William Shakespeare

SONNET 73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

 

SONNET 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

 

A Brief Guide to Imagism* In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. --Ezra Pound

The Imagist movement included English and American poets in the early twentieth century who wrote free verse and were devoted to "clarity of expression through the use of precise visual images." A strand of modernism, Imagism was officially launched in 1912 when Ezra Pound read and marked up a poem by Hilda Doolittle, signed it "H.D. Imagiste," and sent it to Harriet Monroe at Poetry.

The movement sprang from ideas developed by T.E. Hulme, who as early as 1908 was proposing to the Poets' Club in London a poetry based on absolutely accurate presentation of its subject with no excess verbiage. The first tenet of the Imagist manifesto was "To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word."

Imagism was a reaction against the flabby abstract language and "careless thinking" of Georgian Romanticism. Imagist poetry aimed to replace muddy abstractions with exactness of observed detail, apt metaphors, and economy of language. For example, Pound's "In a Station of the Metro" started from a glimpse of beautiful faces in a dark subway and elevated that perception into a crisp vision by finding an intensified equivalent image. The metaphor provokes a sharp, intuitive discovery in order to get at the essence of life.

Pound's definition of the image was "that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." Pound defined the tenets of Imagist poetry as:

I. Direct treatment of the "thing," whether subjective or objective. II. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation. III. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.

An Imagist anthology was published in 1914 that collected work by William Carlos Williams, Richard Aldington, and James Joyce, as well as H.D. and Pound. Other imagists included F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, and John Gould Fletcher. By the time the anthology appeared, Amy Lowell had effectively appropriated Imagism and was seen as the movement's leader. Three years later, even Amy Lowell thought the movement had run its course. Pound by then was claiming that he invented Imagism to launch H.D.'s career. Though Imagism as a movement was over by 1917, the ideas about poetry embedded in the Imagist doctrine profoundly influenced free verse poets throughout the twentieth century.

*  http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5658

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now i lay(with everywhere around) me(the great dim deep sound of rain;and of always and of nowhere)and

what a gently welcoming darkestness—

now i lay me down(in a most steep more than music)feeling that sunlight is (life and day are)only loaned:whereas night is given(night and death and the rain

are given;and given is how beautifully snow)

now i lay me down to dream of(nothing i or any somebody or you can begin to begin to imagine)

something which nobody may keep. now i lay me down to dream of Spring

–e.e. cummings

 

Arrival

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind . . . !

William Carlos Williams  

Ars PoeticaBy Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and muteAs a globed fruit,DumbAs old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stoneOf casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordlessAs the flight of birds.*A poem should be motionless in timeAs the moon climbs,Leaving, as the moon releasesTwig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in timeAs the moon climbs.*A poem should be equal to:Not true.For all the history of griefAn empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For loveThe leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not meanBut be.

Commentary

“Ars Poetica” has been called MacLeish’s ultimate expression of the art-for-art’s-saketenet. Taken as one statement of his theory, the poem does defy the “hair splittinganalysis of modern criticism.” Written in three units of double-line stanzas and inrhyme, it makes the point that a poem is an intimation rather than a full statement, thatit should “be motionless in time”; that it has no relation to generalities of truth,historical fact, or love-variations, perhaps, of truth, beauty, and goodness.

Signi Lenea Falk. From Archibald MacLeish

The poem, as “Ars Poetica” makes clear, captures a human experience, an experienceof grief, or of love, or of loneliness, or of memory. Thus a poem becomes a way ofknowing, of seeing, albeit through the senses, the emotions, and the imagination.MacLeish often said that the function of a poem is to trap “Heaven and Earth in thecage of form.”

Victor H. Jones. From Dictionary of Literary Biography

Archibald MacLeish, who like Cummings arrived on the poetic scene after the firstimagists had created the new movement, nevertheless can be credited with the poeticsumming up of imagism in his “Ars Poetica” in 1926, written well after the imagistdecade had ended. It is inconceivable that such a poem could have been writtenwithout imagism, because the technique as well as the philosophy of MacLeish’s mostfamous poem is imagist. It consists of a sequence of images that are discrete but that atthe same time express and exemplify the imagist principles and practice of poetry.

The Latin title is borrowed from Horace, who wrote a prose treatise in the firstcentury A.D., the Silver Age of Rome, called “Art of Poetry,” advising poets amongother things to be brief and to make their poems lasting. MacLeish wanted to link theclassical with the modern in his poetic “treatise” as a way of implying that thestandards of good poetry are timeless, that they do not change in essence though actualpoems change from age to age and language to language. His succession of openingimages are all about the enduring of poetry through time, as concrete as “globed fruit”or ancient coins or stone ledges, and as inspiring to see as a flight of birds or the moonrising in the sky. The statements are not only concrete but paradoxical, for it isimpossible that poems should be “mute” or “Dumb” or “Silent” or “wordless,” whichwould mean that there was no communication in them at all; rather, what MacLeish isstating in his succession of paradoxical images is that the substance of poetry may bephysical but the meaning of poetry is metaphysical: poems are not about the world ofsensible objects as much as they are about invisible realities, and so the universalemotions of grief and love can be expressed in words that convey the experience in allits concreteness, yet the words reach into the visionary realm beyond experience,toward which all true images point. The final paradox, that “A poem should not meanbut be,” is pure impossibility, but the poet insists it is nevertheless valid, becausebeyond the meaning of any poem is the being that it points to, which is ageless andpermanent, a divine essence or spiritual reality behind all appearances. MacLeish’smodern “Art of Poetry” is a fulfillment of the three rules of imagism (be direct, be brief,and use free verse), of Pound’s definition of the image, and at the same time ofHorace’s Latin statement on poetry, that good poetry is one proof that there is apermanence in human experience that does not change but endures through time.

William Pratt. From Singing the Chaos: Madness and Wisdom in Modern Poetry.

 Guanahani, 11 by Kamau Brathwaite like the beginnings - o odales o adagios - of islands

from under the clouds where I write the first poem

its brown warmth now that we recognize them even from this thunder's distance

still w/out sound. so much hope now around the heart of lightning that I begin to weep

w/such happiness of familiar landscap such genius of colour. shape of bay. headland

the dark moors of the mountain ranges. a door opening in the sky

right down into these new blues & sleeping yellows greens - like a mother's

embrace like a lover's enclosure. like schools

of fish migrating towards homeland. into the bright light of xpectation. birth

of these long roads along the edge of Eleuthera, now sinking into its memory behind us

   

Kamau Brathwaite  

from Stone  

for Mikey Smith, stoned to death on Stony Hill, Kingston 1954-1983

When the stone fall that morning out of the johncrow sky it was not dark at first . that opening on to the red sea humming but something in my mouth like feathers . blue like bubbles carrying signals & planets & the sliding curve of the world like a water pic. ture in a raindrop when the pressure. drop

When the stone fall that morning out of the johncrow sky

I couldn't cry out because my mouth was full of beast & plunder as if I was gnashing badwords among tombstones as if the road up stony hill . round the bend by the church yard . on the way to the post office . was a bad bad dream

& the dream was like a snarl of broken copper wire zig zagging its electric flashes up the hill & splitt. ing spark & flow. ers high. er up the hill. past the white houses & the ogogs bark. ing all teeth & fur. nace & my mother like she up. like she up.

like she up. side down up a tree like she was scream. like she was scream. like she was scream. ing no & no. body i could hear could hear a word i say. ing . even though there were so many poems left & the tape was switched on &

runn. ing & runn. ing & the green light was red & they was stannin up there & evva. where in london & amsterdam & at unesco in paris & in west berlin & clapp. ing & clapp. ing & clapp. ing &

not a soul on stony hill to even say amen

& yet it was happening happening happening . the fences begin to crack in i skull. & there was a loud booodoooooooooooooooogs like guns goin off . them ole time magnums .

or like a fireworks a dreadlocks was on fire . & the gaps where the river comin down inna the drei gully where my teeth use to be smilin . & i tuff gong tongue that use to press against them & parade

pronunciation . now unannounce & like a black wick in i head & dead . & it was like a heavy heavy riddim low down in i belly . bleedin dub . & there was like this heavy heavy black dog thump. in in i chest & pump. in

murdererrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

& i throat like dem tie. like dem tie. like dem tie a tight tie a. round it. twist. ing my name quick crick. quick crick . & a nevva wear neck. tie yet .

& a hear when de big boot kick down i door . stump in it foot pun a knot in de floor. board . a window slam shat at de back a mi heart .

de itch & ooze & damp a de yaaad in mi sil. ver tam. bourines closer & closer . st joseph marching bands crash. ing & closer .

bom si. cai si. ca boom ship bell . bom si. cai si. ca boom ship bell & a laughin more blood & spittin out

lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwd

from Middle Passages 1992 (50-52)

     

Bermudas

By Kamau Brathwaite

marine to noon on AméricasAirplane

First the dark meer begins to breathe gently into green

into light & light green until there are like blue

ribs upon the water. dreaming

and the ribs of water’s colour are the gills of the first fish breathing the first land the first eye

-lann

until there is what shd not be here on the water

white

footsteps of sand from the bottom of the ocean become the thin road to Eleuthera

long & thin upon the water walking until there is suddenly a black stone

a dark

veil kabala surrounding by whorls of worship green water scallops folding into themselves like soft

jewels the first huge fish

out of creation w/ribs veins glimpse

of a tail & deep channels in between

where they will be mountains & ridges & villages & ozure indigo sunsets

of lapis lazuli & white salt marking its finely corrugated edges & stretching out into thousands of tongues. miles

of soft drifting labials. like pellucid love

on the water. this fish from the air of so many so many untangles

& 10 thousand years later there are trees

glistening sunlight & listening rain & white streets & houses & people walkin bout & talkn to each other on the water & across

its blue echo & thinking of horses & houses & now soon after midday there are great ob

-long blotches like a stain

of milk & a great spider spreading itself along the pale glazing bottom of the water. and this great planet passing upwards towards us

out this silence & drifting & blessing of the water

FOOTNOTES:

*100m sharks are assassinated each year for their fins - their carcasses thrown back into the sex of the sea - to make

fine Chinese fin soup for you to sit down & dine w/yr sip spoon & napkin all over the wide open restaurant eye of the world

CNN NewsReport seen in Ja on the friday of arrival there

Kamau Brathwaite, “Bermudas” from Born to Slow Horses. Copyright © 2005 by Kamau Brathwaite and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Born to Slow Horses (Wesleyan University Press, 2005)                                                                      

Kamau Brathwaite  

Wings of a Dove  

1

Brother Man the Rasta man, beard full of lichens brain full of lice watched the mice come up through the floor- boards of his down- town, shanty-town kitchen, and smiled. Blessed are the poor in health, he mumbled, that they should inherit this wealth. Blessed are the meek hearted, he grumbled, for theirs is this stealth.

Brother Man the Rasta man, hair full of lichens head hot as ice watched the mice walk into his poor hole, reached for his peace and the pipe of his gangja and smiled how the mice eyes, hot pumice pieces, glowed into his room like ruby, like rhinestone and suddenly startled like diamond.

And I Rastafar-I in Babylon's boom town, crazed by the moon and the peace of this chalice, I prophet and singer, scourge of the gutter, guardian Trench Town, the Dungle and Young's Town, rise and walk through the now silent streets of affliction, hawk's eyes hard with fear, with affection, and hear my people cry, my people shout:

Down down white man, con man, brown man, down down full man, frown- ing fat man, that white black

man that lives in the town.

Rise rise locks- man, Solo- man wise man, rise rise rise leh we laugh dem, mock dem, stop dem, kill dem an' go back back to the black man lan' back back to Af- rica.

2

Them doan mean it, yuh know, them cahn help it but them clean-face browns in Babylon town is who I most fear

an' who fears most I. Watch de vulture dem a-fly- in', hear de crow a-dem crow see what them money a-buy?

Caw caw caw caw. Ol'crow, ol' crow, cruel ol' ol' crow, that's all them got to show.

Crow fly flip flop hip hop pun de ground; na feet feel firm

pun de firm stones; na good pickney born from de flesh o' dem bones;

naw naw naw naw.

3

So beat dem drums dem, spread

dem wings dem, watch dem fly

dem, soar dem high dem,

clear in the glory of the Lord.

Watch dem ship dem come to town dem

full o' silk dem full o' food dem

an' dem 'plane dem come to groun' dem

full o' flash dem full o' cash dem

silk dem food dem shoe dem wine dem

that dem drink dem an' consume dem

praisin' the glory of the Lord.

So beat dem burn dem, learn

dem that dem got dem nothin'

but dem bright bright baubles

that will burst dem when the flame dem

from on high dem raze an' roar dem

an' de poor dem rise an' rage dem

in de glory of the Lord.

from Rights of Passage 1967 (41-44)

         

The  Loch  Ness  Monster's  Song  

Sssnnnwhuffffll?  Hnwhuffl  hhnnwfl  hnfl  hfl?  Gdroblboblhobngbl  gbl  gl  g  g  g  g  glbgl.  Drublhaflablhaflubhafgabhaflhafl  fl  fl  –  gm  grawwwww  grf  grawf  awfgm  graw  gm.  Hovoplodok  –  doplodovok  –  plovodokot-­‐doplodokosh?  Splgraw  fok  fok  splgrafhatchgabrlgabrl  fok  splfok!  Zgra  kra  gka  fok!  Grof  grawff  gahf?  Gombl  mbl  bl  –  blm  plm,  blm  plm,  blm  plm,  blp.  

Edwin  Morgan  

From  From  Glasgow  to  Saturn  (Carcanet,  1973).  Also  published  in  Collected  Poems  (Carcanet,  1990)  

Reprinted  by  permission  of  Carcanet  Press  

 

The  First  Men  on  Mercury  

–  We  come  in  peace  from  the  third  planet.    Would  you  take  us  to  your  leader?    –  Bawr  stretter!  Bawr.  Bawr.  Stretterhawl?    –  This  is  a  little  plastic  model  of  the  solar  system,  with  working  parts.  You  are  here  and  we  are  there  and  we  are  now  here  with  you,  is  this  clear?    –  Gawl  horrop.  Bawr  Abawrhannahanna!    –  Where  we  come  from  is  blue  and  white  with  brown,  you  see  we  call  the  brown  here  'land',  the  blue  is  'sea',  and  the  white  is  'clouds'  over  land  and  sea,  we  live  on  the  surface  of  the  brown  land,  all  round  is  sea  and  clouds.  We  are  'men'.  Men  come  –      –  Glawp  men!  Gawrbenner  menko.  Menhawl?    –  Men  come  in  peace  from  the  third  planet  which  we  call  'earth'.  We  are  earthmen.  Take  us  earthmen  to  your  leader.    –  Thmen?  Thmen?  Bawr.  Bawrhossop.  Yuleeda  tan  hanna.  Harrabost  yuleeda.  

 –  I  am  the  yuleeda.  You  see  my  hands,  we  carry  no  benner,  we  come  in  peace.  The  spaceways  are  all  stretterhawn.    –  Glawn  peacemen  all  horrabhanna  tantko!  Tan  come  at'mstrossop.  Glawp  yuleeda!    –  Atoms  are  peacegawl  in  our  harraban.  Menbat  worrabost  from  tan  hannahanna.    –  You  men  we  know  bawrhossoptant.  Bawr.  We  know  yuleeda.  Go  strawg  backspetter  quick.    –  We  cantantabawr,  tantingko  backspetter  now!    –  Banghapper  now!  Yes,  third  planet  back.  Yuleeda  will  go  back  blue,  white,  brown  nowhanna!  There  is  no  more  talk.    –  Gawl  han  fasthapper?    –  No.  You  must  go  back  to  your  planet.  Go  back  in  peace,  take  what  you  have  gained  but  quickly.    –  Stretterworra  gawl,  gawl…    –  Of  course,  but  nothing  is  ever  the  same,  now  is  it?  You'll  remember  Mercury.  

Edwin  Morgan  

From  From  Glasgow  to  Saturn  (Carcanet,  1973).  Also  published  in  Collected  Poems  (Carcanet,  1990)  

Reprinted  by  permission  of  Carcanet  Press  

                             

Wan Chu's Wife In Bed

Wan Chu, my adoring husband, has returned from another trip selling trinkets in the provinces. He pulls off his lavender shirt as I lie naked in our bed, waiting for him. He tells me I am the only woman he'll ever love. He may wander from one side of China to the other, but his heart will always stay with me. His face glows in the lamplight with the sincerity of a boy when I lower the satin sheet to let him see my breasts. Outside, it begins to rain on the cherry trees he planted with our son, and when he enters me with a sigh, the storm begins in earnest, shaking our little house. Afterwards, I stroke his back until he falls asleep. I'd love to stay awake all night listening to the rain, but I should sleep, too. Tomorrow Wan Chu will be a hundred miles away and I will be awake all night in the arms of Wang Chen, the tailor from Ming Pao, the tiny village down the river.

By Richard Jones

from The Quarterly, 1990 W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY