"No Pure, Pure Rose"

Response to:

"A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will love thee still, my Dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

O I will love thee still, my Dear

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve

And fare thee well, a while

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand miles!

"His Love is no Pure, Pure Rose" by Brooke Anderson

O his Luve's no pure, pure rose,

(But) Perhaps dying for Fall;

O his Luve's no sweet song

(But) Perhaps doom and gloom for all.

With words, he claims to love me long

And withstand the testing tides;

Until the drying earth, he claims,

By me, he'll stay beside.

By me, he'll stay beside, he says

Apocalypse on the horizon;

His words mean nothing more,

than youth to the wizen.

And fare him well, from his Luve

And fare him well, for long;

In hopes of no return, my Luve

Together we don't belong.

Model Poem- Bright Star

Bright Star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in love splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like natures patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure abultion round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.



Luminous Venus, if only I were as immortal as you--
Not alone in speldour but forever with companions
Constantly watching without faulter,
The ever enduring earth, forever vigilant,
The blowing wind purifying the air
Cleansing the land and sea,
Or contemplate the concealment on waves
Over the rocky, jagged edges of the deep sea—
No—Forever still immortal, still stable,
Pinned against true loves beating breast
Awake and alert without wasting time sleeping
But now to hear that sweet breath cease
And live with love forever—or invite everlasting rest

Failed Attempts

Step by step I leave the earth,

The second floor my destination.

As distance from the ground grows,

So too does my drowsiness.

The day’s worn clothes still cling to my body:

A collection of the day’s memories.

Scents, frustrations, and laughter

Only add to the familiarity of my blue sweater,

To the comfort of my jeans.

Climbing into bed, these clothes remain on.

They experienced the journey with me;

Not only are they my companions,

But my last attempt to possess the day.

Lying there, I reflect on all

That has occurred:

Friends, new and old,

The taste of coffee and a bagel,

The sight of my father sitting on the couch

As I walked in around midnight,

The noon of thought.[1]

Some days you want to keep,

While others you don’t.

I want Today.

Yet, escape from sleep I cannot;

Eventually relinquishing control,

I give into the natural forces

Pressuring me to give up the day.

All attempts prove futile as

My eyelids grow heavier

At this juncture of control and vulnerability,

Immediately before an inescapable slumber.

My clothes ground me for one last instant

Before plummeting into my dreams,

A culmination of experiences and desires,

Fading into one another,

Reminding me that I cannot possess time:

We are at nature’s mercy.

As the new day rises along with my eyes,

The slept in clothes no longer

Have the appeal they once possessed.

A new day requires new clothes,

A blank canvas waiting to collect

New memories and feelings.

Ultimately I will never posses the day,

Yet, I will continue to try

As I put on another sweater,

Another pair of jeans: the clothes

That will accompany me to sleep.

---

[1] Barbauld, Anna L. “A Summer Evening’s Meditation.”

Freshman Year (a response to Wordsworth's "Surprised by Joy"

I'll preface this model poem by saying how much I love Wordsworth's "Surprised by Joy". The brief and powerful sonnet has stuck with me since I first read it in Biguenet's Reading Poetry class two years ago. As Biguenet brilliantly put it, "Wordsworth's only consolation is that remembering the death of his daughter is not quite as painful as actually experiencing it. And the next he remembers it, it will be a little less painful still. For time to make the loss of child less painful is itself tragic, but how else can you get up in the morning?" In approaching this assignment, I had to take a lot of time to think about how to model my poem on Wordsworth's. Should I directly react to what he is saying or should I write something totally different with basic romantic themes in mind. Eventually I remembered an experience I had last year when I was woken in the morning by Regina Spektor's "Fidelity" playing softly on my roomates computer. I can only describe how I felt as being "wonderfully heartbroken" because this particular song reminded of five or six different life changing experiences freshman year. At least three of them the song was directly playing when or near when they happened. So I decided to write romantically about it; that is to recollect the emotional experience of hearing this song, which itself reminded me of several very emotional experiences and to process it through poetry.
I have adopted Wordsworth's rhyme scheme, through I fell well short of writing my poem in good iambic pentameter.

Freshman Year

Awoken by the sunlight birthing the new day,
I heard in mind the grandeur of the fading song,
Of Regina's voice both trembling and strong,
Recollecting an eternity of joys once held, now flown away.
Three-forth's a year from August until May,
Three-forth's a year unlike the whole eighteen before,
Nine months where every coming moment had something beautiful in store;
Dancing with a beautiful Mexican girl and the way
Anjle's voice echoed through the silent midnight hall
That we broke into just because we were alive
And young, and holding back is no way to live at all.
And so I dressed and into that new day did dive
And since exist in every moment proud and tall
Knowing life's brevity and to pass it well do strive.

Surprised by joy

Surprised by joy - impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind-
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!-That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Model Poem

-Modeled Off of "The Haunted Beach"

Resting Uneasy

Upon the red looming Mars
Where starry dust was scattered
A twin-size bed uprear’d its head,
Amongst the king-sized mountains.
The foo-nu’s gathered at the foot
A sleepful rest they wished;
And, all around, the deaf’ning roar
Re-echo’d on the Reddish Planet
By the still wind feigned.

Above a floating isle was seen
Where Jub birds hover’d, pacing;
And up and down and all around,
Foo-nu clothed isle, waving.
And here and there, a rolling hill
Its lazy back display’d
And near a mountain, at sundown’s time
An old mattress was laid to rest
Where the still winds stay’d.

And often, while the silent wind
Swept o’er the sleepless commotion
The moonlight seen was all serene,
The land made scarce a motion;
Then, while the smaller mountains
The isle wrapped in shade,
The Marsman beheld the grand
Notion of Humans striding hand in hand -
Where the still winds play’d.

And swell their faces were with glee
And jocular they pattered;
And into space with enraptured face
They look’d as they remember’d.
And sometimes, from their gleeful glow
They cheerful guffaws made,
And while the echoes bounced strong and loud
The clear moon bathed the wondrous crowd
Where the still winds play’d!

And then above the peaceful twin-size bed
The happier Jubs perched;
And around the bed, ended the reach
Of the sleepless commotion.
For in the Mars-ian bed,
A sleeping Human was seen laying,
Content smile on his lips
And deep were the sleep marks on his cheek
Where the still winds play'd.

A sleep-bound parody was he
Of his home and kin around;
Who swore to be on Mars
Gracious and excited ever!
But just before sleep took over
A Nyquil bottle his lips felt,
Cool and green, effects untold,
And unlike any human before,
Slept where the still winds play'd!

His human kin, forever blithe
Continued in the yawn-less commotion,
While to each other his eyelids fast,
Clung from spell of potion.
The wintery moon upon the mountains
A silv'ry covering gave,
And showed the Sleeper in new slumber
With empty plastic by the pillow
where the still winds play'd.

And since that hour the Marsman
Has watched and watched the happy game;
For the moon-lit night
gleams on both, the Sleeper and Humans alike!
And when the moon itself is 'sleep,
Commotion, sleepless presides over all
And nothing lights the mountains,
Where the still winds play!

Full eternity, the Sleeper's fate,
So day and night mean nothing;
For Sleep assigned his slumbering mind
Should dream about all things.
Bound by sealed eyes and foggy brain,
He has not pow'r to stray;
But destin'd pensive to remain,
He thinks, with Genius and without,
Imagination, fiery and curious now.

Response to the Haunted Beach

The Haunted Beach by Mary Robinson

Upon a lonely desert beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.

Above a jutting cliff was seen
Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
With weeds–for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
lts shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride
Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand–
Where the green billows play'd.

And pale their faces were as snow,
And sullenly they wander'd;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look'd as though they ponder'd.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
Where the green billows play'd.

And then above the haunted hut
The curlews screaming hover'd;
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play'd.

A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
Plung'd where the billows play'd.

The spectre band, his messmates brave,
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
And braved the storm's commotion.
The winter moon upon the sand
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wash his hand
Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the fisherman
Has toil'd and toil'd in vain;
For all the night the moony light
Gleams on the specter'd main!
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not power to stray;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A loathsome life away.

Rafiq's Experiment...I mean...
Sky's Forest

High up above our silent heads,
where the white puffs are spread,
the flap of wings and angel things
showed that the sky wasn't dead.
The wind played the featres, and softly too
perhaps in breaking they feared
but still the dance of innocence flew
round and up and down in two,
with the azure ceiling seer.

Above a grove of birds and trees
where life was awake forever,
and time would see no end to bees
and bears and stags to enter.
What things beyond nature would come to pass
yet near the green,
many bushes perhaps,
a thing unnatural, a silver mast,
by the azure ceiling seen.

And perhaps the natural thanked never to hear
at that small moment today
for the doves and deer who felt no fear,
would change to flight from play.
In motion and silence a creature fell,
staggering on the ground bleeding,
The Hunter stepped from where he'd crouched
and had a smile upon his mouth
with the azure ceiling seeing.

The creature moaned and moved and bled,
its wish to survive was true,
the hunder stabbed the creature dead,
a merciful death to few.
And then the light turned into dark
a sudden and startling thing,
The Hunter dragged his kill'ed mark
alone, afraid and surrounded by bark,
under the azure's watering rings.

The rain would come,
and the wind would blow,
the trees would mourn and hum,
as a rumble was heard below.
The darkness would flash
the hunter fearing,
the trees then trashed
and thunder crashed
with the azure ceiling leering.

The Hunter wailed and cried;
he felt that death approached,
he left his pride and fled in stride,
and ignored the prize he'd poached.
The rain fell hard and on,
the trees lost their thirst,
the sky finally ceased its tearful song,
before the coming of the dawn,
which the azure ceiling burst.

The silence was heard
with sigh and relief;
The Hunter like a bird passed through word
of his story as a thief.
"I fear the forest,"
he said with feeling
"whose creatures were loved best,
the one where life is protected at behest,
of the wide azure ceiling."

An Imitation Poem

"The Tyger" by William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart begin to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?



"White Wolf"
Through the haze of misty night
A white wolf bathed in glowing light,
Of what could make a creature fair
That in his teeth clutches despair?

How come thee covered in snowy fur
Disguised so as a creature pure?
What made thy icy, frightful eyes
That linger on the darkened skies?

Under the cover of the moon
A piercing howl, impending doom
Does thy heart, with every beat
Grow faster than the ones you eat?

How swiftly do thy movements make
It easy for his soul to take,
A flash of fangs, & blood runs cold,
Dare deadly virtue be so bold?

Terror reigns down through thine eyes
Heaven sleep & heaven cry
And of the maker of the Lamb,
Could thee be formed from that same hand?

Through the haze of misty night
A white wolf bathed in glowing light,
Of what dare make a creature fair
That in his teeth clutches despair?

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?


Lines Written in the French Quarter

I often make this walk--inside the elderly bones of the
Vieux Carré, the “Quarter,” a place, a foreign place both
Mediterranean and Creole--when I’m uncomfortably
Embracing a strange philosophy.

My heavy eyes are downcast for long periods of time.
Though, momentarily, I give a quick glance at Spanish moss
Draped over oak branches like tunics on Roman Senators.

I, the taciturn and melancholic man in normal dress,
Walk slowly and impassively.

I hear pianos speaking in rare tongues and
Forceful human breath moving through brass skeletons of trumpets,
Wishing I could describe jazz the way in which those
Geniuses from the Harlem Renaissance could.

I briefly view Creole townhouses with beautiful front landscapes:
Light from gas lanterns projecting shadows onto auburn, tangerine
Façade brick, and stucco exteriors.
Headless roses, wildly growing ferns, and elegant, dictatorial Venetian windows overlooking
Elaborate gardens from second floor iron balconies.
In the center of one of the gardens,
A grey-stoned angel poises as a meticulous ballerina.

I calmly run my fingers down the statue to feel its skin, meticulously
Viewing the bone structure of my hand.

I smell Creole cuisine, exquisite fruits from Italian
Fresh produce dealers, and jasmine blossoms.
They come and go from walled courtyards and single chimneys.

I pass by glass boxes with smiling faces, elbows and half-finished coffee
Cups resting on white marble tables, fashionable clothing,
Intellectuals having stale conversation, and
Beautiful women with nuanced postures:
Crossed-legs, elegant gestures, thin figures with assumptive slouches,
Intelligent eyes listlessly moving around.
The peace of mind of these people.

Passing streets with French names, I consciously
Remember their proper pronunciations, saying them
Silently in my head, almost as silently as I tread these
Broken, brown historic streets.
Chartres, Dumaine, Prieur, Conti.

I continue to Royal Street, passing
Antique shops and boutiques,
Jewelry stores with crystal chandeliers grinning,
Ornate hand-carved furniture that belong in
Queen-Anne Style estates.

I peer into a well-lit gallery.
Inside, a beautiful woman intently analyzes an abstract painting.
She finds it creative as she, invented as she, beautiful as she,
philosophical as she;
She stands in awe of it as she does the architecture, the music, the history surrounding her—and
The mind and existence itself.
Why does she find the mind and existence special?

One day, you and I, will sit in silence
And mimic the graceful indifference of the
Vulgar velvet, silk-skinned iris flower as it gently meditates.

A Response to the Garden of Love

The Garden of Love by William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And “Thou shalt not” writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.


A Response to the Garden of Love by Gorgelia Pollard

I too went to the Garden of Love,
And just like my father before
Saw words writ over the door:
“For in this garden you are blessed”

I turned and saw a garden redeemed:
A gate was overtaken by the vines of roses
And the ground burst with flowers of all types
And revealed those insects touched by the divine.

No hint of evil dared into the holy garden,
For even death tip-toed through the green grass;
I left the garden satisfied with what I had seen
For love was indeed in the garden.

"Upon a Pot" by Cait Smith

*This poem is modeled after "The Haunted Beach" which is a
reaction to "Rime of the Ancient Mariner". So while I'm
modeling "The Haunted Beach", I am reacting to one of my
favorite poems, "The Pot of Basil" by John Keats.

"Upon a Pot" by Cait Smith

Upon the earth a love rang loud
Enough for all to hear,
Through breath and beat until a death
It shot out like a spear.
And while the story ever told
Could make a harsh man cry;
This story be but nev’r old
Proved worth is weight in gold
A harsh man compelled to buy.

Her name could chime the poet said,
Melodic to the heart,
Her passion more than fashion,
Her desire like an art.
While passion’s choice may hold so great,
Fate has its greater plans,
To cause a love to feel berate,
Or salvation be too late
Fate be greater than the man.

Two lovers set in darker times;
Her soul’s choosing chose beneath,
And He nev’r dream without a gleam
Keats wove their nightly weep.
Beautiful May had taught them well
That All could hold them back,
But every reason thrown in rebel,
Into heart’s abyss they fell,
Reason shattered, reason cracked.

Now enter pride to plot so grey,
The greatest beauty turning grim.
Two brother’s sought to wrought
What seemed to some as sin.
Why were they proud - no answer gave,
But fury compelled their worst,
For Her desire, to them enslaved,
And therefore they must save
A sister from His thirst.

A murder so profound would come,
On a scheming, dreary night.
Innocence had held Her spelled,
True motive not in Her sight.
So through the wood to reach a stream,
Two men had laid the plan,
Then with swift motion and no scream,
Moved blood into the earth like cream.
Now who’s sins seep into the land?

So slain was He and earth did cry,
But Selfish ruled Her kin.
A bloody love, their bloody gloves,
They looked at all but within.
No matter now of what they’d done,
The worm will gladly take this gift.
Not guilt, nor truth would leave their tongues
Unto a weeping sister the battle won
For now the story shifts.

For sister dear be not delayed
In finding through the trees,
Her destiny met tyranny
Under the blanket leaves.
And through His face relief had washed
Her desperation came to a sigh
Though recognition to others lost,
Her passion had waved grief’s cost.
Though empty was His eyes.

Harp’s music says that Love is pure
And She should cling unto Her hope
A kiss could not turn back the clock.
But something else did more than cope.
A pot would be Her vessel true
In bringing back the lost,
Though Fate cannot help Her undo,
What Fate had made into earth’s dew,
Instead Her gift’s like passion on a cross.

Her tears were made to make Him whole,
And wary beauty sought to come back.
For through decay repaired the fray
Gave light where once was black.
Bell and Her love were more than mates,
>From death they only knew to grow,
For Loves the everlasting great.
To turnaround the rules of Fate,
And demand of what was owed.




"The Haunted Beach" by Mary Robinson

Upon a lonely desert beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.

Above a jutting cliff was seen
Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
With weeds–for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
lts shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride
Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand–
Where the green billows play'd.

And pale their faces were as snow,
And sullenly they wander'd;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look'd as though they ponder'd.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
Where the green billows play'd.

And then above the haunted hut
The curlews screaming hover'd;
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play'd.

A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
Plung'd where the billows play'd.

The spectre band, his messmates brave,
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
And braved the storm's commotion.
The winter moon upon the sand
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wash his hand
Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the fisherman
Has toil'd and toil'd in vain;
For all the night the moony light
Gleams on the specter'd main!
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not power to stray;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A loathsome life away.

Wordsworth Remastered

The world is too much with us
William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So I might, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Disconnection
Sarah Macom

To full this world is getting; too crowed
With objects and ideals. There is no room for the we,
Always I and me. Where is our once beloved?
Nature, oh Nature, come out of hiding;
From the billboards, the dollar signs, the narcissism.
We sold our origins away; the gift
That didn't keep giving. Oceans break upon
The shore, thunder hits the ground with force
And yet we sleep still; a slumber of apathy.
Dear fates, don't cut my thread just yet;
Don't leave me forsaken by this world,
This world too loud to let me hear
The voices in the wind and the callings
Of the grass.

i am charlotte's model..ed poem...

(...but I have just taken to the runway, excuse my anorexia)

To Night
Charlotte Smith

I love thee, mournful, sober-suited Night!
When the faint moon, yet lingers in her wane,
And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light
Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main.
In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind
Will to the deaf cold elements complain,
And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain,
To sullen surges and the viewless wind.
Though no response on thy dark breast I find,
For in thy quiet gloom the exhausted heart
Is calm, though wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd.
While to the winds and waves its sorrows given,
May reach--though lost on earth--the ear of Heaven.


To Music
mary colleen halley

You haunt me with your contrary note.
I, sitting silent in this conversation of love,
Enfeebled by the dissonant features I rote
Who's poignant melodies I can not be free of.
For Music, as I love, I beseech thee
My affection is undoubtedly pure, still I am doubly disabl'd.
I listen, adore, yearn, yet quiet as the sea.
The melancholy musicians voice is thwarted, table'd.
Still in you, though mournfully I can not respond
My muted woe of daylight wanes
I am lifted and my sullen winter tree is Donne'd
with refreshing epistles of melodic spring rains.
Refracted, you are both my night and day
My prayer sent to heaven is that one day I may play.

Modeled Poem w/ P.B.Shelley

Original - "One Word is Too Often Profaned" by Percy Shelley

One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not, -
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

Modeled Poem - "That Which Cannot be Labeled" by Molly Harrell

I dare not say I love you today,
or on any day, forever,
for that wouldn't be true.
No, not for you.
It's not enough, this label of
Love.
It's not enough to describe
what wrestles and writhes
within and above.
Me for You, I will achieve
all that they say you cannot conceive of.
The song in my eyes for your birth, anew,
will that be enough? Might you feel my soul too?
There is no reason to profane our torturous Glory,
so instead, please, fall into my unending devotion;
True, sinking, a perfect story.

Beachy Head modeled poem

So we all are relatively familiar with Smith's Beachy Head, don't worry, I certainly did not model 730 lines, but after my visit to a wonderful place called Cherokee Rock Village (excellent climbing, hiking and free camping!) in the Northeast town of Sandrock, Alabama this weekend, and hearing the history of the place, I was compelled to make Cherokee Rock Village my own Beachy Head.

Cherokee Rock Village1

The early climber2 slides a worn hand
into a well-corroded crevice, once thick
ice water ran, tumbling, clapping, working,
taking a grain and splitting a boulder,
leaving many to rest in disheveled
estrangement-caverns where none stood
before. Moist gritty haven, a sappling roots
itself in the cracks of the once whole giants,
winding pale needle roots into naked stone
interiors. Reach up!
Spindles and buds, unfold your
green, yellow, and orange-
brighter and brighter foliage reaches up
to feather quill clouds who pass hurriedly
to usher in the crisp cosmic glimmer of
the clearest of celestial nightscapes.

The dark of the structure, outlaw functional,
these boulders once stood shelter from
penetrating winter winds, caverns coddling
a delicate embryo-a man, huddled in the
spaces heavy rock fall makes, he is wanted-
a bandit, a train has been robbed3. Fled to
the indifference of the stone complex, running
along dried river beds, flashing between
narrow tree trunks, winding unplanned to his
stony safe-haven; protected from the elements,
suspended from the law. Among purple berries4
of tongue-saturating hue, he learned
of the richness of the silver-dipped
field grasses5, gleam fit for a king, caressed by
a criminal.

No longer could relics rival the
rock village's beauty, he would come to share
with future venturers a love for a stone. They
hug the rock close, inch languidly to its tops,
see the valley in a way endurance can only
provide; they too love the rock for function,
the pure essence of adventure, not made, but
found. The creeping humanity6 that closes itself
aroundthe foot of these hills, may never come to
know such a love. To sleep under the stone's
possessive arches, all the lives that make
opportune homes of accidental spaces,
to understand the careless water that made all,
and the man who first crawled desperately
to the foot of the sandstone boulder,
is to behold history, to run a hand along the layers
of time-bodies that stand erect against the wind,
greeting the bleaching warmth of the sun and
life eternally.

1. TheRock Village along with the foothills upon which it stands protrudes from the rolling valley region, making it visible from far away. 2. Today, the village now mostly receives visitors who seek the opportunities provided by such massive and accessible rock faces. 3.Based on the legend of Rube Burrow, an Alabama and Texas outlaw, who hid in this after being wanted for innumerable train robberies allover the Southeast. 4.Issai Beautyberry Bush(callicarpa dichotoma issai). 5. Silver Grass (Miscanthus sinensis Anderss). 6.The surrounding valley is quickly being populated and built up.

A hard struggle -but finally: my modeled poem

Expostulation and Reply
by William Wordsworth

"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
and dream your time away?

"Where are your books? - that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply.

"The eye - it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can find this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

" - Then as not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away."



So, this is the original - and here comes my modeled version.

Questions and Answers
by me :-)

"Why, Poet, do you think so much
About the world outside,
Why, Poet, do you have to touch
The stones and trees so wide?

"Why don't you work? and try to to change
The circumstances as they are?
Stand up! and - though for you it's strange
Do something real, don't gaze at the star.

"You're always thinking, meditating,
Forlorn in self-selected solitude;
Is this not boring, nor frustrating
To never laugh, enjoy? What pitiable qietude!"

A lot of times I want to ask these questions
But as these poets are - for quite long time now- dead
I have to find my very own suggestions
I'm searching, still, and hope I will not be misled.

My answers can be wrong
Or all in all not specified enough.
I do not care - as long
this is a progress. This I love.

The poet finds his utmost joy
In even this demeanor;
He sees himself as an envoy,
as someone much more keener.

Keener than the rest of men
And therefore it's his duty
To wander 'round, again, again,
describing nature's beauty.

The poet, yes, he has to touch
The stones and trees so wide,
To be well taught and thus can watch
Change of the world inside.

Modeled Poem

 

 

Love's Philosophy

By: Percy B. Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--

What is all this sweet work worth,

If thou kiss not me?

 

 

Hope’s Philosophy

By: Chelsea Dellaripa

An anchor for the soul; firm and secure,

An eternal burning flame; intense and pure.

A new days sunrise, the strength to carry on,

With forces unknown to man, analyzing is foregone.

Nothing in this world can give such pleasure, joy, and bliss,

Found in the heart of nature, such conviction does exist.

Disease awaits the cure, trusting in its existence,

Poverty seeks prosperity, determined and persistent.

The abandoned and forgotten, in search of some salvation,

Oh, to see the light at the end of the tunnel-there is no other sensation.

The flower will brilliantly bloom once more, and the wounds will patiently mend,

And for every soul that’s left untouched, a nice stranger’s hand will extend.

Heart-Change

So, as you know I came to this class not really interested in Romantic BRITISH literature, not at all. I always touted that the Brits were some-what pretentious, ego/and anthropocentric, and like a male cat marking his territory, sprayed everything with their "sophistication" hauteur. I'm not completely wrong with some of these claims, but I have also been softened.

Still, I came to the class thinking "Oh God, who cares what a bunch of near-to-do, fairly wealthy English white folks think, tripping on opium, and frockling in nature...really! Give me Toni Morrison, give me W.E.B. Dubois, and Angela Davis, hell even Frank McCourt, because THEY write about struggle and triumph, THEY write about over coming adversity, and the grit of life, THEY have some soul."

My tune has changed since then.

I think the best part of this class for me, besides the camaraderie, has been accepting my folly,and being surprised. I wasn't completely correct in my assumptions, and I'm tickled by the turn of heart. That speaks directly to the quality of instruction and my colleagues, and I realize I was wrong about the Romantics on two fronts. They are not JUST dribbling on and on and on about nature, and flowers and all that who-ha, but really struggling with who they are in it, and what it means to be, as Emerson said, "Man Thinking," in the world. (Even though he came later.) I was also wrong to assume that these folks had nothing to struggle with because they were not formally "oppressed," least not all of them. They had their own oppressions, their own addictions, and crises of identity that everyone has. What does it mean to be lonely, and stuck in your poetic mind? Its thrilling, and unnerving to see how much people struggling with themselves.

What I appreciated most about Dr. Schwartz's last post is that, despite the fact that its been difficult to pinpoint a definition for "Romanticism," I whole heartedly agree with it being an exercise in thought, and a very interesting one.

I often recall the stages in psychological development when reading poetry/prose or looking at art. Because we tend to categorize "movements" after the fact, the works speak so much more to where the artist/writer/musician is at a particular point in time--and how they are processing, dealing and healing with that moment--than the time itself, or the "genre" he/she has been ascribed to.

"Romantics confronted their world as if an experiment," and their writing as a mirror and a lamp, it reflects and enlightens. And I would add that it heals, it comforts, it confounds, and it brings together the fragments. The experiment? Infusing and using voice to understand, breakdown, and gather together the fragments that define identity. This is like a highly artistic, therapeutic catharsis, and even though I still believe that Lord Byron in Manfred is egotistical and narcissistic, I can appreciate him more now as a mirror, reflecting my own narcissism and ego centrism.

It's all a stage in psychological, spiritual, emotional development, and what a gift to make this growth as clever, and beautiful and cruel as the Romantics do.
Cheers.

Here goes nothing... A Modeled Poem

“Bright Star” by John Keats


Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--


Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night


And watching, with eternal lids apart,


Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,


The moving waters at their priestlike task


Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,


Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask


Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—


No – yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,


To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,


Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,


Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,


And so live ever – or else swoon to death.

Here's a wonderful reading of the poem.

'Romantic Poet' by me

Romantic Poet, the Genius contain’d –

Emulation not by common man made

Able, with a worldly mind much constrain’d,

Like a determined mountain’s wall blockade

Against Nature’s forces of corrosion

Of winds and rain; the landslide’s formation.

And the remains suffer some erosion

Of sand through the breeze’s liberation –

Yes – still abstract albeit foreseeable,

Nestl’d within the recesses of Mind,

To grasp with the identifiable,

Something to which something can be aligned.

Must unwavering possession beget,

And so forever live – or else forget.

Shelley and renewing the Universe

Percy Shelley has always been one of my favorite poets, but I had never looked at him through the lense which I am able to apply to him now, because I know his quote describing Romantic poets and prose writers (a.k.a. the title of this blog!) Shelley's specification of the fact that the Romantics are "unacknowledged" is a rather jarring and saddening fact which he then follows with the firm and proud affirmation that they are, nonetheless, the "legislators of the world." (Possibly moreso because of their lack of recognition? Through oppression often comes the greatest inspiration, as we have seen throughout history with slave songs moving into blues, and refugees overcoming their unbearably traumatic struggles by always keeping faith and hope in their hearts that the world will get better for them. Etc.) There seems to be a pattern in history of the greatest artists being unrecognized during their own time, and then later revered (after their deaths, and in some cases a very long time after their deaths) as being "ahead of their time." I have always wondered why this is the case. Why does the present blind observers and audiences to true works of genius? Being ahead of his time is definitely an attribute I would give to Percy Shelley, and when I read his poetry it is abundantly clear and eerie just how insightful and intelligent he truly was. The word 'legislator,' containing the Latin 'legis' stemming from 'lex' or 'law' when translated. Thus, it is hard to ascertain why Shelley would choose such a word to describe the Romantic sect. 'Lator' means 'proposer' which gives the word 'legislator' its completion and authority. Perhaps Shelley is word-playing on the 'laws' of nature which are so often discussed in Romantic poetry. Looking further into the meaning of the word, as Latin has many agent nouns and several connections, 'lator' has the twin 'latus' which means 'borne, brought, or carried'. When these words are applied to Shelley's quote, his idea takes on a new meaning. The carriers of the world. The bearers of the world. The bringers-forth of the world. With their poetry and prose, Romantic poets truly encompassed every overwhelming sense, sight, and feeling experienced in the world and in the mind, from love to nature to death to inspiration, and many more. They shed light on and eloquently describe that which is hardest to describe. They give birth, through their words, to thought and feeling that already exists in the world, but which would remain mostly veiled without their insight.

--I will not write anything after this excerpt is included in this post, because it is truly moving and says everything for itself--

In Shelley's "A New World," he writes:

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death's scroll must be!
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free:
Altho' a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendor of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.

Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

Oh, cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.
The world is weary of the past,
Oh, might it die or rest at last!