' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[AC Benus]

 

 

120

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then,

  While I rose up against my doom,

  And yearned to burst the folded gloom,

To bare the eternal Heavens again,

 

To feel once more, in placid awe,

  The strong imagination roll

  A sphere of stars about my soul,

In all her motion one with law;

 

If thou wert with me, and the grave

  Divide us not, be with me now,

  And enter in at breast and brow,

Till all my blood, a fuller wave,

 

Be quickened with a livelier breath,

  And like an inconsiderate boy,

  As in the former flash of joy,

I slip the thoughts of life and death;

 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows,

  And every dew-drop paints a bow,

  The wizard lightnings deeply glow,

And every thought breaks out a rose.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 21, 2020 by AC Benus

[Parker Owens]

13 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

 

 

120

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then,

  While I rose up against my doom,

  And yearned to burst the folded gloom,

To bare the eternal Heavens again,

 

To feel once more, in placid awe,

  The strong imagination roll

  A sphere of stars about my soul,

In all her motion one with law;

 

If thou wert with me, and the grave

  Divide us not, be with me now,

  And enter in at breast and brow,

Till all my blood, a fuller wave,

 

Be quickened with a livelier breath,

  And like an inconsiderate boy,

  As in the former flash of joy,

I slip the thoughts of life and death;

 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows,

  And every dew-drop paints a bow,

  The wizard lightnings deeply glow,

And every thought breaks out a rose.

Tennyson

 

 

This is heart filling; it reminds me of something from Whitman, in a way. 

[AC Benus]

I had a breakthrough in my understanding of In Memoriam yesterday. (I'm sorry I don't have time to cite the sections of the work in what I'm about to write, but I think you'll be able to follow my thesis.)

If you glance through any of the analysis of Tennyson's love poem, printed or posted anywhere -- even the briefest examples -- the subject of how In Memoriam is structured around the "weddings" comes up. This means first, how the older of Tennyson's sisters was engaged to Hallam, and how she married another man soon(ish) after Henry's death. And two, near the conclusion of In Memoriam, the younger of Tennyson's sister gets married many years after Henry's death.

These two wedding do serve as anchoring points in the poem, but the conventional explanation (by hetero-oppressive demand) that these must be read as Tennyson longing to be "normal" never sat well with me at all. Such an augment is a major projection which the poem itself does not support. However, now having been in intimate contact with In Memoriam again, I can see the wedding context Tennyson's love for Hallam is painting for us. It follows this timeline in the poem: 

- The early verses of In Memoriam are lost and raw; single pieces about how the loss of Hallam feels, and the waiting for his remains and funeral. 

- The first Christmas without Hallam; Arthur feels like a ghost with others being merry around him, including his sister who's gotten engaged to another man, while he feels he's the only one being true to Henry.

- Spring and the wedding of the "unfaithful" sister sets Tannyson a new purpose; he gears up to make his random Elegy verses into the work of art In Memoriam will eventually become; he pins his own devotion to Hallam as something everlasting, and starts to refer to himself as Henry's widow. 

- This widowhood is explored in many subtle and revealing ways; a batch of poems speak of spring again; and the ones mentioning orange blossoms (Victorian bridal flowers for the hair) speak to a private ceremony where Arthur and Henry exchanged their own vows. 

- This revelation in the poem means that Tennyson's use of widow for himself is factually accurate, and slowly reveals his resentment towards a society that would not respect it if it were known [haha, which they still don't even to this day] , and on the figure of his sister who so flippantly tossed the memory of Hallam over to "move on" with life.

- The transformations poems (coming before and after the glorious pivot point of No. 95) take the sorrow beyond the physical realm of life and understand the great spiritual half of his life with Hallam, and Hallam's with his.

- This slowly builds to a sort of forgiveness for societal demands, and a gradual acceptance that he too must bend to them.

[In the real-life background of this, Tennyson - a beggarly type 'rich man' with little income and a shabby career as a published poet - is approached about doing his family obligation and marrying a particular young woman. With her, he is honest, coming out and proposing a sort of "professional marriage," or what we today call a marriage of convenience. The evidence of Tennyson's coming out to her can be seen in her breaking off the relationship on several occasions - occasions where it appeared the poet's love of Hallam was going to be publicly exposed. In fact, the last and 'final' rejection of him occurred after Tennyson had paid for a private printing of In Memoriam and distributed it amongst his circle; one of the later verses here states he can never love the woman he's entangled with, no doubt upsetting her greatly.* However, the full public publication of In Memoriam changed her mind. Why? It was an overnight bestseller, and in a matter of months, its fame turned Tennyson from a barely published poet to the Poet Laureate of the British Empire. Money. She married Tennyson finally when he had money, money, money!]  

- By the time of his younger sister's marriage, Tennyson can rest assured that his faithfulness to Hallam is safe, and regard the continuing aspects of life as something necessary. Thus In Memoriam can conclude full-circle with a merrier Christmas than the one 12 years earlier after Henry's death. And of course, as Gay men did in the age, Tennyson named his firstborn son after the man he loved - Hallam Tennyson.**

 

-----

* I have the Complete Poetry of Tennyson, and can tell you confidently, there is not a single love poem in the book to her. There is a later-life poem about them having breakfast on the morning of their wedding anniversary, as it is staid and of the nature of one business partner writing a thank you note to the other.  

** Not one but two of Herman Melville's partners named their eldest sons after him: Herman Melville Greene and Herman Melville Williams  

 

Edited July 21, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

41 minutes ago, Parker Owens said:

This is heart filling; it reminds me of something from Whitman, in a way. 

Yes! Thank you for saying this! I have no where read that Tennyson's In Memoriam influenced Whitman, but to me it's obvious. More than that, Tennyson's book "explains" the sudden conversion of city-swell Whitman -- spending his days and nights at the opera and writing reviews - into a poet at all. Just as the transcendental nature of In Memoriam is usually overlooked, so too are the many influences of this book on the first edition of Leaves of Grass. 

Haha, another essay for me to tackle, lol

[AC Benus]

 

 

121.

There rolls the deep where grew the tree.

  O earth, what changes hast thou seen!

  There where the long street roars, hath been

The stillness of the central sea.

 

The hills are shadows, and they flow

  From form to form, and nothing stands;

  They melt like mist, the solid lands,

Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

 

But in my spirit will I dwell,

  And dream my dream, and hold it true;

  For though my lips may breathe adieu,

I cannot think the thing farewell.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 22, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

Please don't miss this one by @BDANR

https://gayauthors.org/story/bdanr/loving-fiercely-how-i-resist/15

 

[AC Benus]

 

 

122.

That which we dare invoke to bless;

  Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt;

  He, They, One, All; within, without;

The Power in darkness whom we guess;

 

I found Him not in world or sun,

  Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;

  Nor through the questions men may try,

The petty cobwebs we have spun:

 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep,

  I heard a voice `believe no more'

  And heard an ever-breaking shore

That tumbled in the Godless deep;

 

A warmth within the breast would melt

  The freezing reason's colder part,

  And like a man in wrath the heart

Stood up and answered "I have felt."

 

No, like a child in doubt and fear:

  But that blind clamour made me wise;

  Then was I as a child that cries,

But, crying, knows his father near;

 

And what I am beheld again

  What is, and no man understands;

  And out of darkness came the hands

That reach through nature, moulding men.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 26, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

123.

Whatever I have said or sung,

  Some bitter notes my harp would give,

  Yea, tho' there often seemed to live

A contradiction on the tongue,

 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth;

  She did but look through dimmer eyes;

  Or Love but played with gracious lies,

Because he felt so fixed in truth:

 

And if the song were full of care,

  He breathed the spirit of the song;

  And if the words were sweet and strong

He set his royal signet there;

 

Abiding with me till I sail

  To seek thee on the mystic deeps,

  And this electric force, that keeps

A thousand pulses dancing, fail.

Tennyson

Edited July 26, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

124.

Love is and was my Lord and King,

  And in his presence I attend

  To hear the tidings of my friend,

Which every hour his couriers bring.

 

Love is and was my King and Lord,

  And will be, though as yet I keep

  Within his court on earth, and sleep

Encompassed by his faithful guard,

 

And hear at times a sentinel

  Who moves about from place to place,

  And whispers to the worlds of space,

In the deep night, that all is well.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 27, 2020 by AC Benus

[Parker Owens]

1 hour ago, AC Benus said:

 

 

124.

Love is and was my Lord and King,

  And in his presence I attend

  To hear the tidings of my friend,

Which every hour his couriers bring.

 

Love is and was my King and Lord,

  And will be, though as yet I keep

  Within his court on earth, and sleep

Encompassed by his faithful guard,

 

And hear at times a sentinel

  Who moves about from place to place,

  And whispers to the worlds of space,

In the deep night, that all is well.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Why this part brought a new tune to my head, I cannot say. But it’s beautiful. 

[AC Benus]

 

125.

And all is well, though faith and form

  Be sundered in the night of fear;

  Well roars the storm to those that hear

A deeper voice across the storm,

 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread,

  And justice, ev'n though thrice again

  The red fool-fury of the Seine

Should pile her barricades with dead.

 

But ill for him that wears a crown,

  And him, the lazar, in his rags:

  They tremble, the sustaining crags;

The spires of ice are toppled down,

 

And molten up, and roar in flood;

  The fortress crashes from on high,

  The brute earth lightens to the sky,

And the great Aeon sinks in blood,

 

And compassed by the fires of Hell;

  While thou, dear spirit, happy star,

  O'erlook'st the tumult from afar,

And smilest, knowing all is well.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 28, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

No. 125 speaks to our times directly, although it describes the beginning of the world-changing year of 1848. The "February Revolution"  began in France, but by the end of the year, democracy movements had been initiated and quashed in a dozen European countries, including the UK, sadly.  

The brutal repression that followed, and the doubling down on "empire" by the people in charge, led one Women's Rights activist to mourn in this way:

 

At the end of 1849

 

The bells resound mute at the end of a year, 

Which in these hard and baleful times of woe,  

Must escort German Freedom to the graveyard –

Ah! All without hope for a change of fate. 

 

Imprisonment, exile or death – the tribute 

Of those who consigned themselves to the homeland,

Who fought for rights and the union of people,

That we might join together as a Nation.

 

But still, but still – liberty cannot die 

In a people so willing to sacrifice,

At least, not forever; not when it's ever-fresh. 

 

And even though hope for the seeds is withered –

The ones we sowed – folks will inherit one day 

What we're fighting for and have not yet achieved. 

Louise Otto-Peters

 

 

 

Edited July 28, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

126.

The love that rose on stronger wings,

  Unpalsied when he met with Death,

  Is comrade of the lesser faith

That sees the course of human things.

 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood

  Of onward time shall yet be made,

  And throned races may degrade;

Yet, O ye mysteries of good,

 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,

  If all your office had to do

  With old results that look like new;

If this were all your mission here,

 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,

  To fool the crowd with glorious lies,

  To cleave a creed in sects and cries,

To change the bearing of a word,

 

To shift an arbitrary power,

  To cramp the student at his desk,

  To make old bareness picturesque

And tuft with grass a feudal tower;

 

Why then my scorn might well descend

  On you and yours. I see in part

  That all, as in some piece of art,

Is toil cöoperant to an end.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 29, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

127.

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,

  So far, so near in woe and weal;

  O loved the most, when most I feel

There is a lower and a higher;

 

Known and unknown; human, divine;

  Sweet human hand and lips and eye;

  Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;

 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be;

  Loved deeplier, darklier understood;

  Behold, I dream a dream of good,

And mingle all the world with thee.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited July 30, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

 

128.

Thy voice is on the rolling air;

  I hear thee where the waters run;

  Thou standest in the rising sun,

And in the setting thou art fair.

 

What art thou then? I cannot guess;

  But though I seem in star and flower

  To feel thee some diffusive power,

I do not therefore love thee less:

 

My love involves the love before;

  My love is vaster passion now;

  Though mixed with God and Nature thou,

I seem to love thee more and more.

 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;

  I have thee still, and I rejoice;

  I prosper, circled with thy voice;

I shall not lose thee though I die.

Tennyson

 

 

 

Edited July 31, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

129.

O living will that shalt endure

  When all that seems shall suffer shock,

  Rise in the spiritual rock,

Flow through our deeds and make them pure,

 

That we may lift from out of dust

  A voice as unto him that hears,

  A cry above the conquered years

To one that with us works, and trust,

 

With faith that comes of self-control,

  The truths that never can be proved

  Until we close with all we loved,

And all we flow from, soul in soul.

Tennyson

 

 

Edited August 3, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

Thanks @chris191070for reading these. We are nearing the end of In Memoriam

[AC Benus]

 

 

[Epilogue] 

O true and tried, so well and long,

  Demand not thou a marriage lay;

  In that it is thy marriage day

Is music more than any song.

 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss

  Since first he told me that he loved

  A daughter of our house; nor proved

Since that dark day a day like this;

 

Tho' I since then have numbered o'er

  Some thrice three years: they went and came,

  Remade the blood and changed the frame,

And yet is love not less, but more;

 

No longer caring to embalm

  In dying songs a dead regret,

  But like a statue solid-set,

And moulded in colossal calm.

 

Regret is dead, but love is more

  Than in the summers that are flown,

  For I myself with these have grown

To something greater than before;

 

Which makes appear the songs I made

  As echoes out of weaker times,

  As half but idle brawling rhymes,

The sport of random sun and shade.

 

But where is she, the bridal flower,

  That must be made a wife ere noon?

  She enters, glowing like the moon

Of Eden on its bridal bower:

 

On me she bends her blissful eyes

  And then on thee; they meet thy look

  And brighten like the star that shook

Betwixt the palms of paradise.

 

O when her life was yet in bud,

  He too foretold the perfect rose.

  For thee she grew, for thee she grows

For ever, and as fair as good.

 

And thou art worthy; full of power;

  As gentle; liberal-minded, great,

  Consistent; wearing all that weight

Of learning lightly like a flower.

 

But now set out: the noon is near,

  And I must give away the bride;

  She fears not, or with thee beside

And me behind her, will not fear.

 

For I that danced her on my knee,

  That watched her on her nurse's arm,

  That shielded all her life from harm

At last must part with her to thee;

 

Now waiting to be made a wife,

  Her feet, my darling, on the dead

  Their pensive tablets round her head,

And the most living words of life

 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,

  The `wilt thou' answered, and again

  The `wilt thou' asked, till out of twain

Her sweet "I will" has made you one.

 

Now sign your names, which shall be read,

  Mute symbols of a joyful morn,

  By village eyes as yet unborn;

The names are signed, and overhead

 

Begins the clash and clang that tells

  The joy to every wandering breeze;

  The blind wall rocks, and on the trees

The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

 

O happy hour, and happier hours

  Await them. Many a merry face

  Salutes them -- maidens of the place,

That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

 

O happy hour, behold the bride

  With him to whom her hand I gave.

  They leave the porch, they pass the grave

That has to-day its sunny side.

 

To-day the grave is bright for me,

  For them the light of life increased,

  Who stay to share the morning feast,

Who rest to-night beside the sea.

 

Let all my genial spirits advance

  To meet and greet a whiter sun;

  My drooping memory will not shun

The foaming grape of eastern France.

 

It circles round, and fancy plays,

  And hearts are warmed and faces bloom,

  As drinking health to bride and groom

We wish them store of happy days.

 

Nor count me all to blame if I

  Conjecture of a stiller guest,

  Perchance, perchance, among the rest,

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

 

But they must go, the time draws on,

  And those white-favoured horses wait;

  They rise, but linger; it is late;

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

 

A shade falls on us like the dark

  From little cloudlets on the grass,

  But sweeps away as out we pass

To range the woods, to roam the park,

 

Discussing how their courtship grew,

  And talk of others that are wed,

  And how she looked, and what he said,

And back we come at fall of dew.

 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee,

  The shade of passing thought, the wealth

  Of words and wit, the double health,

The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

 

And last the dance; -- till I retire:

  Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,

  And high in heaven the streaming cloud,

And on the downs a rising fire:

 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down,

  Till over down and over dale

  All night the shining vapour sail

And pass the silent-lighted town,

 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,

  And catch at every mountain head,

  And o'er the friths that branch and spread

Their sleeping silver through the hills;

 

And touch with shade the bridal doors,

  With tender gloom the roof, the wall;

  And breaking let the splendour fall

To spangle all the happy shores

 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds,

  And, star and system rolling past,

  A soul shall draw from out the vast

And strike his being into bounds,

 

And, moved through life of lower phase,

  Result in man, be born and think,

  And act and love, a closer link

Betwixt us and the crowning race

 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look

  On knowledge; under whose command

  Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand

Is Nature like an open book;

 

No longer half-akin to brute,

  For all we thought and loved and did,

  And hoped, and suffered, is but seed

Of what in them is flower and fruit;

 

Whereof the man, that with me trod

  This planet, was a noble type

  Appearing ere the times were ripe,

That friend of mine who lives in God,

 

That God, which ever lives and loves,

  One God, one law, one element,

  And one far-off divine event,

To which the whole creation moves.

Tennyson

 

~

 

 

 

Edited August 3, 2020 by AC Benus

[AC Benus]

 

"A poem for a November day"

 

Oh, for a day of burning noon

And a sun like a glowing ember;

Oh, for one hour of golden June,

In the heart of this chill November.

 

I can scarcely remember the Spring's soft breath

Or imagine the Summer hazes.

The yellow woods are so damp with death

That I have forgotten the daisies.

 

Oh, to lie watching the sky again,

From a nest of hot grass and clover,

Till the stars come out like golden rain

When the lazy day is over.

 

And crowning the night with an aureole,

As the clouds kiss and drift asunder,

The moon floats up like a luminous soul.

And the stars grow pale for wonder.

Alfred Douglas,

1890s

 

 

_

 

Edited November 5, 2020 by AC Benus

[Parker Owens]

2 hours ago, AC Benus said:

"A poem for a November day"

What a wonderful poem. Thank you so much for sharing it!

I particularly liked these lines - I am drawn to them, and the memories they bring to me.

2 hours ago, AC Benus said:

Oh, to lie watching the sky again,

From a nest of hot grass and clover,

Thanks again.

[AC Benus]

.

Recollecting a Visit to W. B. Yeats

 

It is most pitiful to watch men go

In search of beauty with despairing eyes,

And what it is they lack as this world lies

Open before their gaze they do not know.

These porcelain skies with billows of graven snow

They paint on cold, thin cups, and draw from strings

Voices of mourning winds and sense of wings;

From woods rob sad-faced flowers and bid them grow

Nearer their souls; ay, creep out in the night

And steal the stars and the bright Moon from Heaven,

And bring them home to decorate their dreams

My God it is a strange and pitiful sight

To see the treasury of a poet's room

And him alone there shrouded in beauty's gloom!

Walter Turner

 

_

[Black Paper]

.

Edited January 30, 2021 by Black Paper

[Black Paper]

Just now, Black Paper said:

 

~Destruction~

 

Blow it all away.

Make it go away.

Throw it all away!

Destroy it all today.

Right here.

Right now.

How?

With your mind,

You can DESTROY all of the things that are all unkind.

Destruction is required for reproduction.

Just, like the storm,

You were born with reconstruction.

You have the ability to create a new tranquility.

You have the responsibility.

You have invincibility.

Make your own destiny.

You do not have to be rich.

All you need is a penny.

And, with that seed, indeed,

You can create plenty.

Show them who you are.

Show them how you’ll go far.

If they don’t believe you will achieve,

They can simply leave.

That isn’t evil, for that type of logic is simply Medieval.

Just, make them watch you as you powerfully continue,

As you will prove how you will improve with every single move…

[Parker Owens]

 

I don’t know

how to ask politely

 

for what I want from another man,

 

what etiquette dictates in such circumstances:

 

do I dress requests in finery,

 

or should they come garbed in

 

plain, rough clothes?

 

[AC Benus]

1 hour ago, Parker Owens said:

 

I don’t know

how to ask politely

 

for what I want from another man,

 

what etiquette dictates in such circumstances:

 

do I dress requests in finery,

 

or should they come garbed in

 

plain, rough clothes?

 

Makes me think of Maurice and Scudder