Poem of the Day:
- Thread starter stlukesguild
- Start date
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
William Blake: The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests 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, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & 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 water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
This poem, from Blake's illustrated volume, The Songs of Experience, is one of the poems I had committed to memory. Blake was unfortunately born before his time. He sought to merge the visual arts with the written word in a form that aimed for something akin to the medieval illuminated manuscripts... and yet a form that could be mass-produced reaching a larger audience. I can easily see him today turning out illustrated books employing modern lithographic print technology in a manner that would appear on the surface as something akin to illustrated children's books... but much more sophisticated. In fact, The Songs of Innocence & Experience appear and read to many as simple, naiive, and child-like... yet the books were among the most innovative of the Romantic era. The Songs of Innocence & Experience is one of the books that truly turned me onto the "book arts".
All of the color versions of The Tyger are unique. Blake printed the general image and then applied the color... along with his wife... by hand using watercolors.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests 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, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & 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 water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
This poem, from Blake's illustrated volume, The Songs of Experience, is one of the poems I had committed to memory. Blake was unfortunately born before his time. He sought to merge the visual arts with the written word in a form that aimed for something akin to the medieval illuminated manuscripts... and yet a form that could be mass-produced reaching a larger audience. I can easily see him today turning out illustrated books employing modern lithographic print technology in a manner that would appear on the surface as something akin to illustrated children's books... but much more sophisticated. In fact, The Songs of Innocence & Experience appear and read to many as simple, naiive, and child-like... yet the books were among the most innovative of the Romantic era. The Songs of Innocence & Experience is one of the books that truly turned me onto the "book arts".
All of the color versions of The Tyger are unique. Blake printed the general image and then applied the color... along with his wife... by hand using watercolors.
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
Jabberwocky -Lewis Carroll
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
My favorite books tend to be those collections of faerie tales, folk tales, myths, legends, etc: Firdowsi's Shahnameh, Dante's Comedia, Ovid's Metamorphoses, The Arabian Nights, The Bible, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Poe and Hawthorne's Tales, J.L Borges Labyrinth's and Collected Fictions, Kafka's Short Stories, Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities and Cosmicomics... and of course, Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-glass. Jabberwocky is a poem from Through the Looking-glass... and perhaps the greatest "nonsense" poem in English. I've always thought Carroll created a miniature masterwork of word-play that James Joyce (for better of worse) would expand to the scale of an epic novel.
Claude J Greengrass
Well-known member
- Messages
- 268
It too am attracted to the second artwork in your post. My first visual impression of it was; "Is that part of the Bayeux Tapestry"?
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
The first image is one of the original illustrations by Sir John Tenniel from the published version of Through the Looking-Glass.
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
Robert Burns: Comin thro' the Rye
Winslow Homer -Comin' Through the Rye
First Setting:
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rye.
[CHORUS.]
Oh Jenny 's a' weet poor body
Jenny 's seldom dry,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rye.
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body —
Need a body cry.
Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c.
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen;
Gin a body kiss a body —
Need the warld ken!
Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c.
Second Setting:
Gin a body meet a body, comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry;
Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I;
But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the well,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body tell;
Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I,
But a the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the town,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body gloom;
Ilka Jenny has her Jockey, ne'er a ane hae I,
But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Robert Burns -The Hunt (Diana and the Hunt)
OK... OK... it's not the same Robert Burns. Robert Burns the artist was born about 100 years after Robert Burns the poet... and it doesn't look like she's "Comin' Through the Rye"... more like she's running through the jungle...
CCR: Run through the Jungle
Winslow Homer -Comin' Through the Rye
First Setting:
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rye.
[CHORUS.]
Oh Jenny 's a' weet poor body
Jenny 's seldom dry,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rye.
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body —
Need a body cry.
Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c.
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen;
Gin a body kiss a body —
Need the warld ken!
Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c.
Second Setting:
Gin a body meet a body, comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry;
Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I;
But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the well,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body tell;
Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I,
But a the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the town,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body gloom;
Ilka Jenny has her Jockey, ne'er a ane hae I,
But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.
Robert Burns -The Hunt (Diana and the Hunt)
OK... OK... it's not the same Robert Burns. Robert Burns the artist was born about 100 years after Robert Burns the poet... and it doesn't look like she's "Comin' Through the Rye"... more like she's running through the jungle...
CCR: Run through the Jungle
- Messages
- 8,020
OK, I'm party crashing. This is a poem we had to memorize a part of when I was in high school (back in the days of the dinosaur) and I still can recite it to this day. The only part we had to memorize is highlighted in blue.
Thanatopsis
William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and poured round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.—
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Thanatopsis
William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and poured round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.—
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
There's no party crashing. I hoped others would join in on these threads on art, music, poetry, etc...
Artyczar
Moderator
- Messages
- 12,416
I've read a lot of poetry growing up. Don't ask why. I've come to dislike most of it. I mean, it seems like I do. I do not like poetry that rhymes almost every time, so a lot of what St. Luke posts is not my bag. But like some poetry that would seem stuffy to some people, and I like a lot of modern stuff, but I hate some of that too. I like what I like I guess.
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
T.S. Eliot: The Hollow Men
Mistah Kurtz-he dead
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
Edvard Munch: The Scream (lithograph)
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
Robert Motherwell: The Hollow Men
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
sive (Deviant Art): The Hollow Men
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
Kemjee P. Matulac: The Woman Inside the Hollow Man
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Owen Freeman: The Hollow Men
Mistah Kurtz-he dead
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
Edvard Munch: The Scream (lithograph)
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
Robert Motherwell: The Hollow Men
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
sive (Deviant Art): The Hollow Men
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
Kemjee P. Matulac: The Woman Inside the Hollow Man
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Owen Freeman: The Hollow Men
- Messages
- 8,020
I just have to post this one here. No painting, although I used to have one. Sorry Arty, it rhymes.
My Works (by snoball)
I made a little painting
Made it just for me.
I hung it in my outhouse,
Where only I could see.
My neighbor came by
To sit upon my throne,
Saw the little painting
And wanted it for his own.
Now my outhouse walls
Bedecked with paintings are,
Take the one you like
Leave the money in the jar.
My Works (by snoball)
I made a little painting
Made it just for me.
I hung it in my outhouse,
Where only I could see.
My neighbor came by
To sit upon my throne,
Saw the little painting
And wanted it for his own.
Now my outhouse walls
Bedecked with paintings are,
Take the one you like
Leave the money in the jar.
stlukesguild
Well-known member
- Messages
- 2,523
I had a friend who sold a painting to a wealthy collector in New York. His home was filled with paintings by Rothko, Kline, Motherwell, Reginald Marsh, MIlton Avery, etc... While he was there, he needed to "use the facilities". As he was doing so, he couldn't help but notice the painting over the toilet. He had to ask the owner, "Is that painting over the toilet what it looks like?" The collector replied, "Oh yes! All the best collectors in New York hang their Pollock's over the toilet!" 
