Summer is fading: The leaves fall in ones and twos From trees bordering The new recreation ground. In the hollows of afternoons Young mothers assemble At swing and sandpit Setting free their children.8
Behind them, at intervals, Stand husbands in skilled trades, An estateful of washing, And the albums, lettered Our Wedding, lying Near the television: Before them, the wind Is ruining their courting-places 16
That are still courting-places (But the lovers are all in school), And their children, so intent on Finding more unripe acorns, Expect to be taken home. Their beauty has thickened. Something is pushing them To the side of their own lives. 24
“Afternoons” A 24 lines unrhymed yet Lyrical Poem in 3 Stanzas , each of 8 lines. written in 1959, By Philip Larkin is About the loss of youth filled with a sadness making way for the tedious routine of adult life – seen from the outsider’s perspective of Larkin, who was never a father. This is an example of the poet’s pessimism and cynical eye that typifies his rather negative and perhaps misogynistic outlook on life. Humans are varied, and for some the move to suburbs and away from pre-war city slums and post-war bomb sites was an improvement in life. Also, the apparent loss of romance in marriage and the raising of families would have been different for each couple, This poem is very much Larkin’s perception. Most importantly, Larkin views child-raising negatively, while for many women motherhood was, and still is, fulfilling. Critic Steve Clark considers that Larkin mythologised the past, which he saw as a distant image much like the set of a play – a fiction to play with. He believed that Larkin intended to invent a tradition to fend off the infiltration of American Modernism, and sought an imaginary time when the world was the way he wanted it to be.
The effect is spare and concise, suitable for a poem about pared down emotions and the loss of romance. There is a single, flowing sentence – moving from detail to detail like a photograph. It’s like Larkin is trying to preserve a particular moment before it changes. The rhythm is slow and there is only one rhyme per stanza, making the poem seem as unhurried and relaxed as the time Larkin is describing.
The voice is that of a 3 Rd Person nNarrator, almost certainly the poet. The tone is subdued and pessimistic, creating a mood of lost happiness and lost romance.
Through the use of symbolic objects — a wedding photo album, a swing and sandpit, washing on lines etc — Larkin conveys the loss of romance that, in his view, characterises life once the excitement of marriage has faded.
Young Dorothy Parker 1910s / 1920s: : (née Rothschild ) ; August 22, 1893 Long Branch, New Jersey, U.S. – June 7, 1967 aged 73) New York City, U.S.) was an American poet, writer ( short stories ), screen play writer, critic, and satirist based in New York; she was known for her wit, wisecracks, and eye for 20th-century urban foibles. Named with American Modernism. Notable works Enough Rope, Sunset Gun, A Star Is Born. : : Notable awards O. Henry Award1929 : : From a conflicted and unhappy childhood, Parker rose to acclaim, both for her literary works published in magazines, such as The New Yorker, and as a founding member of the Algonquin Round Table. Following the breakup of the circle, Parker traveled to Hollywood to pursue screenwriting. Her successes there, including two Academy Award nominations, were curtailed when her involvement in left-wing politics resulted in her being placed on the Hollywood blacklist.
Dismissive of her own talents, she deplored her reputation as a “wisecracker.” Nevertheless, both her literary output and reputation for sharp wit have endured. Some of her works have been set to music; adaptations included the operatic song cycle Hate Songs by composer Marcus Paus. : : On August 22, 1992, the 99th anniversary of Parker’s birth, the United States Postal Service issued a 29¢ U.S. commemorative postage stamp in the Literary Arts series. Cover of ” Enough Rope ” By Dorothy Parker , Her First Volume of Poetry , 1926. Parker released two more volumes of verse, Sunset Gun (1928) and Death and Taxes (1931), along with the short story collections Laments for the Living (1930) and After Such Pleasures (1933). Not So Deep as a Well (1936)She collaborated with playwright Elmer Rice to create Close Harmony, which ran on Broadway in December 1924. The play was well received in out-of-town previews and was favorably reviewed in New York, but it closed after a run of only 24 performances. It became a successful touring production under the title The Lady Next Door. Parker was listed as a Communist by the publication Red Channels in 1950. The FBI compiled a 1,000-page dossier on her because of her suspected involvement in Communism during the era when Senator Joseph McCarthy was raising alarms about communists in government and Hollywood. As a result, movie studio bosses placed her on the Hollywood blacklist. Her final screenplay was The Fan, a 1949 adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan, directed by Otto Preminger. Parker died on June 7, 1967, of a heart attackat the age of 73. In her will, she bequeathed her estate to Martin Luther King Jr., and upon King’s death, to the NAACP. A beautiful woman with A scalloped hair beneath her finely washed White Cap. Fragment of a sprigged Gown : A Victorian dress with a brooch. White blouse with lace decoration and high collar appeared like kissing her throat. “I will draw my curtain /( Gown ) to the town” –– Dorothy Parker : A woman pulling her gown from the surface of the walkway of a town: Her fashionable half – day outing for a pleasurable social gathering. A Happy Woman with her Partner in her Old Age Dancing to the Tune of a Rock Music 🎶 Song : A vector illustration. : ” And hum a purring note 🎵” 🎶“And I’ll forget the way of tears, And rock, and stir my tea.”: Dorothy Parker : : A smiling Woman in her old age stirring Tea for her relaxing mood while looking away happily .A Short Song By Dorothy Parker : : CLICK HERE In BELOW to listen to this Very Short Love Song posted on You Tube.
Afternoon : By Dorothy Parker , Long Branch / New Jersey : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
When I am old, and comforted, And done with this desire, With Memory to share my bed And Peace to share my fire,
I’ll comb my hair in scalloped bands Beneath my laundered cap, And watch my cool and fragile hands Lie light upon my lap.
And I will have a sprigged gown With lace to kiss my throat; I’ll draw my curtain to the town, And hum a purring note.
And I’ll forget the way of tears, And rock, and stir my tea. But oh, I wish those blessed years Were further than they be!
“Afternoon”, 16 lines Short Poem in the rhyme scheme of ABAB CDCD EFEF , By A renowned American Poetess , Writer and Critic, Dorothy Parker is About Aging and loss expressed humorously as well as with a Cry of Sorrow and Grief Amidst the possibility of Peace , contentment and Beauty. The Poet Speaker’s days of old age are closer than she’d wish them for which she wishfully feels “comforted.”: : : :
Stanza 1 : : “When I am old, and comforted, 1 And done with this desire, 2 With Memory to share my bed 3 And Peace to share my fire,” 4 : : lines 1 To 4 :
About a younger woman ♀️👠 who is contemplating what her life will look like once she is older as much as one sees reaching a future of evening 🌆 from her present state of an Afternoon. : : Having “Memory to share my bed / And Peace to share my fire.”( lines 3 & 4 ) are suggestive of her companionship and memories attached to it. She feels better in her present- day life which is “peace(ful)” and “comforted” : And she is thorough with it having no further concern ; hence says that she is ” done with her desire” ( line 2 ) as she is ready to view her future in becoming old. : : : :
Stanza 2 : : “I’ll comb my hair in scalloped bands 5 Beneath my laundered cap, 6 And watch my cool and fragile hands 7 Lie light upon my lap.” 8 : : lines 5 To 8 : : : :
About two imageries she imagines she will get herself engaged with a view to carefully keeping her personality subtly, polished and pleasing . : Like , she sees herself combing her hair in scalloped bands , that is, she will form a series of rounded projections in several hairs banded together with notches between them formed by curves along its edge beneath her cleansed cap. ( as stated in lines 5 & 6 ) : : The line 6 captures her exhilarating mood , a sense of adequacy and elation reflected in tidiness seen as a Clean Cap 🧢 she keeps washed off for wearing. : : Lines 7 & 8 reveals that she will watch her “cool and fragile hands ( line 7 ) /” Lie light upon my lap.” ( line 8 ) in future time of being old. : : This image is one of relaxation and peace, and it perfectly captures the delicate beauty 😍 , and her good show in calm and composed adept as well as modded fashionableness that induces attractive and stylish impression at the time of her old age sociability. : : : :
Stanza 3 : :”And I will have a sprigged gown 9 With lace to kiss my throat 10 I’ll draw my curtain to the town, 11 And hum a purring note.” 12
About settling in the Afternoon that sounds with “hum(ming) a purring ( puring ) note.” ( line 12 ) that is a vibrant sound indicated in ‘pleasure’ : : A gown decorated with patterned design of sprigs , is a ” sprigged gown” she will have “With lace to kiss her throat” ( lines 9 & 10 ) This trendsetting image and an another image in which she says , she will draw her curtain to the town ” ( line 11 ) / ( Meaning , she will cause her sprigged gown to move by pulling ) together exhibit her desire to settle for the “Afternoon” outing , a half – day devoted to pleasurable social gathering in her old age. She views her ‘ contentment’ in this way she will live happily in an old age. : : : :
Stanza 4 : :”And I’ll forget the way of tears,13 And rock, and stir my tea. 14 But oh, I wish those blessed years 15 Were further than they be! ” 16
About forget(ting) “the way of tears,”( line 13 ) Meaning , she will be cheery and will not show up her sorrows by teary – eyed 👀 face ; and will (be) “rock(ing) and stir(ring) her tea.” (line 14 ) Meaning, she sees herself dancing to a happy tune of “rock” Music and will be seen in the image of preparing for her “Tea” at the peaceful time of relaxation in her old age. : : Figuratively, she views her picture of an old age as someone who is strong , stable and dependable. She is comfortable with the present – day imageries when she imagines of herself in becoming old in future time. : : : : : : : : ” But oh, I wish those blessed years 15 Were further than they be! ” 16 : : Last lines 15 & 16 which are fragmentary or halting due to the emotional strain which utters these few halting words of sorrow : : : : She bewails the facts of the ‘Evening’ time of her future days of becoming old , in her sensing that her days of old age are closer than she’d wish them. Hence the learned facts are at odds with her clashing findings in the present day ‘halting’ time of the ( late) -“Afternoon” in her life. : : Her last expression, “furtherthan they be !” : This is ‘Her wishful thinking’ About ‘Aging and inclusive loss‘ expressed ‘humorously’ as well as with a thinner -‘Cry of Sorrow and Grief’ Amidst the possibility of ‘Peace contentment and Beauty ‘ that this beautiful poem By Dorothy Parker , carries in the “AFTERNOON“: : : :
“Afternoon” Poem By Dorothy Parker Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 31 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Edna St Vincent Millay ( 1892 – 1950 ) : : Photo : Carl Van Vechten : : : : Poet and playwright , Edna St. Vincent Millay was born in Rockland, Maine, on February 22, 1892. In 1912, Millay entered her poem “Renascence” to The Lyric Year’s poetry contest, where she won fourth place and publication in the anthology. This brought her immediate acclaim and a scholarship to Vassar College, where she continued to write poetry and became involved in the theater. In 1917, the year of her graduation, Millay published her first book, Renascence and Other Poems (Harper, 1917). At the request of Vassar’s drama department, she also wrote her first verse play, The Lamp and the Bell (1921), a work about love between women.
After graduating from Vassar, Millay moved to New York City’s Greenwich Village, where she lived with her sister, Norma, in a nine-foot-wide attic. Millay published poems in Vanity Fair, the Forum, and others while writing short stories and satire under the pen name Nancy Boyd. She and Norma acted with the Provincetown Players in the group’s early days, befriending writers such as poet Witter Bynner, critic Edmund Wilson, playwright and actress Susan Glaspell, and journalist Floyd Dell. Millay published A Few Figs from Thistles (Harper & Brothers, 1920), a volume of poetry which drew much attention for its controversial descriptions of female sexuality and feminism. In 1923, Millay was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver (Flying Cloud Press, 1922). In addition to publishing three plays in verse, Millay also wrote the libretto of one of the few American grand operas, The King’s Henchman (Harper & Brothers, 1927).
Millay married Eugen Boissevain in 1923, and the two were together for twenty-six years. Boissevain gave up his own pursuits to manage Millay’s literary career, setting up the readings and public appearances for which Millay grew famous.
Edna St. Vincent Millay died at the age of fifty-eight on October 18, 1950, in Austerlitz, New York. : : : : ( Based on Information from poets org ) ‘I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed’ , ‘Wild Swans’, ‘God’s World ‘, are Some of the Renowned Poems by Edna St Vincent Millay.
Afternoon on a Hill : : Edna St. Vincent Millay ( 1892 – 1950 ) : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! 2 I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. 4
I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, 6 Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. 8
And when lights begin to show Up from the town, 10 I will mark which must be mine, And then start down! 12
— Edna St. Vincent Millay
“Afternoon On A Hill”A 12 lines Nature Poem in 3 Quatrains in Rhyme of ABCD , By Edna St Vincent Millay is About The Poet Speaker’s theatrical announcement of “touch and watch , as well as look and mark during An Afternoon On A Hill”, under the sun, encircled by flowers 🌺🌹: :
1 St Quatrain : : ” I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! 2 I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.”4 : : lines 1 To 4 : : : :
About a plan of “touch(ing) a hundred flowers” without picking any one while eagerly disposed in showing her feeling of happy appreciation on intended occasion “Under the sun” ( line 4 ); and for becoming the “gladdest thing” ( line 1 ) for feeling sunrays on her Skin, in which she will succeed in her cheerful and bright beaming 😁 in the “Afternoon On A Hill” : : : :
2 Nd Quatrain : : “I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, 6 Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.” 8 : : lines 5 To 8 : : : :
About a plan of look(ing) at cliffs and clouds “( line 5 ) and “With quiet 🤐 eyes ( line 6 ) , that is , with calm and serene mind, watch(ing) the wind bow down the grass,” ( line 7 ) , that is, thrown down flat as on the ground , And the “grass rise”, Meaning , the grass will rise again in its natural erect position when the “Wind”moves on. : : : :
3 Rd Quatrain: : ” And when lights begin to show Up from the town, 10 I will mark which must be mine, And then start down! “12 : : lines 9 To 12 : : : :
About “mark(ing) ‼️her home with some distinguished trait / tag line, her own space of living ( “which must be mine”Meaning, She will perceive with the mind that differentiates of her home -run : line 11 ) ❣️ before she “start(s) down!”( line 12 ) to succeed in achieving her goal ; “Up from the town”( line 10 ) ,that is, seeing things in a specific perspectives, from a distant place at hights with an invigorating mountain air. She will have then a wide wise look, objectively : And this could happen on her stay on a hill in an “Afternoon”: : “when lights begin to show up from the town.”: : : :
“Afternoon On A Hill”, An Afternoon Poem By Edna St Vincent Millay Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 30 , 2023 : : : : : : ::
Afternoon BY PIERRE REVERDY TRANSLATED BY LYDIA DAVIS In the morning that comes up behind the roof, in the shelter of the bridge, in the corner of the cypresses that rise above the wall, a rooster has crowed. In the bell tower that rips the air with its shining point, the notes ring out and already the morning din can be heard in the street; the only street that goes from the river to the mountain dividing the woods. One looks for some other words but the ideas are always just as dark, just as simple and singularly painful. There is hardly more than the eyes, the open air, the grass and the water in the distance with, around every bend, a well or a cool basin. In the right-hand corner the last house with a larger head at the window. The trees are extremely alive and all those familiar companions walk along the demolished wall that is crushed into the thorns with bursts of laughter. Above the ravine the din augments, swells, and if the car passes on the upper road one no longer knows if it is the flowers or the little bells that are chiming. Under the blazing sun, when the landscape is on fire, the traveler crosses the stream on a very narrow bridge, before a dark hole where the trees line the water that falls asleep in the afternoon. And, against the trembling background of the woods, the motionless man. — Pierre Reverdy : : Source: Poetry ( October 2013 ) From poetryfoundation.org For Educational Purposes only.
“Afternoon”, A French Prose Poem By Pierre Reverdy ( One of the leading lights of early 20 Th Century French avant-garde poetry ) is About the sounds and sights of the day, as a traveller wanders through the landscape and the sun brightening in the afternoon. : :
T S Eliot Eliot in 1934 by Lady Ottoline Morrell. Thomas Stearns Eliot ( 1888 – 1965 ) Poet essayist playwright publisher critic : : American (1888–1927) British (1927–1965) : Spouse Vivienne Haigh-Wood ( m. 1915; sep. 1932 ) AND Esmé Valerie Fletcher( m. 1957 ) : : Awarded Nobel Prize in Literature (1948) Order of Merit (1948) : Named with ” literary Movement of ” Modernism : : “Notable Works “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915) The Waste Land (1922) The Hollow Men (1925) Murder in the Cathedral (1935) Four Quartets (1943) Born in St. Louis, Missouri, to a prominent Boston Brahmin family, he moved to England in 1914 at the age of 25 and went on to settle, work, and marry there. He became a British subject in 1927 at the age of 39 and renounced his American citizenship.
Eliot first attracted widespread attention for his poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” from 1914 to 1915, which, at the time of its publication, was considered outlandish. It was followed by The Waste Land (1922), “The Hollow Men” (1925), “Ash Wednesday” (1930), and Four Quartets (1943). He was also known for seven plays, particularly Murder in the Cathedral (1935) and The Cocktail Party (1949).Considered one of the 20th century’s major poets, he is a central figure in English-language Modernist poetry. Through his trials in language, writing style, and verse structure, he reinvigorated English poetry. He also dismantled outdated beliefs and established new ones through a collection of critical essays. : : He was awarded the 1948 Nobel Prize in Literature, “for his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry”. : : Cleo McNelly Kearns notes in her biography that Eliot was deeply influenced by Indic traditions, notably the Upanishads. From the Sanskrit ending of The Waste Land to the “What Krishna meant” section of Four Quartets shows how much Indic religions and more specifically Hinduism made up his philosophical basic for his thought process. It must also be acknowledged, as Chinmoy Guha showed in his book Where the Dreams Cross : : T S Eliot and French Poetry ( Macmillan, 2011 ) that he was deeply influenced by French poets from Baudelaire to Paul Valéry. He himself wrote in his 1940 essay on W.B. Yeats: “The kind of poetry that I needed to teach me the use of my own voice did not exist in English at all; it was only to be found in French.” (“Yeats”, On Poetry and Poets, 1948 ).
Afternoon : : By T S Eliot :
The ladies who are interested in Assyrian art Gather in the hall of the British Museum. 2 The faint perfume of last year’s tailor suits 3 And the steam from drying rubber overshoes 4 And the green and purple feathers on their hats 5 Vanish in the sombre Sunday afternoon 6
As they fade beyond the Roman statuary 7 Like amateur comedians across a lawn 8 Towards the unconscious, the ineffable, the absolute 9 — T S Eliot
“Afternoon”, A 9 lines Short Poem On “Sunday Afternoon “By Thomas Stearns Eliot : T S Eliot ( 26 September 1888 St. Louis, Missouri, U.S – 4 January 1965 (aged 76) London, England ), Published in 1996 after 30 years of his death, is About “The ladies who are interested in Assyrian art” and “Gather ‘in the hall of the British Museum,” On a Sunday Afternoon. Notable imageries in describing these ladies in the Museum include The ” faint perfume of last year’s suits” , And the “steam from drying rubber overshoes ” And the ” green and purple 🟣💜 🪶🪶 feathers on their hats” which “vanish in the sombre Sunday Afternoon” This is a dull picture lacking in brightness and colour ( hence “sombre ” ) : : In the concluding remarks Eliot relate the “Ladies” to “Roman Statuary ” , that is ‘ Statues’ collectively in the lines 7 To 9 : : “As they fade beyond the Roman statuary 7 Like amateur comedians across a lawn8 Towards the unconscious, the ineffable, the absolute.” 9 : : : : : : : and thereby calls them “amateur comedians across a lawn” in line 8 : Here in the word “amateur ” , Eliot makes a satirical remarks on the Ladies ” of his time of Early 20 Th Century English Society, Meaning , the ladies are portrayed as unskilled and unprofessional visitors to the “British Museum” of “Assyrian Art” ( Art produced by the ‘Akkadian People’ of an ‘Ancient Assyria’ who spoke Assyrian language of its origin in Mesopotamia ( now extinct ) : As with no qualification to understand this “Assyrian Art” Such Ladies visiting this British Art Museum are engaged in some recreational pastime activities which could have been uncalled for of a show of “comedians” : “Towards the unconscious “that is , of ‘not knowing or pursuing ‘ ; ” ineffable “, that is, ‘defying description ‘ or say , like the ‘un-speakable’: ” Roman Statues” they fade / pass off. This is “absolute”, unquestionably a psychicactivity of their minds of which they are unaware of. : : : :
“Afternoon”, By T S Eliot Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 28 , 2023 : : : : : :::
Found in the collection of Constantine Cavafy Museum, Alexandria. Artist : Anonymous. (Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images) : : Based as from POETRYFOUNDATION :POEMS & POETS C. P. Cavafy 1863–1933
C.P. Cavafy is widely considered the most distinguished Greek poet of the 20th century. He was born in Alexandria, Egypt, where his Greek parents had settled in the mid-1850s. Cavafy’s father was an importer-exporter whose business responsibilities frequently led him to the port city of Liverpool, England. Cavafy’s father died in 1870. So , The family consequently moved to Liverpool, where the eldest sons assumed control of the family’s business operations.
Cavafy lived in England for much of his adolescence, and developed both a command of the English language and a preference for the writings of William Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. Cavafy’s older brothers mismanaged the family business in Liverpool, and Cavafy’s mother was ultimately compelled to move the family back to Alexandria, where they lived until 1882. Then Cavafy’s mother, sensing danger, returned to Constantinople with Cavafy and the rest of her children. When the British bombarded Alexandria, the Cavafy family home was destroyed in the battle, and all of Cavafy’s papers and books were lost.
Cavafy remained in Constantinople with his mother until 1885; many of his brothers had returned to Alexandria. At this time, Cavafy—a teenager—was writing poems, preparing for a career, and discovering his queerness, which would inform much of his later poetry. Cavafy found work as a newspaper correspondent. In the late 1880s he obtained a position as his brother’s assistant at the Egyptian Stock Exchange, and he worked there for a few years before becoming a clerk at the Ministry of Public Works. Cavafy stayed at the ministry for the next 30 years, eventually becoming its assistant director. In 1933, 11 years after leaving the ministry, he died of cancer.
During his lifetime Cavafy was an obscure poet, living in relative seclusion and publishing little of his work. A short collection of his poetry was privately printed in the early 1900s and reprinted with new verse a few years later, but that was the extent of his published poetry. Instead, Cavafy chose to circulate his verse among friends.
This lack of concern for publication was due, perhaps, to the highly personal nature of many poems. Cavafy wrote many sexually explicit poems. W.H. Auden noted as much in his introduction to the 1961 volume “The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy” when he wrote, “Cavafy’s erotic poems make no attempt to conceal the fact.” Auden added: “As a witness, Cavafy is exceptionally honest. He neither bowdlerizes nor glamorizes nor giggles. The erotic world he depicts is one of casual pickups and short-lived affairs. Love, there, is rarely more than physical passion … At the same time, he refuses to pretend that his memories of moments of sensual pleasure are unhappy or spoiled by feelings of guilt.”
Cavafy was also an avid student of history, particularly ancient civilizations, and in a great number of poems he subjectively rendered life during the Greek and Roman empires. Some of these poems treating ancient times eventually reached English novelist E.M. Forster, who was sufficiently impressed to write an essay entitled “The Poetry of C.P. Cavafy” ( later published in Pharos and Pharillon ). In his essay, Forster hailed Cavafy for providing a compelling alternative to conventional renderings of ancient Greece, and he described Cavafy’s perspective as “intensely subject; scenery, cities and legends all re-emerge in terms of the mind.” Forster added: “Such a writer can never be popular. He flies both too slowly and too high … He has the strength … of the recluse, who, though not afraid of the world, always stands at a slight angle to it.”
As a stylist Cavafy was atypical. His language was flat, his delivery direct, whether he was writing about mortality, beauty, or despair; and whether he was writing about eroticism, the past, or the anxiety-inducing present. C.M. Bowra, in the essay “Constantine Cavafy and the Greek Past” ( published in The Creative Experiment ), affirmed, “Cavafy used neither Greek nor Western European models. Still less did he owe anything to the East. His manner was his own invention, the reflection of his temperament and his circumstances, guided by a natural instinct for words. Even in his language he went his own way.”
Among Cavafy’s most acclaimed poems is “Waiting for the Barbarians,” in which leaders in ancient Greece prepare to yield their land to barbarians only to discover that the barbarians, so necessary to political and social change, no longer exist. In “Ithaca,” another of Cavafy’s highly regarded works, the poet evokes Homer’s Odyssey in stressing the importance of the journey over the destination. And in poems such as “The Battle of Magnesia” and “To Antiochus of Epiphanes,” Cavafy emphasizes that decadence in a civilization leads to its destruction. Philip Sherrard acknowledged this in The Marble Threshing Floor: Studies in “Modern Greek Poetry”, when he wrote that such poems “imply … that the corruption and decadence of [ancient Rome] invites its own overthrow, that the Romans are simply the unconscious instruments in the execution of a sentence which those who live the superficial, self-indulgent life of the senses call down on themselves.”
Cavafy’s more erotic poems treat themes similar to those addressed in his historical verses. In Alexandria Still: Forster, Durrell, and Cavafy, Jane Lagoudis Pinchin acknowledged this, writing, “Cavafy’s love poems build a 20 Th Century Mythological Kingdom that has much in common with the crumbling world of ancient days. Here lovers meet ‘On the Stair’ of wretched brothels, ‘At the Theatre,’ ‘At the Cafe Door,’ in front of ‘The Windows of the Tobacco Shop’… [They] work in dull offices, or for tailors, ironmongers, or small shopkeepers. Like Ptolemy Philomiter, they are often forced to beg. Like Antiochos Epiphanis’ beloved, they give their perfect bodies for the rewards of this world. The mood is the same, but Greater Greece is so much smaller than it was.”
Ultimately, Cavafy’s erotic poems and historical verse are products of a singular vision, one which explores, in various ways, the gratifications, and ramifications, of the pursuit of pleasure. Eroticism, history, and death are all part of what George Seferis, writing in On the Greek Style, calls “Cavafy’s panorama,” and he observes, “All these things together make up the experience of his sensibility—uniform, contemporary, simultaneous, expressed by his historical self.”Cavafy’s consciously individual style earned him a place among the most important figures not only in Greek poetry, but in Western poetry as a whole. C P Cavafy , in 1929Afternoon Sun touching half of the bed
The Afternoon Sun : : Constantine Peter Cavafy (1863-1933) : : Translated by Edmund Keeley : : : : : : : : : : : : This room, how well I know it. Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it, as offices. The whole house has become an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.
This room, how familiar it is.
The couch was here, near the door, a Turkish carpet in front of it. Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases. On the right—no, opposite—a wardrobe with a mirror. In the middle the table where he wrote, and the three big wicker chairs. Beside the window the bed where we made love so many times.
They must still be around somewhere, those old things.
Beside the window the bed; the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.
. . . One afternoon at four o’clock we separated for a week only. . . And then— that week became forever. — C. P. Cavafy : : From”The City” from C.P. Cavafy: “Collected Poems”,Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Translation published by Princeton University Press, 1975 : : From : poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.
“The Afternoon Sun”,By Constantine Peter Cavafy (April 17, 1863- April 29, 1933) (“a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe.”as described by his friend E M Forster ) : Translated by Edmund Keeley, is About An Instance of The Poet Speaker’s Unhappy Separation exactly at 4 O’clock proven forever , from his beloved person describing the room , the bed beside the window 🪟 where the afternoon sun used to touch half of the bed ; the two divisions of the memory of the bed is suggestive of physical separation partially , by the interval before the event of revisiting of the place of love. : : Cavafy completed 155 poems, while dozens more remain incomplete or in sketch form. He consistently refused to publish his work in books, preferring to share it through local newspapers and magazines, or even print it himself and give it away to anyone who might be interested. His most important poems were written after his fortieth birthday, and were published two years after his death. : : In “The Afternoon Sun”, Cavafy reminisces sorrowful memories about the room – now part of an office complex – that was once a familiar yet unfortunate home. It’s his emotional worldview watched right from the foyer of the house and then thoroughly in comparison to the new changed look that remains reflecting the grief instantaneously. : : : : Involving the readers fast with final concluding in a touching manner that The Poet Speaker’s Week-long Separation exactly occurred at 4 O’clock ( that is an end of Afternoon , and a start of an Evening ) “became forever.” ♾️. : “One afternoon at four o’clock we separated for a week only. . . And then— that week became forever.” : : : :
“Afternoon ☀️ Sun” , An Afternoon Poem By C P Cavafy Information ℹ️ Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 27 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Last Lesson Of The Afternoon : : By D. H. Lawrence ( 1885–1930 ) : : : : : : : : :
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness? How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart, My pack of unruly hounds! I cannot start Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, I can haul them and urge them no more. 5
No longer now can I endure the brunt Of the books that lie out on the desks; a full threescore Of several insults of blotted pages, and scrawl Of slovenly work that they have offered me. I am sick, and what on earth is the good of it all? 10 What good to them or me, I cannot see!
So, shall I take My last dear fuel of life to heap on my soul And kindle my will to a flame that shall consume Their dross of indifference; and take the toll 15 Of their insults in punishment? — I will not! —
I will not waste my soul and my strength for this. What do I care for all that they do amiss! What is the point of this teaching of mine, and of this Learning of theirs? It all goes down the same abyss. 20
What does it matter to me, if they can write A description of a dog, or if they can’t? What is the point? To us both, it is all my aunt! And yet I’m supposed to care, with all my might.
I do not, and will not; they won’t and they don’t; and that’s all! 25 I shall keep my strength for myself; they can keep theirs as well. Why should we beat our heads against the wall Of each other? I shall sit and wait for the bell. 28
“Last Lesson Of The Afternoon”, A 28 Lines ( Initial Version ) / 23 lines ( Revised version ) , Afternoon Poem By A Great influencing English Writer D H Lawrence ( 1885 – 1930 ) is About A teacher exhausted with his thoughtless class of 60 students. Published in Lawrence’s “Love Poems”. It is in one of the three sections in the volume titled, “The Schoolmaster”: HERE In ABOVE is A longer six stanza version, later revised by Lawrence, as well. Lawrence addresses themes of education, emotional wellness, and duty of A Teacher. His Speaker is aware of his duties to his school and his students Yet , finds that it is beyond him to educate his dull and lustreless students who don’t want to learn. He is tired as they snub his instructions. In the end, he challenges the probity and propriety , in a way, of the Teaching Profession by posing a question ❓ ” Why should we beat our heads against the wall 27 Of each other? I shall sit and wait for the bell.” 28 : : This questioning prepares him to 🛑 stop and drop out of the pace in his teaching efforts, with a view to sustaining his strength and preserving for something loveable ; instead of hateful dislikes and a detested rude graffiti of the Books lying on the desk ( and by a reader’s imagination, perhaps of the classroom blackboard , and learning notes !? ) : : The Speaker is thus gaining with his eyes open , alongside his new 🆕 insight ; As he finally says, ( in the 2 Nd revised version of the Poem ) “.. . for I will keep 20 Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell 21 It all for them, I should hate them – 22 – I will sit and wait for the bell. 23 : : : :
Given HERE In BELOW is The revised two-stanza version which is more concise and includes powerfully, the gist core of the poem with an additional metaphor of likening the soul to embers of a fire. Get this in lines 17 & 20 : : : : : :
Afternoon in School : : The Last Lesson : : : : : When will the bell ring, and end this weariness? 1 How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart 2 My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start 3 Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, 4 I can haul them and urge them no more. 5 No more can I endure to bear the brunt 6 Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score 7 Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl 8 Of slovenly work that they have offered me. 9 I am sick, and tired more than any thrall 10 Upon the woodstacks working weariedly. 11
And shall I take 12 The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul 13 Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume 14 Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll 15 Of their insults in punishment? – I will not! 16 I will not waste myself to embers for them, 17 Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot, 18 For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep 19 Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep 20 Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell 21 It all for them, I should hate them – 22 – I will sit and wait for the bell. 23
Stanza 1 : : “When will the bell ring, and end this weariness? 1 How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart 2 My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start 3 Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, 4 I can haul them and urge them no more.” 5 : lines 1 To 5 : : : :
About Notes .. . Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India July 26 , 2023 : : : :
Emily Dickinson ( 1830 – 1886 ) : : Photo by Wendy Maeda/The Boston Globe via Getty Images : : A daguerrotype type of Emily Dickinson at the age 16 , displayed at the Emily Dickinson Museum in Amherst , Wednesday , September 4 , 2013. Berlin Cathedral : Afternoon lights Birmingham Cathedra : East Facade , Misty November of One Winter Afternoon.
There’s a certain Slant of light, (320) : : BY EMILY DICKINSON( December 10 1830 – May 15, 1886 ) There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – We can find no scar, But internal difference – Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any – ‘Tis the seal Despair – An imperial affliction Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens – Shadows – hold their breath – When it goes, ’tis like the Distance On the look of Death – — Emily Dickinson : : THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON: READING EDITION, edited by Ralph W. Franklin, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999 : : : : From : poetryfoundation.org : : : : For Educational Purposes only.
“There’s a certain Slant of light”, A four quatrains , ‘Lyrical’ ( Afternoon ) Poem By American Poet, Emily Dickinson, is About Religion and Death in connection to the theological concept of ‘despair’ as commented by Vendler, Helen (2010) in her book ( Dickinson: Selected Poems and Commentaries. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press. pp. 126–129. The Poet Speaker likens winter sunlight to cathedral music, and considers the spiritual effects of the 🚨 light.It was published posthumously in 1890 by her friends Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson in Poems by Emily Dickinson: Series 1 as the 31st poem in section three: Nature. In their edition it was given the title “Winter.” Thereafter, Published again in Thomas H. Johnson’s 1955 collection at No 258 : The Poems of Emily Dickinson & W. Franklin’s 1998 edition The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition, at No. 320 as in the chronological compilation (s). The metrical pattern resembles ballad meter (4-3-4-3), Stanzas two and three appear to shorten the beginning of each line (3-3-4-3), End-rhyme follows a scheme of abcb defe ghih jklk, a typical ballad pattern. The information about the poem given HERE In BELOW are as per the Wikipedia’s Article. : : : : : : : : : : : : There is alliteration, consonance, and assonance scattered throughout the poem. There is idiosyncratic capitalization, especially for nouns. The initial simile of winter light “that oppresses, like the Heft / Of Cathedral Tunes -” This simile creates a synesthetic effect, mixing sound, sight, and weight.. . This simile first introduces religious connotations to the poem. Literary critic Helen Vendler has noted in Dickinson: Selected Poems and Commentaries that “Despair” was commonly known in the 19th century as one of two sins that could prevent someone from entering Heaven, the other being “Presumption.” With Vendler’s interpretation, Dickinson conceptualizes this religious Despair, the ultimate loss of hope, to what one feels at the onset of winter by connecting abstract terms to sensory details, such as “Slant of light” to “Heavenly Hurt” and “Shadows” to “the look of Death.” Other scholars, such as Paula Bennett in Emily Dickinson: Woman Poet, have explored the inaccessibility of the poem without a grounded speaker or setting and the ambiguous nature of the “hurt” and “imperial affliction” described by the speaker.
“Afternoon” light and the indirect nature of the poems discussion of death, Thomas H. Johnson has also noted that the term “slant” can have a mocking tone when defined as an oblique reflection or gibe. [failed verification] Thus the light and the heavenly hurt it causes may be interpreted as mocking, much like man’s awareness of the irreversible Fall to mortality, which is the ultimate despair, especially if redemption is not an option. This realization may set an irrevocable seal of despair upon a person, but since it is “Sent us of the Air” it is still heavenly, and the seal of ecstasy may yet be waiting—though this poem does not touch on that alternative.
There is also personification in the poem as the landscape “listens” and the shadows “hold their breath,” to a degree that it seems as though the landscape is the protagonist in the absence of any human figures in the poem. The pathos of the landscape and shadows waiting to disappear when the already slanting light is finally gone parallels how despair reduces spiritual hope. The poem contrasts transformations in both the intangible, interior world and the exterior world in order to show the relationship between them. It is indeterminate whether the speaker’s despair is inspired by the landscape or whether the ominous appearance of the landscape is a projection of the speaker’s despair. Scholar Sharon Cameron, however, notes in Lyric Time: Dickinson and the Limits of Genre that the poem enacts both of these impressions, expressing how interior changes may be invisible, but they are affected by the visible, exterior world.
Donald E. Thackrey referred to “There’s a certain Slant of light” as one of Dickinson’s best lyric poems for its force of emotion but resistance to definitive statements on meaning. He likened it to Keats’s “Ode to Melancholy,” claiming that although it is less specific, it transmits the experience of the emotion just as effectively. He further claims that the poem contains none of the self-conscious mannerisms some of her other work exhibits.
Critic Charles R. Anderson, in Emily Dickinson’s Poetry: Stairway of Surprise, claimed it was Dickinson’s “finest poem on despair.” Similarly, Inder Nath Kher, in The Landscape of Absence: Emily Dickinson’s Poetry, lauds it as one of Emily Dickinson’s best poems and a well-balanced expression of absence and presence.
Ernest Sandeen, in his essay “Delight Deterred by Retrospect,” called “There’s a certain Slant of light” Dickinson’s best poem on the winter season for the ways in which it goes beyond mere description of winter to embody more metaphysical subjects.
Critic Yvor Winters claims in ‘In Defense of Reason’ that it is amongst three of Dickinson’s most successful poems, alongside “A Light exists in Spring” and “As imperceptibly as grief.” Winters also claims that despite some defects in her writing, Emily Dickinson is the greatest lyric poet of all time.
Notes for each of the Quatrains Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India July 25 , 2023 : : : :
The Lotos-eaters BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON “Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more”; And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
CHORIC SONG I There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.”
II Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!” Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other’s whisper’d speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap’d over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change: For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: ‘Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald-colour’d water falling Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.
VIII The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
“Frosted Horse Rests After Pulling a Sled Loaded Down with Firewood” as photographed by George Silk, Life Magazine Archives. : : From allpoetry.com For Educational Purposes only.
*January Morning : : By Archibald Lampman , Morpeth, Ontario : .. . .. . .. . .. . The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn Black chimney builds into the quiet sky Its curling pile to crumble silently. Far out to westward on the edge of morn, The slender misty city towers up-borne Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue; And yonder on those northern hills, the hue Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn. And here behind me come the woodmen’s sleighs With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain, Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze, Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team, With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam. Composition date is unknown – the above date represents the first publication date. — Archibald Lampman Sonnet Form : : abbaaccadeedff
** February Morning : : By Robert Laurence Binyon : : : : ………………. .,…………….. ………
Peacefully fresh, O February morn, Thy winds come to me: quiet the light slants Through silver–bosomed clouds, that slowly borne Across the wide heath, endlessly advance.
Now ’tis that pause before the leaping Spring, When over all things waiting comes a hush; And shyly, listen! the one vocal thing, Over his dewy notes lingers the thrush.
Now life, with all her hindering riddles, seems Simple as its green budding to the tree. Awhile the Fates forbear, and to my dreams, Sheltered awhile from truth, relinquish me.
In haven and at anchor rides my heart, And broods upon its swelling joys apart.
— Robert Laurence Binyon
*** On A Cool February Morning : : By Juan Olivaraze , nyssa oregon : : : : …………………
On a cool February morning The buds playing pick a boo. The thrush in the Fairy Castle, Smiled and said ‘how do you do’?
It looks like winter up and went. And just exited stage right. And he preened his feathers carefully, In the early morning light.
And he said, look at the yuccas Gigantic candles all ablaze. Stretching high towards the heavens, This is a magical place.
Then he turned to say good morning, To the finch and the titmouse, The latter in a checkered vest, And the finch in yellow blouse.
Then they all went for a bath, Neath the big huisache tree. resplendent as a yellow cloud, All a swarm with honeybees.
Then from out the ebony’s branches, Came the butterflies of white. So much like it’s fuzzy flowers, And as awkward in their flight.
They decended in the clearing, And landed on the Texas sage. To feast on the blood red flowers, As their lives turned a new page.
And the thrush looked up and caught my eye, As he splashed round with his friends, And I smiled despite myself, This indeed is Winters end.
NOTES : The Huisache, pronounced wee satch a is a tree native to Texas that provides both sustenance and shelter for a variety of wildlife. The Fairy Castle is a member of the Cereus night blooming cactus family. ( Poet’s Notes for the poem )
— Juan Olivarez
**** February Morning Poem : : by Ben myles , London : : : : ………………………..
I had a dream last night that I saw you at the shopping mall. I, as an unemployed man, panhandling, and playing guitar to make money for soup and a sandwich. You, a beautifully average girl, something struck me as special.
Somehow, we knew eachother, between the way you looked at me and the way I looked back at you, there was no need for words, we hugged like two lovers in a train station upon a spouses return.
To prove my love for you, I carved your name into my guitar, I loved that guitar, I loved you.
I awoke, to my alarm, my parents wishing eachother a happy valentines day.
I didn’t want to go to school.
— Ben myles
V : : February : : BY MARGARET ATWOOD Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am He’ll think of something. He settles on my chest, breathing his breath of burped-up meat and musty sofas, purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run. Some cat owners around here should snip a few testicles. If we wise hominids were sensible, we’d do that too, or eat our young, like sharks. But it’s love that does us in. Over and over again, He shoots, he scores! and famine crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits thirty below, and pollution pours out of our chimneys to keep us warm. February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar. Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole. Off my face! You’re the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring. Margaret Atwood, “February” from Morning in the Burned House. Used by permission of — Margaret Atwood : : From Morning in the Burned House (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1995) : From poetryfoundation.org : : For Educational Purposes only.
MARCH by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Dear March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat — You must have walked — How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell!
I got your letter, and the birds’; The maples never knew That you were coming, — I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me — And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.
V* : : March Morning : : By Edna Mead : : : : : : A pale sun glints across the swirling drifts, Bent trees are crackling with a silver load, A wild gale shrieks in mischief as it lifts A stinging screen of flakes across the road. It seems midwinter still, and still the world Lies wrapped in sleep upon the year’s high shelf, But March is such a rogue, his challenge hurled In fury cannot hide his other self. A softer azure tints the sky’s cold blue, Sometimes, for moments, all the wind is quiet, Ice jewels melt to tears the rendezvous Of ruffled sparrows teems with April riot. Still roars the lion, but the lamb is bolder, The madness has a subtle touch of play, The night was Winter, but the Spring grown older, Knows what a sham of Winter is today.
V** : : A March Morning Poem : by Paul Reed:
Everything is ready As I take the morning air Everything is in front of me As Spring begins it’s repair Every shimmy in the hedgerow Denotes an impatient life Knowing so much is to happen soon Hearts brimming and hopes rife; A cocktail of high and scattered songs Gifted from this little commune The wren’s flurry of happy notes The blackbird’s rich and merry tune; Were our breasts as bursting as theirs Of such energy and joy Were our steps as sure as theirs Along their hidden branches coy; Grant that their bold newness of life Makes our lives more whole And that their morning melody Be planted in our souls
— Paul Reed
V*** : : Late March BY EDWARD HIRSCH Saturday morning in late March. I was alone and took a long walk, though I also carried a book of the Alone, which companioned me.
The day was clear, unnaturally clear, like a freshly wiped pane of glass, a window over the water, and blue, preternaturally blue, like the sky in a Magritte painting, and cold, vividly cold, so that you could clap your hands and remember winter, which had left a few moments ago— if you strained you could almost see it disappearing over the hills in a black parka. Spring was coming but hadn’t arrived yet. I walked on the edge of the park. The wind whispered a secret to the trees, which held their breath and scarcely moved. On the other side of the street, the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe.
I walked down to the pier to watch the launching of a passenger ship. Ice had broken up on the river and the water rippled smoothly in blue light. The moon was a faint smudge in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought in the vacant mind of the sky. Seagulls materialized out of vapor amidst the masts and flags. Don’t let our voices die on land, they cawed, swooping down for fish and then soaring back upwards.
The kiosks were opening and couples moved slowly past them, arm in arm, festive. Children darted in and out of walkways, which sprouted with vendors. Voices greeted the air. Kites and balloons. Handmade signs. Voyages to unknown places. The whole day had the drama of an expectation.
Down at the water, the queenly ship started moving away from the pier. Banners fluttered. The passengers clustered at the rails on deck. I stood with the people on shore and waved goodbye to the travelers. Some were jubilant; others were broken-hearted. I have always been both.
Suddenly, a great cry went up. The ship set sail for the horizon and rumbled into the future but the cry persisted and cut the air like an iron bell ringing in an empty church. I looked around the pier but everyone else was gone and I was left alone to peer into the ghostly distance. I had no idea where that ship was going but I felt lucky to see it off and bereft when it disappeared. — Edward Hirsch, “Late March” From ‘Poetry’ Magazine (July/August ’07) Source: Poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.
Picture design By Anumita Roy : From differenttruths.com : ( For Educational Purposes only.): : Bushra Alvi Razzack, Founder of Delhi by Verse, loves weaving words, emotions and opinions while creating rhythm and imagery to make sense. She is the Editor of multilingual anthology, Dilliwali: Celebrating the Woman of Delhi through Poetry. In the evocative poem , ” A Magical March Morning”, As HERE In BELOW, Bushra serenades the magical March morning, in all its beauty – exclusively for Different Truths.
*X : : And gently blows the warm March breeze as leaves come fluttering down creating a carpet of gold luxuriously laid out on the path beyond my gate beckoning me with urgency…
And as I step out and feel the crunch beneath my feet a smile plays on my lips as down the winding lane I spy a little girl jumping with glee, as she piles the leafy gold into a generous golden heap…
Yellow leaves, crispy leaves dancing, twirling, merry leaves – leaves that speak of a life that was making way for new life to bloom leaves that annoy some genteel folk bring smiles to those with gentle hearts leaves that whisper secret leaves that hold intrigue leaves that crackle with every touch leaves so delicate, they’ll turn to dust…
The golden heap gets higher still I watch her merrily prance around her tinkling laugh pervades the air the birds around chirp along and as on that scene, my eyes, I feast, my heart, too, bursts into a joyous song!
X : : An April Morning : : By Bliss Carman : : :: Once more in misted April The world is growing green. Along the winding river The plumey willows lean. Beyond the sweeping meadows The looming mountains rise, Like battlements of dreamland Against the brooding skies. In every wooded valley The buds are breaking through, As though the heart of all things No languor ever knew. The golden-wings and bluebirds Call to their heavenly choirs. The pines are blued and drifted With smoke of brushwood fires. And in my sister’s garden Where little breezes run, The golden daffodillies Are blowing in the sun.
X* It Was An April Morning: Fresh And Clear: William Wordsworth ,Cumberland England : : …………………………………………….
It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man’s speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.–Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But ’twas the foliage of the rocks–the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, ‘Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.’ —-Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.
— William Wordsworth
X** : : April Morning BY JONATHAN WELLS You are living the life you wanted as if you’d known what that was but of course you didn’t so you’d groped toward it feeling for what you couldn’t imagine, what your hands couldn’t tell you, for what that shape could be.
This Sunday the rain turns cold again and steady but the window is slightly open and there is the vaguest sense of bird song somewhere in the gaps between the buildings because it’s spring the calendar says and the room where you are reading is empty yet full of what loves you and this is the day that you were born. — Jonathan Wells, “April Morning” from Debris. ( Fourway Books , 2021 ) http://www.fourwaybooks.com. : From poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.
X ***April : By James Schuyler ( 1923 – 1991 )
The morning sky is clouding up and what is that tree, dressed up in white? The fruit tree, French pear. Sulphur- yellow bees stud the forsythia canes leaning down into the transfer across the park. And trees in skimpy flower bud suggest the uses of paint thinner, so fine the net they cast upon the wind. Cross-pollination is the order of the fragrant day. That was yesterday: today is May, not April and the magnolias open their goblets up and an unseen precipitation fills them. A gray day in May. — From Other Flowers by James Schuyler Farrar, Straus and Giroux. : From poets.org : For Educational Purposes only.
*XV : : “Yonder see the morning blink”By A E Housman : :
Yonder See the Morning
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what’s to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I’ve done my best
And all’s to do again.
— A.E. Housman
“Everyday Poem” About “Ten thousand times I’ve done my best / And all’s to do again” : is the repellent and unpleasant JobEvaluation of the sad and sorrowing daily routine that involve washing , dressing , eating , drinking , looking at things , talking and ofcourse thinking and working. The Speaker starts his day with seeing Morning Sun ,” yonderly “, that is at or in an indicated place , and then follow up with the daily set routine, not knowing why ? Only God knows it why ! He is upset with all this . And says, “what’s to show for all my pain?” : : And decides in the last in his words , ” Let me lie abed and rest:” The ordinariness of the mundane existence with resultant pain and anguish 😦😧 may invoke laughter. : : However, As it is said , ” Even In Laughter , Heart is Sorrowful”
