Page:
'Uniquely You' Critique
Anonymous
~~With the character limit on posts, I will post my entry in two sections~~
The Unread 'Possessed' by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
She replaced stupid bores
with clever whores.
Her tongue has a blister
from mouthing 'mister'.
Killer-Mother Russia,
with herself so obsessed.
she failed to read in time
The Possessed.
Sticky monsters of clay
in the doorway.
The worst kind of a snob
obeys just a mob,
this 'intelligentsia' of today
sculpts its own killers from clay.
Killer-Mother Russia who was never distressed
by reading The Possessed,
need not set-up duels, but only poison with lead,
in the back of the head.
Zombiezation,
stupidization-
new hobbies of our nation.
Yesterday's lackeys,
now great giants of clay, --
undeclared tsars who for anything can pay.
There are no hideouts or quiet rooms.
Who will be next--
I don't know.
And the bombed-out city of Grozny roams
like a spectre through the Moscow snow.
Killings pay better than old-fashioned ryhme
and blood is the payment for TV screen time.
A murder can be had when desired by anyone.
Just place an order as for a steak well-done.
But Russia have you made a tragic mistake
with a contract on yourself
that you can't forsake?
Frozen above the grave,
both her own master and slave,
legs unsteady from an age-long drunken wave,
Killer Mother Russia must we concede
that The Possessed
you will never read?
Written in 1995
Translated by Albert C. Todd with author.
Authors note:
Dedicated to the memory of Vladimir Listyev, murdered in the doorway of his home. Like Larry King he appeared on the tv screen in suspenders. Dostoevsky's 1872 novel The Possessed foresaw the madness that seized Russia even then. Alexander Pushkin was silenced by a duel manipulated by Tsarist court intrigues.
The Unread 'Possessed' by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
She replaced stupid bores
with clever whores.
Her tongue has a blister
from mouthing 'mister'.
Killer-Mother Russia,
with herself so obsessed.
she failed to read in time
The Possessed.
Sticky monsters of clay
in the doorway.
The worst kind of a snob
obeys just a mob,
this 'intelligentsia' of today
sculpts its own killers from clay.
Killer-Mother Russia who was never distressed
by reading The Possessed,
need not set-up duels, but only poison with lead,
in the back of the head.
Zombiezation,
stupidization-
new hobbies of our nation.
Yesterday's lackeys,
now great giants of clay, --
undeclared tsars who for anything can pay.
There are no hideouts or quiet rooms.
Who will be next--
I don't know.
And the bombed-out city of Grozny roams
like a spectre through the Moscow snow.
Killings pay better than old-fashioned ryhme
and blood is the payment for TV screen time.
A murder can be had when desired by anyone.
Just place an order as for a steak well-done.
But Russia have you made a tragic mistake
with a contract on yourself
that you can't forsake?
Frozen above the grave,
both her own master and slave,
legs unsteady from an age-long drunken wave,
Killer Mother Russia must we concede
that The Possessed
you will never read?
Written in 1995
Translated by Albert C. Todd with author.
Authors note:
Dedicated to the memory of Vladimir Listyev, murdered in the doorway of his home. Like Larry King he appeared on the tv screen in suspenders. Dostoevsky's 1872 novel The Possessed foresaw the madness that seized Russia even then. Alexander Pushkin was silenced by a duel manipulated by Tsarist court intrigues.
Anonymous
Critique and personal thoughts:
I stumbled on Mr. Yevgeny Yevtushenko's book in a used bookstore. The book contained the original Poems in russian and the translations in english. It seemed most of the format and structures of the original texts were maintained of originals, except for this particular poem I'm highlighting, "The Unread 'Possessed'".
From structured 4 line stanzas it was edited to a free verse format. As I'm sure with any translation, some(thing) always gets lost. Nevertheless, I found it to be quite powerful and any poem which encourages the reader to research on the subject, is one that is worthy enough of our time and attention for more exploration.
The Unread 'Possessed'
She replaced stupid bores
with clever whores.
Her tongue has a blister
from mouthing 'mister'.
Killer-Mother Russia,
with herself so obsessed.
she failed to read in time
The Possessed.
Sticky monsters of clay
in the doorway.
The worst kind of a snob
obeys just a mob,
this 'intelligentsia' of today
sculpts its own killers from clay.
(In these 7 couplets, the poet speaks of how times force everyone to become something they're not, adaptability not by choice but rather in surviving and battling the elements within their own regime, their own government. I find the word 'mother' to be ironic, with sarcastic undertones of an idea that supposed to be nurturing, caring and protective turns out to be something undeniably untrusting and yet, there is no choice for an alternative.
How a government, or society refuses to learn from their past mistakes in a perpetual ignorance of a ride on a runaway train.
The poet's reference in the last couplet of 'intelligentsia' is a reference to his admiration of the old russian spirit and how the new version is 'watered down'
An excerpt from an interview by The Paris Review “This spirit,” he said, “the world has to recapture if it is to survive.” He spoke of the birth of a new intelligentsia in the USSR: “It is like trying to catch a flow of water in the palm of your hand,” he said. “Most of it flows out but a little is retained in the cup of the hand. This is happening now. We and our children will eventually retain this little amount of water as against the mainstream—but of course the ever-increasing mainstream is our first concern. The fact that the Soviet government has been able to open the world of good books to the masses of people gives us faith in the future of Russia . . .”
Killer-Mother Russia who was never distressed
by reading The Possessed,
need not set-up duels, but only poison with lead,
in the back of the head.
(In reference to Alexander Pushkin (russian poet 1799-1837) who fought many duels and an outspoken member of the radical movements in the literary world, clashed with the russian government, eventually dying from wounds of a duel and the Tsars contained the news fearing political outcry from the populace)
Zombiezation,
stupidization-
new hobbies of our nation.
Yesterday's lackeys,
now great giants of clay, --
undeclared tsars who for anything can pay.
(Here's a perfect example of 'its not what you know but who you know', how yesterday's bullies and followers become the leaders of today by emulation and not education, everything has a price but nothing has value.)
There are no hideouts or quiet rooms.
Who will be next--
I don't know.
And the bombed-out city of Grozny roams
like a spectre through the Moscow snow.
(Will a power ever be satisfied and sustained? or is a monster that constantly needs to be fed by commanding fear? These are some questions that this particular stanza raises .
The reference to the battle of Grozny: After much regrouping and organization the Russian troupes attacked (1994-1995) the Chechens by systematically going from house to house in the city of Grozny, resulting in huge numbers of casualties)
Killings pay better than old-fashioned ryhme
and blood is the payment for TV screen time.
A murder can be had when desired by anyone.
Just place an order as for a steak well-done.
(after the death (1995) of the popular voice for democracy Vladimir Listyev was gunned down, the russian government replaced all programming with channel One a government controlled media)
But Russia have you made a tragic mistake
with a contract on yourself
that you can't forsake?
(inadvertently a nation becomes its own poison when its about self prophecy as it travels on a circle feeding on itself)
Frozen above the grave,
both her own master and slave,
legs unsteady from an age-long drunken wave,
Killer Mother Russia must we concede
that The Possessed
you will never read?
(One may read, but will it comprehend, and is comprehension manipulated by oppression, submission? And, if we are fed slow doses of ideas do we come to accept it as truth? How can truth stand a chance when there's nothing to compare it to? Do we bow and give in, losing ourselves in inebriation finding momentary relief in numbness?)
There's something very uniquely different about this poem which is about oppression, civil wars and loss. Most poems written on this subject have an angry 'passionately youthful' tone but this poem besides justifiable anger and sadness had one other particular feeling that invoked with each time i read, absorbed in history. Disappointment!
The voice here is wise, it speaks of the pains of the past, present and future, The depth of consequences. This poem is not just about freedom, ideologies, political regime and choices on grandeur level but also the responsibility of each individual to not defer our basic rights unto the powers to be like a domesticated animals.
The responsibility falls on each and every one of us.
Looking at the technical aspects of this poem. The occasional rhymes were natural and not forced, there was such a smooth flow and rhythm between the stanzas. The first portion with the broken couplets were different from the norm but also it helped with giving 'air' to the thoughts as the poet set the scene. (I've become a huge fan of it myself lately).
Unfortunately, I can't read the original text in russian therefore not sure if any was lost in translation but I felt Mr. Todd had done an excellent job with the poem for the english readers, with the format also relaying the feelings and thoughts of the poet.
I stumbled on Mr. Yevgeny Yevtushenko's book in a used bookstore. The book contained the original Poems in russian and the translations in english. It seemed most of the format and structures of the original texts were maintained of originals, except for this particular poem I'm highlighting, "The Unread 'Possessed'".
From structured 4 line stanzas it was edited to a free verse format. As I'm sure with any translation, some(thing) always gets lost. Nevertheless, I found it to be quite powerful and any poem which encourages the reader to research on the subject, is one that is worthy enough of our time and attention for more exploration.
The Unread 'Possessed'
She replaced stupid bores
with clever whores.
Her tongue has a blister
from mouthing 'mister'.
Killer-Mother Russia,
with herself so obsessed.
she failed to read in time
The Possessed.
Sticky monsters of clay
in the doorway.
The worst kind of a snob
obeys just a mob,
this 'intelligentsia' of today
sculpts its own killers from clay.
(In these 7 couplets, the poet speaks of how times force everyone to become something they're not, adaptability not by choice but rather in surviving and battling the elements within their own regime, their own government. I find the word 'mother' to be ironic, with sarcastic undertones of an idea that supposed to be nurturing, caring and protective turns out to be something undeniably untrusting and yet, there is no choice for an alternative.
How a government, or society refuses to learn from their past mistakes in a perpetual ignorance of a ride on a runaway train.
The poet's reference in the last couplet of 'intelligentsia' is a reference to his admiration of the old russian spirit and how the new version is 'watered down'
An excerpt from an interview by The Paris Review “This spirit,” he said, “the world has to recapture if it is to survive.” He spoke of the birth of a new intelligentsia in the USSR: “It is like trying to catch a flow of water in the palm of your hand,” he said. “Most of it flows out but a little is retained in the cup of the hand. This is happening now. We and our children will eventually retain this little amount of water as against the mainstream—but of course the ever-increasing mainstream is our first concern. The fact that the Soviet government has been able to open the world of good books to the masses of people gives us faith in the future of Russia . . .”
Killer-Mother Russia who was never distressed
by reading The Possessed,
need not set-up duels, but only poison with lead,
in the back of the head.
(In reference to Alexander Pushkin (russian poet 1799-1837) who fought many duels and an outspoken member of the radical movements in the literary world, clashed with the russian government, eventually dying from wounds of a duel and the Tsars contained the news fearing political outcry from the populace)
Zombiezation,
stupidization-
new hobbies of our nation.
Yesterday's lackeys,
now great giants of clay, --
undeclared tsars who for anything can pay.
(Here's a perfect example of 'its not what you know but who you know', how yesterday's bullies and followers become the leaders of today by emulation and not education, everything has a price but nothing has value.)
There are no hideouts or quiet rooms.
Who will be next--
I don't know.
And the bombed-out city of Grozny roams
like a spectre through the Moscow snow.
(Will a power ever be satisfied and sustained? or is a monster that constantly needs to be fed by commanding fear? These are some questions that this particular stanza raises .
The reference to the battle of Grozny: After much regrouping and organization the Russian troupes attacked (1994-1995) the Chechens by systematically going from house to house in the city of Grozny, resulting in huge numbers of casualties)
Killings pay better than old-fashioned ryhme
and blood is the payment for TV screen time.
A murder can be had when desired by anyone.
Just place an order as for a steak well-done.
(after the death (1995) of the popular voice for democracy Vladimir Listyev was gunned down, the russian government replaced all programming with channel One a government controlled media)
But Russia have you made a tragic mistake
with a contract on yourself
that you can't forsake?
(inadvertently a nation becomes its own poison when its about self prophecy as it travels on a circle feeding on itself)
Frozen above the grave,
both her own master and slave,
legs unsteady from an age-long drunken wave,
Killer Mother Russia must we concede
that The Possessed
you will never read?
(One may read, but will it comprehend, and is comprehension manipulated by oppression, submission? And, if we are fed slow doses of ideas do we come to accept it as truth? How can truth stand a chance when there's nothing to compare it to? Do we bow and give in, losing ourselves in inebriation finding momentary relief in numbness?)
There's something very uniquely different about this poem which is about oppression, civil wars and loss. Most poems written on this subject have an angry 'passionately youthful' tone but this poem besides justifiable anger and sadness had one other particular feeling that invoked with each time i read, absorbed in history. Disappointment!
The voice here is wise, it speaks of the pains of the past, present and future, The depth of consequences. This poem is not just about freedom, ideologies, political regime and choices on grandeur level but also the responsibility of each individual to not defer our basic rights unto the powers to be like a domesticated animals.
The responsibility falls on each and every one of us.
Looking at the technical aspects of this poem. The occasional rhymes were natural and not forced, there was such a smooth flow and rhythm between the stanzas. The first portion with the broken couplets were different from the norm but also it helped with giving 'air' to the thoughts as the poet set the scene. (I've become a huge fan of it myself lately).
Unfortunately, I can't read the original text in russian therefore not sure if any was lost in translation but I felt Mr. Todd had done an excellent job with the poem for the english readers, with the format also relaying the feelings and thoughts of the poet.
I would love to award Vee a medal for being the sole entrant, but as this is a competition, I don't feel I can. This competition is for all our benefits. I literally started this competition because of a comment left on the last crit comp I saw stating that there should always be one of these going, I agreed wholeheartedly! On that note, I will post an entry for the fun of it. Critiquing another person's writing can be both beneficial to you as a writer as well as fun if you allow it. Your work isn't under fire plus you get to talk about something you enjoy. I have extended the competition date by one week.
Bought Locks
The golden hair that Gulla wears
Is hers:who would have thought it?
She swears 'tis hers, and true she swears,
For I know where she bought it.
-Martial
I love this satire for many reasons. First thing I always think when reading Martial's work is: "Damn! We haven't changed a bit!"
Martial lived in Rome during the first century and made his living (and apparently did a bang up job of it too based on the sheer volume of his work available today) as a satirical poet for hire.
The second thing that always strikes me is the simplicity of his work. Gulla, whomever she was, obviously cared about her appearance and from his wording here: "who would have thought it?" The wig makers either didn't do such a great job or Gulla was a typical Italian in coloring. Either way, his subtle denouement of her fashion choice is so precisely stated, I am forever in awe of this man!
The golden hair that Gulla wears
Is hers:who would have thought it?
She swears 'tis hers, and true she swears,
For I know where she bought it.
-Martial
I love this satire for many reasons. First thing I always think when reading Martial's work is: "Damn! We haven't changed a bit!"
Martial lived in Rome during the first century and made his living (and apparently did a bang up job of it too based on the sheer volume of his work available today) as a satirical poet for hire.
The second thing that always strikes me is the simplicity of his work. Gulla, whomever she was, obviously cared about her appearance and from his wording here: "who would have thought it?" The wig makers either didn't do such a great job or Gulla was a typical Italian in coloring. Either way, his subtle denouement of her fashion choice is so precisely stated, I am forever in awe of this man!
Anonymous
Maenad said:Awesome critique Vee!!
I always find something different when critiquing a work rather than just
reading it. Hope you enjoyed writing this as much as I did reading it :)
Thank you Maenad, it was my pleasure and I did enjoy writing the critique.
It's a great way to introduce poems/poets we may not have heard of or have not read before.
Hopefully, others will join in now that you extended the comp date.
I always find something different when critiquing a work rather than just
reading it. Hope you enjoyed writing this as much as I did reading it :)
Thank you Maenad, it was my pleasure and I did enjoy writing the critique.
It's a great way to introduce poems/poets we may not have heard of or have not read before.
Hopefully, others will join in now that you extended the comp date.
The Tyger, A Poem by, William Blake
It never gets old. It was originally named the, Tyger, published in 1794 by the immortal poet, William Blake. It is a classic. The beginning and the end stanzas are frames; in itself, this is the frame of symmetry and immortality of the poet and his poetry. From folklore and myth to team spirit, the contemplation of the beast is immortality within; after all, it is the instinct of the beast to survive and we love this natural beauty; the tiger inside the, Tyger. I couldn't dare blame him for his choice of which. The tiger is a beautiful animal in its chemistry within its natural element of the forest. Although social, he is solitary; an apex predator and feared by all that call the forest home. If you can be a tiger, by all means be that tiger.
There is no such thing as perfect symmetry beyond what man creates, for instance a straight line from a ruler. Bring four straight lines together and there is a perfect square that’s inset of four 90 degree angles. You can search the earth till kingdom come, yet a straight line you’ll never see. We create perfection using measurements. We create perfection by duplicating something that works. William Blake knew this. There is one word in each, top and bottom stanza, which is the subtle difference: Could, and Dare. This asymmetrical element creates perfect harmony naturally. The frame for the poem is balance. The opening stanza is striking, and it is enticing for what’s to come.
The power of the poem comes from within; the center, such as the beast itself. Richard Feynman’s last words found on his blackboard when he died: “What I cannot create, I do not understand.” William Blake, found an understanding of the nature of god inside what he created. Within the central four stanzas is what creates the atmosphere for the mind of the reader to ponder. The poem is filled with symbolism and imagery for the imagination to conquer and devour in headiness. Blake begins to question the nature of god; this question lies within the heart of all man.
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
I think about the time in which he lived, but then again on many levels it’s still like that today. Who dares question this human existence with conscious ability? It is a subtle reflection. From Hindu fundamentals: We all wear the mask of humans of the god within us each. We begin to understand ourselves through this simple reflection. I think of God’s covenant with Abraham. To paraphrase, Genesis, Chapter 15, verse 5, “Look up unto the heavens and count the stars, as your descendants; too many to count.” There is prosperity in this immortality if you dare seize the existence of the stars. Abraham had many sons – so I’m told.
And there too is an experience that his eyes have seen, or dare I say his mind did uncover; the god within. It’s callused and calculating in the way of the beast but vulnerable as to the human being. Humans stand in fear. God stands as artificer and king. William Blake, being of the same influence as the sons of poetry that came before him dares to scribe: Who could this hand at my will be; am I capable of this greatness, and am I worthy of this heaven I have found within me? There is dramatic, and organic. He had the indescribable experience in a seeing of the suchness that no human eyes could ever see. He found what was behind the mask. He doesn't mind the dramatics; he knew that thoughts were veils. “…We are become a Victim to the Living We hide in secret”, The Four Zoas, William Blake. We use language as symbolism to represent events and goings on of the physical world. It’s bringing an abstraction together and out of confusion.
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
There are the objects created from iron; symbolism of strength used throughout time. There are grasps of terrors and his burning brain. There is a madness and fear in the questioning. There is heart stricken passion of: what is this to be human? He was indeed a seeker of truth. He was influenced by the written word, and he understood it as the symbolism that it is. He created an analogy of Biblical essence in, The Four Zoas, and the symbolism of which can be seen throughout it, as in Paradise Lost, by John Milton, and here:
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
It is more symbolism. When nature becomes a weapon at the hands of God: Artistry. It’s within his unfinished work of the, The Four Zoas, you can see the graphics of good versus evil and the questioning of the nature of man over and over in the beautiful language of poetry. I apologize for not bringing more comparisons of this poem and, The Four Zoas, to light, but the symbolism in language is found throughout it. A poet will circle their own destiny.
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
We see this analyzed over and over again as the Lamb of God. Blake had already established the tiger analogous to the nature of himself; thus man. These of course are not so different of things. Are we evil to kill the lamb? Is the lamb innocent? Or is it only a lamb? Is the tiger evil? Or is it only a tiger? We have eyes to see animals being animals, and we have eyes to see suffering at the hands of man throughout all time. Man has a nature within too. Where has the tiger gone? And yet we have the audacity to call ourselves the greater ones as if we are not beasts at all. It is there to contemplate with conscious awareness. Humans have the ability to reflect, and to judge; to fear only themselves while killing everything in sight with conscious stupidity and call it civilization. <- that’s one for the tigers; among other things.
This poem is to be read at loud, but I believe that of all poetry. When you read this poem through a few times and really let your mind’s eye truly sink into the nature of it, you’ll begin to hear a lyrical tone in the syllables that will surround your psyche as some unknown crest of immortality starts to sound aloud as ruthless as nature itself. It’s as though a god on high gave, William Blake, the power to touch this center of greatness. William Blake really understood what he was writing about. I love this poem, the artistry is perfect, but then again, it is a tiger.
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
It never gets old. It was originally named the, Tyger, published in 1794 by the immortal poet, William Blake. It is a classic. The beginning and the end stanzas are frames; in itself, this is the frame of symmetry and immortality of the poet and his poetry. From folklore and myth to team spirit, the contemplation of the beast is immortality within; after all, it is the instinct of the beast to survive and we love this natural beauty; the tiger inside the, Tyger. I couldn't dare blame him for his choice of which. The tiger is a beautiful animal in its chemistry within its natural element of the forest. Although social, he is solitary; an apex predator and feared by all that call the forest home. If you can be a tiger, by all means be that tiger.
There is no such thing as perfect symmetry beyond what man creates, for instance a straight line from a ruler. Bring four straight lines together and there is a perfect square that’s inset of four 90 degree angles. You can search the earth till kingdom come, yet a straight line you’ll never see. We create perfection using measurements. We create perfection by duplicating something that works. William Blake knew this. There is one word in each, top and bottom stanza, which is the subtle difference: Could, and Dare. This asymmetrical element creates perfect harmony naturally. The frame for the poem is balance. The opening stanza is striking, and it is enticing for what’s to come.
The power of the poem comes from within; the center, such as the beast itself. Richard Feynman’s last words found on his blackboard when he died: “What I cannot create, I do not understand.” William Blake, found an understanding of the nature of god inside what he created. Within the central four stanzas is what creates the atmosphere for the mind of the reader to ponder. The poem is filled with symbolism and imagery for the imagination to conquer and devour in headiness. Blake begins to question the nature of god; this question lies within the heart of all man.
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
I think about the time in which he lived, but then again on many levels it’s still like that today. Who dares question this human existence with conscious ability? It is a subtle reflection. From Hindu fundamentals: We all wear the mask of humans of the god within us each. We begin to understand ourselves through this simple reflection. I think of God’s covenant with Abraham. To paraphrase, Genesis, Chapter 15, verse 5, “Look up unto the heavens and count the stars, as your descendants; too many to count.” There is prosperity in this immortality if you dare seize the existence of the stars. Abraham had many sons – so I’m told.
And there too is an experience that his eyes have seen, or dare I say his mind did uncover; the god within. It’s callused and calculating in the way of the beast but vulnerable as to the human being. Humans stand in fear. God stands as artificer and king. William Blake, being of the same influence as the sons of poetry that came before him dares to scribe: Who could this hand at my will be; am I capable of this greatness, and am I worthy of this heaven I have found within me? There is dramatic, and organic. He had the indescribable experience in a seeing of the suchness that no human eyes could ever see. He found what was behind the mask. He doesn't mind the dramatics; he knew that thoughts were veils. “…We are become a Victim to the Living We hide in secret”, The Four Zoas, William Blake. We use language as symbolism to represent events and goings on of the physical world. It’s bringing an abstraction together and out of confusion.
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
There are the objects created from iron; symbolism of strength used throughout time. There are grasps of terrors and his burning brain. There is a madness and fear in the questioning. There is heart stricken passion of: what is this to be human? He was indeed a seeker of truth. He was influenced by the written word, and he understood it as the symbolism that it is. He created an analogy of Biblical essence in, The Four Zoas, and the symbolism of which can be seen throughout it, as in Paradise Lost, by John Milton, and here:
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
It is more symbolism. When nature becomes a weapon at the hands of God: Artistry. It’s within his unfinished work of the, The Four Zoas, you can see the graphics of good versus evil and the questioning of the nature of man over and over in the beautiful language of poetry. I apologize for not bringing more comparisons of this poem and, The Four Zoas, to light, but the symbolism in language is found throughout it. A poet will circle their own destiny.
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
We see this analyzed over and over again as the Lamb of God. Blake had already established the tiger analogous to the nature of himself; thus man. These of course are not so different of things. Are we evil to kill the lamb? Is the lamb innocent? Or is it only a lamb? Is the tiger evil? Or is it only a tiger? We have eyes to see animals being animals, and we have eyes to see suffering at the hands of man throughout all time. Man has a nature within too. Where has the tiger gone? And yet we have the audacity to call ourselves the greater ones as if we are not beasts at all. It is there to contemplate with conscious awareness. Humans have the ability to reflect, and to judge; to fear only themselves while killing everything in sight with conscious stupidity and call it civilization. <- that’s one for the tigers; among other things.
This poem is to be read at loud, but I believe that of all poetry. When you read this poem through a few times and really let your mind’s eye truly sink into the nature of it, you’ll begin to hear a lyrical tone in the syllables that will surround your psyche as some unknown crest of immortality starts to sound aloud as ruthless as nature itself. It’s as though a god on high gave, William Blake, the power to touch this center of greatness. William Blake really understood what he was writing about. I love this poem, the artistry is perfect, but then again, it is a tiger.
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
On Raglan Road -Patrick Kavanagh
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
---- ---- ---- ---- --
This is one of my favorite poems, I heard it first sung by a well known Irish singer and I fell in love with it, I think in fairness it had a lot to do with the the way it was sang.
It's a love a poem, a narrative of falling in love. but, Mr Kavanagh only alludes to actually being in her company once after the initial meeting on Ragland road.
I can tell you without a doubt that tripping lightly down Grafton street with a lover in November, especially late November when its cold , and the Christmas lights are up is a wonderful experience so I can totally relate to that
anyhow, I will say that reading the poem after hearing it sung was a tad disappointing, mostly because of the rhyme scheme which is much more apparent in print because you'd expect a song to rhyme. however, once you get past that and look into the depths of what was going on in the writers head it really is a very thought out out piece of work. take the first stanza:
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
So he meets this Lady who may have a bit of a reputation for breaking hearts or may be already engaged to a fellow (he never actually says what's up with her or what the danger was and I think that omit-ance lends itself to the magic and mystery of his words) but he takes to her instantly and says fuck it, the trip will be worth it, and I like that
the third stanza is my favorite. in this stanza he goes all out with metaphor:
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
this, to me is truly beautiful thought, though I must confess I've never tried to get to the bottom of what he's saying here but have had many a pint with people in old pubs around the city and we've speculated on what he was saying. I'll leave that up to yourself to try figure out if you're of the mind. again in the last few words of that stanza there is ominous image visa vis the clouds over fields of may
the last stanza is a great closer and it keeps with the mystery of the whole poem:
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day
in this stanza, they are estranged. the reason (That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay) put forward by most people is the creature made of clay is in fact a pipe and that the lady abhorred pipe smoking. I'm not convinced, I think this final stanza could be the writer having a subtle pop at the lady essentially calling her a creature with no feelings
I'm aware that there probably exists some site that goes into detail about what the poem means and what all the metaphors really mean, but to be honest, I'm happy enough not knowing and making my own decipherings because I genuinely think that's the way he meant it
http://youtu.be/8xvkvFviIj8
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
---- ---- ---- ---- --
This is one of my favorite poems, I heard it first sung by a well known Irish singer and I fell in love with it, I think in fairness it had a lot to do with the the way it was sang.
It's a love a poem, a narrative of falling in love. but, Mr Kavanagh only alludes to actually being in her company once after the initial meeting on Ragland road.
I can tell you without a doubt that tripping lightly down Grafton street with a lover in November, especially late November when its cold , and the Christmas lights are up is a wonderful experience so I can totally relate to that
anyhow, I will say that reading the poem after hearing it sung was a tad disappointing, mostly because of the rhyme scheme which is much more apparent in print because you'd expect a song to rhyme. however, once you get past that and look into the depths of what was going on in the writers head it really is a very thought out out piece of work. take the first stanza:
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
So he meets this Lady who may have a bit of a reputation for breaking hearts or may be already engaged to a fellow (he never actually says what's up with her or what the danger was and I think that omit-ance lends itself to the magic and mystery of his words) but he takes to her instantly and says fuck it, the trip will be worth it, and I like that
the third stanza is my favorite. in this stanza he goes all out with metaphor:
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
this, to me is truly beautiful thought, though I must confess I've never tried to get to the bottom of what he's saying here but have had many a pint with people in old pubs around the city and we've speculated on what he was saying. I'll leave that up to yourself to try figure out if you're of the mind. again in the last few words of that stanza there is ominous image visa vis the clouds over fields of may
the last stanza is a great closer and it keeps with the mystery of the whole poem:
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day
in this stanza, they are estranged. the reason (That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay) put forward by most people is the creature made of clay is in fact a pipe and that the lady abhorred pipe smoking. I'm not convinced, I think this final stanza could be the writer having a subtle pop at the lady essentially calling her a creature with no feelings
I'm aware that there probably exists some site that goes into detail about what the poem means and what all the metaphors really mean, but to be honest, I'm happy enough not knowing and making my own decipherings because I genuinely think that's the way he meant it
http://youtu.be/8xvkvFviIj8
