I was a bit surprised at how good he was, despite being obviously very young--and how good he might have become if he'd lived longer and lost some of the melodrama of youthful exuberance. Anyway, here is a bio page of his short but eventful life at Poets.org, for those interested.
The selection I've chosen for this month, by Rupert Brooke of course, is
Sonnet: I said splendidly I loved you; it's not true.
You'll find it here, on the Off the Shelf page, which now allows comments.
~*~
And here for final perusal before hitting the archives is last month's verse, Calypso's Island, by Archibald MacLeish:
Calypso's
Island
by
Archibald MacLeish
I know
very well, goddess, she is not beautiful
As you
are: could not be. She is a woman,
Mortal,
subject to the chances: duty of
Childbed,
sorrow that changes cheeks, the tomb--
For
unlike you she will grow gray, grow older,
Gray and
older, sleep in that small room.
She is
not beautiful as you, O golden!
You are
immortal and will never change
And can
make me immortal also, fold
Your
garment round me, make me whole and strange
As those
who live forever, not the while
That we
live, keep me from those dogging dangers--
Ships
and the wars--in this green, far-off island,
Silent
of all but sea's eternal sound
Or
sea-pine's when the lull of surf is silent.
Goddess,
I know how excellent this ground,
What
charmed contentment of the removed heart
The bees
make in the lavender where pounding
Surf
sounds far off and the bird that darts
Darts
through its own eternity of light,
Motionless
in motion, and the startled
Hare is
startled into stone, the fly
Forever
golden in the flickering glance
Of leafy
sunlight that still holds it. I
Know
you, goddess, and your caves that answer
Ocean's
confused voices with a voice:
Your poplars
where the storms are turned to dances;
Arms
where the heart is turned. You give the choice
To hold
forever what forever passes,
To hide
from what will pass, forever. Moist,
Moist
are your well-stones, goddess, cool your grasses!
And
she--she is a woman with that fault
Of
change that will be death in her at last!
Nevertheless
I long for the cold, salt,
Restless,
contending sea and for the island
Where
the grass dies and the seasons alter:
Where
that one wears the sunlight for a while.
Image: Island of Treasures, by Rene Magrite, 1942
All copyright belongs to the copyright holders.
The book sounds intriguing (thank you for the links). I like the MacLeish poem lots, but must admit that toward the end it was opposite that Words on the Wind sidebar offering, and that Lorca quote tore me away from old Archibald. I am not sure what that says about MacLeish, or Lorca, or my easily-swayed attention tonight!
ReplyDeleteThe book sounds fascinating. The blog definitely IS fascinating!
ReplyDeleteIt is those dogging dangers which defy happiness and present as horrible unexpected surprises.
ReplyDeleteThis is such a pretty poe. I wrote a nanowrimo manuscript once with a character named Penelope who was supposed to represent something like that. She was nicknamed "Penny". I should sometime go back to it. Her archetype is so strong. Of course, this poem focuses a lot on that kind of loyalty of Ulysses, and my guy was quite a bit less loyal --although even Ulysses strays at times. anyway, lovely. I especially love the description of the subjection to chances -- the childbirth, the cheeks that change, and the wonderful end there about she who wears the sunlight for a while. Grasses dying too. He makes immortality seem rather bland in comparison. k.
ReplyDelete