November Poems

Piffka wrote:

I salute you, Jjorge, and all your compatriots. Probably few people suspect that under your poetry-loving gentle chest beats the heart of a Marine. I admit, I laughed out loud at that last cut by the Marines towards the Army & Navy. (If they happen to make it to heaven....)

Thanks Pif,

My brother Jack (also a Marine) and I exchanged 'Birthday Greetings' this morning. He asked me to pray for our brother Marines who are engaged in the dirty and dangerous job of Bush's Iraq war.

Whether or not they have an understanding of the war beyond Bush's platitudes and deceptions, they will surely distinguish themselves in a manner consistent with the highest traditions of the U.S.M.C.

On a lighter note, there is definitely, as you discerned, a certain...shall we say 'competition' between the Marines on the one hand and the Army and Navy on the other.

The Marine Corps of course is much smaller than either of those two organizations, and, in the opinion of Marines, is not nearly as well-funded as them even though it is historically 'First to fight'.

For example when I was in the Second Marine Division (infantry) we still had the (obsolete) M-1 rifles two years AFTER the Army had the newer M-14's.

Re the Marine Corps birthday, it is a BIG DEAL on Marine bases and installations around the world.
It is considered a holiday.
For example Marine gate sentries (I was one for a year) wear holiday uniform (complete dress blues) on consecutive days -ie. November 10th for the M.C. Birthday and Nov. 11th for Veterans Day. There is typically a formal Ball and a ceremonial cutting (with a sword of course) of a giant birthday cake.

For me of course, all of that was long ago and far away.

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November 11th is Veterans Day, which was originally called 'Armistice Day.'

The eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month,
marks the signing of the Armistice, on 11th November 1918, to
signal the end of World War One.

At 11 am on 11 November 1918 the guns of the Western Front fell
silent after more than four years continuous warfare.

Here is one of the best known poems of that War:

'Dulce Et Decorum Est' *

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
-Wilfred Owen

* Dulce Et Decorum Est - the first words of a Latin saying (taken
from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and
often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is
sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum
est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country.

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Whew. That's a strong poem, Jjorge. What an honest expression of the horrific feelings we all should have against war. I found a website about Owen and have been looking at his poems. Here's another about WWI:

1914
War broke: and now the Winter of the world
With perishing great darkness closes in.
The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,
Is over all the width of Europe whirled,
Rending the sails of progress. Rent or furled
Are all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin
Famines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.
The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.

For after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,
And Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,
An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,
A slow grand age, and rich with all increase.
But now, for us, wild Winter, and the need
Of sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed.

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Hi Pif,

Thanks for '1914'.
Owen may be the best poet of WWl.

I copied from the web the following bio information (which you may already have read) for those who would like to know more about Owen.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on March 18, 1893. He was on the Continent teaching until he visited a hospital for the wounded and then decided, in September, 1915, to return to England and enlist. "I came out in order to help these boys-- directly by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can. I have done the first" (October, 1918).

Owen was injured in March 1917 and sent home; he was fit for duty in August, 1918, and returned to the front. November 4, just seven days before the Armistice, he was caught in a German machine gun attack and killed. He was twenty-five when he died.

The bells were ringing on November 11, 1918, in Shrewsbury to celebrate the Armistice when the doorbell rang at his parent's home, bringing them the telegram telling them their son was dead.

from: http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Owen2.html

(Click on the above link To see a photgraph of Wilfred Owen, and to find more of his poetry)

P.S.

'1914' Makes me think of Auden's description of Europe
on the brink of the NEXT World War:

"... In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye..."

(from: 'In Memory of W.B. Yeats', part lll, by W.H. Auden)

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Hi poetry fans!

For 11/12 here's another from Robbie Burns:

' Farewell to Ballochmyle'

THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
-Robert Burns

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Here's a very short poem from Yeats.

It doesn't say anything about November, but I liked it so much, I'm adding it. I'll get an official November poem tomorrow.

To Be Carved On A Stone At Thoor Ballylee

I, the poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.

<What a story behind That, I think!>

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Piffka wrote:

Here's a very short poem from Yeats.

It doesn't say anything about November, but I liked it so much, I'm adding it. I'll get an official November poem tomorrow.

<What a story behind That, I think!>

It's a nice poem Pif.

So what that it's not about November. There aren't that many 'November- specific' poems anyway. Hence my using some that are, shall we say, 'Ambiguously autumnal'. Very Happy

We ain't nuthin' if we ain't flexible! Right?

I don't know much about Yeats' wife... but I wouldn't have guessed that here name was 'George.'

I hope that was her last name.

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This is from online-literature:

Quote:

In 1889 Yeats met his great love, Maud Gonne (1866-1953), an actress and Irish revolutionary who became a major landmark in his life and imagination. However, she married in 1903 Major John MacBride, and this episode inspired Yeats's poem "No Second Troy".

In early 1917 Yeats bought Thoor Ballyle, a derelict Norman stone tower near Coole Park. After restoring it, the tower became his summer home and a central symbol in his later poetry. In 1917 he married Georgie Hyde-Lee. During their honeymoon Yeats's wife demonstrated her gift for automatic writing. Their collaborative notebooks formed the basis of A Vision (1925), a book of marriage therapy spiced with occultism.

Whoops -- submitted that too soon!

Here's an "approximately Autumnal" poem from Yeats. His reference to "The Archer," I'm taking to mean the astrological constellation, Sagittarius and the "Commonness" is a political statement.

IN THE SEVEN WOODS

I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.

Cork banks on the River Lee -- (Pairc-na-lee means the Park of Lee)

http://www.ebookireland.com/images/riverlee.jpg

<ahem> Knowing you like the odd Irish rhyme, Jjorge, I thought I'd add this, as well.

The Banks of my own Lovely Lee -- "The Anthem of Cork"
J. C. Flanahan, Dick Forbes

How oft do my thoughts in their fancy take flight
To the home of my childhood away,
To the days when each patriot's vision seem'd bright
Ere I dreamed that those joys should decay.
When my heart was as light as the wild winds that blow
Down the Mardyke through each elm tree,
Where I sported and play'd 'neath each green leafy shade
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

And then in the springtime of laughter and song
Can I ever forget the sweet hours?
With the friends of my youth as we rambled along
'Mongst the green mossy banks and wild flowers.
Then too, when the evening sun's sinking to rest
Sheds its golden light over the sea
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee

'Tis a beautiful land this dear isle of song
Its gems shed their light to the world
And her faithful sons bore thro' ages of wrong,
The standard St. Patrick unfurled.
Oh! would I were there with the friends I love best
And my fond bosom's partner with me
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee,
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee.

Oh what joys should be mine ere this life should decline
To seek shells on thy sea- girdled shore.
While the steel-feathered eagle, oft splashing the brine
Brings longing for freedom once more.
Oh all that on earth I wish for or crave
Is that my last crimson drop be for thee,
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

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According to a review I found of a biography of Yeats's wife (Becoming George, by Ann Saddlemyer), her full name, before her marriage, was Bertha Georgie Hyde Lees, and she was called "Georgie" by her family. Yeats renamed her "George", explaining that "Georgie" was intolerable. A more likely reason is that he wanted a solid rhyme for "forge", (in the poem jjorge quoted, above).

If you're interested in reading the full review, it's at

Becoming George

George is buried next to Yeats in Drumcliffe churchyard, which seems a good enough reason to post this picture of Yeats's tombstone, with its often-quoted lines:

http://www.emu.edu/crosscultural/irelandfa2001/images/large/journal5/morepics/sept29_yeats_headstone.jpg

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bree,

Thanks for a great post!

I read with interest the review of the biography Yeats wife.

I had never read a biography of Yeats himself and I confess to being surprised at his self-centeredness.

Maybe all the years of acclaim etc. made him into a prima donna.

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Oh, you two are so fast! I added a couple of poems to my previous post... hope you see them.

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I saw 'em Pif... veddy, veddy nice!

#1407

A Field of Stubble, lying sere
Beneath the second Sun --
Its Toils to Brindled People thrust --
Its Triumphs -- to the Bin --
Accosted by a timid Bird
Irresolute of Alms --
Is often seen -- but seldom felt,
On our New England Farms --
-Emily Dickinson

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You find the best Emily Dickinson poems, Jjorge! What do you think she means by "second sun"?

Here's another Autumn Approximation -- reminds me so much of this place where I live and this time of year. "Moss growing on all sides of the tree?" Uh-huh!

NIGHT POEM
Margaret Atwood

There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father ..... the thunder
your mother..... the rain

In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.

You rock in the rain's arms,
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother,
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.

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Hi Pif,

Boy that Atwood poem is spooky.

Good question about the ED poem. I guess I thought 'second sun' meant the paler, weaker sun of the Fall/Winter. Maybe not though.
What do you think?

'Brindled people', I presume, refers to some sort of wildlife who would be likely to eat the stubble in a field. ...deer? ...field mice?

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Oh, Piffka! I love that Atwood poem! Though I must confess to feeling a wee bit haunted by it!

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For Sunday 14 November 2004:

'CAULD FROSTY MORNING'

'Twas past ane o'clock in a cauld frosty morning,
When cankert November blaws over the plain,
I heard the kirk-bell repeat the loud warning,
As, restless, I sought for sweet slumber in vain:
Then up I arose, the silver moon shining bright;
Mountains and valleys appearing all hoary white;
Forth I would go, amid the pale, s'ient night,
And visit the Fair One, the cause of my pain.-
Sae gently I staw to my lovely Maid's chamber,
And rapp'd at her window, low down on my knee;
Begging that she would awauk from sweet slum'ber,
Awauk from sweet slumber and pity me:
For, that a stranger to a' pleasure, peace and rest,
Love into madness ha fired my tortur'd breast;
And that I should be of a'men the maist unblest,
Unless she would pity my sad miserie!
My Truic-love arose and whispered to me,
(The moon looked in, an envy'd my Love's charms;)
'An innocent Maiden, ah, would you undo me!'
I made no reply, but leapt into her arms:
Bright Phebus peep'd over the hills and found me there;
As he has done, now, seven lang years and mair:
A faithfuller, constanter, kinder, more loving Pair,
His sweet-chearing beam nor enlightens nor warms.
-Robert Burns

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Hmmm, I guess that Atwood poem is a little creepy, now that you say so. I was actually thinking it was sort of comforting... in the bosom of mother earth/ father sky, but I guess it depends on your POV.

Re: the Emily Dickinson poem's "second sun" -- I thought maybe it was the moon, but likely you're right, Jjorge, it is the sallow sun of winter (ahem... winter in the northern hemisphere Wink

).

Brindled is a color, so I thought E.D. was referring to the people, often colored, who work the fields...they get the "toil" and the "triumph" goes into the (feed) bins. It is a curious poem; why is the field often seen but rarely felt?

As for that Bobbie Burns... wow. Who knew he was such a Romeo!

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Pif,

Well, second sun COULD be moonlight...and brindled could refer to the color of PEOPLE working in the fields.

The latter raises my curiosity about New England farm workers in the mid-nineteeth century. I didn't THINK there were significant number of blacks.... but I don't really know...
Now I have to do some research!

For today:

'The Sunlight on the Garden'

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold,
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
-Louis MacNeice

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On this rainy day in gray Puget Sound I would be very grateful for sunlight on the garden!

Speaking of research... I've been reading about Nelson Bentley, a poet who taught at the University of Washington when I was there. Mr.P was one of his students and remembers him as head and shoulders above every other educator. Bentley was the perfect poet for Puget Sound... that website gives a good description of his temperment and how well it melded with the amused, self-deprecating and nature-loving spirit, the "humorous gloom" so often found here.

These reminiscences are from his son, Sean Bentley, also a poet:

Quote:

[...]We often went to the ocean. Even here -- perhaps especially here -- poetry remained foremost in his mind.

Zero Tide

I walked from our cabin into the wet dawn
To see the white caps modulating in,
The slow wash of the word in the beginning:
Wind on the bowing sedge seemed from Japan.
A cloud of sandpipers wavered above the dune,
Where surf spoke the permanence of sun.
Back inside, I sat on my son's bed
Where he sweetly slept, guarded by saints and poets,
Oceanic sunrise on his eyelids;
I whispered "Shawn, get up! Its a clamming tide,"
And thought of chill sand fresh from lowering waters,
Foam-bubbled frets across the hard-packed ridges.
"Shawn, it's a zero tide!" From a still second,
He came out of the covers like a hummingbird.
"Don't wake up Julian." In the pale blue light
He dressed in whirring silence, all intent.
Along the empty coast the combers hummed:
Sleepy gulls mewled in the clearing mist.
My wife and baby slept folded in singing calm,
Involuted by love as rose or shell.

Now, what's missing from this poem, what the reader seeking to know the real Nelson Bentley can't know from this piece, is that it was I who was doing all the actual the dirty work. While I lay in the clammy sand, up to my armpit in pursuit of a razor clam, its slippery foot-tip in my fingers, shouting for assistance with increasing irritation, my father stood fifty feet away lost in the fog of his coalescing pentameter. He sort of came to, and sauntered over looking perplexed and distracted while the wily bivalve struggled from my grasp. I did manage to catch enough clams for chowder however, and he got his poem.

Often, when I see some odd words in a poem, I look for confirmation, but there doesn't appear to be another place where this poem is posted.

I did not correct, though I questioned this line:
The slow wash of the word in the beginning:

I did correct what seemed to me to be obvious mis-types:
He came out of the cobvers like a hummingbird.
"Don't wake up Julian." In the ale blue light

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Pif,

Nice poem, and nice story.

I had no problem with the line: '...The slow wash of the word in the beginning...' In fact I liked it immediately.

The ocean does, after all, cause poets, and the rest of us lesser mortals, to muse on our primordial beginnings*.

*'...In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...'
-John 1:1

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