The poetry thread

[stephen w]

Originally Posted by Florestan

Aha, yes, Milton aficionados always insist that His Dark Materials owes a great deal to Paradise Lost.

Milton has often been often accused of 'sympathy for the devil'. I think it misses the point, really. Satan in Paradise Lost is a pathetic character, mired in his own vanity, idolatry and self delusion. By pathetic I don't mean that he is to be pitied. He is a wretch to be despised. He is unaware of the true beauty and value of anything. And beelzebub is nothing more than a ghastly little toady, telling satan what he thinks he wants to hear.

What Milton does, I think, is to denude satan of his power as something to be feared by laying bare his fatal flaws. The catholic church had traditionally invested the idea of satan with huge power as a bogey man to frighten people into obedience.

Which edition of Paradise Lost are you reading?

This is really interesting. I'll think about it, as I read: just getting into Book 3. This isnt one of my fast reads My edition is the 'Major Works including Paradise Lost' (Oxford Worlds Classics). I'd like an edition with the original spelling as well.

[Florestan]

Noooo, it really isn't a fast read. Or a tube read.

I think the fact that Milton is no apologist for Satan will become increasingly evident. He is a fool. He labours under the vain delusion that he has automony from God; the point is, *nothing* has autonomy from God.

[maureen]

was lovely
in all it's sadness

[stephen w]

Originally Posted by Florestan

Noooo, it really isn't a fast read. Or a tube read.

I think the fact that Milton is no apologist for Satan will become increasingly evident. He is a fool. He labours under the vain delusion that he has automony from God; the point is, *nothing* has autonomy from God.

Damn! I hate it when people tell me the ending

[stephen w]

Originally Posted by maureen

was lovely
in all it's sadness

Do you think the churchyard one is all sadness? It has such deep strata of ideas, doesnt it? It does "offer" sadness, but there seems so much more as well.

There's a poem by A E Housman Ive always been fond of, and first came across in my teens, with the same sort of images, but far and away a simpler piece, which seems to deal a lot more straightforwardly in sadness:

Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.'

And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.

[Philidor]

I Housman (all my cynical friends laugh at me). Another favourite:

The Stinging Nettle

The stinging nettle only
Will still be found to stand:
The numberless, the lonely,
The thronger of the land,
The leaf that hurts the hand.

That thrives, come sun, come showers;
Blow east, blow west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And touch it and it stings.

Related to...

It nods and curtseys and recovers

It nods and curtseys and recovers
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.

The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
The man, he does not move,
The lover of the grave, the lover
That hanged himself for love.

[Florestan]

Originally Posted by Philidor

I Housman (all my cynical friends laugh at me).

For shame! Just because it is mawkish doggerel doesn't mean it's baaad.

[Florestan]

A more contemporary version

The cockroach

The stinking cockroach only
Will still be found to stand:
The numberless, the lonely,
The thronger of the land,
That scuttles o'er one's hand.

That thrives when nuclear fallout;
Blows east, blows west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And still it flipping stinks.

[Philidor]

[AndersWestberg]

I add a modern swedish poem and songlyric by Mikael Wiehe called "flickan och kråkan" (the little girl and the crow)

I will translate it roughly without the rimes :-) Impossible to translate poetry without loosing the beuty though...
I also ad my favourite artist singin it.

"Jag satt häromdagen och läste min tidning,
en dag som så många förut.
Och jag tänkte på alla dom drömmar man drömt,
som en efter en har ta'tt slut.
Då såg jag en bild av en flicka,
med en skadskjuten kråka i famn.
Hon springer iväg genom skogen,
så fort som hon bara nånsin kan.
Hon springer med fladdrande lockar,
hon springer på taniga ben.
Och hon hoppas och tror och hon bönar och ber
att det inte skall vara försent.

Och flickan är liten och hennes hår är så ljust,
och hennes kind är så flämtande röd.
Och kråkan är klumpig och kraxande svart,
och om en stund är den alldeles död.
Men flickan hon springer för livet,
med en skadskjuten kråka i famn.
Hon springer mot trygghet och värme,
för det som är riktigt och sant.
Hon springer med tindrande ögon,
hon springer på taniga ben.
För hon vet att det är sant, det som pappa har sagt,
att finns det liv, är det aldrig försent.

Och jag började darra i vånda och nöd,
jag skaka av rädsla och skräck.
För jag visste ju alldeles tydligt och klart,
att det var bilden av mig som jag sett.
För mitt hopp är en skadskjuten kråka,
och jag är ett springande barn,
som tror det finns nå'n som kan hjälpa mig än,
som tror det finns nå'n som har svar.
Och jag springer med bultande hjärta,
jag springer på taniga ben.
Och jag bönar och ber, fast jag egentligen vet,
att det redan är alldeles för sent."

"I was sitting the other day reading the papers,
a day like many before.
And I thought about all the dreams one has dreamt,
that one afteranother have died.
Then i saw a picture of a girl,
with a shot-wounded crow in her hand.
She´s running thru the forest,
as fast as she ever can.
She´s running with the hair flying,
she´s running on skinny legs.
And she hopes and belevies and she begs and pray,
that it will not be to late.

And the girl is small and her hair so light,
and here cheeks are so gaspering red.
And the crow is clumpsy and "kraxande" black,
and in a while it will be dead.
But the girl she runs for (her) life,
with a shot-wounded bird in her hand.
She´s running towards safeness and warmth,
to that what is real and true.
She´s running with shiny eyes,
she´s running on skinny legs.
Because she know its true, what her father has said,
if there is life its never to late.

And i began to tremble in horror and anxsiaty,
i was trembling of fearness and shame.
Because i knew quiet purely and clear,
that it was the picture of me i had seen.
For my hope is a shot-wounded crow,
and i am i running child,
who beleives that there is someone who can help me still,
who belevies there is someone has and answer.
And im running with a pounding heart,
im running on skinny legs.
And i pray and beg, even though i know,
thats very much to late."

[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwzTQsaWvXo&feature=related"]YouTube - Sofia Karlsson spelar Flickan och kråkan på visfestivalen[/ame]