How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
– W. B. Yeats
Postscript:
This is a poem I was introduced to by the Favorite Poem Project, a site well worth visiting. You can see a video of it being read out here. I find it deepens my appreciation of a poem when I hear from someone else why they love a poem, or what it is about it that moves them. I might not always agree, but it makes me pause, reconsider something I’ve already read, perhaps savor something new to me.
We’ve run several poems by Yeats. You can read a bit more about him here and here.
Tagged: love poetry, politics, W.B. Yeats, war
- Published:
- March 8, 2011 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments:
But these maneuverings to avoid
The touching of hands,
These shifts to keep the eyes employed
On objects more or less neutral
(As honor, for time being, commands)
Will hardly prevent their downfall.
Stronger medicines are needed.
Already they find
None of their strategems have succeeded,
Nor would have, no,
Not had their eyes been stricken blind,
Hands cut off at the elbow.
– Donald Justice
Postscript:
I find this poem very compelling. You start reading it and get a sense of supressed emotion, which builds until you realise just how much emotion is being buried, and how futile these attempts at burying them are. The last two lines really make the poem for me – they circle back to where the poem started from almost as if to show you just how far we have travelled from there.
Tagged: Donald Justice, love poetry
- Published:
- March 7, 2011 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments:
Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus –
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees,
Peeking into her own clasped hands.
– Leroi Jones (aka Amiri Baraka)
Postscript:
I love the imagery in this poem, the ground enveloping, the stars being counted, then the holes they leave being counted.
You can read more about Leroi Jones here and here.
Tagged: Amiri Baraka, family, Leroi Jones, psychology, suicide, unsettling
- Published:
- March 6, 2011 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments: