The Diary Of A Nobody: Recent Episodes
The Diary Of A Nobody
Charles Bukowski - Bluebird
Written:
Bluebird was written in the 1990s, published as part of Bukowski’s 1992 poetry collection The Last Night of the Earth Poems. This was one of the last collections Bukowski released before his death in 1994. The poem reflects a more contemplative side of Bukowski’s work as he faced the later years of his life, exploring themes of mortality, introspection, and the complexities of human emotion.
Theme:
The theme of Bluebird by Charles Bukowski revolves around vulnerability, emotional suppression, and the conflict between one’s inner self and societal expectations. The "bluebird" in the poem symbolizes Bukowski’s softer, more sensitive side, which he keeps hidden from the world. Bukowski was known for his gritty, tough persona and raw, unapologetic writing style, often portraying himself as a hardened, cynical character. However, in Bluebird, he reveals a gentler, more introspective side, suggesting that beneath his rugged exterior lies a desire for love, acceptance, and tenderness. The poem captures the struggle to maintain this vulnerable self in a world that often demands strength and resilience, highlighting the human tendency to guard one's emotions and present a fortified facade.
Poem:
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
Credits: poem by Charles Bukowski, 1990. / many thanks for the music and its creator, Chillpac / @chillpac_.
Artist links:
https://www.instagram.com/chillpac_/
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3k8dN7ttBtz3ce20RS6BQl?si=Grhd8zqsRYO9pV0NNt4y0g
Derek Walcott - Love After Love Theme:The theme of "Love After Love" by Derek Walcott is self-rediscovery and self-love after a period of loss or heartbreak. The poem is a gentle and reassuring meditation on the importance of reconnecting with oneself, emphasizing the need for self-acceptance and the idea that true love for oneself can be found within.
Walcott writes about a future moment when you will meet "yourself arriving at your own door," symbolizing a reunion with the parts of yourself that may have been neglected or forgotten. The poem encourages readers to "feast on your life"—to cherish their own experiences, memories, and identities rather than seeking fulfillment solely from external relationships.
Ultimately, "Love After Love" speaks to the healing process of learning to love oneself again after facing the pain of separation or emotional hardship. It beautifully conveys the idea that wholeness and peace come from within.
Poem:The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life. Credits: Derek Walcott - Written: approx. 1970 / Published: approx. 1976 in the author's collection 'Sea Grapes'.
David M. Romano - When/If Tomorrow Starts Without Me
Theme:
David Romano's poignant poem, "When Tomorrow Starts Without Me," encapsulates the theme of coping with loss and finding solace in the belief of an afterlife. Through its heartfelt verses, the poem urges us to cherish life's fleeting moments and to appreciate the loved ones who enrich our journey. It reminds us to live with integrity and to embrace each day with love and gratitude, for tomorrow is never promised. As we navigate the complexities of grief, the poem offers reassurance that our departed loved ones remain ever-present in our hearts, guiding us with their enduring love and memories.
Poem:
When tomorrow starts without me
And I’m not here to see
If the sun should rise and find your eyes
All filled with tears for me
I wish you wouldn’t cry
The way you did today
While thinking of the many things
We did not get to say
I know how much you love me
As much as I love you
Each time that you think of me
I know you will miss me too
When tomorrow starts with out me
Please try to understand
That an angel came and called my name
And took me by the hand
The angel said my place was ready
In heaven far above
And that I would have to leave behind
All those I dearly love
But when I walked through Heaven’s Gates
I felt so much at home
When God looked down and smiled at me
From his golden throne
He said this is eternity
And all I promised you
Today for life on earth is done
But here it starts a new
I promise no tomorrow
For today will always last
And since each day’s the exact same way
There is no longing for the past
So when tomorrow starts without me
Do not think we’re apart
For every time you think of me
Remember I’m right here in your heart
Credits: David M. Romano - Date: unknown
*There's limited information about the poem itself in terms of publishing/writing date as well as the author. The interpretation of the theme in the description is solely an interpretation I came up with and should be taken only as such.
A heartfelt Sunday morning poem emerged from the depths of my being, inspired by the lessons I've gleaned and the challenges I've faced. Its purpose is to rekindle the flickering flame within, to celebrate the boundless love and genuine essence of life's grace. I offer this intimate poem with the hope that it resonates with your spirit, illuminating your path and filling your heart with inspiration and profound grace.
In the tapestry of existence, it is not solely about the interplay between good and evil, for both hold significance within the grand tapestry of life. It is in uncovering the truth hidden within their depths that the true essence of our journey unfolds. Embracing the profound meaning embedded within every experience, we traverse the path of discovery, seeking the profound wisdom that lies within the duality of existence. May this realization accompany you on your journey, infusing each step with purpose and guiding you towards the profound truth that life graciously bestows upon us.
Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi - Because I Cannot Sleep
Written:cca. 1207-1273
Poem:
Because I cannot sleepI make music at night.I am troubled by the onewhose face has the color of spring flowers.I have neither sleep nor patience,neither a good reputation nor disgrace.A thousand robes of wisdom are gone.All my good manners have moved a thousand miles away.The heart and the mind are left angry with each other.The stars and the moon are envious of each other.Because of this alienation the physical universeis getting tighter and tighter.The moon says, "How long will I remainsuspended without a sun?"Without Love's jewel inside of me,let the bazaar of my existence be destroyed stone by stone.O Love, You who have been called by a thousand names,You who know how to pour the wineinto the chalice of the body,You who give culture to a thousand cultures,You who are faceless but have a thousand faces,O Love, You who shape the facesof Turks, Europeans, and Zanzibaris,give me a glass from Your bottle,or a handful of being from Your Branch.Remove the cork once more.Then we'll see a thousand chiefs prostrate themselves,and a circle of ecstatic troubadours will play.Then the addict will be freed of craving.and will be resurrected,and stand in awe till Judgement Day.
Credits: Jalal al-Din Rumi, 1207-1273
Berton Braley - Opportunity
Written: circa 1917
Theme:
No matter where you live, or where you have been born whether that is into a wealthy family or to dirt poor parents, opportunities are available. The sad truth is that those who believe what their family roots did or did not give them have little to nothing to do with what lies ahead. Many of you have heard about the "cycle of poverty" but that cycle can be broken. How? The real opportunity lies within. That's right. The genuine possibility is for you to see; for you to plan to achieve, and for you to grasp hold of so strong that nothing will ever dissuade you from succeeding. But, bear in mind that just because you can envision a dream coming true does not mean that from now on everything will be a bed of roses. Why? Because within that bed of roses lie thorny branches.So, what does this all mean? AS Berton Braley says, "Don't worry and fret, faint hearted, the chances have just begun," for it is recognizing that chances are abundant that keeps the spark of good fortune alive. For each chance, there is another new avenue to pursue or another path around the obstacle in the way. Defeat, or failure, is only an opportunity to reload from past mistakes taking forward those parts that showed promise or sprouted new ways towards accomplishment.Thus, this is a poem of encouragement for anyone who has doubts about the opportunity that each of us has. Berton Braley motivates us in this poem by delineating that each and every one of us has the opportunity to do the best and to take that chance because we never know what we can accomplish. Let his words motivate you to take action towards the dreams and goals that you may have! (Stresslesscountry.com, 2023)
Poem:
With doubt and dismay you are smittenYou think there's no chance for you, son?Why, the best books haven't been writtenThe best race hasn't been run,The best score hasn't been made yet,The best song hasn't been sung,The best tune hasn't been played yet,Cheer up, for the world is young!No chance? Why the world is just eagerFor things that you ought to createIts store of true wealth is still meagreIts needs are incessant and great,It yearns for more power and beautyMore laughter and love and romance,More loyalty, labor and duty,No chance- why there's nothing but chance!For the best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,The best house hasn't been planned,The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet,The mightiest rivers aren't spanned,Don't worry and fret, faint hearted,The chances have just begun,For the Best jobs haven't been started,The Best work hasn't been done.
Credits: Berton Braley, 1917 / Stresslesscountry.com, 2023
W.S. Merwin - Thanks
Published: 2005 in Migration: New and Selected Poems
Theme & Story:
Reads as an expression of gratitude for the bounty of his life. Merwin voices his thanks in an effusive manner that stays consistent whether bowing from bridges, addressing the water or remembering wars. It begins with the simple word “Listen” and goes on to describe a variety of beautiful moments:
with the night falling we are saying thank youwe are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railingswe are running out of the glass roomswith our mouths full of food to look at the skyand say thank you
While the second stanza takes a more somber tone, Merwin doesn’t fail to stop and give thanks amid the darker aspects of life, as well:
back from a series of hospitals back from a muggingafter funerals we are saying thank youafter the news of the deadwhether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
Credits: Rachel Jones, 2021 / W.S.Merwin, 2005
Poem:
Listenwith the night falling we are saying thank youwe are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railingswe are running out of the glass roomswith our mouths full of food to look at the skyand say thank youwe are standing by the water thanking itstanding by the windows looking outin our directions back from a series of hospitals back from a muggingafter funerals we are saying thank youafter the news of the deadwhether or not we knew them we are saying thank you over telephones we are saying thank youin doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevatorsremembering wars and the police at the doorand the beatings on stairs we are saying thank youin the banks we are saying thank youin the faces of the officials and the richand of all who will never changewe go on saying thank you thank you with the animals dying around ustaking our feelings we are saying thank youwith the forests falling faster than the minutesof our lives we are saying thank youwith the words going out like cells of a brainwith the cities growing over uswe are saying thank you faster and fasterwith nobody listening we are saying thank youthank you we are saying and wavingdark though it is(PoetryFoundation, 2023) Credits: Rachel Jones, 2021 / W.S.Merwin, 2005 / PoetryFoundation, 2023
Dragos Radu - Do Not Close Your Eyes
Written: 27th December 2022, Bucharest
Theme & Story:
This poem was inspired by a sentiment of longing and emptiness for one person in my life whom I got to know for only the first 6 years of my life, my grandfather. Since I was a child, I have been looking up to him; he was a pilot, so, at that time, I desired to become one too. Thanks to him, I know how to play chess and ride a bike. When I was 5 years old, and he was teaching me chess, I used to steal some of his pieces from the board; he was never happy about that, as aside from learning chess, he wanted me to be a fair and honest person. No actual winning comes with shortcuts. It's all a process. I realised all these things through the years, yet most at the previous year's end when I visited his resting place. Why then? Well, I was different. I sat down there and talked. Went there like a child, the 5-year-old that once made his life difficult where he made my life unforgettable. It was one of the first people in my life, aside from my mother and grandmother, that had an impact on me, left a trace, and truly loved me. I have never forgotten him, so I wrote this poem in his memory and in the memory of all of you listening who had or have such people in your lives who play(ed) an irreplaceable role.
Enjoy, and thank you for being here.
Dragos
Poem:
Do not close your eyes while the sky is still blue,
As then, the sound of the birds is sweetest.
Do not close your eyes when there is no hope,
As then, something new is born.
Do not close your eyes when you’re overwhelmed by loneliness,
As then, someone who’s once loved you is there with you.
Do not close your eyes when the sun is setting,
As then, stars will come up to show your way.
Do not close your eyes when your heart is broken,
As then, light will seep inside you.
Do not close your eyes while we are together,
As we do not know if we will ever meet again.
Credits: Dragos Radu, 2022 / The Diary Of A Nobody, 2022
Sara Teasdale - A Winter Bluejay
Written/Published: 1915 in Rivers to the Sea
Theme:
The poem begins by placing the couple in a snow-covered landscape, walking through the “whisper[ing]” snow, enjoying a quiet moment. Their shadows are “danc[ing]” behind them, creating a beautiful pattern of light. It is clear that this moment is not one that comes often.
They continue on their walk and come upon skaters on a frozen lake who gracefully, without fault, weave around one another. Their grace and effortless beauty mimic the day and improve upon it still. Finally, the speaker asks if they have reached the “highest point” of their happiness and she decides that they have not as her companion points out a bluejay. The jay is proud of it’s own form and fearless in its assertions of life. The bird is like their love is that day, without worry for the future and enjoying the perfect moment the day has brought.
The poem concludes with an optimistic statement about happiness. That when one believes they have reached the pinnacle of their life, in which nothing could increase their joy, there may be more around the corner waiting for them. Read more @ PoemAnalysis.com (PoemAnalysis.com, 2022)
Poem:
Crisply the bright snow whispered,Crunching beneath our feet;Behind us as we walked along the parkway,Our shadows danced,Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.Across the lake the skatersFlew to and fro,With sharp turns weavingA frail invisible net.In ecstasy the earthDrank the silver sunlight;In ecstasy the skatersDrank the wine of speed;In ecstasy we laughedDrinking the wine of love.Had not the music of our joySounded its highest note?But no,For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,“Oh look!”There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,Fearless and gay as our love,A bluejay cocked his crest!Oh who can tell the range of joyOr set the bounds of beauty?
Credits: Sara Teasdale 1915 / PoemAnalysis.com 2022
Anonymous St Swithun's Parishioner - The Messiah
Source: It was published in a parish newsletter of St Swithun's church.
Story:
Most of us are familiar with the words and music of the great Oratorio but Bill Jones of Golcar, a little village in the West Riding of Yorkshire, had never been to a performance and he tried to persuade a friend to go with him to the Huddersfield Town Hall to hear the famous Choral Society, but his friend refused. “Nay” he said “that sort ‘o music’s nowt in my line. I like a good comic song or a lively jig, but I reckon nowt to this sacred stuff as they call it. It’s beyond me. An’ another thing – there’1l be none of our sort there. It’1l be mostly religious folk and swells done up in boiled shirts and wimmen wi’ nowt much on. Nay, you go by theesen and then you can tell me all about it sometime”.
So Bill went by himself.
The next time the old pals met, the fo1lowing conversation took place. “Well cum on, how did you get on at Messiah?
“Ee well” said Bill – “It were fair champion. I would’na missed it for al’t tea in China. When I got there, Town Hall were crowded, it was chock full and I had a job to get a seat, and no wonder, it were all them singers – they took up half the gallery. There were a chap larkin’ about on the organ. He weren’t playing anythin’ in particular, just runnin’ his ‘ands up and down as if he was practising. Well after a while a lot of chaps came in carrying fiddles. Then…….they brought in the Messiah!
Wel1 – that’s what I took it to be. It were’t biggest instrument on the platform and it were covered in a big green bag. Any road, they took bag off it and then a bloke rubbed its belly wi’ a stick and you should have heard it groan. It were summat like the last expiring moments of a dying cow. I were just thinking of going when a little chap came on, all dolled up in a white waistcoat and wi’ a flower in his buttonhole and everything went dead quiet. You could have heard a pin drop. He ‘ad a stick in his ‘and and he started waving it about and all the singers stared at him. I reckon they was wondering what were the matter we ‘im.
Then they started to sing and they hadn’t been going long before they were fighting like cats. I reckon he should have walloped one or two of them with that stick. First one side said they were King o’ Glory, then the t’other side said they were, and they went at it hammer and tongs. But it fizzled out, so I’ve no idea which side won. Then there was a bit of bother about some sheep that was lost. I don’t know who they belonged to but one lot of singers must have been very fond of mutton ‘cos they kept on singing “All we like sheep “. I couldn’t help saying to the chap sitting next to me that sheep’s alright in moderation but I like a bit of beef meself and he looked daggers at me and said “Shush!!” – so I shushed.
Then a bloke stood up and sang by hisself. They must have been his sheep ‘cos he said every mountain and hill should be made low and I thought they’d be sure to find them. Then the organist started banging, and the rest of the band was just as mad, ‘cos the way they were sawing them fiddles I thought they were going to go through ’em. I bet everyone was glad when that chap sat down.
A lot of wimmen stood up after that and all of ’em looked as is they were well – getting on a bit. Some of ’em must a bin 65 if they were a day. They sang, “Unto us a child is born” and the chaps shouted back “Wonderful”, and I thought “Wonderful? It’s a blummin miracle”. After that they sobered down a bit, and sang about a lass called ‘Joyce Greatly’ – I’d never ‘erd of ‘er meself, but the chaps had, ‘cos they all looked mighty pleased about it.
Then some bloke got up and said he were the King of Kings. Another said HE was, and then blow me, they all started arguing about it. I were getting a bit fed up when everyone stood up to see what were the matter and they suddenly shouted “HALLELULAH . . . . It’s going to rain for ever and ever!!’
Well at that I jumped up and made straight for’t door. I’d ‘ad me money’s worth and besides I were thinking that if it was going to rain for ever and ever I’d better get home before the flood came.
It were a real good do though – you should ‘a come, but ooo……. I do ‘ope they find them sheep.
Credits: Anonymous St Swithun's Parishioner / St Swithun's Church
Lord Byron - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage [There is a pleasure in the pathless woods]
Written/Published: 3rd March 1812
Theme:
In these lines of ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,’ the poet engages with themes of change, the sea, and power. The latter is used to reference the power of the sea as well as humankind’s lack of power in the face of the indomitable ocean. It has raged the same since the dawn of creation, and no human force can control or tame it. This is something that brings the speaker great joy rather than fear. He relishes in the idea of what the ocean harbours and its ability to refuse humankind that which it desires. The sea represents true freedom to the speaker and to Byron. It’s untamed, pathless, and unpredictable, like the woods in which no one has ever tread. By the end of the poem, Byron admits that things have changed. He and his speaker are not the same as they were at the beginning of the poem, at the beginning of Byron’s journeys, or at the beginning of life. It’s time to move on, he says.(PoemAnalysis, 2022)
Poem:
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feelWhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay,And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.
Credits: George Gordon Byron - Lord Byron (1812), PoemAnalysis (2022), Poets.org (2022)
Mark Strand - Lines For Winter
Written/Published: 1979, Selected Poems
Theme: "The echo of “as it gets cold” implies the language could be seen as appealing to readers for separate stages of understanding, not just the physical “cold” of winter, but also the coldness that comes with loss of emotion and possibly death, or at least accompanying the sober recognition of one’s own mortality. Surely, images of winter or night frequently signal acknowledgement of one’s mortality and the “gray” in line two hints at a common sign of ageing. Even the poem’s title, “Lines of Winter,” may be seen as reference to later life’s facial lines, those wrinkles gained through age and experience, particularly for anyone who has endured a history of painful events." (Edward Byrne, 2008)
Poem:
Tell yourself as it gets cold and gray falls from the air that you will go on walking, hearing the same tune no matter where you find yourself— inside the dome of dark or under the cracking white of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow. Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing but the tune your bones play as you keep going. And you will be able for once to lie down under the small fire of winter stars. And if it happens that you cannot go on or turn back and you find yourself where you will be at the end, tell yourself in that final flowing of cold through your limbs that you love what you are.
Credits: Mark Strand Selected Poems 1979 / Edward Byrne 2008
Edgar Allan Poe - The City in the Sea
Published: 1831
Theme:
The poem takes the reader through Death’s city. He rules this place from a throne and towers over it “gigantically”. The city is lit by nothing but the light from the sea. By following its progression a reader can see the towers, palaces, friezes, and spires that fill the city-scape. Towards the end of the poem, a change comes over the usually very still ocean. It starts to move, as does the city itself. The city sinks, slowly, down into the water, consumed by its shiny surface. This dark place is compared to a more terrible version of hell in the last lines. A place that hell would worship. (PoemAnalysis.com (2022)
Poem:
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently- Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls- Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls- Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed PoemAnalysis.com (2022)
Lord Byron - All Is Vanity, Saith the Preacher
Written/Published in: Hebrew Melodies nr. 21 1815
Theme: Lord Byron’s poem is inspired by the Book of Qohelet. He transfers Qohelet’s feeling of life into a psalm, thereby condensing the Biblical material in his own way. He makes Qohelet, whom he conventionally identifies with King Solomon, look back at the happy times in his life. He interprets the Preacher’s resignation and depression by introducing the serpent from Genesis 3; this aspect helps to generalize Qohelet‘s pessimistic outlook on human life. Zsengellér, J. 2022. Understanding Texts in Early Judaism: Studies on Biblical, Qumranic, Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature in Memory of Géza Xeravits. Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110768534
Poem:
I. Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, And health and youth possess'd me; My goblets blush'd from every vine, And lovely forms caress'd me; I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, And felt my soul grow tender: All earth can give, or mortal prize, Was mine of regal splendour. II. I strive to number o'er what days Remembrance can discover, Which all that life or earth displays Would lure me to live over. There rose no day, there roll'd no hour Of pleasure unembitter'd; And not a trapping deck'd my power That gall'd not while it glitter'd. III. The serpent of the field, by art And spells, is won from harming; But that which coils around the heart, Oh! who hath pwer of charming? It will not list to wisdom's lore, Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it stings for evermore The soul that must endure it.
Credits: Lord Byron 1815, József Zsengellér 2022
Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken
Published: 1915
Theme:
"Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken” is often interpreted as an anthem of individualism and nonconformity, seemingly encouraging readers to take the road less traveled. This interpretation has long been propagated through countless song lyrics, newspaper columns, and graduation speeches. But as Frost liked to warn his listeners, “You have to be careful of that one; it’s a tricky poem—very tricky.” In actuality, the two roads diverging in a yellow wood are “really about the same,” according to Frost, and are equally traveled and quite interchangeable." (theatlantic.com, 2018)
Poem:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Credits: Robert Frost (1915), The Atlantic (2018)
Don McLean - Crossroads (Song)
Written/Released: 1971
Album: American Pie
Theme & Story: "I think this line is the essence of the pop ballad; the sense of regret, the wish to turn back time, the fear of the road lying ahead. Textually, the song is about a man who returns to a long lost love and begs for salvation. But that’s far too linear interpretation. I read the entire second verse in a far more spiritual way. Hope and salvation lie with anything that will join you on the inevitable journey of life. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be a person – it can be an idea, a thought, an emotion and even an absence. Sometimes absences are stronger than presences. “But there’s no need for turning back, ’cause all the roads lead to where I stand.”" (inartematt.com,2019)
Lyrics:
I've got nothing on my mind, Nothing to remember, Nothing to forget. And I've got nothing to regret. But I'm all tied up on the inside, No one knows quite what I've got, And I know that on the outside What I used to be I'm not anymore.
You know I've heard about people like me But I never made the connection. They walk one road to set them free And find they've gone the wrong direction. But there's no need for turning back Cause all roads lead to where I stand; And I believe I'll walk them all No matter what I may have planned.
Can you remember who I was? Can you still feel it? Can you find my pain? Can you heal it?
Then lay your hands upon me now And cast this darkness from my soul. You alone can light my way. You alone can make me whole Once again.
We've walked both sides of every street Through all kinds of windy weather; But that was never our defeat As long as we could walk together. So there's no need for turning back Cause all roads lead to where we stand; And I believe we'll walk them all No matter what we may have planned.
Listen to the original song by Don McLean HERE
Credits: Don McLean, 1971, American Pie
Kabir Das - Songs of Kabir (songs 6 and 9)
Written: 1398 - 1518
Published: One Hundred Poems of Kabir 1915
Translated: Rabindranath Tagore
Theme:
The songs of Kabir by Tagore represent both the philosophies of Hinduism and Sufism. It is a seamless, luminous setting of Kabir 's beloved prayer, offering praise to a holy spirit, universal and personal, both in this world and beyond. (Brainly.in, 2022)
Songs:
Song 6
I.83 candā jhalkai yahi ghat māhīn
The moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it: The moon is within me, and so is the sun.
The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it.
So long as man clamours for the I and the Mine, his works are as naught:
When all love of the I and the Mine is dead, then the work of the Lord is done.
For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge:
When that comes, then work is put away.
The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers.
The musk is in the deer, but it seeks it not within itself: it wanders in quest of grass.
Song 9
I.104 aisā lo nahīn taisā lo
O How may I ever express that secret word?
O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that?
If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed:
If I say that He is without me, it is falsehood.
He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one;
The conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools.
He is neither manifest nor hidden, He is neither revealed nor unrevealed:
There are no words to tell that which He is.
Credits: Songs of Kabir. Authored by: Kabir Das (Trans. by Rabindranath Tagore).
Charles Bukowski - Roll The Dice
Written: ca. 1970-1990
Published in: What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (1999)
Theme:
“Roll the Dice” by Charles Bukowski is one of the most motivational poems in American History. During the 1950-60s people were headed on the path of being different. Whether that meant listening to different music or growing long hair, each poem is telling the people that if you are going to do something go all the way, or else there is no point in doing it. Being different is something that can not be done if you are not willing to go all the way. Bukowski makes a strong statement by saying “do it, do it, do it. do it.” This is one of the most powerful quotes from the poem, that showed people not to have fear, and to take the risk." (grade10americanpoetry.com, 2022)
Poem:
if you’re going to try, go all the way. otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the way. this could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs and maybe your mind.
go all the way. it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days. it could mean freezing on a park bench. it could mean jail, it could mean derision, mockery, isolation. isolation is the gift, all the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. and you’ll do it despite rejection and the worst odds and it will be better than anything else you can imagine.
if you’re going to try, go all the way. there is no other feeling like that. you will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire.
do it, do it, do it. do it.
all the way all the way.
you will ride life straight to perfect laughter, its the only good fight there is.
Credits: Charles Bukowski, 1999 What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Published: 1969, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Themes:
"Strong themes are present throughout "Caged Bird." Racist oppression, freedom against captivity, and joy versus grief are examples of themes. Through the picture of the two birds, one free and one imprisoned, Angelou weaves together all of these concepts in "Caged Bird."
The caged bird is an extended metaphor for the Black community in America and across the world. Angelou references the oppressive practices used by individuals in positions of authority, including physical, mental, and economic violence, that have affected millions of men, women, and children since the dawn of time.
Black men, women, and children see “through…bars” while the free bird sores in the sky. The bird sings from a place of sadness rather than joy to convey a broader history of sorrow." (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Poem:
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
Credits: Angelou, Maya (1969). I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. New York: Random House
Dragos Radu - The War
Written: 2022
Summary & Story:
Sometimes, we are all fighting a war. A war can -internally speaking- seem, at times, catastrophically never-ending. The warrior portrays an image where each of us has found ourselves at a point where an inevitable change must happen. A point where one has to be reborn and rise from the ashes. The warrior reflects that point. The horse, or the mind, a dear companion, follows in the dark. Through the tears, he tries to evade this change, yet, that is not always possible, if at all. The eagle depicts the act of transformation. The change that is thirsty for our blood -experience- and only through blood can the eagle turn into a dove -rebirth-. I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.
Poem:
The war is over
The iron skies now cracked, and rays of sun overwhelm the field
that was once covered in daffodils.
A small stream that crossed the valley
and supplied it with life
has now dried out.
What was once a dreamy scenery
has now become the aftermath
of a nightmare.
The once clear waters of the stream
have now turned red
and dry.
Only one man is standing.
One man, lonesome, weeping.
His hair, covered in dried blood,
his armor shattered by the wrath of the war,
create an image of time standing still.
He dismounts his black horse, dizzy
and sickened by the smell of lifeless bodies.
He walks and pulls his horse behind.
His cry is loud, breaking the silence.
Looking around, looking for hope,
he realises that there’s no one to hold.
His wounds rush shivers through his spine.
He lost too much blood.
He lost too much life.
the horse’s breath is heavy too;
he’s tired and wounded as well.
The horse stops and kneels
behind his master.
Tears roll over his dark figure
as his hero kneels next to him
and with a warm embrace
the two weep along each other,
into deep sleep.
A strange breeze awakens them.
The hero hastily rushes to stand up.
With his hand on his sword,
he’s ready to fight and defend themselves.
But there’s nothing to be found.
The breeze murmurs in a low tone,
voices from the past, he hears
in the deadly silence of the field.
It feels like a virus
expanding its dread inside their minds
and hearts,
restlessly demolishing everything
that has brought them to this place,
to this moment.
They have lost.
They won the battle,
yet lost the war.
An eagle scouts from above,
cutting through the now abyssal night skies.
His wings glimmer,
showered in the moonlight.
His sight meets the warrior’s,
staring hopelessly at the skies
in wonder.
A sky so clear,
a mind so troubled,
a landscape so paradoxical.
Memories are not here to stay
but to navigate the wings of time.
Same as life and death,
always on the run, always here,
always there.
The cycle moves on and on,
with its never-ending loop,
with its skies clear,
with its mind troubled,
beginning anew.
Life is a tale,
a mystery,
troubled minds we are,
seeking
our place among the skies.
Seeking home.
Now the warrior draws his last breath
lying next to his wounded companion
in the deep eternal sleep
until the cycle will be reborn
until the eagle
thirsty for death
turns into a dove.
Credits: Dragos Radu (2022, The Diary Of A Nobody)
T.S. Eliot - Burnt Norton Pt. 2
Written in: Published in 1943 in the 4 Quartets of T.S. Eliot. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Theme:
The main theme of ‘Burnt Norton is the nature of time, its relation to salvation, and the contrast between the experience of the modern man and spirituality. The lyrical voice meditates on life and the need to subscribe to the universal order. The poem’s structure and form are similar to T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, as several fragments of poetry are put together and set as one. The rhyme and meter rely on the repetition and circularity of language, which corresponds to the conception of time introduced in the poem. Light and dark, movement and stillness, and roses are some of the motifs that appear in ‘Burnt Norton’. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Poem:
Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of its partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered.
Credits: T.S. Eliot 1943 - Four Quartets and poemanalysis.com, 2022
T.S. Eliot - Burnt Norton Pt. 1
Written in: Burnt Norton is the first poem of the 4 Quartets of T.S. Eliot. This quartet was published in 1936 and in 1943 appeared together with the other 3 quartets. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Theme:
The main theme of ‘Burnt Norton is the nature of time, its relation to salvation, and the contrast between the experience of the modern man and spirituality. The lyrical voice meditates on life and the need to subscribe to the universal order. The poem’s structure and form are similar to T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, as several fragments of poetry are put together and set as one. The rhyme and meter rely on the repetition and circularity of language, which corresponds to the conception of time introduced in the poem. Light and dark, movement and stillness, and roses are some of the motifs that appear in ‘Burnt Norton’. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Poem:
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.
Credits: T.S. Eliot 1936/1943 - Four Quartets and poemanalysis.com, 2022
Dragos Radu - Home
Written: 2022
Summary & Story:
Throughout my life, I had many moments where I missed my home. Not home in the sense of a birthplace, people or things that I've been closely acquainted with during my life, but home within, the altar within each of us. The place that always calls us back to ourselves, to inquire, to be curious. The place that is most meaningful to us as only by knowing it and not merely acknowledging it, can we get to know ourselves. This is a poem about that. I hope you enjoy it.
Poem:
There is a sun
I die to see again.
Not the sun that
Sets and rises,
But the one always up
And shining,
Illuminating all beings
From within.
The sun, which makes life move,
And energy flow,
Tirelessly in the soul.
I crave it so much
I crave it as a home.
Now the lights are off
And my soul is blinded
By the never-ending winter
Of the night.
There is calm,
But there’s no peace.
There is hope,
But there’s no light to guide it.
I miss the sun,
I miss its warmth and grace,
I miss my home.
There’s a bell ringing
In the night.
A state of alert
Established in the meadow
Where I sit dreaming
Of light and peace.
The sound breaks
My dreaming.
It awakens me
From a restless sleep,
That seemed endless at first.
As I open my eyes,
Light breaks in
So radiant, so powerful,
And with a rush of adrenaline
It stands me up,
Sun-gazing, filling every cell
Of my body with light,
Peace,
And ultimately freedom.
I now can hear the birds sing,
The caressing wind blowing
Softly through my hair,
The vibrant air of a new spring day.
I feel at home, and I feel safe.
I have always been.
I will always be,
Despite the depths and darkness of my dreams.
Once I open my eyes,
There will always be light,
There will always be sun.
There will always be peace
And I will always be home / I have a home waiting for me.
What is life if not just a walk in the dark,
Where one’s path is always lit up by the light of his soul.
Credits: Dragos Radu (2022, The Diary Of A Nobody)
Dylan Thomas - Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Written in: 1947
Published in: 1951 in the journal Botteghe Oscure (wikipedia, 2022)
Theme & Story:
"In the first stanza of "Do Not Go Gentle", the speaker encourages their father not to "go gentle into that good night" but rather to "rage, rage against the dying of the light." Then, in the subsequent stanzas, they proceed to list all manner of men, using terms such as "wise", "good", "wild", and "grave" as descriptors, who, in their own respective ways, embody the refrains of the poem. In the final stanza, the speaker implores their father, whom they observe upon a "sad height", begging him to "Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears", and reiterates the refrains once more." (source: wikipedia, 2022)
Poem:
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Credits: Dylan Thomas (1951 - Botteghe Oscure Journal)
Kahlil Gibran - On Freedom
Written in: The Prophet (Knopf, 1923)
Summary & Story:
Almustafa (character from The Prophet) answers an orator who asks him to speak of freedom. Because people worship freedom, the prophet says, they have become like a slave to freedom. They praise what is really "a yoke and a handcuff." The desire for freedom is so great that seeking it "becomes a harness to [them]." People wish to free themselves from care, want, and grief. But true freedom comes from accepting and rising above them. True freedom is in the soul. (coursehero, 2022)
To be free, people cannot abolish, erase, or cast off the things of this world. They are part of someone and of humanity's making—things people have created, chosen, or held in their hearts. All a person would desire and all they would escape reside within, moving in pairs, like lights and shadows. When a shadow fades, the light remains. It then becomes the shadow of a greater light toward which someone climbs. (coursehero, 2022)
Poem:
And an orator said, Speak to us of Freedom.
And he answered: At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom, Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them. Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff. And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfilment.
You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights with- out a want and a grief, But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.
And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your under- standing have fastened around your noon hour? In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle your eyes.
And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free? If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead. You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them. And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed. For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.
Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape. These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling. And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light. And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.
Credits: Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet (Knopf, 1923) & Coursehero - On Freedom - Kahlil Gibran Poem Analysis
Mary Frye / Clare Harner / Unknown Author - Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Possibly written in: ca. 1932/1934 (Mary Frye / Clare Harner)
Note: The author of the poem has not been determined. Therefore, the poem may well belong to Mary Frye, Clare Harner, or other unknown author. The two possible authors are the only ones who claimed the poem to be written by them.
Poem:
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
Credits: Unknown / Mary Frye (1932 ??) / Clare Harner (1934 ??)
Rudyard Kipling - If
Written: ca. 1895 in ‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies
Theme and Story:
In his autobiography Something of Myself (1937), Kipling claimed that the phrase "If—" had its beginnings in the unsuccessful Jameson raid of 1895–1896, which was when British colonial statesman Leander Starr Jameson led an attack against the South African (Boer) Republic during the New Year weekend. Jameson wanted to trigger his fellow British citizens in the Transvaal to rebel against the Boer administration, but they were unwilling to do so. Instead, Jameson's poorly executed military action contributed to the environment that, a few years later, would spark the Second Boer War. Kipling knew Jameson, and recorded in Something of Myself: ‘Among the verses in Rewards was one set called “If” …
They were based on Jameson's persona and provided advice that was ideal and simple to impart. The Jameson raid's influence on "If" might easily be overstated, and it appears that Kipling's (posthumously published) memoir is the first place this connection is brought up.
If—should first and foremost be interpreted as a poem addressed to a younger man, listing the qualities a man should acquire or cultivate in order to be a paragon of manly virtue. The poem's final words, "you'll be a man, my son," suggest that the poem is addressed to Kipling's actual son. (source: Link)
Poem:
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Credits: Rudyard Kipling (1895)
William Ernest Henley - Invictus
Written in: 1875
Originally published: 1888 in the author's first volume of poetry, Book of Verses, in the section Life and Death (Echoes).
Theme and Story
Invictus is a poem by William Ernest Henley that translates from Latin as "unconquerable" or "undefeated." This poem is about maintaining one's dignity despite life's indignities and having courage in the face of death.
Henley had to have his left leg amputated when he was 16 years old due to complications from TB. When he went to Margate for treatment for issues with his other leg in the early 1870s, he was informed that a similar procedure would be needed.
Instead, he made the decision to fly to Edinburgh in August 1873 to seek the assistance of renowned English surgeon Joseph Lister, who, after extensive foot surgery, was able to save Henley's remaining leg. He was inspired to create the words that eventually became the poem "Invictus" when he was getting better in the hospital. "Invictus" continues to be a cultural classic because it is a memorable portrayal of Victorian stoicism—the "stiff upper lip" of self-discipline and fortitude under adversity, which popular culture transformed into a British character attribute.
(source: Wikipedia)
Poem:
Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate I am the captain of my soul.
Credits: William Ernest Henley (1888)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part six)
Originally published: 1930 Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem: Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part five) Originally published: 1930 Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem:
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people. Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part four) Originally published: 1930 Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem: Who walked between the violet and the violet Whe walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded. The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem The time. Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part three)
Originally published: 1930
Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem:
At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitful face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the fig’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part two)
Originally published: 1930
Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem:
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)
T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part one)
Originally published: 1930
Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.
Poem:
Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)