Eric,
The first lines that popped into my mind when I saw your note were, "when the
philosophers are away, the literati come out to play," but I don't think they
are from any poem. :-)
I don't have any poems memorized but different lines from different poems pop
into my mind from time to time -- I can't say though that they meet your
criteria. In fact I try to shy from them, lest they overawe any of my own.
These examples come to mind:
Hopkins:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Wyatt's
"Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
Good to hear from you, Eric!
Lawrence
-----Original Message-----
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On ;
Behalf Of Eric Yost
Sent: Wednesday, March 21, 2018 4:13 PM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Madness
Lawrence, you are a fine man, a true Marine, and often, an inspiration to me. I
can say nothing, faced by helplessness before another's deep sorrow, even
though echoed in a fine poem.
Strongly recommend Richard Wilbur's poem. "Walking to Sleep." It's very hard to
find online, but is in the Collected Poems. This long poem employs consistent
seafaring metaphors, as does Lawrence's last stanza below. It is a masterpiece
poem, Walking to Sleep, and has accompanied me throughout life, both as text
and in the out-of-print Caedmon recording of Wilbur reading it. Prefer it to
Auden's "September 1, 1939."
Other poems that follow me are Longfellow's "Psalm of Life," Marianne Moore's
"What Are Years?" Wallace Stevens's "The Auroras of Autumn," W.
H. Auden's "In Memory of Sigmund Freud," Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a
Country Churchyard," Prospero's Epilogue from Shakespeare's "The Tempest" and
the Sonnet 15, and Rilke's "Ninth Elegy." There are many other such poems.
Do others have lifelong poems that follow and ramify? Seems the least to ask.
Regards,
Eric
On 3/14/2018 1:27 PM, Lawrence Helm wrote:
Thanks, Ursula.
-----Original Message-----
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] ;
On Behalf Of Ursula Stange
Sent: Wednesday, March 14, 2018 4:00 AM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Madness
These are sadly beautiful, Lawrence. The Last Leaf, of course, reminds one
of the O’Henry story....without the happy ending. But life and love is so
consternating.....none of us can quite understand. But it’s nice to hear
your voice in these parts again.
On Mar 14, 2018, at 1:28 AM, Lawrence Helm <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>------------------------------------------------------------------
wrote:
I often wonder if I’m mad,
Or if now and then in the past
I was, for was I not love-struck
Such that living without her was
Something I couldn’t bear to do?
But three years later I am perhaps
Living still as though a will
Divorced itself from the downward
Thrust of death which of course
Isn’t the same as bearing to live --
Listing here as though a boat who’s
Hull was breached and was left at
High tide far up the beach, far
From the sea it used to sail.
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