A poem about early spring, by Rainer Maria Rilke

Happy Monday! Or is it happy? 馃槈 Today I wanted to share a poem by one of my favorite authors/poets, Rainer Maria Rilke, a German poet who was famous at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries. He wrote one of my favorite poems, The Duino Elegies. Here’s a simple one he wrote about spring!

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A poem for your weekend: ‘Hope is the Thing with Feathers’

Hands up if you love Emily Dickinson. I thought I’d share a favorite poem of mine today, one that I constantly think of, “Hope is the Thing with Feathers.”聽I love the imagery of hope being a bird, a bird that never asks anything in return, and always comes back to help those who need it most. Just reading this poem is enough to infuse some happiness and hope in me, and it’s ironic and lovely that this poem is, in essence, hope. At least for me! It always lifts my spirits.

I absolutely adore this poem, and I know so many of you do, too! Enjoy, and have a wonderful Saturday! I’ll be celebrating Fourth of July here in the States, so just a lot of barbecue, beach, and beer. = perfect. 馃槈Read More 禄

Happy May Day // a Sappho poem for you

Today is May Day, a day I have recently associated with spending time with my sisters, usually putzing around the Bronx Botanical Gardens and eating takeout, or聽reading my favorite books. May is my favorite month of the year; somehow it always seems magical to me, and May Day is an ancient, pagan ritual that goes back centuries. Now, we celebrate it for fun, but it used to mean a lot to a lot of our ancestors.

It was originally a celebration of spring and a day to worship Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers. It was also associated, at times, with witches and the occult, whether it was positively skewed (as in healers and mystics) or negatively (during Puritan times).
But that’s all in the past. Anyway, I digress. I would like to share a poem here from one of my favorite poets, Sappho. Her work only exists in fragments, but her capacity to describe love, desire, heartbreak, and the strength of nature is undiminished despite the works’ brevity. Her work reminds me of spring, so it seems fitting to share here on May Day.

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‘Modern Love,’ a poem by John Keats

Happy Sunday, everyone! Here’s a poem I love.

An English major in college, I had the chance to read and analyze a lot of Romantic poetry, which was the kind of literature I took the most classes in鈥攊t’s my favorite. And because I probably would never have gotten around the reading Romantic literature/poetry in my actual, everyday life, I was happy that I got to do it in college, when I was forced to! It introduced me to some of my favorite poems, this one included.

By John Keats, this poem is called “Modern Love,” and it is cynical as hell. I am so not a cynic, but I love this poem聽because it’s as if Keats is knocking love because he wants to understand it. And if you know much about Keats, he eventually falls desperately in love with a woman named Fanny Brawne. And then he dies. -___-

Modern Lovekeats

AND what is love? It is a doll dress’d up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss’s comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warm’d the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play’d deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I’ll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

I think there’s some truth in this poem: that a lot of people think they’re in love because they like the idea of it. They think they’re like Romeo and Juliet, or Antony and Cleopatra. But it makes them fools, because they don’t understand real love, just the appearance of it. I think that’s still relevant today, making the title even more striking. What Keats thought in the 1800s still makes sense in our world.

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Helen of Troy, as told by Margaret Atwood: a poem

Today I wanted to share one of my favorite poems ever. This is “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing” by Margaret Atwood. I’ve been thinking a lot about this poem recently, because I’m reading this book about Helen of Troy through the ages, Beauty, Myth, Devastation by Ruby Blondell.

I first read this poem in college and since Helen of Troy is a source of constant fascination to me, I wanted to share this fantastic, amazing poem and my thoughts. My last essay I ever wrote as an undergrad dealt with Helen and this poem, and it’s been dear to me ever since.

Here it is:

Helen_of_TroyThe world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look鈥攎y feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.

I love this poem because it’s somewhat an updated interpretation of Helen of Troy’s persona for the 20th century, and also because it makes clear that Helen is still relevant today. We still struggle with gender inequality, and as a society, women are still objectified and reduced to something less than human for expressing sexuality, and are demonized for practicing聽agency.

Gender norms and sex politics are all there in the story of Helen of Troy, and Margaret Atwood’s take just makes that so much clearer in this poem, rich and striking and beautiful and uncomfortable.

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Sunday Inspiration | A poem by John Milton

20140723_143530Today鈥檚 post is a poem by John Milton. Milton is one of my favorite poets because of Paradise Lost, one of my favorite works of literature ever. I took a class in my senior year of college based entirely on Milton (shoutout to my amazing professor at Fordham University) and in the first week or so of class, she assigned Sonnet VII to us, written by Milton when he was 23 years old:

SONNET VII.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF 23.

HOW soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,
聽聽聽聽聽Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
聽聽聽聽聽My hasting days fly on with full career,
聽聽聽聽聽But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
聽聽聽聽聽That I to manhood am arrived so near,
聽聽聽聽聽And inward ripeness doth much less appear
聽聽聽聽聽That some more timely happy spirits indueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
聽聽聽聽聽It shall be still in strictest measure even
聽聽聽聽聽To that same lot however mean or high,
Toward which time leads me and the will of heaven.
聽聽聽聽聽All is, if I have grace to use it so,
聽聽聽聽聽As ever in my great taskmaster鈥檚 eye.

In case you鈥檙e like, 鈥渦gh poetry,鈥 this poem is basically about the fear and anxiety Milton feels at having accomplished little by this age, and it鈥檚 also about the future that he knows is his: a literary career. 鈥淭oward which time leads me and the will of heaven鈥 is basically like, 鈥淚 know I haven鈥檛 done much to further my career right now, but I know that I will soon be working toward my destiny, because God wills it.鈥

At this time, Milton was 23 and all his friends were publishing while Milton was at home just reading and studying. His friends were like, 鈥淏ro. What are you doing with your life?鈥 And he was defending himself against their criticism, expressing anxiety, but also asserting his opinion that he wasn鈥檛 wasting his time studying, learning, and reading: he knew that his future held something good, and he was okay taking his time to get there, as long as he was quietly (and slowly) working. Also, he was like, “Dudes, get off my back. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

I picked this poem to share today because I鈥檓 23, and I feel such anxiety sometimes about the future 鈥 I think all of us do. I think it鈥檚 sort of inspiring and comforting to know that one of the most successful English poets ever felt totally lost at 23, too. I keep remembering this poem even though I first read it over two years ago, and it鈥檚 a nice reminder that as long as I keep working, it鈥檚 okay if I don鈥檛 have everything figured out all at once. Yaknow?

Happy Sunday and have a great week!signoff

Love for my favorite poem, ‘The Lady of Shalott’

When I was about 12/13 years old, I read the book by Libba Bray,聽A Great and Terrible Beauty.聽It’s fairly famous now, but it was a new release in 2003, about a young Victorian girl with strange, magical powers. And printed before the book began was a passage from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott.” It became one of my favorite poems.

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Here’s one of my favorite passages, which was also the one included in the Bray book:

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

* * *

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

The Lady of Shalott is based on an Arthurian figure named Elaine of Astolat, who wastes away for love of Lancelot. In the poem, she’s cursed to remain in her tower forever. If she leaves, she will die. In the second part of the poem she declares she would rather die than stay trapped in her tower forever, and she dies while floating on a river. On a boat, her body floats to shore where Lancelot sees her and just says she’s pretty.聽Men! 馃槈

The Lady of Shalott is so聽tragic and dazzlingly beautiful, and it was my favorite poem when I was 13, and it still is my favorite poem at 23. When I was 19 I got “I am half sick of shadows” tattooed on my ribs and I have a print of Waterhouse’s聽The Lady of Shalott聽hanging in my bedroom. Something about the Lady’s strength, courage and helpless love touched me, and it still does.

I really resonated with her choice to leave her tower and let the curse come upon her. She chooses to live for a short time outside her tower, rather than live for a long time as a prisoner of her curse, never experiencing life or chasing what she truly desires. I think that’s a theme that still means a lot to me today.

Read the whole thing here.

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Happy Memorial Day! Here, have a lovely poem by Lord Byron

Lord Byron is one of those poets everyone knows just a little bit about, but usually not enough to really get to know his work. So when I went to this used bookstore last month, I bought this very, very old collection of his poetry to get more acquainted with Byron. These are my favorite kinds of books: the ones that have seen fifty, seventy-five, one hundred years of being read by dozens of different people. Pages brown and peeling, with the spine only hanging on by a thread! They’re always so beautiful to me. This one wasn’t worth anything (I bought it for $6.50) but the charm is how old it is. The gold lettering on the front is my favorite part:聽IMG_0830

So, in honor of the rowdy Lord Byron, here’s one of his more popular poems, “She Walks In Beauty,” the first line of which I once saw printed on stickers around the city (it was really cool). Such a beautiful poem written by such a rakish fellow, the world’s first “rock star,” so to speak!

She Walks In Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
聽聽聽Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that鈥檚 best of dark and bright
聽聽聽Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
聽聽聽Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
聽聽聽Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
聽聽聽Or softly lightens o鈥檈r her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
聽聽聽How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o鈥檈r that brow,
聽聽聽So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
聽聽聽But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
聽聽聽A heart whose love is innocent!
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A poem by Sappho

Sappho is one of my favorite poets, and every time I open my book of her poems, I’m always entranced by the ethereal, dreamlike nature of her work. Of course, Sappho’s work only exists in teeny fragments, but even though the verses are cut off at their knees, it’s still possible to understand the beauty and passion behind her work. Her voice is so raw, honest, and evocative.聽Her poems also remind me of spring, with images of nightingales, sunlight, the moon and stars, flowers and grass.

sappho1Here’s one of my absolute favorite poem fragments:

As Long As There Is Breath

You might wish
a little
to be carried off

Someone
sweeter
you also know

forgot

and would say
yes
I shall love 聽 聽 as long as there is breath in me
and care
I say I have been a strong lover

hurt
bitter
and know this

no matter
I shall love

from Sweetbitter Love: Poems of Sappho translated by Willis Barnstone

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Chasing Inspiration

I’ve always found that reading a favorite poet or novel can seriously help with lagging inspiration. I usually turn to Rilke or Tennyson for that little oomph I need. Reading Rilke’s poems, I came across one that I hadn’t read before, one that I loved and put me in the right mood for writing:

[Dove that ventured outside]

Dove that ventured outside,      flying far from the dovecote:
housed and protected again,      one with the day, the night,
knows what serenity is,      for she has felt her wings
pass through all distance and fear      in the course of her wanderings.

The doves that remained at home,      never exposed to loss,
innocent and secure,      cannot know tenderness;
only the won-back heart      can ever be satisfied: free,
through all it has given up,      to rejoice in its mastery.

Being arches itself      over the vast abyss.
Ah the ball that we dared,      that we hurled into infinite space,
doesn鈥檛 it fill our hands      differently with its return:
heavier by the weight      of where it has been.

I’ve also always loved the idea of pulling titles from poems that have inspired and informed your writing. As NaNoWriMo winds down (as does my word count), I find that I have to push myself and find ways to give myself energy. The initial excitement has dissipated, but little things can help prolong the energy. Rilke is always one of them.