HEY MISS LETTY, LET'S RECITATE

ARISTARCHUS
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919) Poet, novelist born in Wisconsin.

ARISTARCHUS
(The Mountain In The Moon)

It was long and long ago our love began;
It is something all unmeasured by Time's span.
In an era and a spot
By the modern world forgot,
We were lovers ere God named us maid and man.

Like the memory of music made by streams
All the beauty of that other love-life seems.
But I always thought it so,
And at last I know, I know-
We were lovers in the Land of Silver Dreams!

When the moon was at the full I found the place:
Out, and out, across the seas of shinning space,
On a quest that could not fail,
I unfurled my memory sail,
And cast anchor in the Bay of Love First-Grace!

At the foot of Aristarchus lies this bay.
(Oh, the wonder of that mountain far away!)
And the Land of Silver Dreams
All about it shines and gleams,
Where we loved, before God fashioned night or day.

We were souls in eery bodies, made of light;
We were winged, and we could speed from height to height;
And we built a nest called Hope
On the sheer moon mountain slope,
Where we sat and watched new worlds wheel into sight.

And we saw this little planet known as Earth,
When the mighty Mother Chaos gave it birth;
But in love's conceit we thought
All these worlds from space were brought,
For no greater aim, or purpose, than our mirth.

And we laughed in love's abandon, and we sang
Till the echoing peaks of Aristarchus rang,
As hot-hissing comets came,
And white suns burst into flame,
And a myriad of worlds from darkness sprang.

I can show you when the moon is at its best,
Aristarchus and the spot we made our nest.
Oh, I always wondered why,
When the moon was in the sky,
I was stirred with such strange longings and unrest.

And I knew the subtle beauty and the force
Of our love was never bound by earth's course!
So with Memory's sail unfurled,
I went cruising past this world
And I followed, till I traced it to its source.

Good morning, all.

Angel, that was a very unusual poem and the meter was like a cadence. I was not familiar with your poet from Wisconsin, nor am I acquainted with the following:




The Shadow People


Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
"It is just your fancy, child."
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water's edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.

Francis Ledwidge

Morning Letty, I don't know your poet, but I like the poem. I will see if I can find any information on the poet.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox started writing when she was very young. She wrote a sentimental novel when she was ten years old, and her first essay was published when she was fourteen, her first poem not long after. She tried college for a while, but did not like it, and turned to newspaper work. When her Poems of Passion (1876) appeared, it was overnight success because it was considered daring. She published more than forty volumes, from Drop of Water (1872), to The Worlds and I (1918) (I'm looking for this work by her). Most of these were verse, some fiction, two autobiographical. You may know some of the lines of "Solitude" "Laugh and the world laughs with you/ Weep and you weep alone"?

I will look for some nice links about her and post them here. I was looking in an old bookstore (one of my favorite past times), and I found my first book of her. I also met another fan of Ella's who found out about her the same way, but she was very well know in her time. Here is another one of her poems.

THE EDICT OF THE SEX

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
When suddenly there rose a mighty host
Of women, sweeping to a central goal
As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts,
And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
And that one language-Peace.

"Listen," they said,
And straightway was there silence on the earth,
For men were dumb with wonder and surprise.
"Listen, O mighty masters of the world,
And hear the edict of all Womankind:
Since Christ his new commandment gave to men,
Love one another, full two thousand years
Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood.
The strong male rulers of the world proclaim
Their weakness, when we ask that war shall cease.
Now will the poor weak woman of the world
Proclaim their strength, and say that war shall end.
Hear, then, our edict: Never from this day
Will any woman on the crust of earth
Mother a warrior. We have sworn the oath
And will go barren to the waiting womb
Rather than breed strong sons at war's behest,
Or bring fair daughters into life, to bear
The pains of travail, for no end but war.
Aye! let the race die out for lack of babes:
Better a dying race than endless wars!
Better a silent world than noise of guns
And clash of armies.

"long we asked for peace,
And oft you promised-but to fight again.
At last you told us, war must ever be
While men existed, laughing at our plea
For the disarmament of all mankind.
Then in our hearts flamed such a mad desire
For peace on earth, as lights the world at times
With some great conflagration; and it spread
From distant land to land, from sea to sea,
Until all women thought as with one mind
And spoke as with one voice; and now behold!
The great Crusading Syndicate of Peace,
Filling all space with one supreme resolve.
Give us, O men, your word that war shall end:
Disarm the world, and we will give you sons-
Sons to construct, and daughters to adorn
A beautiful new earth, where there shall be
Fewer and finer people, opulence
And opportunity and peace for all.
Until you promise peace no shrill birth-cry
Shall sound again upon the aging earth.
We wait your answer."

And the world was still
While men considered.

There is alot on the internet about her.

http://ellawheelerwilcox.wwwhubs.com/

Angel, Fantastic. Thanks for the background, my friend, and the war poem by the woman reminds me of the Spartan women who boycotted the bedroom to keep the men from fighting.

Hmmm. "laugh and the world laughs with you....." I read recently that laugher can trigger asthma attacks. soooooo it's not always the best medicine.

My favorite but ominous Yeats:

The Second Coming -- W. B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.



Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Here's a strange child, who lived a strange life, but loved her parents so much. This is her view of shuffling off this mortal coil:



My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Ah, Setanta, The Belle of Amherst and queen of the slant rhyme:

This Is My Letter To The World by Emily Dickinson.

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

From one of my previous posts in a different thread :

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say
I say it just
Begins to live
That day

Emily Dickinson

Francis, that was the very quote that I was looking for and couldn't find. I'll bet you put that on the power of words. I love it.

I don't think she was so strange Setanta. She had many of the same interests and concerns many artist have had throughout time. I like the post Sentanta, thank you.

Here is a link about Francis Ledwidge Letty, and the net has alot about him too.

http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/Poetry/FLedwidge.html

Galesburg is likely not much like Amherst, but i suspect ol' Emily would have liked this fella's work . . .



The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

ah, and there is Carl, Setanta.

Jazz Fantasia

Drum on your drums, batter your banjoes,
sob it on the long cool winding saxophones
Go to it, O jazzmen.

Sling your knuckles on the bottom of the happy
tin pans, let your trombones ooze, & go hush-a
husha-hush with slippery sand paper.

Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops, moan
soft like you wanted someone terrible, cry like a racing car
slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang! you jazzmen,
bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns, tin cans - make
two people fight on top of a stairway and scratch each
other's eyes in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.

Can the rough stuff ... now a Mississippi steamboat pushes
up the night river into a hoo-hoo-hoo-o ... and the green
lanterns calling to the high soft stars ... and a red moon rides
on the humps of the low river hills ... go to it, O jazzmen.


You go to it now, Gate!

Plant you now ... dig you later, Jack.

Angel, I'll check out your link in just a bit.

Sorry Setanta, I thought you were talking about E.W.Wilcox.

Who wrote that jazzy poem Letty? I have only read the jazzy poems of Langston Hughes.

Carl Sandburg, honey, the same of the fog and cat feet. He also wrote a sooooo true poem called, "The People, Yes!" Incidentally, Langston Hughes is a poet to die for:

The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Ah, me. A tear and so early in the day to cry.

and, Angel. I just read through your link. Stunned by the information, and very rewarding to know. Doesn't look much like our Francis though. <smile>

Now, just for fun, let's plan lunch . . .



The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Lewis, Setanta:

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.




"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.




`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The king of made-up words

What do you mean our Francis? In another link about the same poet appears the same poem you posted.

Langston Hughes

The Weary Blues

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway...
He did a lazy sway...
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan-
"Ain't got nobody in all the world
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frowning'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more-
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied-
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

I think I almost burned my lunch! Lewis Carroll was a very interesting character, and had a great imagination and writing skill.

Just guessing...

laughing, OUR Francis from France, Angel.