Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Dance

   

“Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance.”— Confucius

SOURCE

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame.”— W.B. Yeats

       Midweek Motif ~ Dance

As I was thinking about this Dance motif some lines of Leonard Cohen sang out loud in my mind:

          “Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

     Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in

    Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

                              Dance me to the end of love

                              Dance me to the end of love….”

The whole universe is in a dance mode. It would be interesting to see where you find that rhythm and beat to capture it in your lines.

It might be in the flow of a river; in rolling of waves; in raindrops; in the rhythm of seasons, day and night; in the flight of a bird; in birth; in death; in a stage performance.

There are numerous forms / types of dance. It would be lovely to read about them if you choose one of them to write about; or about the life of any well-known dancer.

And why not about dance costumes, props, masks and shoes?

Give today’s motif a unique interpretation of your like:

A few poems to share with you: 

The Dance

by William Carlos Williams

In Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess,
the dancers go round, they go round and
around, the squeal and the blare and the
tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles
tipping their bellies (round as the thick-
sided glasses whose wash they impound)
their hips and their bellies off balance
to turn them. Kicking and rolling
about the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those
shanks must be sound to bear up under such
rollicking measures, prance as they dance
in Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess.

SOURCE

326

by Emily Dickinson

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—

Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It's full as Opera— 

Here is another link to a poem by Langston Hughes:

Dream Variations

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

(Next week Magaly's Midweek Motif will be ~ not-so-old-fashioned 'Hobbies')

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Cloud

 

“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud”— Maya Angelou

SOURCE

“Ultimately, the cloud is the latest example of Schumpeterian creative destruction: creating wealth for those who exploit it; and leading to the demise of those that don’t.” — Joe Weinman

Midweek Motif ~ Cloud

As a cloud you can be an actual cloud, that is a visible mass of condensed watery vapour floating in the atmosphere, above the general level of the ground; wandering in groups or absolutely lonely (may be being watched by some poets, intending to catch you in their lines); you can be a state or cause of gloom, threat; you can grow dim, less transparent as Wikipedia defines you.

Cloud can be ‘just a metaphor for the internet’ too. You know what I mean, all about this ‘storing and accessing data and programs over the internet instead of your own computer’s hard drive’. Not a lonely cloud here but a network cloud.

Choose your own ‘cloud’ and go on poeming:

 Clouds Come and Go

by Matsuo Basho

“The clouds come and go, 
providing a rest for all 
the moon viewers” — Matsuo Basho

THESE are the clouds

by W. B. Yeats

THESE are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, So much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye. 

Clouds

by Rupert brook

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth. 

Clouds Gathering

Charles Simic

(The poem is here)

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 ~ Kindness )

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Easter 1916

I have met them at close of day   

Coming with vivid faces 

From counter or desk among grey   

Eighteenth-century houses. 

I have passed with a nod of the head   

Or polite meaningless words,   

Or have lingered awhile and said   

Polite meaningless words, 

And thought before I had done   

Of a mocking tale or a gibe   

To please a companion 

Around the fire at the club,   

Being certain that they and I   

But lived where motley is worn:   

All changed, changed utterly:   

A terrible beauty is born. 

That woman's days were spent   

In ignorant good-will, 

Her nights in argument 

Until her voice grew shrill. 

What voice more sweet than hers   

When, young and beautiful,   

She rode to harriers? 

This man had kept a school   

And rode our wingèd horse;   

This other his helper and friend   

Was coming into his force; 

He might have won fame in the end,   

So sensitive his nature seemed,   

So daring and sweet his thought. 

This other man I had dreamed 

A drunken, vainglorious lout. 

He had done most bitter wrong 

To some who are near my heart,   

Yet I number him in the song; 

He, too, has resigned his part 

In the casual comedy; 

He, too, has been changed in his turn,   

Transformed utterly: 

A terrible beauty is born. 

Hearts with one purpose alone   

Through summer and winter seem   

Enchanted to a stone 

To trouble the living stream. 

The horse that comes from the road,   

The rider, the birds that range   

From cloud to tumbling cloud,   

Minute by minute they change;   

A shadow of cloud on the stream   

Changes minute by minute;   

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,   

And a horse plashes within it;   

The long-legged moor-hens dive,   

And hens to moor-cocks call;   

Minute by minute they live:   

The stone's in the midst of all. 

Too long a sacrifice 

Can make a stone of the heart.   

O when may it suffice? 

That is Heaven's part, our part   

To murmur name upon name,   

As a mother names her child   

When sleep at last has come   

On limbs that had run wild.   

What is it but nightfall? 

No, no, not night but death;   

Was it needless death after all? 

For England may keep faith   

For all that is done and said.   

We know their dream; enough 

To know they dreamed and are dead;   

And what if excess of love   

Bewildered them till they died?   

I write it out in a verse— 

MacDonagh and MacBride   

And Connolly and Pearse 

Now and in time to be, 

Wherever green is worn, 

Are changed, changed utterly:   

A terrible beauty is born.

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

We've featured Yeats before. (Arguably the greatest poet of his time, and a lasting favourite of mine.) It's easy to find out about his life and writings online, so I won't deluge you with background links just now, except for this one here at Poets United, which our founder, Robert Lloyd, posted in November 2010. It's a colourful, interesting article (and somewhat opinionated – but so are most of mine, more than somewhat). For now, I want to focus less on the man than on this particular poem.

As you see, it's just over 100 years since this was written. It refers to the famous Easter Rising in Ireland against British rule, and reflects Yeats's mixed feelings about that event, being a man who, as the Wikipedia article about the poem tells us, abhorred violence, for all he admired the revolutionaries' heroism and commitment to the cause. Remember, too, that, as the poem indicates, he knew them in person. This must have been a particularly emotional event for him.

As the article also explains, he had reason not to admire, as people, all the individuals he names – but chooses to see them as transformed by their valiant attempt and subsequent martyrdom (defeat and execution). For all the poem honestly includes his reservations, it is a tribute to those people and a celebration of the spirit of the Rising.

There is a certain grim irony in the fact that the Rising took place at Easter, a time at which Christians honour another martyrdom, that of Jesus – and the subsequent resurrection (superseding many Pagan festivals to do with the death and resurrection of various deities). Yeats seems to suggest that the martyrdom of these Irish heroes, who wished to free their people, will also result in some kind of transformation / resurrection. And indeed, history tells us, their executions had the opposite effect from that the authorities intended, inflaming rather than dampening revolutionary passion in the Irish.

I see also a different kind of irony, in that the resurrected martyr who is now most widely celebrated at this time of year is known as the Prince of Peace.

On the other hand, the Bible quotes Jesus as saying: 'Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.' Then again, elsewhere this same Jesus seems to be saying that his sphere of action is not political. How are we to interpret these apparent contradictions?

Whether we are Christians or not, I think none of us can escape this dilemma – do we wage actual, physical war against those who would restrict our freedoms, or do we hope to counteract oppression by other means? Most of us don't get to make that kind of decision on a grand scale, even though we may be faced with many tiny instances of it in our daily lives. But we do, I think, need to consider our position on what our leaders do in our names. 

I suppose I think this because, although I was not brought up Christian, I was brought up to consider both public ethics and personal integrity vitally important. In any case, as I say, we cannot escape contemplating these issues at this time in world history. Today's news just constitutes another step on our journey. What, I wonder, will be our ultimate direction?

Are we, after all, helpless in the face of large events? Perhaps. Those Irish heroes did not free their people politically – yet it seems they did much to help free their collective spirit.

Things appear not so clear-cut on the world stage now (at least as far as I can see). Maybe all we can do is focus on those small, daily decisions. I am sure I have quoted here, before, one of my favourite I Ching sayings: 'The best way to combat evil is to make energetic progress in the good.' That might not work on the world stage, where it is often hard to know what the heck IS the good – and where it may, sadly, come down to trying to decide which is the lesser of two evils – but it can still work in our personal lives.

Creating loving holiday times with family is surely a good! Today Christians (and even some Pagans like me) eat hot cross buns as a symbol of sacrifice, but by Sunday we'll be feasting on chocolate eggs as a symbol of new birth / rebirth and, in the Northern Hemisphere, the arrival of Spring. In troubled times, these small things (which are truly large) are potent symbols of Life and Love. We each need to find and celebrate them in our own lives, to make those lives count and to give ourselves and our loved ones the treasured experiences which can never be taken away no matter what else comes.

(In common with all the greatest teachers – and perhaps most clearly and directly of them all) Jesus said: 'Love one another.'

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).

The Living Dead

Honoring our poetic ancestors

source

                                                    Tagore at his painting desk

The Year 1400*

by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

          A hundred years from today

Who are you, sitting, reading a poem of mine,

                     under curiosity's sway - 

            a hundred years from today?

              Not the least portion

of this spring's morning bliss,

  neither blossom nor birdsong,

     nor any of its scarlet splashes

 can I drench it in passion

      and despatch to your hands

      a hundred years hence!

Yet do this please: unlatch your south-faced door,

              just sit at your window for once;

basking in fantasy, eyes on the far horizon,

                figure out if you can:

              how one day a hundred years back

roving delights in a free fall from a heavenly region

            had touched all that there was -

     the infant Phalgun** day, utterly free,

                     was frenzied, all agog,

while borne on brisk wings, the south wind

               pollen-scent-brushed

had suddenly arrived and in a flash dyed the earth

               with all youth's hues

              a hundred years before your day.

There lived then a poet, ebullient of spirit,

                his heart steeped in song,

who wanted to open his words like so many flowers

               with so much passion

             one day a hundred years back.

             A hundred years from today

                     who is the new poet

whose songs flow through your homes?

                   To him I convey

            this springtime's gladsome greetings.

May my vernal song finds its echo for a moment

                     in your spring day

in the throbbing of your hearts, in the buzzing of your bees,

                  in the rustling of your leaves

            a hundred years from today.

(Translated by Ketaki Kushari Dyson )

*1400 is the Bengali calendar year which is actually 1993. The poem was written on the 2nd of Phalgoon (first month of spring) 1302 (1895-96) of the Bengali calendar.

**spring

It is very difficult to render the original in translation. We miss the music, the suggestiveness, indefinable associations clustering round words and phrases of the original version. This comes to mind especially when we read Tagore in any language other than Bengali.

Born in a family that was at the forefront of the Bengal Renaissance Tagore was the youngest of the thirteen surviving children of his parents. He lost his mother at a very early age and mostly raised by servants. That was the beginning of the trail of death that he would have to tread for the rest of his life. In his long life of eighty years he had lost a young wife (he never remarried) and brought up his children with utmost care only to lose three of them and the only grandson to illness. He accepted death as part of his life gracefully.

Sukumar Ray, a contemporary Bengali poet summed up Tagore's poetry in the following words: Rabindranath's poetry is an echo of the infinite variety of life, of the triumph of love, of the supreme unity of existence, of the joy that abides at the heart of everything......The objective of love is a constantly readjusted incentive...now of a self-centered vanity, now of the youthful visions of life, of 'half a woman half a dream', now the sheer passion of living, now the supreme joy of renunciation, of selfish service.....And all this is a natural inborn process of emancipation. Tagore's poems on Death, as the 'last fulfillment of life', written at all stages of his career, are among the most remarkable of his contributions....'because I love this life I will love Death also', is the characteristic tone of his later works.

This remains as the fundamental principle of all his creations, be it poetry, short story, novel, play, music, dance-drama or even painting. He composed around 2230 songs creating a whole new world of music, Rabindrasangeet.

He passed away six years before India got Independence. So freedom is another aspect to be found in his works. He stresses upon the absence of external restraints while he also emphasizes on the inner freedom born of self-sacrifice, enlightenment, self-purification and self control. He wishes to set the spirit free.

In 1913 he received the Nobel Prize in literature for his anthology Gitanjali (Song Offerings) which contains his profound spiritual poems.

W B Yeats' introduction to Gitanjali is a most noteworthy read.

Tagore lived a life true to all the highest ideals.

Baishe Srabon that is 22 Shravan (the last month of the rainy season, this is 8th August this year) is the death anniversary of the poet, celebrated worldwide believing he continues to live with us in his creation.

Poet History # 9 - W.B. Yeats

Perfecting the work – W. B. Yeats

Written by Jacob Knolwes-Smith

“The intellect of the man is forced to choose perfection of the life or of the work.”

William Butler Yeats (13 June, 1865 – 28 January 1939)

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all.
          from ‘In Memory of William Butler Yeats’ by W. H. Auden

THE ABOVE quote from Auden’s elegiac poem no doubt refers to the fact that William Butler Yeat’s was influenced throughout his entire life by occult, mystical and astrological interests. In 1911 Yeats became a member of “The Ghost Club” – a paranormal investigation society – and joined the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn in 1890 (where he made an enemy of that infamous scamp, Aleister Crowley). He would remain in a splinter branch of the Order until 1921. Yeats was also, like many 19th century figures, influenced by the famous extoller of flimflam and humbug Emmanuel Swedenborg. Fortunately for us, however, he was also influenced by the unrivalled visionary William Blake (who renounced Swedenborg) and so, as Auden states, despite this belief in tarot, ghosts, magic/magick, angels, etc., the work survives all of this. (Both Yeats’ secretary, Ezra Pound, and his patient wife, Georgie, both deemed his occult proclivities hokum but those who wish to further explore Yeats’ ideas should consult A Vision (1925).)