Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Ode on a Grecian urn

THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. 40

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Bue Funeral



Funeral Blues




by W. H. Auden (1907-1973)



Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come.


Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: "He is dead!"
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


He was my north, my south, my east and west,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.


The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.



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.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson

Sunday, May 8, 2011

The Weight of Sweetness by Li-Young Lee


No easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.
Song, wisdom, sadness, joy: sweetness
equals three of any of these gravities.
See a peach bend
the branch and strain the stem until
it snaps.
Hold the peach, try the weight, sweetness
and death so round and snug
in your palm.
And, so, there is
the weight of memory:
Windblown, a rain-soaked
bough shakes, showering
the man and the boy.
They shiver in delight,
and the father lifts from his son's cheek
one green leaf
fallen like a kiss.
The good boy hugs a bag of peaches
his father has entrusted
to him.
Now he follows
his father, who carries a bagful in each arm.
See the look on the boy's face
as his father moves
faster and farther ahead, while his own steps
flag, and his arms grow weak, as he labors
under the weight of peaches.

A Bird Came Down The Walk


A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

- Emily Dickinson

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson


    Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
    We people on the pavement looked at him:
    He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
    Clean-favoured and imperially slim.

    And he was always quietly arrayed,
    And he was always human when he talked;
    But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
    "Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.

    And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
    And admirably schooled in every grace:
    In fine -- we thought that he was everything
    To make us wish that we were in his place.

    So on we worked and waited for the light,
    And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
    And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
    Went home and put a bullet in his head.


    Morning Song



    Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
    The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
    Took its place among the elements.

    Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
    In a drafty museum, your nakedness
    Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

    I'm no more your mother
    Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
    Effacement at the wind's hand.

    All night your moth-breath
    Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
    A far sea moves in my ear.

    One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
    In my Victorian nightgown.
    Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

    Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
    Your handful of notes;
    The clear vowels rise like balloons.

    Sylvia Plath


    (Painting "Mother and Child" by William Zorach)

    Ah, are you digging on my grave


    "Ah, are you digging on my grave
    My loved one? -- planting rue?"
    -- "No, yesterday he went to wed
    One of the brightest wealth has bred.
    'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
    'That I should not be true.'"

    "Then who is digging on my grave?
    My nearest dearest kin?"
    -- "Ah, no; they sit and think, 'What use!
    What good will planting flowers produce?
    No tendance of her mound can loose
    Her spirit from Death's gin.' "

    "But some one digs upon my grave?
    My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
    -- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
    That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
    She thought you no more worth her hate,
    And cares not where you lie."

    "Then, who is digging on my grave?
    Say -- since I have not guessed!"
    -- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
    Your little dog, who still lives near,
    And much I hope my movements here
    Have not disturbed your rest?"

    "Ah yes! You dig upon my grave . . .
    Why flashed it not on me
    That one true heart was left behind!
    What feeling do we ever find
    To equal among human kind
    A dog's fidelity!"

    "Mistress, I dug upon your grave
    To bury a bone, in case
    I should be hungry near this spot
    When passing on my daily trot.
    I am sorry, but I quite forgot
    It was your resting-place."

    Thomas Hardy



    Romain - Hawk Roosting - Ted Hughes


    I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
    Inaction, no falsifying dream
    Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
    Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

    The convenience of the high trees!
    The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
    Are of advantage to me;
    And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

    My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
    It took the whole of Creation
    To produce my foot, my each feather:
    Now I hold Creation in my foot

    Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
    I kill where I please because it is all mine.
    There is no sophistry in my body:
    My manners are tearing off heads -

    The allotment of death.
    For the one path of my flight is direct
    Through the bones of the living.
    No arguments assert my right:

    The sun is behind me.
    Nothing has changed since I began.
    My eye has permitted no change.
    I am going to keep things like this.

    Here's a little place to post your poem and illustration !

    Thursday, May 5, 2011

    Hawk Roosting

    I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
    Inaction, no falsifying dream
    Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
    Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

    The convenience of the high trees!
    The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
    Are of advantage to me;
    And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

    My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
    It took the whole of Creation
    To produce my foot, my each feather:
    Now I hold Creation in my foot

    Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
    I kill where I please because it is all mine.
    There is no sophistry in my body:
    My manners are tearing off heads -

    The allotment of death.
    For the one path of my flight is direct
    Through the bones of the living.
    No arguments assert my right:

    The sun is behind me.
    Nothing has changed since I began.
    My eye has permitted no change.
    I am going to keep things like this.
    Ted Hughes