Books Fifteen to Nineteen and Twenty Five - Poetry
Books Fifteen to Nineteen, and Twenty Five - Poetry
I have never really read much poetry before in such an intense way, although we have several compilations of poems, and my mum has some lovely books in which she’s written her favourite poems, I’ve never really consciously gone through one poet’s work in particular. I have enjoyed it though, and am definitely going to read more in the future.
I got some really good short compilations of poetry from a charity shop, each one was about 100 pages and had the notable poems of different poets. I also got a couple of books from the library.
Book 15 is Prodigal by Derek Walcott (library, nobel, poetry, 8 / 10). This was one long poem in one volume. It seemed to describe someone who moved around to different places in the world, and the way it was written was really good as you could really imagine the different places which were being described. All the descriptions just seemed to wash over me as I read about them, which was really good.
Book 16 is Collected Poems by John Betjemen and Tell Me The Truth About Love by WH Auden (library, poetry 9 / 10). I think these are the kind of poets that I like best. My favourite poem ever (Funeral Blues) is written by Auden, and Betjemen has written some lovely poems. I know it’s a bit cheesy, but I do like poems which rhyme! Most of the poems are well known, and are excellent for reading out loud. They’re not all happy, but many of them are, and they just talk about people’s lives and their places within it. I’d definitely recommend these two poets.
Book 17 is The Wasteland and other poems and Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by TS Elliot (poetry, nobel, 8 / 10). I know the poems in the Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats so well, as I love the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, and they really have a great rhythm to them. I wonder if anyone before Lloyd Webber tried to put them to music, as they’re arranged in quite a “song” kind of structure, some of them have verses and choruses too! The characters of the cats are written really well, and I really enjoyed this collection. I thought The Wasteland was good, but it didn’t quite capture the flow of the Cats collection (although I know the subjects are totally different!), and it wasn’t quite as interesting to read. It was a good collection though, and I’m glad I’ve read this classic poem.
Book 18 is Kid by Simon Armitage and Death of a Naturalist by Seamus Heaney (poetry, 7 / 10). I hadn’t previously read anything by these poets, and they were quite good, better than TS Elliot I think. Heaney’s poetry is very descriptive and you can really imagine what he’s talking about, and Armitage, although I wasn’t too keen at first, does have some good poems, with a good rhythm and style. Better than Elliot, but not as good as Betjemen!
Book 19 is A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson (poetry, children’s, 7 / 10). This is a collection of short (some very short!) children’s poems, which can be compared with the poems of AA Milne, they are the same kind of style. There seem to be a lot about going to bed and playing in dreams, which is nice at first, but does get a bit same-y when they’re all about sleeping! The other subjects are things like playing in the garden, and playing certain games. It’s a nice little collection, but I found AA Milne the better poet.
Book 25 is Ariel by Sylvia Plath and Crow by Ted Hughes (poetry, 6 / 10). These just coincidentally turned out to be the last two of the poetry books which came from the charity shop. I must say that I didn’t really find these poems very nice at all, in either volume. However, I am biased because I don’t like Sylvia Plath, she seems to be a very selfish person, so that has influenced what I feel about the poems. None of them were nice, they were all quite “spiky” in the style of writing and the subjects were generally not that nice. However compared to some of Hughes’ work it was all fluffy clouds, as some of the poems in this collection are really horrible! They all seem to involve a character called “crow” - sometimes it seems to be an actual crow, and sometimes not - but he seems to get involved in some horrible things - some to do with God, some with murder, some with some really strange things. A very strange collection of poems - although there was one which really stood out for me, Crow’s Account of the Battle. I like war poetry - well “like” isn’t the right word, its more the way that poems can be so evocative of a certain horrendous time or place, and I think this poem does that.
Crow's Account of the Battle
There was this terrific battle.
The noise was as much
As the limits of possible noise could take.
There were screams higher groans deeper
Than any ear could hold.
Many eardrums burst and some walls
Collapsed to escape the noise.
Everything struggled on its way
Through this tearing deafness
As through a torrent in a dark cave.
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth and skin,
Through intestines, pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point.
Reality was giving its lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch,
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
Then everybody wept,
Or sat, too exhausted to weep,
Or lay, too hurt to weap.
And when the smoke cleared it became clear
This had happened too often before
And was going to happen too often in the future
And happened too easily
Bones were too like lath and twigs
Blood was too much like water
Cries were too like silence
The most terrible grimaces too like footprints in mud
And shooting somebody through the midriff
Was too like striking a match
Too like potting a snooker ball
Too like tearing up a bill
Blasting the whole world to bits
Was too like slamming a door
Too like dropping in a chair
Exhausted with rage
Too like being blown to bits yourself
Which happened too easily
With too like no consequences.
So the survivors stayed.
And the earth and the sky stayed.
Everything took the blame.
Not a leaf flinched, nobody smiled.
23 / 120 books. 19% done!
If anyone reading this knows of any other poets and poems I should look into, considering the ones I do and don’t like, please let me know! :)
I have never really read much poetry before in such an intense way, although we have several compilations of poems, and my mum has some lovely books in which she’s written her favourite poems, I’ve never really consciously gone through one poet’s work in particular. I have enjoyed it though, and am definitely going to read more in the future.
I got some really good short compilations of poetry from a charity shop, each one was about 100 pages and had the notable poems of different poets. I also got a couple of books from the library.
Book 15 is Prodigal by Derek Walcott (library, nobel, poetry, 8 / 10). This was one long poem in one volume. It seemed to describe someone who moved around to different places in the world, and the way it was written was really good as you could really imagine the different places which were being described. All the descriptions just seemed to wash over me as I read about them, which was really good.
Book 16 is Collected Poems by John Betjemen and Tell Me The Truth About Love by WH Auden (library, poetry 9 / 10). I think these are the kind of poets that I like best. My favourite poem ever (Funeral Blues) is written by Auden, and Betjemen has written some lovely poems. I know it’s a bit cheesy, but I do like poems which rhyme! Most of the poems are well known, and are excellent for reading out loud. They’re not all happy, but many of them are, and they just talk about people’s lives and their places within it. I’d definitely recommend these two poets.
Book 17 is The Wasteland and other poems and Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by TS Elliot (poetry, nobel, 8 / 10). I know the poems in the Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats so well, as I love the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, and they really have a great rhythm to them. I wonder if anyone before Lloyd Webber tried to put them to music, as they’re arranged in quite a “song” kind of structure, some of them have verses and choruses too! The characters of the cats are written really well, and I really enjoyed this collection. I thought The Wasteland was good, but it didn’t quite capture the flow of the Cats collection (although I know the subjects are totally different!), and it wasn’t quite as interesting to read. It was a good collection though, and I’m glad I’ve read this classic poem.
Book 18 is Kid by Simon Armitage and Death of a Naturalist by Seamus Heaney (poetry, 7 / 10). I hadn’t previously read anything by these poets, and they were quite good, better than TS Elliot I think. Heaney’s poetry is very descriptive and you can really imagine what he’s talking about, and Armitage, although I wasn’t too keen at first, does have some good poems, with a good rhythm and style. Better than Elliot, but not as good as Betjemen!
Book 19 is A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson (poetry, children’s, 7 / 10). This is a collection of short (some very short!) children’s poems, which can be compared with the poems of AA Milne, they are the same kind of style. There seem to be a lot about going to bed and playing in dreams, which is nice at first, but does get a bit same-y when they’re all about sleeping! The other subjects are things like playing in the garden, and playing certain games. It’s a nice little collection, but I found AA Milne the better poet.
Book 25 is Ariel by Sylvia Plath and Crow by Ted Hughes (poetry, 6 / 10). These just coincidentally turned out to be the last two of the poetry books which came from the charity shop. I must say that I didn’t really find these poems very nice at all, in either volume. However, I am biased because I don’t like Sylvia Plath, she seems to be a very selfish person, so that has influenced what I feel about the poems. None of them were nice, they were all quite “spiky” in the style of writing and the subjects were generally not that nice. However compared to some of Hughes’ work it was all fluffy clouds, as some of the poems in this collection are really horrible! They all seem to involve a character called “crow” - sometimes it seems to be an actual crow, and sometimes not - but he seems to get involved in some horrible things - some to do with God, some with murder, some with some really strange things. A very strange collection of poems - although there was one which really stood out for me, Crow’s Account of the Battle. I like war poetry - well “like” isn’t the right word, its more the way that poems can be so evocative of a certain horrendous time or place, and I think this poem does that.
Crow's Account of the Battle
There was this terrific battle.
The noise was as much
As the limits of possible noise could take.
There were screams higher groans deeper
Than any ear could hold.
Many eardrums burst and some walls
Collapsed to escape the noise.
Everything struggled on its way
Through this tearing deafness
As through a torrent in a dark cave.
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth and skin,
Through intestines, pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point.
Reality was giving its lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch,
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
Then everybody wept,
Or sat, too exhausted to weep,
Or lay, too hurt to weap.
And when the smoke cleared it became clear
This had happened too often before
And was going to happen too often in the future
And happened too easily
Bones were too like lath and twigs
Blood was too much like water
Cries were too like silence
The most terrible grimaces too like footprints in mud
And shooting somebody through the midriff
Was too like striking a match
Too like potting a snooker ball
Too like tearing up a bill
Blasting the whole world to bits
Was too like slamming a door
Too like dropping in a chair
Exhausted with rage
Too like being blown to bits yourself
Which happened too easily
With too like no consequences.
So the survivors stayed.
And the earth and the sky stayed.
Everything took the blame.
Not a leaf flinched, nobody smiled.
23 / 120 books. 19% done!
If anyone reading this knows of any other poets and poems I should look into, considering the ones I do and don’t like, please let me know! :)