Encouragement and Poetry and Greeks, oh my!
I see that some of you excellent ladies are publishing original work on LJ. I have not had time to read it all but so I wanted to show my encouragement here, since I'm not sure when I'll have time to read and leave comments on your exciting works!!!
GO GO GO YOU ARE ROCKING MANIACS YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!!
On another note, my mom has just introduced me to the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne. This man was, according to my mother, able to understand Ancient Greek by the time he was 3.
This may be an urban legend, but the man was definitely a genius. He is a 19th century English poet largely fallen into obscurity because of a harsh criticism by T.S. Eliot, who basically sad that Swinburne was the epitome of everything wrong you can do in a poem.
But I'll let you be the judge. Read "The Garden of Proserpine" (Roman queen of the underworld, like Persephone of the Greeks), and YOU tell ME if he's the epitome of horrible poetry.
Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap;
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die tomorrow
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of water shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
I felt honored manually typing out every word of that poem! Even if I don't agree with all of his ideas (such as that that death outlasts love), there is no denying the beauty and masterful craft of his poetry. Not all of his poems, as one Amazon reviewer said, "express a death-wish." Haha! My intense interest in Greek mythology, particularly the characters of Persephone and Hades, is part of why this poem spoke to me so much. I don't like to reveal too much on LJ, but let's just say that it might have to do with a little original project of my own! ;)
Some of his poetry is a little blasphemous against Christianity. He was very fascinated by Greek and Roman gods, and he tended to believe that pagan deities would outlast Christian ones. He discusses that idea in "Hymn to Proserpine", which I won't retype here because it's longer, complicated, and I don't want to overload you guys with too much Greek mythology death poetry at once. xD But in that poem is a very interesting comparison and contrast between the Virgin Mary and Persephone. The poem made a lot more sense to me when my mom explained that "the pale Galilean" is Jesus. xD Check it out if you're interested! I've only begun to read some of his poetry. He also wrote poetry in French.
P.S. The cat in my lap is called Edgar Allen Poe and he wishes a special good luck to everyone involved in the Poe Challenge! He is quite honored that you all were so inspired by him. He'd say more but he's due for a nap.
GO GO GO YOU ARE ROCKING MANIACS YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!!
On another note, my mom has just introduced me to the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne. This man was, according to my mother, able to understand Ancient Greek by the time he was 3.
This may be an urban legend, but the man was definitely a genius. He is a 19th century English poet largely fallen into obscurity because of a harsh criticism by T.S. Eliot, who basically sad that Swinburne was the epitome of everything wrong you can do in a poem.
But I'll let you be the judge. Read "The Garden of Proserpine" (Roman queen of the underworld, like Persephone of the Greeks), and YOU tell ME if he's the epitome of horrible poetry.
Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap;
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die tomorrow
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of water shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
I felt honored manually typing out every word of that poem! Even if I don't agree with all of his ideas (such as that that death outlasts love), there is no denying the beauty and masterful craft of his poetry. Not all of his poems, as one Amazon reviewer said, "express a death-wish." Haha! My intense interest in Greek mythology, particularly the characters of Persephone and Hades, is part of why this poem spoke to me so much. I don't like to reveal too much on LJ, but let's just say that it might have to do with a little original project of my own! ;)
Some of his poetry is a little blasphemous against Christianity. He was very fascinated by Greek and Roman gods, and he tended to believe that pagan deities would outlast Christian ones. He discusses that idea in "Hymn to Proserpine", which I won't retype here because it's longer, complicated, and I don't want to overload you guys with too much Greek mythology death poetry at once. xD But in that poem is a very interesting comparison and contrast between the Virgin Mary and Persephone. The poem made a lot more sense to me when my mom explained that "the pale Galilean" is Jesus. xD Check it out if you're interested! I've only begun to read some of his poetry. He also wrote poetry in French.
P.S. The cat in my lap is called Edgar Allen Poe and he wishes a special good luck to everyone involved in the Poe Challenge! He is quite honored that you all were so inspired by him. He'd say more but he's due for a nap.