The Spelling Society has “The Chaos,” what they call “the well-known versified catalogue of English spelling irregularities.” It’s a bit too much for me at the moment. Have you seen this before? (HT:SB)
Category Archives: Poetry
Longfellow's Weariness
O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
Direct from heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
“Weariness” by H.W. Longfellow
Passing Muster with the Hard Things
Poet Kay Ryan says, “Well, there are a lot of things that I deep six right away. Most things I write don’t pass muster.” Patrick Kurp quotes her in this post and talks about one of her beautiful poems, “Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard.” (This second link goes to a PBS post about that book of poetry.)
A couple Christmas carols
I have another Sissel clip for you tonight! Amazing! What are the odds?
I used to do this one myself, as a solo, back when I sang. It always meant a lot to me.
I think I saw Sissel in this dress the first time I heard her live in Minot. So this is probably the same year. And the hair looks right.
As is my wont, I’ll give you a Christmas poem by G. K. Chesterton. (It’s odd, but I’ve never found any poet, no matter how great, who did Christmas better than he.)
A Christmas Carol
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s breast,
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world’s desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary’s knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down.
A blessed Christmas to you and yours.
“Verses upon the Burning of our House” by Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken’d was with thund’ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so ’twas just. Continue reading “Verses upon the Burning of our House” by Anne Bradstreet
Risk and Triumph
“Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!”
Read the rest – “Who Never Lost” by Emily Dickenson
WWI Reading
Here’s a link to an archive of World War I poetry.
And here’s what soldiers in trenches were reading.
The Poetic Muse
Robert Roper writes, “Contemporary psychologists have unearthed strong associations between poetry and introspection, between introspection and depression, and between depression and self-destructiveness. Not all poets are depressives, but there is a statistical connection. If that child of yours is writing a poem at this moment, go into his bedroom right now and stop him!”
Ahem.
“I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;”
And if it landed in your heart,
I hope you die, you little tart.
Gasp–I’m so depressed now.
100 20th Century Poets with Rebutal
Edward Bryne, a poet, blogger and professor, posted a list of 100 recommended books of American 20th Century poetry. He invited his readers to comment and add to the list, and he got a good bit of feedback. (via Books, Inq. for both links) Bryne notes:
At first I was hesitant about sharing this list, thinking along the line that Robin Kemp stated in her comment, “Boy, you’re really asking for it, aren’t you?!” Nevertheless, I believe readers’ replies exhibited something expressed in John Guzlowski’s comment: “I think that what this list and the comments adding more names to the list suggest is that poetry isn’t dead. It’s alive as you or I.” On the other hand, Daniel E. Pritchard at The Wooden Spoon offered a contrary view as he observed: “I’m struck by how sparse the century was in terms of really obviously great poetry. This list probably could have been 50 titles and some of them still would’ve been in dispute.”
Master on Master: Andrew Klavan writes of Wordsorth
Andrew Klavan, at City Journal, presents an essay on William Wordsworth as a precursor to the present-day neocon movement. It’s gooooooooood.
Around the same time, the poet married Mary Hutchinson, a woman of such quiet serenity that a friend once joked that she never said anything but “God bless you!” The needs of their rapidly growing family necessarily turned his thoughts to more practical, and therefore more conservative, concerns. The financial help and patronage of Lord Lonsdale gave him new sympathy for the aristocracy. And the more he mulled the philosophical consequences of the French disaster, the more he came to respect the institutions and traditions that had guided Britain’s more stately procession toward greater freedom.
I might have made made more of a point of the connection of Wordsworth’s final philosophy to the doctrine of the Incarnation, but then I couldn’t have written the essay in the first place.