' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[AC Benus]

14 hours ago, Lyssa said:

That is wonderful. Thank you for sharing.

It's time for poetry, because it makes us all feel more human. In our errors, in our fears but also in the ability to create beauty and communication of love. Muha 🙂

Thank you, Lyssa! What you say is true, as so beautifully put too. Lucy Larcom seems to me a first rate poet and was one of the founders of the Transcendental school. You think I would have heard of her before yesterday.... hmmm

[AC Benus]

10 hours ago, Mikiesboy said:

this is lovely ... like fresh air blowing through the house in spring ...  it brings calm and beauty to a fevered and restless mind.   thank you ... the last few days, i've had need of poetry... thank you, AC xoxo

Yes, thank you, Tim. Poetry can do much to reconnect us to our humanity, while keeping us grounded at the same time. In Lucy Larcom I think I see a great poet who's been neglected. Time to have a serious review of her work, like this poem, which was written during the Civil War.

[AC Benus]

17 minutes ago, Parker Owens said:

This is such a welcome poem. It evoked for me the sense of these deserted days and hours when so much of our human world is in retreat. It’s now that we can sense the haunting the poet speaks of. 

Thank you, Parker. This poet is a forgotten founding member of the Transcendental school. Reading this poem for the first time -- that is, yesterday -- gave me goosebumps.  

[AC Benus]

...wow...they keep SO much from us...

 

The Fire of Drift-Wood

 

We sat within the farm-house old, 

      Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, 

      An easy entrance, night and day. 

 

Not far away we saw the port, 

      The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, 

      The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

 

We sat and talked until the night, 

      Descending, filled the little room; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 

      Our voices only broke the gloom. 

 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 

      Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 

      And who was changed, and who was dead; 

 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 

      When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 

      And never can be one again; 

 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 

      That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 

      Or say it in too great excess. 

 

The very tones in which we spake 

      Had something strange, I could but mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 

      A mournful rustling in the dark. 

 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

      As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

      The flames would leap and then expire. 

 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 

      We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 

      And sent no answer back again. 

 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 

      The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 

      All mingled vaguely in our speech; 

 

Until they made themselves a part 

      Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 

      That send no answers back again. 

 

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! 

      They were indeed too much akin, 

The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

      The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 

Longfellow

 

_

[Mikiesboy]

There are chills from a fever, or cold, but they are nothing like the rolling chills that come from beautiful words. That was amazing ... thanks, AC.

And they can't anymore ... keep things from us, they just cannot anymore. xoxo

[Parker Owens]

@AC Benus

Wow. Thank you so much for posting this. What a way to start my day. 

[MichaelS36]

That is a wonderful poem. 

[Lyssa]

Thank you for sharing this one. :-) It was a wonderful start and now again end for my day.

[Brayon]

A Happy Start to National Poetry Month.

[Parker Owens]

1 hour ago, Brayon said:

A Happy Start to National Poetry Month.

I can be an April fool for poetry

[Lyssa]

The scent of spring rain,
heavy drops merging with earth
promise: Life

The scent of you, lover,
deep love merging with friendship
promise: Home

Edited April 7, 2020 by Lyssa

[AC Benus]

9 hours ago, Lyssa said:

The scent of spring rain,
heavy drops merging with earth
promise: Life

The scent of you, lover,
deep love merging with friendship
promise: Home

A lovely matched pair; an internal and external view on an April day Thanks for posting them here

[AC Benus]

Sometimes there is a convergence of generations where the 'younger' can have clear insight into the 'older.' It's because the newer people alive are suddenly put in a position that aligns with past times. 'Their' art can speak to us in a sincere way to offer comfort; to validate the timelessness of humanity. With this in mind, I think the time is right to do daily postings from one of the greatest same-sex love poems ever written. There are 131 separate poems within the whole, plus an introduction and epilogue. They were written over the span of about 15 years, with some poems being long, but most of only a strophe or two. I will post them in batches to savor, with time to think upon them. 

The background: this poet met and fell in love with another boy in college (as in university), and by all accounts the love was returned and mutual. Sadly, the beloved died overseas soon after the pair graduated.

 

In Memoriam

of Arthur Henry Hallam

 

                       [Prologue]

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,

   Whom we, that have not seen thy face,

   By faith, and faith alone, embrace,

Believing where we cannot prove;

 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;

   Thou madest Life in man and brute;

   Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot

Is on the skull which thou hast made.

 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:

   Thou madest man, he knows not why,

   He thinks he was not made to die;

And thou hast made him: thou art just.

 

Thou seemest human and divine,

   The highest, holiest manhood, thou.

   Our wills are ours, we know not how;

Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

 

Our little systems have their day;

   They have their day and cease to be:

   They are but broken lights of thee,

And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

 

We have but faith: we cannot know;

   For knowledge is of things we see

   And yet we trust it comes from thee,

A beam in darkness: let it grow.

 

Let knowledge grow from more to more,

   But more of reverence in us dwell;

   That mind and soul, according well,

May make one music as before,

 

But vaster. We are fools and slight;

   We mock thee when we do not fear:

   But help thy foolish ones to bear;

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

 

Forgive what seemed my sin in me;

   What seemed my worth since I began;

   For merit lives from man to man,

And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

 

Forgive my grief for one removed,

   Thy creature, whom I found so fair.

   I trust he lives in thee, and there

I find him worthier to be loved.

 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

   Confusions of a wasted youth;

   Forgive them where they fail in truth,

And in thy wisdom make me wise.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited April 7, 2020 by AC Benus

[Mikiesboy]

Simply wonderful. I look forward to more.

[MichaelS36]

19 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

   Confusions of a wasted youth;

   Forgive them where they fail in truth,

And in thy wisdom make me wise.

This is a wonderful tribute to the beloved one. Thank you, AC. 

[Parker Owens]

@AC Benus Thank you for Tennyson. It is so beautiful. 

[AC Benus]

(sorry I missed yesterday's posting...will post a pic of why I was distracted )

 

1.

I held it truth, with him who sings

   To one clear harp in divers tones,

   That men may rise on stepping-stones

Of their dead selves to higher things.

 

But who shall so forecast the years

   And find in loss a gain to match?

   Or reach a hand through time to catch

The far-off interest of tears?

 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drowned,

   Let darkness keep her raven gloss:

   Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,

To dance with death, to beat the ground,

 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn

   The long result of love, and boast,

   `Behold the man that loved and lost,

But all he was is overworn.'

 

 

2.

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones

   That name the under-lying dead,

   Thy fibres net the dreamless head,

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

 

The seasons bring the flower again,

   And bring the firstling to the flock;

   And in the dusk of thee, the clock

Beats out the little lives of men.

 

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,

   Who changest not in any gale,

   Nor branding summer suns avail

To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

   Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

   I seem to fail from out my blood

And grow incorporate into thee.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited April 9, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

an ancient yew tree

[Mikiesboy]

5 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

an ancient yew tree

that is not why you were distracted ... good try though.. haha

[AC Benus]

 

3.

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,

   O Priestess in the vaults of Death,

   O sweet and bitter in a breath,

What whispers from thy lying lip?

 

'The stars,' she whispers, `blindly run;

   A web is wov'n across the sky;

   From out waste places comes a cry,

And murmurs from the dying sun:

 

'And all the phantom, Nature, stands—

   With all the music in her tone,

   A hollow echo of my own —

A hollow form with empty hands.'

 

And shall I take a thing so blind,

   Embrace her as my natural good;

   Or crush her, like a vice of blood,

Upon the threshold of the mind?

Tennyson

 

Edited April 10, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

4.

To Sleep I give my powers away;

   My will is bondsman to the dark;

   I sit within a helmless bark,

And with my heart I muse and say:

 

'O heart, how fares it with thee now,

   That thou should'st fail from thy desire,

   Who scarcely darest to inquire,

'What is it makes me beat so low?'

 

Something it is which thou hast lost,

   Some pleasure from thine early years.

   Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost!

 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross

   All night below the darkened eyes;

   With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

'Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.'

Tennyson

Edited April 11, 2020 by AC Benus

[Parker Owens]

3 hours ago, AC Benus said:

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross

   All night below the darkened eyes;

   With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

'Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.'

Before there is the will to recover from grief, there lies the road through sorrow. How well Tennyson shows us this. And thank you for giving this to us. 

[Mikiesboy]

4 hours ago, AC Benus said:

Something it is which thou hast lost,

   Some pleasure from thine early years.

   Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost!

an amazing poem, beautiful

[AC Benus]

5.

I sometimes hold it half a sin

   To put in words the grief I feel;

   For words, like Nature, half reveal

And half conceal the Soul within.

 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,

   A use in measured language lies;

   The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,

   Like coarsest clothes against the cold:

   But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.

Tennyson

[AC Benus]

5.

One writes, that `Other friends remain,'

   That `Loss is common to the race' --

   And common is the commonplace,

And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

 

That loss is common would not make

   My own less bitter, rather more:

   Too common! Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break.

 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be,

   Who pledgest now thy gallant son;

   A shot, ere half thy draught be done,

Hath stilled the life that beat from thee.

 

O mother, praying God will save

   Thy sailor -- while thy head is bowed,

   His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud

Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

 

Ye know no more than I who wrought

   At that last hour to please him well;

   Who mused on all I had to tell,

And something written, something thought;

 

Expecting still his advent home;

   And ever met him on his way

   With wishes, thinking, `here to-day,'

Or `here to-morrow will he come.'

 

O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,

   That sittest ranging golden hair;

   And glad to find thyself so fair,

Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

 

For now her father's chimney glows

   In expectation of a guest;

   And thinking `this will please him best,'

She takes a ribbon or a rose;

 

For he will see them on to-night;

   And with the thought her colour burns;

   And, having left the glass, she turns

Once more to set a ringlet right;

 

And, even when she turned, the curse

   Had fallen, and her future Lord

   Was drowned in passing thro' the ford,

Or killed in falling from his horse.

 

O what to her shall be the end?

   And what to me remains of good?

   To her, perpetual maidenhood,

And unto me no second friend.

Tennyson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpjy5siUJ2Q

 

Book of John 14:

 

"If ye love me, keep my commandments,

and I will pray the Father, and he shall

give you another partner (comforter),

that he may bide with you for ever,

ev'n in the spirit of truth."