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Through the Eyes of Another
An anthology by Sophia
DOLOR SET AMET
LOREM IPSUM
© Sophia S 2014
CHAPTER 1
Poetry describing me
This chapter contains poems chosen because they de-scribe me in one way or another. Unless you know me very well, it is unlikely that you would know why they describe me, but feel free to take a guess regardless of whether you think you know all there is to know about me. As for why I chose them, I tried to select poems for reasons which are complex and important to me.Contents:Page 2: Night, by Maurya SimonPage 3:Dream-Land, by Edgar Allen PoePage 4:Keys, by Adaya Brand-ThomasPage 5:The Poets, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
NightMaurya SimonNow, as the stars un.leece themselves, the moon in its chalky houselights its translucent .ire and swells.All the feathered songs are quiet,all the rustlings of the day fold uptheir sounds and settle into silence.
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© Sophia S 2013
Night, by Maurya Simon, read by yours truly, Sophia.
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Dream-LandEdgar Allen PoeBy a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule-‐From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime-‐ Out of Space-‐out of Time.Bottomless vales and boundless Eloods,And caverns, caves, and Titan woods,Forms that no man can discoverFrom the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto seas of Eire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters-‐lone and dead,-‐Their still waters-‐still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lilly.
By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead,-‐Their still waters-‐still and chilly-‐With the snows of the lolling lilly-‐By the mountains-‐near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-‐By the grey woods,-‐by the swamp-‐Where the toad and newt encamp,-‐By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,-‐
By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only.Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule.
For the heart whose woes are legion'T is a peaceful, soothing region-‐For the spirit that walks in shadow'T is-‐oh 't is an Eldorado!But the traveller, travelling through it,May not-‐dare not openly view it;Never its mysteries are exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringéd lid;And thus the sad Soul that through passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.
© Sophia S 2013
Dream-Land, by Edgar Allen Poe, read by yours truly, Sophia.
By each spot the most unholy,-‐In each nook most melancholy,-‐There the traveller meets, aghast,Sheeted Memories of the Past-‐Shrouded forms that start and sighAs they pass the wanderer by-‐White-‐robed forms of friends long given,In agony, to the Earth-‐and Heaven.
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KeysAdaya Brand-ThomasTo have a keyIs to open up doors,Open your imagination.Let your thoughts run wildly through theDark crisp night.Chant words and phrases over and overUntil you are delirious.
© Sophia S 2013
Keys, by Adaya Brand-Thomas, read by yours truly, Sophia.
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The PoetsHenry Wadsworth LongfellowO ye dead poets, who are living still,Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,And ye, O living Poets, who are deadThough ye are living, if neglect can kill,Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,With drops of anguish falling fast and redFrom the crown of thorns upon your head,Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?Yes; for the gift and ministry of SongHave something in them so divinely sweet,It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;Not in the clamor of the crowded street,Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,But in ourselves, are bitterness and wrong.
© Sophia S 2013
The Poets, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, read by yours truly, Sophia.
CHAPTER 2
Poetry chosen for
sound and meaning
The poems in this section are chosen either because their sounds appeal to me, or because of both their sounds and what they could mean. I have noticed that strangely, I tend not to choose rather nonsensical sounding poetry, regardless of why I am looking for poems.Contents:Page 7: White Clover, by Marvin BellPage 8: Pachycephalosaurus , by Richard ArmourPage 9: A Young Birch, by Robert FrostPage 10: Acquainted with the Night, by Robert Frost
White CloverMarvin BellOnce when the moon was out about three-‐quartersand the EireElies who are the starsof backyardswere out about three-‐quartersand about three-‐fourths of the lightsin the neighborhoodwere on because people can be at home,I took a not so innocent walkout among the lawns,navigating by the light of lights, and there were many hundreds of moonson the lawnswhere before there was only polite grass.These were moons on long stems,their long stems giving their greennessto the center of each Elowerand the light giving its whiteness to the tops of the petals. I could sayit was light from starstouched the tops of Elowers and no doubtsomething heavenly reaches what grows outdoorsand the heads of men who go hatless but I like to think we have a worldright here, and a lifethat isn’t death. So I don’t say it’s betterto be right here, and a lifethat isn’t death. So I don’t say it’s betterto be right here. I say this is wheremany hundreds of core-‐green moonsgigantic to my eyerose because men and women had sown green grassand Elowered to my eye in man-‐made light,and to some would be as Eire in the bodyand to others a light in the mindover all their property.
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White Clover, by Marvin Bell, read by yours truly, Sophia.
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PachycephalosaurusBy Richard ArmourAmong the later dinosaursThough not the largest, strongest,Pachycephalasaurus hadThe name that was the longest.
Yet he had more than syllables,As you may well suppose.He had great knobs upon his cheeksAnd spikes upon his nose.
Ten inches thick, atop his head,A bump of bone projected.By this his brain, though hardly worthProtecting, was protected.
No claw or tooth, no tree that fellUpon his head kerwhacky,Could crack or crease or jar of scarThat stony part of Paky.
And so he nibbled plants in peaceAnd lived untroubled days.Sometimes, in fact, as Paky proved,To be a bonehead pays.
Pachycephalosaurus, by Richard Armour, read by yours truly, Sophia.
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A Young BirchRobert FrostThe birch begins to crack its outer sheathOf baby green and show the white beneath,As whosoever likes the young and slightMay well have noticed. Soon entirely whiteTo double day and cut in half the darkIt will stand forth, entirely white in bark,And nothing but the top a leafy green-The only native tree that dares to lean,Relying on its beauty, to the air.(Less brave perhaps than trusting are the fair.)And someone reminiscent will recallHow once in cutting brush along the wallHe spared it from the number of the slain,At first to be no bigger than a cane,And then no bigger than a fishing pole,But now at last so obvious a boleThe most efficient help you ever hiredWould know that it was there to be admired,And zeal would not be thanked that cut it downWhen you were reading books or out of town.It was a thing of beauty and was sentTo live its life out as an ornament.
A Young Birch, by Robert Frost, read by yours truly, Sophia.
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Acquainted with the NightRobert FrostI have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain-and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light.I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beat.And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.I have stood still and stopped the sound of feetWhen far away an interrupted cryCame over houses from another street,But not to call me back or say good-by;And further still at an unearthly height,One luminary clock against the skyProclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.I have been one acquainted with the night.
Acquainted with the Night, by Robert Frost, read by yours truly, Sophia.
