read; for those who haven't, it's  not my favorite poem by Yeats (that would be When You Are Old) or his most accessible, but it's rather one of a kind.

You can find it here, in the second Off the Shelf Archive for February.

The previous selection consists of two short poems by the 20th Century American poet,  Richard Brautigan and is rolled out here for a last look.

As always, feel free to comment on either poem here, as comments are disabled off the main page. Suggestions for the next selection are always welcome, also.

 

I.

Karma Repair Kit, Items 1-4

1.
Get enough food to eat,
and eat it.


2.
Find a place to sleep where it is quiet,
and sleep there.


3.
Reduce intellectual and emotional noise
until you arrive at the silence of yourself,
and listen to it. 

II.

Hinged to Forgetfulness Like a Door

Hinged to forgetfulness
like a door,
she slowly closed out of
sight,
and she was the woman I loved,
but too many times she slept like
a mechanical deer in my caresses,
and I ached in the metal silence
of her dreams. 

Richard Brautigan

Image: Cover art, In Watermelon Sugar, By Richard Brautigan