Devon Book Club discussion
Poetry
>
A new discussion area on poetry
message 1:
by
Ian
(new)
Nov 19, 2014 11:57AM
Mod
reply
|
flag
From Plath's Ariel collection I am always drawn to The Moon and the Yew Tree.' Has anyone else read this and what are their views/feelings?
Mod
I have just reminded myself of this poem, from Ariel. Ashamed to say I had forgotten it - I am adding a link where Sylvia Plath reads the poem. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNhzso... We hear her say that the moon is her mother - but what a cold, remote unreachable image. If the moon is her mother then is the Yew Tree her father? If so, there is little comfort there either. What a desolate childhood she must have had. Deeply affecting to hear her perform the poem. I must re-read the collection..... and look for something to counterbalance it - what do people suggest?
There is something remarkably fresh about Sylvia Plath's poetry. I say 'fresh' because I mean clinical. Her vocabulary is clean - as if all the words have been carefully polished. Look at the very first line of this poem:'This is the light o the mind, cold and planetary'.
To break this down further, the three words which do it for me are: light - cold - planetary.
We associate light with brightness, hope, illumination and freshness.
We associate cold with winter, snow, ice, blizzard, wind. Again freshness. A sterility.
We associate planetary with a certain ... virginity. Man has landed on the Moon - that relatively uncluttered, white, luminous orb which glistens in the sky. As of yet, we haven't put man down on any other planet in the solar system so they are untouched and pure. I therefore translate Sylvia's words here with the mind of innocents.
The - Look at the next line:
'The trees of the mind are black ...'
She is making a strong contrast. Not sure how other people read it though?
Ruth
Ruth
Mod
I am also struck by the last verse
She sdays she has fallen a long way then,
"Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence."
There doesn't seem any way back from that. Blue is cold, even the saints are stiff and frozen. Even if there were any hope there, the Moon can't connect with it - and neither can the Yew.
You've got me all fired up now. Going to read the collection again. I just had a quick look at Ariel and was drawn to the closing lines:
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
Interesting that this uses a contrasting set of images of foment, of heat - red, not blue; a cauldron - turmoil rather than cold despair?
Might need a whisky when I settle down with that collection again - and perhaps a cheering fire
Hi Ian, Well I hope the struggle with the bottle of wine was successful Wine and poetry - a super mix! (Make sure you keep a good strong cheese nearby too lift the palette).It's a while since I looked at Ariel but I am reminded not just of Sylvia's inner sense of desperation but the fact this is a very 'wintry' book. Strange but I was just watching the TV news report of the heavy snow in the USA. I flick through Ariel and quickly fall upon her poem 'Wintering'. She is talking about the bees in the colder months; their process of living and organization:
'To make up for the honey I've taken
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow ...'
The bees struggle on to her fascination.
Moving on to another poem: 'The Munich Mannequins' -
Perfection s terrible, it cannot have children,
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb ...'
and yes, just as you have quoted ... Suicidal, at one with the drive ... Into the red ...
Her work is littered with the occasional splash of a rich colour. Usually red and an inference to blood.
Certainly through the 'Plath Peepers' one needs to comprehend a starkness. A staring vision of exposure to brightness that she didn't seem able to cope with. Somehow she was vulnerable to whiteness. Unprotected. Sun-glasses didn't help, so to speak. It makes me more curious to know what she would have been like to encounter. A nervous rabbit, wide-eyed and trapped in the headlights of a rougher world than her?
Ruth
Mod
It's a while since I ..."
Interesting last observation. Whenever I see or hear clips of her I always get the sense of both great intellectual power but a corresponding vulnerability. Perhaps just because we know of her tragic end.
Mod
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Exeter...
This highly successful organisation is building a substantial following and is doing a great job of promoting poetry in Devon and beyond.
As a raw (though mature) Eng Lit student I spent most of my degree afraid of poetry. I'd done the degree because I adored George Eliot's fiction (among many others), and I wanted to write, but even then I couldn't recognise a metaphor if one hit me. However, one of the Profs gave me a gentle talk about persisting and gradually 'seeing more and more' and he was right! I became obsessed when I fell in love with the work of Tony Harrison - his 'Them and Uz' was written for me ... I've used it often in heated discussions about 'speaking properly'. Favourites now are John Burnside, Don Paterson, U.A Fantorpe, Luke Kennard ... and check out Exeter-based poet/lecturer, Sally Flint - her first collection was published about a year ago - hang on, I will check the title and repost!
DrMama wrote: "As a raw (though mature) Eng Lit student I spent most of my degree afraid of poetry. I'd done the degree because I adored George Eliot's fiction (among many others), and I wanted to write, but eve..."Sally Flint's first poetry collection is Pieces of Us
Mod
Thanks for the recommendation - added to the list. I dont read much poetry myself - I can feel a new years resolution coming on
Mod
http://sullivanthepoet.co.uk/index.html
Here is the opening verse from " An Ode to Plymouth"
Dark sentinel in living rock, aguard her brine cut bay,
abreast the Plym, in verdant cape, does Plymouth’s foreshore lay;
Cold bedrock shoulders bunched and grey, set ‘bove a foaming maw,
hide razor teeth, beneath the swell, that wets her granite jaw.
With arms spread wide, about her sound, she silent vigil keeps;
While wordless wraiths, of salt sea dogs, patrol her ancient deeps.
The Poetic Merlot is on Mike Sullivan once the Xmas and the new year is over. New work coming soon to reading groups all over Plymouth. Poets are taking this city back... :)@Atticboho
Mod
@Atticboho"
Certainly a lot of activity in the city, which is great to see. Have you come across Damian Furniss? I work with him in Exeter
Mod
It is about the loss of her fiance, killed by a sniper.
Perhaps
Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.
Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.
Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.
But though kind Time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of You
Was broken, long ago.
Beautiful
Not a 'posh' poem like some of those already mentioned, but I have posted a poem I have written, on my blog on Goodreads, if anyone is interested. It looks at the stereotyping of women as witches in fairy tales, and the lack of compassion at their deaths by burning. It is called Hansel and Gretel Revisited.
Carol wrote: "Not a 'posh' poem like some of those already mentioned, but I have posted a poem I have written, on my blog on Goodreads, if anyone is interested. It looks at the stereotyping of women as witches i..."That's very evocative, Carol - beautiful description of the forest. It is shameful to think of the way women who seemed 'different' in any way were treated. Unfortunately, the fear of 'different' is still there; it just manifests itself in different ways, usually - though not always - less violent.
Yes, the other awful aspect of it is that it was often children who were accused and burned. Although we all know vaguely about it, I had no idea until I looked it up, that it was so widespread in Europe over 3 centuries. Evidently some villages in Germany had very few women left in them. It is part of history that seems to have been forgotten.
Carol wrote: "Yes, the other awful aspect of it is that it was often children who were accused and burned. Although we all know vaguely about it, I had no idea until I looked it up, that it was so widespread in ..."I had no idea that children were burned too. How appalling.
Lovely poem, Helen. Thank you for sharing it here. Sorry I won't be able to get to the event but hope it goes well. It sounds great.
Really liked your poem, Helen. Hope you'll put more on here.
Will try and get there. Used to love Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. I find it very sad this anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. I appreciate it was a pivotal moment in British history, but the thought of so many dead and dying men on the battle field is very distressing. I gather that thousands of sightseers flocked from Brussels to look at them.
Mod
Maybe see you, Carol, at POETSFriday at Cockington, 12 June, 2.00 pm.
And for anyone else interested and near enough, POETSFriday is a quarterly gathering..."
I love your poem Helen. Gentle scene, but with a hint of tension and a thought-provoking last three lines. I really like poems that draw me into an everyday occurrence and then lift a layer or two on it. Thank you for posting it.
I wrote a short piece of prose a few months ago, watching the tussle between a piece of driftwood and the retreating tide that conjured the same sort of feeling in me. I will see if I can find out how to add a word file and post it for comment.
Can't you just type it straight onto the page here, Ian? That's what I do when I can't manage to transfer anything adequately. Looking forward to reading it. It takes courage sometimes to put what you've written into the public domain. People who write often tend to be rather sensitive, imaginative souls and it takes quite an effort sometimes to launch out in public with what one has written.I always remember drawing a 'beautiful' picture of a tadpole once in Biology. I spent ages over it and gave it an enormous head and an extremely shrunken body. The other children came and laughed hysterically at it, and even now I can remember being upset!
Mod
The duel
The waves retreated in turmoil, yet caressed the sand with their afterthought. In the late afternoon sunshine, clouds and shafts of warm sunlight were reflected in the memory of the sea as it was slowly absorbed by the sand. Dogs ran barking into the froth and laughing children played nearby, watched by their smiling parents.
As he walked along, enjoying the chill wind blowing from the sea, he noticed a log that had been carried to the water’s edge. Its rough edges had been smoothed by the action of the sea and he wondered where it had begun its life, to be carried here. All around it lay the remnants of the day’s turbulence.
The sunshine glistened warmly on its surface, holding his attention.
He watched as the waves coursed around and under the log. It remained still, facing down the power of the waves, refusing to be buffeted by the wind and tide. The shape of the sand shifted as the waves continued their timeless toil, unconscious of the battle. One end of the log moved and began to be drawn back towards the waves, only to regain its grip.
The people on the beach thinned as the afternoon became cold and the sun dropped lower in the sky. Yet still he stood, transfixed by the duel between wood and wave. Would the log be left on shore, to rest quietly until the morning tide? It looked that way as the ebb tide receded yet further. He smiled.
At that moment an icy gust of wind carried a final surge of wave and foam, almost to his feet. As it withdrew it swirled around the log, the sand that anchored it was washed away, the log twisted, lost its fragile grasp on the beach and was snatched back by the relentless tide. He watched as it was reclaimed by the sea.
Tightening his scarf around his neck, he turned and walked away.
Definitely poetic, Ian, and very evocative. Thank you.
Mod
My pleasure - I think. A little nervous of doing so as it's the first time I've posted anything I've written, small though it is. I admire those of you immensely who have published whole books.
Incidentally, could someone click on this and see if it takes you to the file. I think I've found a way of posting a file via Google Drive. If it works, I'll add it to the "how to" post
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwL8...
Ian wrote: "Kathy wrote: "Definitely poetic, Ian, and very evocative. Thank you."My pleasure - I think. A little nervous of doing so as it's the first time I've posted anything I've written, small though it ..."
Yip, it works!
And I know what you mean about being nervous about putting your work in the public domain. I get the impression it never gets any easier.
Mod
My pleasure - I think. A little nervous of doing so as it's the first time I've posted anything I've written, smal..."
I'm sure it doesn't - event though you are getting more practised now, I imagine each book launch must evoke a mixture of anxiety and excitement?
Re the link - Excellent - then now I know how to add files to posts - I'll add it to the How To post
Ian wrote: "I thought it might be a bit long as a post but OK - here it is. Written after a cold, February walk along Instow beach. Not poetry, but maybe a little poetic?The duel
The waves retreated in tur..."
I have no idea if it's what people call poetry, but it's definitely lyrical. You are emotionally identifying with what is happening on the beach and I particularly like the image of the first and second line.
Mod
The duel
The waves retr..."
That's really nice of you to say so Carol. Thank you. If you (or anyone else) wants to give me any critical advice I'd welcome it - perhaps via a private message so that others don't get bored.
Ian wrote: "Kathy wrote: "Ian wrote: "Kathy wrote: "Definitely poetic, Ian, and very evocative. Thank you."My pleasure - I think. A little nervous of doing so as it's the first time I've posted anything I've..."
Yes, I do get nervous - and excited - but actually I was thinking of interviews I have read with well-known authors: most of them still feel that apprehension, even after a succession of bestsellers.
Mod
Don't hesitate about putting more things up, Ian - we're all friends here. I enjoyed it. It drew me in and I felt part of it.I can easily spend an hour watching a twig spinning in a eddy in a stream wondering if/when it will escape the backwater and be borne away by the main current. It's the sort of natural event that we can enjoy purely from the observed interaction of physical forces, or imbue it with metaphors for our own life experiences.
Your piece takes us to that choice. Happy to have more of that.
Mod
I can easily spend an hour watching a twig spinning in a eddy in a stre..."
Thanks BJ. I really appreciate that feedback. Gives me confidence. And, yes, it really does feel like we are building a community of friends here. Really value that.
Mod
Mod
It is called "On the pulse of the morning"
Watch it here and read below
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59xGm...
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers-
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours- your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
by Maya Angelo
She was a creative and caring person and the poem is a reflection of that. Has a gremlin crept into line 7?
Mod
yes - she certainly was - corrected thank you
Such a stunning piece of writing - offering inspiration, hope and the message that as humans we share more similarities than differences.
Here is one of my favourite poems by John Donne.No Man is an Island
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
Hi Carol - thank you for reminding me of this wonderful poem.... takes me back to Eng Lit A level days. We are all connected - and greater for that connection.... but diminished by separation in all its forms.
So many famous lines in it. 'No man is an island' which we have heard often quite recently in connection with Brexit, and also 'for whom the bells tolls', the title of Hemingway's novel.
To cheer us all up; The Owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear:The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!"
How charmingly sweet you sing!"
O let us be married! Too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig , are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were marred next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And, hand-in-hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
How lovely. I enjoyed reading that again. By coincidence we are doing a family zoom quiz at the weekend and one of my questions is about this poem.
Carol wrote: "To cheer us all up; The Owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear:The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-po..."
Carol wrote: "To cheer us all up; The Owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear:
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-po..."
Thank you Carol - this poem always makes me smile!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the English Romantic poet, lived here in Torquay for several years and unfortunately her brother was drowned in the bay. Here is : Sonnet 43. How Do I love thee?How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach , when feeling out of sight.
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
In 2013, 5 Haikus were attached to the Mars Atmosphere and Volatile Evolution Mission (MAVEN). Here are two of them:Thirty-six million
miles of whispering welcome
Mars, you called us home.
by Vanna Bonta.
It's funny, they named
Mars after the God of War
Have a look at Earth.
by Benedict Smith.
People often find Haiku very calming. I think that is particularly true of some of the Chinese and Japanese celebrated Haiku writers.
Mod
Very true - short is sometimes more powerful
Devon Book Club
Books mentioned in this topic
Pieces of US (other topics)Ariel (other topics)
The Bell Jar (other topics)
