Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
Personally I can't believe Maddy is _even older._
  

    

That's the second suggestion for The Highwayman, so I think I'm definately
going to have to go with that one. I do quite like it, which is handy.
  

    
Christy - She's very very patient with the camera, and even more so
with the people who come to the house and simply -must- pick her up!
She loves the attention :)  I hope you enjoy the other cat pictures.
There should be enough there to keep you occupied for a long, long
time!

Happy Birthday Maddy!!

Madman - If you're memorizing poems, how can you leave off "The
Jabberwocky"? Of all of them, it is the most fun to recite. My second
favorites are Dickinson poems, many of which can be sung to the tune of
"The Yellow Rose of Texas" - such as ...

<i>
BECAUSE I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility...
</i>

That one in particular is my favorite of her Yellow Rose rhythm poems.
Guaranteed to inspire laughter in the listeners!

Keats is also fantastic, as is Shelley's "Ozymandius". Shakespeare is
always a great idea. I think anything with some steady rhythm to it is
prime recitation material. For that matter old ballads work too. "Three
Ravens" is a beautiful song and would be wonderful for recitation. You
could also use "I Am Stretched On Your Grave" or there's a poem that
is almost the same as the song. I am not sure which came first, but I
do know the poem is pretty old. 
  

    

Jabberwocky I used to know and should relearn. It doesn't fit my excuse, but
I'll learn it anyway. "Because I would not stop for death..." is on the
list, and Ozymandius is another one I used to know and should relearn,
thanks for reminding me. (At my college there was a place we called "Oz",
after Ozymandius. It was a collapsing structure with trees and such growing
up through the stairs...)
I'll look up the others you mentioned that I wasn't familiar with.
  

    
Not a poem per se, but the Proverbs of Hell, from William Blake's The
Marriage of Heaven and Hell, was something I'd always meant to
memorize. Some of them are just really lovely:

"He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star."
"Everything possible to be believ'd is an image of truth."
"The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil'd."
____________________

Mary,  if we're the only ones signed up, we can decide our own meeting
place. 
  

    

Happy Birthday Maddy!  Wishing you yet another magical year..

Madman -  Here are two of my favorite poems:

Shakespare's Sonnet #18 
------------------------
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee


William Ernest Henley - "Invictus"
----------------------------------

OUT of the night that covers me,   
  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,   
I thank whatever gods may be   
  For my unconquerable soul.   
   
In the fell clutch of circumstance          
  I have not winced nor cried aloud.   
Under the bludgeonings of chance   
  My head is bloody, but unbowed.   
   
Beyond this place of wrath and tears   
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,   
And yet the menace of the years   
  Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.   
   
It matters not how strait the gate,   
  How charged with punishments the scroll,   
I am the master of my fate:   
  I am the captain of my soul. 


Mary -  Those last 10 pages were something else! Right now I'm on "The
Firey Cross."  ;>
  

    

The sonnet is just too common and trite, I'm not sure I could bring myself
to learn it. Like a good song overplayed on the radio, it just doesn't do
anything for me anymore. :>
The second one, though... I like. A lot.
  

    
Oooo, how could I have forgotten The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.....or
is it.... wossname?  Likes elephants....Heathcote Williams.  At any
rate, my personal favorite verse is 

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ, 
Moves on.  Nor all your piety nor wit
Can draw it back to change a single line
Nor all your tears erase a word of it.

And there's some absolutely lovely stuff in the Bible (the King James
version for poetry, but don't tell anyone I said so ;-)), the Quran,
Talmud and Torah that's beautiful as poetry, regardless of one's
particular beliefs.

Rocky--I had forgotten how much I love both of those.  Thanks for
reminding me!

Which leads me suggest Crossing the Bar by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 
Though Neil will possibly be provoked into suggesting poems by his
favorite poet of the nobility, whose name escapes me at the moment. 
I'm not sure one can quote his poetry in polite company, though. 

<<grins at Neil, since she is picking on him unfairly>>

On the other hand, how much polite company can one stand?  

Ooo, and what about Ginsburg?

I am free-associating *entirely* too much.  But what a great question!

Maure-- yes, indeedly.  Perhaps Tarah's as she is allergic to
the furry, yowly things in my house.

That's pronounced Taa--raaaah, you know.

Mary (who thinks that anyone reading the Outlander series should just
be given a holiday until they're through, so they won't be so irritated
by things like work & sleep)
  

    
Ah, a quick look back at Topic 73 (*that* was a while ago) reminds me
that the man in question was John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

Hmph.  Someday, when you're not so busy, Neil, I'm going to make you
defend your admiration for the man.  I'm thinking sometime around 2040.
 June, perhaps.  ;-)
  

    

No good, that's when the plumber is coming.
  

    

Madman - That sonnet was my first introduction to Shakespare at about
six or seven years old. I can still recall my father's recitation of
it..and me begging him to say it over again and again. 

Mary - One should never forget The Rubiayat!  

Oh, but here is a little treat that is quite reminicent of the books
we've both been reading lately.  *grin*

The Ballad of Yound Lochinvar
-----------------------------

1
 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west !
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone !
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war;
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar !

 2
 He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone;
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none -
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war;
Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Lochinvar !

 
3
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ! -
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, -
For the past craven bridegroom said never a word, -
'Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ?
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?'

 4
 'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide !
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !'

 
5
 The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, -
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye:
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, -
'Now tread we a measure !' said young Lochinvar.

 6
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace !
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered 'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !'

 
7
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear
When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !
'She is won, we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow !' quoth young Lochinvar.

 8
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby Clan,
Fosters, Fenwicks and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannonbie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see !
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

Sir Walter Scott, 1808
 
  

    

I am going to have to just print out the last 30 posts in this topic, I
think. Woohoo!
  

    
madman--Bugger.  You're right.  July, maybe.....
  

    

Duh! Sorry folks, just remembered what hidden messages are for. ;)
  

    <hidden>
  

    
Neil - That first poem is remarkable. The flow and use of language is
gorgeous, of a kind that leaves me sitting at my computer for hours
later on, writing on the inspiration. I shall have to look into more of
John Wilmot's work, if the rest even comes close to this. 

Which reminds me that I have started reading _The King of Elfland's
Daughter_ that I picked up on the recommendation of you (forgot where I
read that you liked it so much) and my husband. I've been hard pressed
to put the book down since I began it. 

All of these "Oh, how could I have forgotten <poet>?!" posts have made
me remember that I neglected my -own- favorite poet: Edna St. Vincent
Millay.

----------------------------
Witch Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine. 
 
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun `tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea. 
 
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.  
-----------------------------------------

Her poetry has always stunned me in some emotional fashion, no matter
how many times I read it. 
 
  

    
Neil: hope your chest stops being all bad and wrong and bad, and that
Miss Maddy Rose Elvira had a fantabulous 8th birthday, complete with
cakes and kittens and more books than she could read in an entire week
*at least.* 

(I'll stop flipping out about the fact that this also means my friends
Random and Lee have now been married for *8 years* as well soon,
honest... It's the part where inside my head I stopped aging at
22--that's the part that messes with me.)

Mary: I can't read my name anymore without Debbie saying it inside my
head, complete with head toss and manic grin.

(hi lurker-deb!)

maure: yes! everyone should come to my house! and then I can attack
them with homecooked food, and possibly EZ Streets, because I must
SHARE my obsession with Paul Haggis :) 

Or we could, you know, watch unca neil interviews on tape, 'cause I
think I've three of those floating around here someplace. All depends
on my ability to locate the PoG tape (which makes me wonder how Mark
Askwith is doing these days...). That would make it a proper meetup,
yes?

(or I could make Maure watch the SV ep with the bees... And then Mary
and Debbie and Chris can do Eddie for the rest of the evening, 'cause
that's what bees always make *me* think of)

I am off to Florida-la in the morning. And off to bed tonight, so I
shall wake-up in time to leave for Midway, so as to get to Florida-la.
  

    
Oh! and forgot to mention, funny story... Apparently, a black bear
tried to break into my parent's house last night. So, think
bear-free-week-end thoughts for me. I mean, prowlers, drug addicts,
winos, these I can handle. But, dude... bears? 
  

    
Mary and Tara and Debbie,  I'll be having yowley things in my house
too, three of them. I'll hide them in my bedroom while you visit, Tara,
because you must visit.

Tara,  saw the bees episode. Still haven't seen EZ Streets. 

Why I love college football players: RJ is bringing home some very
big, very strong guys to move my things into the new apartment. I am
very happy about this, because I have a lot of stuff. Now I just have
to direct. College football players are the cat's meow, sometimes.

And neil, that first poem is the cat's pajamas. Rrrrow.
  

    
oops.

Mary,  is that the filthy poem you were telling me about a long while
ago? It's actually sort of alarmingly sad. And funny, sort of.
  

    
Maure-not sure I would say "filthy"--it's a word I have issues with. 
My apartment is filthy, sex is not.

Stops rant aborning.

However, it's not hard to see why Rochester was someone I had *never
even heard of* (my undergrad's in English).  In this country, teaching
a poem like that in class can get you fired.  Sad, but true.

Rereading that last paragraph, I realize I should say that I think
it's a crime that Neil had to introduce me to Rochester.  I should have
read him in undergrad--it was my *major* for Christ's sake.  But there
you have it--Rochester's subject matter prevents him from being
"respectable" I suppose.  

I was just giving Neil a bit of ribbing, because the first time we
met, a discussion got started about poets of the English aristocracy,
how few there were, and Neil mentioned, and then quoted Rochester.  And
I wished we had more time for the comparison/contrast discussion that
as brewing between Rochester & Tennyson, and thinking of Crossing the
Bar reminded me of it.  I knew He of the Elephantine memory was likely
to remember it.  (Has anyone else noticed that Neil has a truly amazing
memory?  I envy it awfully.)

God, I am rambling.  Forgive me.

Neil--2 quick things--get well!  I'm sending healthy thoughts your
way.  It's such a pity to be ill when the weather is so lovely--at
least, I hope your weather is as lovely as ours.  And did you see Terry
(Pratchett) while you were in Edinburgh?  How is he?  I'm so hoping
he'll be touring with this new book.

Maure--I knew you had at least one cat--that's why I figured we'd
invade Taraaah's.  Besides, she cooks  ;-)

Taraah-travel safe!  Have a lovely trip!  But stay home sometime soon.
 I haven't seen you in ages!    

Meg--Ooooo, I like that.  She's a poet I haven't read much of....now
must go pull out ....my "World Poetry" (the big Norton anthology from a
couple of years back--a frustrating volume, but handy on occasion).  

I have just caused an avalanche on my Unread Books shelf.  Bugger.

Mary (off to not-sleep some more, apparently)
  

    
Maure -- it's the sadness out at the edge, and the sharp intelligence
that he only used to get himself into trouble that makes Rochester work
as a poet, I think. He wrote a fine (clean) poem called On Nothing,
after all.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0300018681/qid=1030717072/sr=1-2
/ref=sr_1_2/104-9623271-3047168?v=glance&s=books

is a good Rochester collection. (I didn't like the Penguin one much.)

Mary -- you'd not say kind things about my memory if you'd ever seen
me standing in the kitchen trying to remember what I went in there for.
 Terry was there the week before me, alas. 
  

    
Mary - I'm glad you liked it! (I always love to hear that someone else
enjoys something that I think is wonderful ;)

Ms. Millay was an interesting woman. I'm reading a biography of her,
called "What Lips My Lips Have Kissed" and its rather good, though I
don't know how exact it is - the author claims to have found a ton of
undiscovered correspondances and journals from her life that were
molding away in the Library of Congress. These things supposedly unveil
some closely-kept secrets of her life, but how can one verify any of
that, since she and her lovers are all now dead? Still, its a great
story :)
  

    
Oooo, and now we've hit in what bothers me about Rochester (and kept
me up 'til 4:00 bloody a.m., thank you very much, for which I blame
each and every one of you).  The Norton anthology yielded no Edna, but
did yield another Rochester, called "Song"--the one that starts "Love a
woman?"  and his translation of....Seneca, I think, which was
wonderful.  And the bitterness in his writing, and his contempt, for
himself, and  pretty much everyone around him, is what's been bothering
me.  You're right, Neil, he used a brilliant mind for little else
besides getting himself into trouble.  I think it sort of offends me to
see someone with so much talent waste it on odes to drinking.  But now
my prejudices have crawled out from under the rock.  What is "great "
poetry?  What makes a poem or a poet great?  I think that I've had an
underlying assumption for years that "serious" poetry had to address a
major theme--a universal subject, one of the great
imponderables--Death, The Nature of the Universe, Love, God, Doubt,
yadda, yadda.  What a bloody snob.  So Wilmot is a like a gauntlet
across the face for me (not always--Upon Nothing is just lovely, and
funny) in that he challenges me to consider his talent, regardless of
whether I "approve" of the subject matter.

And now you know why I was up 'til 4.  That, and rereading The
Canonization, by Donne.  "We'll build of sonnets pretty rooms" indeed.

But then I am a devoted & worshipful Donne fan, and therefore,
obviously, barking mad.

I'm way loving this discussion, or could y'all tell?  ;-)   
  

    
Ah, siozie slipped.  That bio sounds interesting!