Poems

[Shake me up Judy]

 

 

[quilp]

His rise, his national fame,

his prose lamentable,

his rhythm, lame.

Does nowt for me the works he dealt, 

unable to feel what other's felt.

Must be barkin'

But I never liked Larkin...

 

 

 

[Chinahand]

I recently read Rana Mitter's history of China's war with Japan 1937-1945.  In it he mentioned WH Auden's sonnet XII and after looking it up its final stanzas trouble me - there are too many places in the world where maps really point to paces where life is evil now.

 

Sonnet XII

Here war is harmless like a monument:
A telephone is talking to a man;
Flags on a map declare that troops were sent;
A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan

For living men in terror of their lives,
Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon,
Who can be lost and are, who miss their wives
And, unlike an idea, can die too soon.

Yet ideas can be true, although men die:
For we have seen a myriad faces
Ecstatic from one lie,

And maps can really point to places
Where life is evil now.
Nanking. Dachau.

W.H Auden

 

 

[Chinahand]

@quilp - if you never liked Larkin, did you at least forgive him for This Be The Verse?

This Be The Verse

BY PHILIP LARKIN

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

 

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

 

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.

 

[quilp]

Each to their own China. I've read most of Larkin's work, some of it is ok I suppose but that he became laureate is undeserved as far as I'm concerned. His output has an air of Bradford gasworks in winter's rain. 

[Chinahand]

Heard this poem by Emily Dickinson for the first time listening to this discussion between Steven Pinker and Patrick Hogan.  Interesting stuff.

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—

For—put them side by side—

The one the other will contain

With ease—and you—beside—

 

The Brain is deeper than the sea—

For—hold them—Blue to Blue—

The one the other will absorb—

As sponges—Buckets—do—

 

The Brain is just the weight of God—

For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—

And they will differ—if they do—

As Syllable from Sound—

 

Emily Dickinson, c. 1862

[james234298]

This is a very amazing.

[james234298]

Each to their own China. I've perused a large portion of Larkin's work, some of it is alright I assume yet that he became laureate is gratuitous, taking everything into account. His result has a quality of Bradford gasworks in winter's downpour.

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