Watch the video at Colbert Nation ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery

Watch the video at Colbert NationENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/216596/january-21-2009/elizabeth-alexander



Poetry

ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery

Poetry


poiesis / techne

for the ancient Greeks (according to

Heidegger), two different “takes” on the real, two different types

of “making”

Poetry


In his essay “Concerning the Poet,” Rainer Maria Rilke tries to provide an analogy for “the position of the poet in the existing world” by describing a boat which he once traveled, manned by oarsman pulling steadfastly against the current of a great river. Although the crew counts aloud to keep time, Rilke tells us, they remain uncommunicative, constantly reverting to the “watchful gaze of an animal,” and their individual voices fail to become articulate. But at the front of the boat, on the right side, one individual does achieve expression. He sings, as if as a guide to the work of the crew, “suddenly, at quite irregular intervals,” often when the other rowers are exuberantly engaged only in

Poetry


their task and unmindful of all else. He seems, Rilke notes, little influenced by the rest of the crew who sit behind him; it is, rather, the “pure movement of his feeling when it met the open distance” that truly concerns him and inspires him. His song springs, Rilke observes, out of the point of counterpoise which centers the “forward thrust” of the vessel and the opposing force of the river, and although the boat moves successfully through the water, there remains nevertheless a residue of something “that could not be overcome (was not susceptible of being overcome)”; and that residue the singer in the front of the boat

Poetry


transmuted into a series of long floating sounds, detached in space, which each appropriated to himself. While those about him were always occupied with the most immediate actuality and the overcoming of it, his voice maintained contact with the farthest distance, linking us with it until we felt the power of its attraction. This man is the poet.

Poetry

Poetry is indispensable—if I only knew what for.--Jean Cocteau


Reflections on Poetry

Poetry

If a poet looks through a microscope or a telescope, he always sees the same thing. The poet puts language in danger.--Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space



Poetry

[Poetry] is a compromise for a language of intuition which would hand over sensations bodily. It always endeavors to arrest you, and to make you continuously see a physical thing, to prevent you gliding through an abstract process. . . . Verse is a pedestrian taking you over the ground, prose--a train which delivers you at a destination. --T. E. Hulme



Poetry

A poem is not so much heard as overheard.--John Stuart Mill



Poetry

The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself. --Wallace Stevens, "Adagia”



Poetry

I don't believe in a tame poetry. When poetry hears its own name, it runs, flies, swims off for fear of its own life. You can bet your boots on that. Jean Cocteau said a poet rarely bothers about poetry. Does a gardener perfume his roses?--Frank Stanford



Poetry

[Poetry] gives knowledge of the chaos and confusion of the world by imposing order upon it which leaves it still the chaos and confusion which it really is. --Archibald MacLeish



“Poetry takes the top of your head off.”

Poetry



Two Shakespearean Sonnets


William Shakespeare(1564-1616)

Two Shakespearean SonnetsTwo Shakespearean Sonnets


William Shakespeare(1564-1616)

Two Shakespearean Sonnets

ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 |

Lavery

Need to Know:

The Italian Renaissance Portrait Painting Dramatic Monologue

Robert Browning

(1812-1889),My Last Duchess


Thomas Gainsborough, Mrs. Peter William Baker1781


Robert Browning (1812-1889),

My Last Duchess

Francisco Goya, The Family of Carlos IV (1800-1801)


Robert Browning (1812-1889),

My Last Duchess

FERRARA

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts bythe curtain I have drawn for you, but I)And seemed they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess's cheek: perhapsFra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle lapsOver my lady's wrist too much," or PaintMust never hope to reproduce the faint

Robert Browning,My Last Duchess


Half flush that dies along her throat": such stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enoughFor calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate'erShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,The dropping of the daylight in the West,The bough of cherries some officious foolBroke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace--all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech,Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thankedSomehow--I know not how--as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech--(which I have not)--to make your willQuite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this



Or that in you disgusts me; here you missOr there exceed the mark"--and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly sether wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse--E'en then would be some stooping; and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubtWhene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetthe company below, then. I repeatThe Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretenseOf mine dowry will be disallowedThough his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity,Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!



Andrew Marvell (1621-1678), To His Coy Mistress


Need to Know:

Carpe Diem poems The Puritan Revolution (1660-

1666) The River Ganges The River Humber The Conversion of the Jews

Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day;Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate.

Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress


But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserv'd virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none I think do there embrace.

Andrew MarvellTo His Coy Mistress


Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may;And now, like am'rous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devour,Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.Let us roll all our strength, and allOur sweetness, up into one ball;And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.





The “To His Coy Mistress” Syllogism Stanza 1: If we had all the time in

the world, we could wait.

Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day;Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserv'd virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may;And now, like am'rous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devour,Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.Let us roll all our strength, and allOur sweetness, up into one ball;And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.




the world, we could wait. Stanza 2: We don’t have all the

time in the world.






time in the world. Stanza 3: Carpe Diem







Or . . .








Or, as Leonard Golson, starting center on the University of Florida basketball team (1973) put it: “Get it On!”

Poetry


Poetry

found poem


Poetry

found poem


Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!It isn't fit for humans now,There isn't grass to graze a cow.Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereensThose air -conditioned, bright canteens,Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-A house for ninety-seven downAnd once a week a half a crownFor twenty years.

John Betjeman (1906-1984),

Slough


Slough (2)

And get that man with double chinWho'll always cheat and always win,Who washes his repulsive skinIn women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oakAnd smash his hands so used to strokeAnd stop his boring dirty jokeAnd make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who addThe profits of the stinking cad;It's not their fault that they are mad,They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not knowThe birdsong from the radio,It's not their fault they often goTo Maidenhead

John Betjeman,Slough


The British The Office is set in Slough.

Slough (3)

And talk of sport and makes of carsIn various bogus-Tudor barsAnd daren't look up and see the starsBut belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with careTheir wives frizz out peroxide hairAnd dry it in synthetic airAnd paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on SloughTo get it ready for the plough.The cabbages are coming now;The earth exhales. (1937)

John Betjeman,Slough


This Be The VersePhilip Larkin

They f&*k you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f&*ked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats,Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf.Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin (1922-1985),This Be the

Verse


Documents

Watch the video at Colbert Nation ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery