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Friday, April 20, 2018

A Riddle on the Letter H - Catherine Maria Fanshawe

'Twas in heaven pronounced - it was mutter'd in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd.
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd.
'Twill not soften the heart; and tho' deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly - it dies in an hour.









It's not often that I post two poems by the same poet in the span of a week, but this riddle on the letter H from Catherine Fanshawe is so delightful that I couldn't not share it.  Simply, it's a poetic explication of the oftentimes mystifying way the letter H works in the English language.  "'Twill be found in the sphere when riven asunder[?]"  Sure enough, if you crack sphere in half, there's the H!  "Attends at...birth, awaits in...death."  Yup, we've got an H there, too.

Any references to it dying or being permitted to rest are words wherein the H is silent, like "hour" or  how it is "seen in lightning" only yet "heard in thunder."  I imagine if you presented this to a friend, but omitted the title, they'd have a great time piecing together just what this riddle is about.  In fact, I fully plan to do that to some of my friends, and see how they do!

Thursday, April 19, 2018

To Flush, My Dog - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

LOVING friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemize its dulness, -
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, -
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap - those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dags may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, -
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning -
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow -
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing -
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, -
Up he spring in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, -
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, - platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
Come out! ' praying from the door, -
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour!
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, -
Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail -
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up -
No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats anointed flee -
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations ;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal? -
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, -
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, -
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers, thine,
Loving fellow-creature!









I hold a special place in my heart for poems that extol the virtues of our canine friends, and this magnificent poem from Elizabeth Barrett Browning captures marvelously those best qualities for which we love our dogs.  I have never heard a better phrase to describe a dog than "gentle fellow-creature" or "loving fellow-creature."  The poem beautifully celebrates Browning's own dog, Flush, in both his physical and higher qualities.

Browning spares no detail in describing Flush to the reader.  He has silken ears that flow down like a lady's ringlets, a silver-suited breast, dark brown fur that catches the sun, which "Alchemize[s] its dulness."  What a phrase!  Exposed to sun, the fur will "flash all over into gold, with a burnished fulness."

Browning goes on to describe how Flush can leap and play, but goes on to say, "Yet, my pretty sportive friend,/ Little is 't to such an end/ That I praise thy rareness!"  It isn't because of the dog's physical qualities alone that she praises Flush.  After all, she goes on to say that other dogs may be Flush's equal when it comes to such physical qualities.  What sets Flush apart comes next, and it is the most perfect description of a dog's capacity for emotional sensitivity towards humans I have ever read.

"This dog watched beside a bed / Day and night unweary."  Browning goes on to describe, in beautiful poetic detail, how Flush stood attentive by the bedside of the sick, attendant to every need.  "This dog only, waited on, / Knowing that when light is gone, / Love remains for shining."  Indeed, when it is dark, both physically and metaphorically, a dog's Love is a light that shines bright.

The poem itself is fairly simple if you read it slowly.  While the writing seems more formal than we are used to today, the sentiment is as fresh and relevant as can be.  We love our dogs because they always see the best in us.  Browning even says, "Tears are in my eyes to feel / Thou art made so straightly."  She tears up just thinking about how good dogs are to us.  How can you not, after having read her account of Flush?

As I'm sure it will for anyone who has known the love of a good dog in their life, this poem brought to mind my childhood dog, Clark, who also shared those noble qualities.  If I was sick, he would lay by my bed, doing everything he could to comfort me.  One stanza struck me as particularly relevant to that experience:
"And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, -
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, - platforming his chin
On the palm left open."

I can remember clearly times that Clark would rest his snout on my hand, happy to be held, because he knew it made me feel better.  Dogs are emotionally intelligent in ways we are not, and Browning captures that perfectly in her poem.  I also find myself becoming emotional thinking about my dog.  Though he's been gone for nearly six years now, I knew him for fifteen years, from my childhood until I graduated college.  I think the memory of a good dog will never fade, in part because of poems like this one, which so beautifully capture that special relationship we as humans have with dogs.

And because I love him very much, here's a picture of my childhood dog, Clark.


Wednesday, April 18, 2018

[in Just-] - E. E. Cummings

in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles       far       and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queet
old balloonman whistles
far        and       wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and

       the

              goat-footed

ballonMan       whistles
far
and
wee










Reproducing the spacing for the visual effect of an E. E. Cummings poem is always a bit of a challenge, so I've done my best for you, reader.  And what an effect!  The irregular spacing in the poem, particularly on the balloonman's "whistles       far       and wee" creates both movement and time.  How much more vividly can you imagine a long whistle, spaced apart, reaching far, calling children from their play to espy some bright balloons.

There's so much vivacity and life in the poem, but my favorite thing about it is the sense of timing.  It is not spring, it is just-spring.  Just barely have we crossed the threshold into spring, and "the world is puddle-wonderful."  I don't know if I can think of a better image to describe spring than that.  Being that it is just-spring, the world isn't yet in full bloom, but it is "mud-lucsious."  There's a wetness about the poem that promises bloom and growth.  Children play throughout the poem, adding to the overall sense of youth and newness that just-spring promises.

Repetition is also a key element of this poem.  So many times, a phrase will trail into or end with "it's spring."  Coupled with the presence of children, and the arrival of a balloonman(!, how exciting!), it creates an overwhelming sense of joy and excitement.  It's finally spring, it's just-spring, and things are happening again.  Eddie and Bill are playing marbles and at pirates, Betty and Isbel are jumping rope and playing hop-scotch and it's spring!

What sticks out most among these images of new life and children and joy is the balloonman.  He is lame footed, ("goat-footed") and presumably has trouble walking.  Someone who has no real choice but to be a peddler, possibly homeless.  He is not, however, treated poorly by Cummings, or by the children.  His whistle is what summons them, summons Just-spring.  He is included, rather than pushed out, and his whistle rings far        and      wee. 

I have often found that Cummings poetry looks more intimidating than it is, and that when you slow yourself down and get out of your head, and read it out loud, it becomes filled with childlike wonder.  There's a sense of joy and admiration at just how marvelous spring is.  He's so excited he says that it's spring three times.  The effect of the spacing, I find, just emphasizes time and space.  It fills the poem, and makes it feel bigger than it is.  I like that about it, and I like that the poem can't exist fully without being both heard and seen.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

When Last We Parted - Catherine Maria Fanshawe

When last we parted, thou wert young and fair,
How beautiful let fond remembrance say!
Alas! since then old time has stolen away
Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare.-
So has it perished like a thing of air,
The dream of love and youth! - now both are grey
Yet still remembering that delightful day,
Though time with his cold touch has blanched my hair,
Though I have suffered many years of pain
Since then, though I did never think to live
To hear that voice or see those eyes again,
I can a sad but cordial greeting give,
And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer-
As when I loved thee young and fair.










I often enjoy looking through the works of lesser known poets, not because I am looking for some magnificent poem that needs broader recognition, but because I like to have a more complete picture of what the typical poetry from a given period was.  Oftentimes, the names that dominate our view of a given time period were exemplars, or even exceptions to the styles and norms of the time.  So it is in researching Georgian era poetry (encompassing the earlier part of King George V's reign, starting 1865) that I came across Catherine Maria Fanshawe. 

Fanshawe herself should not strictly be considered a Georgian poet, though 1865 and 1876 are when the bulk of her works saw publication.  She lived from 1765 to 1834, and while a few of her poems were published in 1823, the majority of her works went unpublished until decades after her death.  She was born to one of King George III's courtiers, and her interests in poetry and art were encouraged by her family.  Most of her work was shared only with family and friends, which was not unusual at the time. 

With my interest in seeing what more typical poetry was like, Fanshawe seems like a perfect fit, and indeed, I am delighted with what I have read.  I do not mean to disparage Fanshawe's work at all my calling it typical.  Rather, I would say that her work typifies well the style that was in fashion at the time, much in the way that Haydn typifies the symphony as a musical form.  This poem is illustrative of the sonnet as a form, structured formally, and has a true emotional intimacy to it, while remaining vague enough to allow a reader to fit themselves into the poem.

We are presented with an unrequited love in the poem, one that has been lost for thirty years.  At the narrator and the subject's last meeting, "thou wert young and fair."  It is worth noting that the word "fond" in the second line, which we now think of as having an affectionate, positive connotation, in these times also carried more strongly the notion of foolishness.  So the line, "How beautiful let fond remembrance say!" does mean that it is a happy memory, but that she may feel somewhat foolish for thinking about it all these decades later.  In those decades, "time has stolen away" the color of her hair, and left her "temples bare" indicating a thinning of the hair.  So then her love had "perished like a thing of air."  The "dream of love and youth" are both grey.

Fanshawe goes on though, to say, "Yet still remembering that delightful day" she can "a sad but cordial greeting give."  In between those two ends of the thought, she describes all that changed between then and now.  Her hair has gone grey, she has suffered years of pain, and never thought to hear or see her love ever again, even with all that, she can still greet cordially, though it is tinged with pain.  And lastly, for her love's welfare, she can "breathe as warm a prayer - as when I loved thee young and fair."  Even with decades of heartbreak, her well-wishes are as strong and warm as they were thirty years ago.  It's beautiful and melancholic, and a perfectly executed sonnet. 

Monday, April 16, 2018

April Come She Will - Paul Simon

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May she will stay
Resting in my arms again
June she'll change her tune
In restless walks she'll prowl the night

July she will fly
And give no warning to her flight
August die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September I remember
A love once new has now grown old










Not strictly a poem, but lyrics, this lovely Paul Simon composition, best known as a Simon & Garfunkel tune, uses the changing of the seasons to describe the changing feelings of a lover in a relationship.  It's straightforward, but sounds earnest enough that it's hard not to be taken in by the nursery rhyme like nature of the work.  Tying the changing of the seasons to the arc of a romance is hardly a new notion, but it's elegantly presented here.  I could not find punctuation on any lyrics source I had on hand, so I've left it punctuation free.  I have however, attached the song itself, because it's too pretty to ignore.

In truth, I thought of this today, as we had a terrific rainstorm last night and this morning, which this evening, has given way to a beautiful April day.  The line, "when streams are ripe and swelled with rain" came to mind today.  Indeed, I took a look at one of my favorite places to walk, a local stream, and found that it was swelled, to put it lightly.  I've attached two photos, one taken today, showing this stream violently overflowing its bounds, and one from last winter, where it's entirely more picturesque.  The pictures are taken from similar spots, so you can see just how "ripe and swelled with rain" the stream really is.



Thursday, April 12, 2018

Written with a Diamond on her Window at Woodstock - Queen Elizabeth I

Much suspected by me,
Nothing proved can be,
Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.










When you think on Queen Elizabeth I, do you think of a poet?  Most likely, you think of her as the monarch first, and if you think of her in connection to poetry at all, it is as subject, rather than author, such as in The Faerei Queene.  However, Elizabeth was a skilled writer, even if her poetry is not remarkable in its own right.  Her ability as an orator and writer of epistles allowed her to so skillfully wield power in a time when women commanding a throne was not looked upon favorably.

This poem, as its title indicates, was indeed etched into a window while she was kept under house arrest by her half sister, Mary.  Mary, a Catholic, sought to undo her father, Henry VIII's English Reformation.  Suspicious of Protestant plots, she had her half sister, Elizabeth, placed under house arrest.  While Elizabeth is not known to have taken part in any plots against her sister, Elizabeth was well aware of her tenuous position.

That is what this poem shows most clearly: Elizabeth's awareness of, and sly rebuttal of, her position.  This ability to navigate life or death political situations is evident here, and indeed, the poem sound almost triumphant in its self-declaration as being prison literature.  The poem is essentially a big fat, "You can't prove anything" directed at the world.  In her state writings, Elizabeth masterfully plays off of her image, her decisions, and the motives of others to always place herself out of harm's way.  From an early time, it's clear she had mastered this skill. While not a remarkable poem, this gives us a remarkable insight into one of history's most monolithic figures.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

[Ladies, who of my lord would fain be told] - Gaspara Stampa

Ladies, who of my lord would fain be told,
Picture a gentle knight, full sweet to see,
Though young in years, in wisdom passing old,
Model of glory and of valiancy;
Fair-haired, bright colour glowing in his face,
Tall and well-set, broad-shouldered, finally,
In all his parts a paragon of grace
Except in loving wantonly, ah me!
     Who'd know myself, picture a woman wrought
In passions and in presence after pain's
And death's own bitter images, a port
Of safety where untroubled rest remains;
One who with neither tears, no sighs, nor zest
Wakes pity in her cruel lover's breast.

translated by Lorna de Lucchi











Gaspara Stampa was an Italian poet of the Renaissance, and is considered one of the finest female writers of the time.  She only lived to be 31, but wrote over three hundred poems.  I am glad she did, because here, we have a perfect, lovely example of a romantic sonnet, one of the most popular forms of the day.

Despite being over 450 years old, there isn't much foreign about the sentiments of this poem.  At its heart is unrequited love, possibly one of the only subjects that will never go out of style.  Through the first eight lines, Stampa describes her lord, of whom ladies would "fain be told."  Fain is an archaic word, meaning pleased, or gladdened.  Paraphrased, we can think of the first two lines like this, "Ladies, you will be glad to hear about my lord, picture a gentle knight, easy on the eyes." 

Stampa goes on to describe his virtues, both physical and of character.  He is broad-shouldered, fair-haired, tall, well-set.  And though he is a "model of glory and valiancy" he is also wise beyond his years, and "in all parts a paragon of grace."  Except, for one part.  He loves wantonly.  Put simply, he's a playboy.  He isn't faithful to any one woman, maybe he has dalliances and infidelities.  He's a rakish heartbreaker, I take it.

Next comes the volta, or turn, in the sonnet.  This is the feature of a sonnet in which there is a distinct change.  Stampa moves on from describing her love to describing herself.  She says, "picture a woman wrought in passion after pain's and death's own bitter images."  Yikes!  She is shaped by her despair at the wanton ways of her love.  She is "a port of safety" in that she is alone.  She finds herself unable to sway her love at all.  Her "tears" "sighs" and "zest" all fail to "wake[s] pity in her cruel lover's breast."  She cannot tear him from his wanton ways, alas.

It's a classic poetic notion and setting, but unique in its perspective for its day.  While there are many notable female poets of the day, poetry in the Renaissance was, as were most artistic fields, dominated by men.  To have such a candid female perspective on romance from that era is really remarkable.  Stampa often draws comparisons to the ancient Greek poet, Sappho, a great lyric poet whose work is unfortunately lost.  It's an apt comparison, as Stampa's language is beautiful, and she is openly romantic.  I must also commend the wonderful translation by Lorna de Lucchi, which beautifully maintains the iambic pentameter and rhyme scheme typical of the sonnet.