Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Looking at Stars

 

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”— Oscar Wilde

SOURCE

“Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see, and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.”— Stephen Hawking

Midweek Motif ~ Looking at Stars

Are you a star gazer? If not better be one and gift us a few lines about your experience.

The moment you look up you’re getting physically connected to these ancient pinpricks of light. Some of these distant and tiny patches of light may not be existing any more. What do they tell you?

It is a journey, poets often take to arrive at an amazing destination and fill us with wonder.

Some stargazing poems:

240           

by Emily Dickinson

Ah, Moon—and Star!
You are very far—
But were no one
Farther than you—
Do you think I'd stop
For a Firmament—
Or a Cubit—or so?

I could borrow a Bonnet
Of the Lark—
And a Chamois' Silver Boot—
And a stirrup of an Antelope—
And be with you—Tonight!

But, Moon, and Star,
Though you're very far—
There is one—farther than you—
He—is more than a firmament—from Me—
So I can never go! 

Stars, I Have Seen Them Fall

by A.E. Housman

Stars, I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky.
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault;
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt. 

The Embankment

by T.E. Hulme

Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,

In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.

Now see I

That warmth’s the very stuff of poesy.

Oh, God. Make small

The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,

That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

Stars Over Dordogne

by Sylvia Plath

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

And what if the sky here is no different,
And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
They are too puritan and solitary for that—
When one of them falls it leaves a space,

A sense of absence in its old shining place.
And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
I see those constellations in my head,
Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
And drink the small night chill like news of home.

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

(And our Sanaa will have a new exciting feature to share with us every second Friday of the month. So stay tuned for this Friday - the 13th. Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Vigilance)

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

A Shropshire Lad 
XXXII

From far, from eve and morning 
And yon twelve-winded sky, 
The stuff of life to knit me 
Blew hither: here am I. 

Now — for a breath I tarry 
Nor yet disperse apart — 
Take my hand quick and tell me, 
What have you in your heart. 

Speak now, and I will answer; 
How shall I help you, say; 
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters 
I take my endless way.

– A. E. Housman (1859-1936)


I featured Housman here a couple of years ago, and earlier here. He's one of my favourite poets, one of the few whose poems I sometimes get "on the brain" – an expression more usually applied to songs (before someone invented "earworm", that is). This poem is one that arrives in my mind now and then, during the many years since I first read it.

Some of the language, like "yon" and "hither", is old-fashioned now, but essentially it is simple, straightforward language, not a wasted word. The ballad form is also simple – with, in this case, perfect rhyme scheme, rhythmic pattern (rather than metre) and syllable count. The music is lovely; and the concepts are profound.  I think he's a great master.

He was at one time very well-known. Some of you may be familiar with his work; to others it might well be new.

In his life he was a noted classical scholar, and apparently rated his own poetry as secondary to that. Or perhaps he just regarded them as too different to compare: he is on record as declaring that poetry should appeal to the emotions, not the intellect. And the academic work was his bread-and-butter, after all. He was a Professor of Latin, first at University College London, and thereafter at Trinity College, Cambridge. 

Only two books of his poems were published in his lifetime, A Shropshire Lad and Last Poems. The first in particular, though a slow starter, became much loved, and has never entirely lost its popularity. A number of those poems have been set to music. Last Poems was an immediate success. After his death, his brother posthumously published More Poems, and later the Complete Poems. His works are still in print. I've just bought this illustrated Kindle edition from Amazon Australia (at a price I couldn't resist) after spotting it in my searches:

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos, and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright).

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Carpe Diem / Seize the Day

   “I held a moment in my hand, brilliant as a star, fragile as a flower, a tiny sliver of one hour. I dropped it carelessly. Ah! I didn’t know I held opportunity.” — Hazel Lee

“I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life…..to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” — Henry David Thoreau in Walden, quoted by the character Neil in the movie “Dead Poets Society”

Midweek Motif ~ Carpe Diem / Seize the Day

Today’s motif prompts to write about cherishing each moment, making most of the golden chance, seizing the day, living as best and fully as possible.

Remembering Jean-Paul Sartre in this connection: ‘There is only one day left, always starting over; it is given to us at dawn, and taken away from us at dusk’.

It could be the seizing of a moment of beauty or anything precious. It’s a “Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May” theme telling one to have the courage to say a complete, burning ‘yes’ to life.

Have a Carpe Diem mindset for today’s theme and write your poem of ‘now’.

To His Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love would grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vaults, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball,
And tear our pleasure with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

This living hand, now warm and capable

by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thy own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

When I Was One-and-Twenty

by A.E. Housman

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

      But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

      But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And ’tis true, ’tis true.

Figs from Thistles: First Fig

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends

   It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

   It gives a lovely light!

One Heart

by Li-Young Lee

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Money)

                                                                  

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Last Poems

XVIII

By A E Housman 1859-1936

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,  

The boot clings to the clay.

Since all is done that's due and right

Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,  

For I must turn away.  

Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;  

No league of ours, for sure.

To-morrow I shall miss you less,

And ache of heart and heaviness  

Are things that time should cure.  

Over the hill the highway marches  

And what's beyond is wide:

Oh soon enough will pine to nought

Remembrance and the faithful thought  

That sits the grave beside.  

The skies, they are not always raining  

Nor grey the twelvemonth through;

And I shall meet good days and mirth,

And range the lovely lands of earth  

With friends no worse than you.  

But oh, my man, the house is fallen  

That none can build again;

My man, how full of joy and woe

Your mother bore you years ago   

Tonight to lie in the rain.

The link on the poet's name, above, refers you to a previous posting of a poem by Housman in this series, with all the background information I found about him that time.

I like to give you the experience of a great variety of poets, but many are worth repeating – and in this case, I’ve had this poem ‘on the brain ‘ a bit lately. (Do you find that happens to you too, with favourite poems, as with songs?)

I like its down-to-earth acceptance of both death and grief. The poem is at once emotional and philosophical. The dead man may have been close friend or family member – clearly, someone loved and valued. Housman manages to make this elegy both personal and universal.

I like the restrained, almost commonplace language and conversational tone, which encompass the ‘let’s get on with it’ mood of the first verse, the aching cry at the end, and the journey of reflection in between.

In all his poems Housman had ‘the art that conceals art’: straightforward words in a simple ballad style with obvious but unobtrusive rhymes, adding up to huge emotional power.

Yes, this poem has a sad subject, yet I find it also both satisfying and cathartic.

Writings and photos posted in The Living Dead for study and review remain the property of the copyright owners.

The Living Dead

Honouring our poetic ancestors

White in the Moon the Long Road Lies

By A. E. Housman 1859-1936

White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.

Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.

The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.

But ere the circle homeward hies
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love. 

Simply, this is one of my favourite love poems, which captured my imagination when I was in my teens and has never lost its magic and pathos for me. In simple language the poet creates lyrical music, beautiful images, and intense emotional longing.

Englishman Alfred Edward Housman was a great classical scholar who became a Professor of Latin at Cambridge University. Many critics consider it somewhat surprising that this same man wrote poetry noted for its sweetly simple lyricism, set largely in the English countryside. His best known work was A Shropshire Lad, which is still very well-known. His language continues to speak to us today. The poem I've chosen is taken from A Shropshire Lad, and there are a number of others in it which I love too. I don't think Housman ever wrote a bad poem (though most of the great poets did occasionally, just like the rest of us).

You can read or download A Shropshire Lad free from Project Gutenberg or read Housman's poems at PoemHunter. This one has been set to music, and you can listen to it on YouTube  — a version I don't care for. I see that on Amazon you can buy Bryn Terfel's recording for 99¢, which may or may not be better (I haven't listened). The YouTube treatment was too operatic for me. I love opera — but I don't think it suits this simple, lovely poem. However, taste is subjective of course, in both music and poetry. I think Housman's words can stand alone, and I hope you do too.

It's worth noting that, in a time and place when male homosexuality was not only socially unacceptable but punishable by law, Housman, himself homosexual, wrote and published several very fine poems deploring this extreme prejudice and its damaging effects. While he didn't spell things out explicitly, the meaning was there to be discerned, but was usually missed during his lifetime — as discussed in the PoemHunter biography.  You'll find those poems, too, in A Shropshire Lad.