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A poem a day, complete with analysis, criticism, biographical info, literary anecdotes, trivia, and our own skewed sense of humour :-)

Older PostsThe Word -- Tony Hoagland

Guest poem submitted by Rachel Morarjee:

(Poem #1969) The Word

 Down near the bottom of the crossed-out list of things you have to do today, between green thread and broccoli you find that you have penciled sunlight. Resting on the page, the word is as beautiful, it touches you as if you had a friend and sunlight were a present he had sent you from some place distant as this morning -- to cheer you up, and to remind you that, among your duties, pleasure is a thing, that also needs accomplishing Do you remember? that time and light are kinds of love, and love is no less practical than a coffee grinder or a safe spare tire? Tomorrow you may be utterly without a clue but today you get a telegram, from the heart in exile proclaiming that the kingdom still exists, the king and queen alive, still speaking to their children, - to any one among them who can find the time, to sit out in the sun and listen.

-- Tony Hoagland

I stumbled across this poem today, in a book given to me by a friend inAfghanistan, where I now live, and where the stream of news is endlesslydepressing. It was a reminder, that each one of us, whereever we live,needs a gentle prod to remember that within the daily grind of modernlife, pleasure/ is a thing / that also needsaccomplishing.This poem is from Tony Hoaglands first anthology Sweet Ruin, and isperhaps the most unalloyed and directly sweet poem he has written, incontrast to much of his other work which addresses the bitter humour ofdisillusion and the hearts struggle to clamber over the accumulateddetritus of disappointment -- and does it with a light humourous touch.Sweet Ruin won the 1992 Brittingham Prize in Poetry and Hoagland hassince published two other books, Donkey Gospel, and What NarcissismMeans to Me. On the back of the last book it said he teaches at theUniversity of Houston, but I wasnt able to check online from here today.Rachel.

Posted onSunday, January 21, 2007

See 3929 comments ( or Leave a comment ) The Old Fools -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Radhika Gowaikar:

(Poem #1968) The Old Fools

 What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose Its more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and cant remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy theres really been no change, And theyve always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they dont (and they cant), its strange;                        Why arent they screaming? At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. Its only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you cant pretend Therell be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that theyre for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -                        How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside your head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet cant quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the suns Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once.                        This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinctions alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well,                        We shall find out.

-- Philip Larkin

The last two poems brought to mind this one. As in some of his otherpoems, Larkin starts brashly, perhaps even offensively. But by the timehe is done we are given an intimate view of what it must be like tohave lighted rooms / Inside your head and trying to be there / Yetbeing here. The analogy of death with a peak is quite unusual (I amsure I have never seen it before) and works perfectly with the constantwear and tear / Of taken breath. The last line is pure Larkin. It israther a long poem, but we are in good hands. Do read it aloud.--radhika.

Posted onSaturday, January 13, 2007

See 2115 comments ( or Leave a comment ) A Winter Ode to the Old Men of Lummus Park, Miami, Florida -- Donald Justice

Guest poem submitted by David W:

(Poem #1967) A Winter Ode to the Old Men of Lummus Park, Miami, Florida

 Risen from rented rooms, old ghosts Come back to haunt our parks by day, They crept up Fifth Street through the crowd, Unseeing and almost unseen, Halting before the shops for breath, Still proud, pretending to admire The fat hens dressed and hung for flies There, or perhaps the lone, dead fern Dressing the window of a small Hotel. Winter had blown them south-- How many? Twelve in Lummus Park I counted, shivering where they stood, A little thicket of thin trees, And more on benches, turning with The sun, wan heliotropes, all day. O you who wear against the breast The torturous flannel undervest Winter and summer, yet are cold, Poor cracked thermometers stuck now At zero everlastingly, Old men, bent like your walking sticks As with the pressure of some hand, Surely they must have thought you strong To lean on you so hard, so long!

-- Donald Justice

Donald Justice might be my favorite poet.  Its difficult to say forsure, but I can say that his work has influenced me more than anyothers.  He is the master of nostalgia, but I think that the intimacyand elegance of his work are the major allures for me.  Here is one ofmy favorites. It isnt anthologized as much as some others.If anybody has ever used the word heliotropes with more effect, Ihavent seen it.  He slips that Latinate polysyllable in, but you mightnotice its a little lonely.  The simplicity of his language may be partof what makes it feel intimate.  One of his more popular poems Men AtForty is similar in this respect.If you are interested, here is a short bio for Justice:  http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/39David.[Minstrels Links]Donald Justice:  Poem #503: Anonymous Drawing  Poem #1343: Poem to be read at 3am  Poem #1647: Men at Forty

Posted onFriday, January 12, 2007

See 1819 comments ( or Leave a comment ) Hello In There -- John Prine

Guest poem submitted by Rama Rao:

(Poem #1966) Hello In There

 We had an apartment in the city, Me and Loretta liked living there. Well, itd been years since the kids had grown, A life of their own left us alone. John and Linda live in Omaha, And Joe is somewhere on the road. We lost Davy in the Korean war, And I still dont know what for, dont matter anymore. Ya know that old trees just grow stronger, And old rivers grow wilder evry day. Old people just grow lonesome Waiting for someone to say, Hello in there, hello. Me and Loretta, we dont talk much more, She sits and stares through the back door screen. And all the news just repeats itself Like some forgotten dream that weve both seen. Someday Ill go and call up Rudy, We worked together at the factory. But what could I say if asks Whats new? Nothing, whats with you? Nothing much to do. So if youre walking down the street sometime And spot some hollow ancient eyes, Please dont just pass em by and stare As if you didnt care, say, Hello in there, hello.

-- John Prine

I am  a little surprised not to see John Prine on the Minstrels. Hailedby some on his debut as the next Dylan  he has had many of his folksylyrics sung by other famous singers. As the developed world includingAmerica ages, with larger percentages of older people in theirpopulations, this poem captures some of the increasing loneliness theyfeel. The stanza contrasting old people to old trees and old rivers isparticularly powerful.A John Prine bio is available athttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_PrineRama Rao.

Posted onThursday, January 11, 2007

See 1890 comments ( or Leave a comment ) To Virgins, to Make Much of Time -- Robert Herrick

Guest poem submitted by Nandini Krishnamoorthy:

(Poem #1965) To Virgins, to Make Much of Time

 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher hes a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer hes to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

-- Robert Herrick

I was surprised that Minstrels had not run this famous Herrick poem. Myfirst recollection of the poem is from Dead Poets Society, RobinWilliams reading it to the students. Its one of those poems that stayswith you forever and a wonderful joy in re-discovering it.Nandini.

Posted onWednesday, January 10, 2007

See 2515 comments ( or Leave a comment ) Older PostsAbout MinstrelsWe're back!JumpRandom poemSearchBrowse by poem title A-B C-D E-G H-K L M-N O-P Q-R S T-V W-Z All Browse by poet last name A-B C-E F-I J-L M-O P-R S-V W-Z All Browse by submitter name A-B C-E F-I J-L M-O P-R S-V W-Z All Browse by date 2007(8) January(8)The Word -- Tony HoaglandThe Old Fools -- Philip LarkinA Winter Ode to the Old Men of Lummus Park, Miami,...Hello In There -- John PrineTo Virgins, to Make Much of Time -- Robert HerrickThe Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus -- Ogden NashBrown Penny -- William Butler YeatsThe Year -- Ella Wheeler Wilcox 2006(162) December(21) November(3) October(3) September(17) August(23) July(13) June(6) May(18) April(22) March(28) January(8) 2005(214) December(6) November(10) October(14) September(12) August(14) July(17) June(18) May(23) April(23) March(26) February(28) January(23) 2004(170) December(18) November(16) October(4) September(9) August(5) July(6) June(15) May(8) April(15) March(22) February(22) January(30) 2003(280) December(15) November(24) October(16) September(22) August(25) July(22) June(26) May(24) April(29) March(28) February(23) January(26) 2002(159) December(16) November(10) October(14) September(12) August(7) July(7) June(11) May(14) April(17) March(17) February(18) January(16) 2001(323) December(22) November(25) October(26) September(24) August(25) July(29) June(28) May(27) April(30) March(28) February(29) January(30) 2000(348) December(30) November(30) October(31) September(28) August(31) July(31) June(30) May(27) April(28) March(31) February(29) January(22) 1999(305) December(27) November(28) October(28) September(30) August(28) July(29) June(29) May(29) April(28) March(30) February(19)TranslateSubscribePosts Atom Posts

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