Poetry of Elation

A different take on traditional elation, but hauntingly in tune with the discussion here:

Sex Goddess
Maggie Estep

I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE
so don't mess with me
I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS
and you can't have any
'cause they're all mine
'cause I'm
the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

"Hey," you may say to yourself,
"who the hell's she tryin' to kid,
she's no sex goddess,"
But trust me,
I am
if only for the fact that I have
the unabashed gall
to call
myself a SEX GODDESS,
I mean, after all,
it's what so many of us have at some point thought,
we've all had someone
who worshipped our filthy socks
and barked like a dog when we were near
giving us cause
to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much
but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.

Only
we'd never come out and admit it publicly
well, you wouldn't admit it publicly
but I will
because I am
THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

I haven't always been
a SEX GODDESS
I used to be just a mere mortal woman
but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed
then manifest
in late night 900 number ads
where 3 bodacious bimbettes
heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh:

"Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh,
you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh."

Yeah
I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
I got fed up with it all
so I put on my combat boots
and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS
that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image
even though I would never actually use
my SEX TOYS
'cause my being a SEX GODDESS
it isn't a SEXUAL thing
it's a POLITICAL thing
I don't actually have SEX, no
I'm too busy taking care of
important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS,
yeah,
I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show
and MTV and become a parody
of myself and make
buckets full of money off my own inane brand
of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY
because my pain is different
because I am a SEX GODDESS
and when I talk,
people listen
why ?
Because, you guessed it,
I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE
and you're not.

That is absolutely ingenious, Cav. It draws you in with a bad impression until you come to that gloriously sardonic end

Horses and elation? Not Edwin Muir's other horse piece? I'll try finding it, Piff; do you remember anything of it?

Jen Marsh wrote this in the seventh grade:

Heroic
Obedient Lipizzaners
Rearing stylously
Stepping lightly, as if dancing
Easily flying through the air
Spanish Riding School

Never heard of her, but I love the brief tribute.

I'd love to see the Spanish Riding School. I've seen some terrific Andalucian horses in Spain. It makes me get all choked up when I see a horse performing well.

(Geez, Cav, that was a poem and a half!)

I did find this, from Henry V, Act 3, Scene vii:

I will not change my
horse with any that treads;
le cheval volant, the Pegasus,
chez les narines de feu!
When I bestride him, I
soar, I am a hawk:
he trots the air; the earth
sings when he touches it;
the basest horn of his
hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg.
And of the heat of the ginger.
He is pure air and fire; and the dull
elements of earth and water
never appear in him, but
only in Patient stillness
while his rider mounts

He is indeed a horse; and all other jades you
may call beasts. ...
His neigh is like the
bidding of a monarch
and his countenance enforces homage.

I liked that, Piffka. A truly poetic homage is something rare... it wonderfully captures everything. I've never heard of her either, Letty, but I enjoyed that poem. Succinctness can be wonderful.

Here's a poem from Neruda:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

(Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.

Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe. )

Reading that, I imagine how great it would be to have Pablo Neruda in love with me! Wonderful.

Neruda was amazing with love poetry, I agree . It is amazing to think that he wrote his most-acclaimed work when he was solely seventeen. He would be 100 now, had he lived.

One of my cousins, who lived in La Paz, was a poet, and the only poem of his that he ever published was one called 'Nunca seré Neruda...' (I will never be Neruda.) I should dig it out; it was quite beautiful, though it's a poem of sadness rather than one of elation.

This is a lovely thread, Drom.

Elation - while trying to think of a fitting poem, I realized that my poetry preferences lean toward the melancholy. And then I remembered this one which I had posted on a poetry thread at A2 some time ago. This poem makes me feel good.

Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Hey, Raggedy, it's great to see you here . I'm glad that you like the thread!

I'm like you with poetry, but that was beautiful. I agree with its message wholeheartedly. Thank you so much for sharing it.

Thank you for the warm welcome, Drom.

Here's another Teasdale poem I think fits in.

A Winter Bluejay

Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
Across the lake the skaters
Flew to and fro,
With sharp turns weaving
A frail invisible net.
In ecstacy the earth
Drank the silver sunlight;
In ecstacy the skaters
Drank the wine of speed;
In ecstacy we laughed
Drinking the wine of love.
Had not the music of our joy
Sounded its highest note?
But no,
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
"Oh look!"
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
Fearless and gay as our love,
A bluejay cocked his crest!
Oh who can tell the range of joy
Or set the bounds of beauty?

It's only in elation that we can feel salvation
Of the mind.

We sink and then we flounder,
Only to encounter the sublime.

Strange the oddness of desire,
That lifts us up to pointed spire
Of sharpness that precludes
The mire of sublimation
Wind and fire.

I'm sorry, drom. I put the poem in the wrong slot.

http://www.able2know.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=31882

That's what happens to me when I do multi-tasking.

I think that it fits well in here too, Letty . It ranges alongside everything here.

Nice Teasdale poems, Raggedy! Letty, I don't understand why that poem is in the wrong spot.

Drom -- I read recently that most of the best lyric poems were written by (relatively) young people... though 17 seems extraordinarily young. Makes you half-believe in the existence of old-souls. How could such a young person feel so much? I'd love to see your cousin's poem. How interesting that it would be about Neruda.

Here's an old favorite of mine -- Love his images though I've never understood his diacritical markings.

(This Poem Is Best Viewed With A Glass Of Wild Turkey Rye Whiskey)

Pied Beauty
Glory be to God for dappled things --
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted & pieced -- fold, fallow, & plough;

And áll trades, their gear & tackle & trim.
All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd, (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:
Práise hím.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

That is amazing, Piffka. Perhaps the markings mean that one has to stress the marked syllable? Either way, I'm intrigued, and I'll try to find out. Did he use those markings in many poems? Maybe he just liked accents, like I do...

Neruda's poems of love are very sensitive and lasting, for anyone, let alone for a seventeen-year-old. It is funny how lyrical poets are usually young; look at Dylan Thomas.

I like this poem, though it's not elatory; one has to bear it through. I've given both the original & a translation.

Nunca seré Neruda.
Jamás seré poeta reencarnado en carne y hueso.
No pasará jamás, por más que lo deseo...
Me propongo escribirte, pero pienso,
Que mejor es sentirte, así que espero.

Nunca seré Neruda.
Jamás pasearemos bajo la luna llena,
Tampoco iremos juntos a una guerra de flores
Jamás me buscarás si estás buscando abrigo...

Nunca seré Neruda.
Jamás podré escribir los versos más tristes esta noche,
Ni en ninguna otra cualquiera; ya no hay voces...
Ya no hay ni ojos que miren ni oídos dispuestos a escuchar...
No quedan ni claveles, ni pétalos de rosa prestos a regalar...

Nunca seré Neruda.
Difícil admitirlo, deseoso de ser otra persona...
Pues ser como Neruda tiene que ser mejor que cualquier asa...
Sólo a fin que leyeras mis versos a la luz de una vela,
que abrazaras mis poemas con incienso, que pintaras mis ojos de acuarela...

Pero aceptémoslo, mi favorita:
Jamás acogerá nuestros paseos la luna bajo su abrigo;
Eso es asa de amantes, no de amigos.
Jamás escucharás mi música infinita;
Y por supuesto, no llegarán jamás tus labios a los míos...

Pero.. ¡Ay! Como quisiera ser otra persona...
Como quisiera, amor, que me quisieras,
Sin pretexto cualquiera...
Cómo quisiera huir de esta triste noche oscura...
Pero... admitámoslo: Nunca seré Neruda.

Super poem, Drom. I like it very much. I wonder if Neruda ever saw it -- do you think he did? Please tell your cousin that I think I love his poem.

As for Hopkins diacritical markings. <shrug> They're in most of his poems. I can only imagine he wants those vowels to be stressed (stressèd). (That quote was from http://www.arts.usyd.edu.au/publications/philament/issue3_Creative_Grant_a.htm )


I am, as I have frequently said, enamoured of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poems. She bounced between poems of elation and poems of great sadness, with several sexy and even amusing ones in between. I know I've posted these three before. We aren't going to go back and revisit old thread though, so here they are.

I think this first perfectly describes the elation of being alive in the country and hearing the life all around. "I am waylaid by beauty." What could be a better way to be assaulted?


ASSAULT

I

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

II

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!


. . . . . . . .

Here's another that, to me, shows her elation in imagining magic is still alive:

DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON

Doubt no more that Oberon--
Never doubt that Pan
Lived, and played a reed, and ran
After nymphs in a dark forest,
In the merry, credulous days,--
Lived, and led a fairy band
Over the indulgent land!

Ah, for in this dourest, sorest
Age man's eye has looked upon,
Death to fauns and death to fays,
Still the dog-wood dares to raise--
Healthy tree, with trunk and root--
Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,
And the starlings and the jays--

Birds that cannot even sing--
Dare to come again in spring!

. . . . . . . . . . .


And this one is just a fantastic reverie at being alive in the natural world.

GOD'S WORLD

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this:
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. --Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, --let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

ESVM

. . . . . . . . . .

You are all probably familiar with this book, but to me it was an intriguing, riveting discovery. Nancy Milford wrote a biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Savage Beauty, the words mentioned above in Piffka's Millay poem. I began reading the book several months ago and have not quite finished because I just don't want it to end. (Milford tells Millay's story through letters and notes, many of which she obtained from Millay's sister Norma.)

I apologize for digressing from the subject of this thread, but the book is so compelling and Millays' life so fascinating, I could not resist mentioning it here.

Well, you know *I* don't mind a digression about Millay. I also think she had a fascinating life. I would be interested in hearing how Milford describes EStVM's death. To me, it seemed very unusual and mysterious.

With Drom's OK, I'd be pleased to post a brief summary of Milford's accounting of Millay's death, Piffka , but this is a thread of "elation" and Millay's death and the circumstances leading up to it are oh so tragic.