• PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    is best written with great deliberation and attention to meter and, if applicable, to rhyme.Michael Zwingli

    That is my main style, not a stream of consciousness, but in ten syllable quatrains that take quite a while to rhyme without the rhyme being an intrusion, plus to package a pearl in each stanza, making them easy digestible units of the whole poem, as in the one referenced, plus 'Flora Symbolica' intro, and more, near to those in this thread when Amnity was responding. "Intellect" often shows in very philosophical poems as much as it does in philosophy.

    I don't use stream of consciousness; the poems don't come out that quickly. I don't aim for free verse either. Poetry requires more work than what can just go plop in just a live stream of thoughts arising.

    Perhaps Mr. Clark might also add or rewrite a stanza in the referenced poem to show how it could become good poetry beyond its already lyrical, rhyming, metered form that you say he likes, but, first, let us see what he says this second time around of being asked to bolster his bare generalization about the 'Worldly Love' poem. How did you like it? Are you also still claiming '18'?

    (Explaining the poetic style only):

    A long time ago I read all of Shelley’s poems,
    He being a scientific romanticist known,
    Who plumbed the depths of mystery,
    And too Keats and Byron, as eagerly,

    They being the romantics of the Earthly realm,
    Along with Omar Khayyam, at Sultan’s helm,
    A romantic scientist who invented algebra,
    As well as cherishing all of nature above Allah.

    Omar was as Mr. Spock’s logic,
    But with the glory of life added to it,
    While Shelley was more of Dr. McCoy’s
    Excessives of emotional, romantic ploys,

    But Keats and Byron were more
    Of a blend, like Captain Kirk’s sure
    And dashing action tempered with reason—
    A man for each and every season.

    So, I ended up writing poems in the styles
    Of Shelley’s and Old Khayyàm’s wiles,
    The former being flowingly lyrical—
    The latter twistingly epigrammatical,

    Short ones at first, very precise,
    But also using them as a concise
    Way to whittle down entire books
    To the few gems and pearls in their nooks.

    So now after many educated years,
    I still use them to boil down the idears.

    (Anyway, no more epics, as being too long for the readers, plus they are not easy to do.)
  • GraveItty
    311
    Your poems lack humans. They are highly romantic and written nicely in metric, rhyme and use of romantic imagery, like in the poem about the loveaffair between the moon and earth, in which the physics between the both is vividly described, sometimes a bit with the pompous words of a teenager in love, It's also a love poem about the physics of the universe (which shines through a bit too much). It's like of physics translated in words. A whirly elliptical eppilectical dance on the infinity of the varying hidden in an endless rhythm of endless night, while a thorny kiss of death intervenes entropically (I'm not as good as you!) sounds nice but still is a translation somehow of physics into a poetic combination of words. It somehow reminds me of the imagery of Jim Morrison ("Mr. Mojo Rising"). though nowhere in your poems (I have read them all here!) I get the feeling I get when I read about couples running naked down by the quiet side beneath a cool jeweled moon while their wooly cotton brains of infancy suffer from the ghost that crowded it while Indians lay scattered along the highway while imaculately bleeding to death (it remains to be seen if Jim Morrson's poetry was good). Now physics is nice. Your poems are a welcome addition to it! Are you a physicist yourself? Of course your poems lack humans, as it subject matter is the universe. The Poetic Universe. There is reference made to human affairs. It's one big praise of the physical universe and the infinite wonders and things in it. It reminds me of a poetry booklet an old physicist gave. He too wrote about the miracles and wonders of the scientific universe but his poems were scary at the same time (unlike yours!) in the sense that it litterally condemned other ways of viewing. Imagine what would happen if he rose to power... (though I think that it is fair to say that nowadays the sciences rule supplements on this planet, with all the sad consequences for Nature, including the people). Keep up your nice work!

    I now will fetch some examples and discuss them in a next comment.
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    I would like, in honor of my favorite season, the season of the natural sentimentalist, to post something about the autumn. Searching, I found this interesting bit from perhaps one of the more interesting characters of poetic history, namely Thomas Chatterton, who despite being remembered as one of the most successful poetry forgers of history, and despite his perennial poverty and untimely death by assumed suicide aged seventeen, was perhaps one of the most skilled poets of the eighteenth century, lauded by Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley,... Though not evident in this excerpt, Chatterton was able, without formal education therein, to successfully forge poems in Middle English (well enough to long fool the "experts"), purportedly Medieval in origin, and attributed to some invented fifteenth century monk named "Rowley".

    This piece, written in the English of Chatterton's own eighteenth century, is more reflective than philosophical, as the title suggests, but as an homage to the season, here you have it:

    from Elegy

    [...]

    When golden Autumn, wreathed in riped’d corn,
    From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,
    Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
    And made the beauties of the season thine.

    Pale rugged Winter bending o’er his tread,
    His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
    His eyes, a dusky light congeal’d and dead,
    His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue;

    His train a motley’d sanguine sable cloud,
    He limps along the russet dreary moor;
    Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting keen and loud,
    Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.

    A dreary stillness broods o’er all the vale,
    The clouded Moon emits a feeble glare;
    Joyless I seek the darkling hill and dale,
    Where’er I wander Sorrow still is there.


    -Thomas Chatterton
  • GraveItty
    311
    If I had read this poem last night it would have been even better! After I came back from a solitary nightwalk with my dog. There was absolutely no whirling wind though. But over the field where I walked hang a low blanket of autumn mist. Above it, the head of our dog was better to see than her body. Once in a while she playfully jumped out of the blanket, her full self appearing dark white and blue beneath the extraordinary brightly shining moon. The trees, from which drops and nuts fell sometimes, stood tall and black and frozen, without motion. The silence was screaming, besides the puffs of condensed breath coming from our mouth. What an atmosphere there was! Thanks for this poem!
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    Poetry requires more work than what can just go plop in just a live stream of thoughts arising.PoeticUniverse

    Yeah, this is the nature of my primary "beef" with free verse and so-called "slam poetry".

    I was thinking, @PoeticUniverse, of how to describe what a good poet does that others do not, and I think I might have the words to describe it. We all have, upon occasion, intense inner experiences associated with places, events, or situations, which we cannot seem to describe adequately to make another person feel what we have felt, and understand what we have understood. A great poet is able to use language in a manner which recalls such experiences, and makes one think, "yes, I have experienced that, but could never describe it". It is the experience upon reading a poem of finding the expression for something profound that one has experienced but never been able to describe. This experience upon reading a poem tends to give someone the "fifty mile stare", and makes a person feel a need to say "...thank you so much..." to the poet.
  • T Clark
    13.9k
    Any specifics concerning "But it is not good poetry?" to make your generalization helpful?

    Here is the poem: https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/comment/599584
    PoeticUniverse

    This is a reasonable request. I'll look at what the others have written and see if I have anything to add.

    I'll make this point again - it's not the poetry that bothers me. I never would have commented if it had been a couple, or even a few, poems. It was the fact that they had taken over the thread to the detriment of other poetry.

    For the record - @Michael Zwingli said:

    Your poetry displays/employs a definite "stream of consciousness" style, whether deliberate or accidental. The problem with that, as I have noted above, is that lyric poetry, which truth be told is the type of poetry that Mr. Clark seems to enjoy and so is the proper, tacitly implied focus of this thread, in order to be "good", is best written with great deliberation and attention to meter and, if applicable, to rhyme.Michael Zwingli

    I don't agree with this. There was no "tacit implication" of a particular kind of poetry, only that it be philosophical. The poetry you posted met the stated requirements for inclusion. It was the overwhelming volume that I object to.
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    There was no "tacit implication" of a particular kind of poetry, only that it be philosophical.T Clark

    Oh, sorry, man, for putting words into your mouth that you never intended to say. I'm trying to give "Poetic" some constructive criticism, so that he can improve his output.
  • T Clark
    13.9k
    Oh, sorry, man, for putting words into your mouth that you never intended to say. I'm trying to give "Poetic" some constructive criticism, so that he can improve his output.Michael Zwingli

    No, don't apologize. I just wanted to be clear about what concerns me. When I have specific things I want to see in a thread I start, I try to be as explicit as possible about what should be and what should not be included. As I noted, I was not explicit enough in this case.
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    Now physics is nice. Your poems are a welcome addition to it! Are you a physicist yourself? Of course your poems lack humans, as it subject matter is the universe. The Poetic Universe. There is reference made to human affairs.GraveItty

    Thanks for discussing. Yes, many of my poems are meant to convey scientific and the philosophical themes in a non dry manner in digestible stanza chunks. I'm not a physicist but I understand it enough to interpret it for the lay reader. Your physics posts in other thread are as excellent as I've seen anywhere; you even understand the math, too, so your reviews will be helpful. I involve humans in other poems.
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    We all have, upon occasion, intense inner experiences associated with places, events, or situations, which we cannot seem to describe adequately to make another person feel what we have felt, and understand what we have understood. A great poet is able to use language in a manner which recalls such experiences, and makes one think, "yes, I have experienced that, but could never describe it". It is the experience upon reading a poem of finding the expression for something profound that one has experienced but never been able to describe. This experience upon reading a poem tends to give someone the "fifty mile stare", and makes a person feel a need to say "...thank you so much..." to the poet.Michael Zwingli

    Yes, that's it, and you are a helpful discusser.

    What you said about "something profound" as the basis for poetry can be described by poems about poetry:

    A poem is a truth fleshed in living words,
    Which by showing unapprehended proof
    Lifts the veil to reveal hidden beauty—
    It’s life’s image drawn in eternal truth.

    Poetry dresses the phantasmic new
    By enshrining the apparition’s brew,
    Captured and bottled as aquavita,
    Wisdom’s pearls, from the evanescent dew.

    Poetry lives silently in an illustration;
    A poem’s beauty is its painting with diction.
    These, like music, are works of worldly art,
    Just shadows of a deeper perfection!

    Poetry makes clear what is barely heard,
    For it translates soul-language into words,
    Whereas, melody plays straight on the heart;
    Merged, they create song; heart and soul converge.

    Poetry makes immortal what is best
    In life: it frees images of dreams impressed,
    Apprehends the vanishing phantasms,
    And sends them forth in fine words, fully dressed.
    ('fully dressed' phrase borrowed from someone)

    The Rubaiyat Poetic Form

    The verses beat the same, in measured chime.
    Lines one-two set the stage, one-two-four rhyme.
    Verse three’s the pivot around which thought turns;
    Line four delivers the sting, just in time.
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    This is a reasonable request. I'll look at what the others have written and see if I have anything to add.T Clark

    Good news! Thanks.

    On the lengthy and plenty point, that's fixed, plus I've found a way to reference longer poems by just pointing to a link that downloads a PDF hosted on one of my websites, such as the whole of the 'Flora Symbolica' poem about the lore and legends of the plants and flowers:

    text: https://austintorn.files.wordpress.com/2021/07/flora-symbolica-text-8.5x11.pdf

    illustrated (may take a minute to arrive):
    https://austintorn.files.wordpress.com/2021/09/fsi-17x11-jpg-jpg-150-dpi.pdf

    video (long): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOZknZJNA2U
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    Pale rugged Winter bending o’er his tread,
    His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
    His eyes, a dusky light congeal’d and dead,
    His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue;
    Michael Zwingli

    I like autumn, too, and its portend of winter.

    OLD AUTUMN

    The glow-worms, fairy stars come down to ground,
    Gleam the shadowy woods through summer’s round;
    Then fall’s leaves flutter through the quiet air,
    The autumn being the sunset of the year.

    The rustling of the trees comes to my ear,
    In this,the most mellow time of year.
    The harvest brings fulfillment, yearning too,
    For autumn is both a smile and a tear.

    Each year in October Jack-in-the-Green
    Has a chilled rendezvous with Old Autumn,
    Who colors the leaves that Jack made verdant
    A season ago. They meet out in the woods,
    Although never in the same place, for seasons
    Come and go and meet each other as they may.

    Reveal
    This year Old Autumn was a little late,
    So Jack-in-the-Green sat down on a stump.
    Jack pondered his disappearing green youth,
    For someday he would have to take Autumn’s place
    And perform all of his withering tasks.

    A few days later Old Autumn came by;
    He gave unto Jack a cheery greeting
    And a warm embrace that marked summer’s end.

    He gazed fondly at Jack, his younger self,
    And saw the vitality that was once his,
    And said, “Once I was young; once I was you!”

    “I know,” said Jack, “Do you remember how
    I refused to believe you, saying ‘no’?”

    “Yes,” remembered Old Autumn, “very well,
    Like the time I met the Old Man, Winter
    On a snowy December day long ago.
    He told me that he was my older self—
    But I didn’t believe him! Told him off!

    “True, I was already feeling my age
    But after seeing the old white-haired geezer
    I felt young again! Yes, he knew me well.”

    “Right,” said Jack, “so I made a little poem:
    “When younger, I knew not my elder same,
    But when older I told my younger same
    That youth must be young; he knew not my name!
    It was my younger self who was to blame!”

    Swallows twittered in the skies as sprightly
    Jack-in-the-Green picked a ripening gourd
    And gave it to Old Autumn, who encouraged,
    “You won’t have to meet the Old Man until
    You take my place, for only I can see him—
    After I take down the last of the oak leaves.

    “For now, the Old Man sends but his errand boy,
    Jack Frost, your twin brother. Hi ho, here he comes!
    Aye, young Jack, this is the rarest of days,
    For the three of us can be together
    But once a year on this bright day / cool night.”


    “The Old Man is so lonely, is he not?”
    Asked Jack-in-the-Green, “for he sees only you.”

    “Yes. Old Man Winter lives cold and alone;
    He never sees the fair maidens of spring
    Who reinvent the natural world each year.”

    There is a chill in the air as Jack Frost arrives
    And sings out a greeting: “Hello my brother!
    Hello Old Autumn! It’s going to be cold—
    Our first frost, but don’t worry too much—
    It won’t harm the pumpkins any at all.”

    Old Autumn sighed and quick replied: “Good.
    Now the rest of the leaves will crack and fall
    All the more due to the ice in their veins;
    Yes, they’ll fall like the illusions of youth,
    ‘Lying carelessly on the granary floor’ and
    ‘On a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
    Drowsed with the fume of poppies’, as Keats wrote.”

    Composing himself, Old Autumn continued:
    “And for those of you who think that ‘warm days
    Will never cease’, let us ever remember
    Dear Johnny Keats, who died so young, at 25;
    However, he lived and saw more than some
    Of us might hope to do in a lifetime.”

    A shiver ran through Jack-in-the-Green,
    Hence he said: “It’s cold; I must go now, for
    Summer passed away in his sleep last night;
    Autumn, sweet and plump, carries his offspring.
    The year dies in the night; ghostly winter looms;
    Lo; the flower is already in the seed.”

    “Well done, young Jack-in-the-Green; quick, go,
    For soon enough comes your autumn of care
    Sobering into age, thence into
    The pale white winter of death,
    Though not yet your warm indolent summer
    Of contentment lazing into middle-age,
    But surely past is our crisp,
    Flowering youth-spring of joy!

    “Such then, comes the end of summer’s dreams,
    The blanching of the grassy banks of streams,
    But all fragrances my elves remember
    Through their long sleep in the winter embers.

    “The blossoms fall, showers of fragrant beauty,
    As leaves fade, while the bulbs store up energy.
    Nature’s floral dreams grant this destiny,
    For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

    “Flowers lay their heads to sleep in soft beds,
    Blanketed by webs of gossamer threads;
    My elfin creatures cast their spectral glow,
    As winter stars—floral twins—start to grow.

    “Later, when surely all the world is dead,
    An elf will stand atop Old Winter’s grave
    And say, ‘’tis not dead’, and by magic bred
    Make Snowdrops flower in the tomb’s heat wave.”

    Once I, the author, ventured outside at
    Four on a dark frosty October morning.
    It was so quiet that I could sense the
    Cosmos as it played rhythm to my beating heart.

    I saw a preview of the winter stars:
    Orion, you are so high in the sky—
    There for only the astronomer’s eye,
    As all those meteors go flying by.

    Then I heard a rustling sound in the leaves
    Around me—a skunk perhaps—but no,
    It was the sound of many falling leaves.
    I knew that it must be him, Old Autumn.

    He was out there somewhere. Then I sensed him
    Going by, for some of the leaves on the
    Tree right in front of me broke loose and
    Floated away, hitting some other leaves
    On the way down, making that rustling sound.

    Soon it started up on the next tree, and
    Then the next—and so I could very well
    Follow the path of Old Autumn making
    His rounds in the misty October morn.

    Chrysanthemums drank the mellow day,
    Falling petals carried the light away.

    The weed-flowers grew, marking autumn’s track,
    The blossoms that almost brought the spring back,
    But winter’s white death wrap was drawn over,
    Smothering the earth’s last warm sweet odour.

    The autumn fog enswirled, the mist upcurled;
    Into nothingness the wisp slow unfurled.
    November flew by, a colorless dearth,
    And December, amid death, a festive birth.

    Youth and Beauty made agèd Winter mourn
    For Summer’s grain—the waving wheat and corn,
    For Old Autumn, withered, wan, had passed on,
    Leaving the earth a widow, weather worn.

    Long since have the winds scattered the leaves
    Of the trees to make of them a
    Burial shroud for the flowers that died
    Grieving at summer’s passing. All is death.

    The fall is now nearly lost to memory.
    Winter is summer’s ungrateful heir,
    Squandering his riches and abusing his gifts.
    It’s not Old Man Winter’s fault, but his duty.

    Summer lies underground now, forgotten,
    Silent and crusty, covered by winter’s
    Stern mantle. Only April’s tears can make
    His grave lush again, in the spring-tide.

    As seasons pass, the world comes to our door:
    Spring sings through the wingèd troubadour;
    Summer calls with the rose, ’midst the wood-lore;
    Autumn crows, plump and sweet, through frosty hoar.

    Joy and exuberance are spring’s largesse.
    Sunlight, warmth, and growth are summer’s bequest.
    Autumn brings wealth with the mellow harvest.
    Winter’s fruit is peace—its bounty is rest.

    Past us is the flower of spring’s soft breath;
    Though not ended our summer of promise;
    Soon enough will come the autumn of care;
    Beheld, at last, the dull white shroud of death!

    March, April! spring! We’ll reign as we May there,
    Between June and her sister, September,
    Then prolong the fall, till November come
    December, when we can sweet Remember.

    In the whisperings of the after-years
    The winds of time slowly dry the tears;
    Nor would I take back a single drop, for
    From those tears the flowers grew without fears.

    In spring we rise from the garden at birth.
    Summer blooms long with the roses’ fresh mirth.
    Autumn creeps in—we wither on the vine.
    Last comes winter, when we return to earth.

    ————

    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
    Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;

    And, by the incantation of this verse,
      Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
     Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
     
    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
     The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

    Percy Bysshe Shelley
    English poet (1792 - 1822)
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    Not much going on here since the thread got moved to the lounge…

    What are angels, demons and spirit guides?

    They are Halloween!

    For Halloween Season

    She frowns, “Lo, the woods are growing dense, filling with mist and shadowed goods.”

    “What’s that fuss, behind us?”

    “An old witch has just sprung up, to our rear, she being the specter of fear, and of all that is worrisome here.”

    The witch asks, “What is your deepest fear?

    We don’t answer.

    The witch continues, “Do I ask of the air? Hell, death? Which shall it be? How about Heaven? Is that it? All three?”

    “I banish you,” I say, “for death is merely the natural end of all living things of nature’s blend. What has no death has no life principle! My turn to live would never have come about, to ripple, if it were not for the deaths before, of people. As for Heavens and Hells, those are what we create within ourselves, as we can turn our souls outside in, to create a Heaven or Hell from within. Hell surely arrives when we make our own difficulties, in life’s wake, when we our common sense forsake. However, I do have one fear that’s grown, although just one alone.”

    “What is that fear?, the witch pleads. “My hopes suddenly rise in pitch, but my form is ready to fade, for your anxiety unmade.”

    “My one and only fear besought is that of not living well, as ought! So, with that answer furnished, witch, you, the specter of fear must vanish, like the mist, cold, on the morning wind unrolled.”
    Reveal


    The Horrit Witch

    They take an overgrown side-path to the haunt of a known sorceress. The signs say ‘Enter All Who Welcome Death!’ but still they continue, for they need clues. The witch meets them at the outer gate and bids them to enter.

    They gallop to the entrance of the evil place but as they arrive they see her to be already inside, a trick, but enough to unnerve any squire who knows not of the use of doubles and twins. The abode is crawling with Tarantulas; it has the desired effect on Bogar and Hargrave. “Oh!” says Hargrave. “Woe!” says Bogar.

    “Do not believe all that you see,” whispers Percevale to the squires; “Merlyn has revealed many magic tricks to me.”

    “We seek Thorelf the Viking!” announces Hargrave.

    “Purchase the spear that bleeds, which you will never find.” reveals the witch. “It is but one link in a long chain that may strangle you or save you! And seek the land of ice and fire!—it is far to the north—there you may find Thorelf’s wake that will take you to him across the ocean desert of despair. And you, Percevale, you would have found love on a foreign soil—However, you will not survive to use the clues I have given you!”

    And with that admonition, all sink to their knees and thence to the floor, overtaken by the fumes coming from the witch’s pot. The fumes are not deadly, for the witch does not derive power from killing men, but only from controlling them.

    No, this witch rules by chemistry: the very air is drugged with gases. The price of information is sometimes dear, for she means to enslave them. The squires cry out as their heads fill with visions of demons and creatures so hellish as to defy description on this printed page. Logic and good sense are stilled, as terror reigns and begins to take over the squires’ souls.

    But, the King’s heart is tested and grown strong. Before reason escapes altogether, a calmness of thought occurs to Percevale: “if that which cannot happen, does indeed seem to be happening, then one must be experiencing a non-reality—a dream perhaps or something akin to it—”

    To test his theory Percevale closes his eyes. “Aha! The demons are still there.” They are but put in his mind, he realizes, and are hallucinations induced by potions, not really very different from night dreams.

    The Knight King arises calmly from the floor, ignores the visions, grabs the two squires, and exits the hovel, holding them firmly in the night’s embracing chill until their minds have cleared and their lungs are free of the witch’s potion.

    The witch’s slaves and legions are not allowed to follow, lest their minds be cleared as well. “Why is it,” thinks Percevale, “that those with second sight and such rare powers, those who could be so useful to the world, often fail to use their powers wisely. He turns and stands before the witch’s hovel and vows to someday find the power to return and destroy it!

    They ride through the night without sleeping, for their hearts are still beating quickly. The morning finally dawn on the squires and they see that nature is new and that the grass is now green. Renewal is at hand; nature is reinventing the world.



    The Rites & Wrongs of Spring

    The trio comes to a road that is blocked by the passing of a spring carnival. It is the annual “Rites of Spring Celebration”, doubly raucous this year because it also celebrates the recent victories of war. There are tumblers, troubadours, circus acts and the like, and it is well attended with drunken revelry.

    A vendor on Bogar’s right is selling sacred objects for unbelievably low prices and Bogar takes opportunity of the journey’s pause to investigate the bargains. His attention is first brought to a piece of the venerated wood of the true cross, brought here by the vendor himself after he had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and secretly excavated the hill of the Holy Sepulcher at night whilst a cathedral was being built over it. Bogar parts with some valuable coins and buys a worthless piece of wood.

    He also purchases a nail from that same cross. It is still incrusted with Christ’s blood. He buys also a portion of the actual crown of thorns, a shredded part of the tablecloth used at the last supper, a bone from St. Peter’s arm, a piece of the manger, some drops of the Virgins own milk sealed forever in a glass vial, and a tin cup used by Joseph of Aramithea to catch the blood of Jesus on that first Good Friday.

    Having spent all of his riches, he is about to return when he spots a golden box with a crystal lid, containing a purple cushion on which lays a piece of rusted iron, triangular in shape with a long sharp point.

    “This,” said the vendor, “is the tip of the spear that pierced the side of the Saviour!”

    After much consultation with Hargrave, Bogar obtains a loan and makes the final purchase. The riding junk-pile returns and Percevale examines the haul with horror.

    “Throw all of this rattling junk away!” the King insists.

    “But most of this is from the true and holy cross, sire!”

    “Squires,” replies Percevale, “I’ve seen enough pieces of the true cross to construct twenty fine sailing sloops of war and still have enough wood left over to build a bridge over the Usk river. What is that cup? Good God, we’ve found the Grail again! Fling it to that beggar by the creek who is sipping water with his hands!”

    The squires quail at the King’s rage and let their treasures fall to the ground, but the King is laughing on the inside at the squires’ folly and soon they all break into hearty laughter. But the laughing stops abruptly as they all notice that the box containing the spear tip is now quite full of blood.

    “Keep the spear tip,” replies Percevale with haste, remembering the words of the first witch, “and attach it to a fine and sturdy stick, for the Crimson Spear has been returned to me when I need it most.”




    The Curse of the Death-Crone

    As Percevale approaches the witch’s land, he sees the shield and helmets of those who came and died before him. He clutches the Crimson Spear close and continues his approach. “Now, Bogar, you wait here and if I do not come out within two days, then come in after me.”

    Percevale feels the watch of gloom as he enters the territory of the witch. Knowing that he is being watched, he does not turn around to alert the watcher, but slides quickly and unbeknownst into the woods at the next turn. Taliesin glides noiselessly, silent and invisible in Percevale’s mind!

    Percevale peers in a window and sees a pitiful sight. The witch’s slaves are from the world of the deformed and misshapen—those who are most easily enslaved, plus a Giant. Next, plans are made and a good night’s sleep is taken.

    In the morning a huge menacing giant blocks Percevale’s path, but there is something very human and caring, yet guarded, in the giant’s eyes. To test this theory, Percevale aims an arrow at the Giant’s dog, and the Giant pleads with Percevale not to shoot it. Apparently the giant is too large to fully feel the effect of the witch’s controlling drug, and Percevale speaks to the giant softly: “You could easily escape this witch’s spell and be free!”

    The Giant replies: “You are correct; I stay only to protect my misshapen friends from further harm, and indeed I will help you kill the witch if you will but insure the safety of my friends!”

    “I am King of Britain and the safety of all my subjects concerns me. Just keep your bewitched friends in check while I do battle with the witch and soon you shall all be free or I’ll die trying.” Such sincere words were very well understood by the giant.

    Now Percevale faces the witch, but not alone, for Taliesin has joined with him in mind, and the bleeding spear is at hand.

    “’Tis the accursed Crimson Spear for Avalon!” she cries. “Take it from my sight, I can not bear to look!”

    But Percevale holds it all the more firmly as she tries to wrench it from his grasp with the powers of her mind. She fills his minds eye with evil sights of monsters, but ever still does he hold the red shaft; it is now bleeding profusely and its blood is pooling on the ground. For a day and a night, the battle of the minds continues, Percevale and Taliesin barely holding their own and growing evermore weary, and feeling at each instant that they cannot last another moment.

    Meanwhile, no potions are being dispensed to the enslaved; they drink but the purest of water and so they are slowly regaining control over their lives. Towards morning, the battle draws to its climax as Avalon’s grandson is assaulted with every trick known to sorcery by Avalon’s daughter gone astray; but Taliesin has studied under the master Merlyn and Percevale has the strength of ten because his heart is pure.

    And then it is over. As the witch crumples to the ground, defeated at last, she finds those last ounces of strength that comes at the time of dying and uses it to place the curse of the Death-Crone upon our hero: “Percevale, from death’s doorstep, I, the Death-Crone, curse you with my last breath; I curse you with the worst misfortune that may befall a man: that you will never find love or be loved ever again—until rocks flow like water, until the day comes that the sun does not rise, until the new moon is seen with the naked eye, until the planet Mercury is seen at high noon, until fire is seen in water, until it snows in Cisalpine Gaul on a summer day, until all of the above events happen on the same day within a month from this very day! In other words, you will never ever find love or be loved!

    “So then, when these events do not happen, for they cannot happen and be seen by you, you will not only be unloved nor able to give love, but you will also find the world to be filled with hate towards you, and you will soon die and forever wear the foolscap of eternal shade, for no man can live for long without love!”

    The witch dies, the King is cursed, but the enslaved are free!

    No Hope for the Hopeless

    Bogar, forever dedicated, takes what is left of his master back to Camelot. Bogar notes the King’s despair and so Percevale tells him the tale of the witch’s curse. “I shall never succeed, Bogar, for most of the witch’s challenges are impossible; that’s the joke of it, I guess. She just threw in one easy one, ‘when rocks flow like water’ to give me false hope, for I do know of a place where rocks flow like water.

    “But no one has ever seen the new moon. Of course, the full moon is easily seen because it is completely lit on the side facing us and rises when the sun sets and is therefore up all night, but the new moon is just the opposite: it rises in the morning, is up all day, sets at evening, and is lit only on the side away from us. It has never been seen, Bogar!

    “Oh, we have seen the slivers of the very young and the very old moons, but the new moon gives no light at all, so, even if we see but a thin crescent moon, then by definition, it is not the new moon. Even if we knew where to look for it in the sky, which we do not, there would be the glare of the sun to contend with. Even the stars, which do give off light, cannot be seen in the daytime, even in areas of the sky not near to the sun.

    “And Mercury, being so close to the sun, can only be seen just before sunrise or just after sunset, but never at high noon! As for snow in late June or July in Southern Gaul, it is not likely and has never occurred.

    “And I have not yet known a day when the sun did not rise. Even on cloudy days we know that the sun has risen, for there is light behind the clouds. And fire in water! It cannot be. Water conquers fire, they cannot coexist. For any of the above to happen is impossible. For all of them to happen on the same day within a month is beyond impossible, yet, I will not give up hope for I know from Avalon’s Lady that all curses have an escape.”

    Percevale spends the day in the archives of Camelot with Taliesin. Then they spend all night in the Merlyn Tower Room, where they pore over old manuscripts full of diagrams But only this much becomes known: The new moon is to appear in two weeks—this fixes the day; and there is only one place where rocks are flowing like water—this fixes the place! There is hardly time to get there, so the King immediately leaves for Iceland.

    The Ice Maiden

    The chronicles covering the journey have not survived the ravages of time, so we find ourselves already close to Iceland. The sea is glorious and the air is fresh and pure. We do know that during the journey north, the twilight lasted longer and longer each day.

    There is not a moment to waste, but Percevale spots a vessel in distress behind him, and for a moment he wonders if he should take the time to come to its aid. But, there is no real choice, so he turns back and although her ship goes under, he manages to pull her from the depths and spends over an hour reviving her. And, even when revived, her lips will not part from his, for they have tasted each other and found it to be sweet.

    “I am cursed, you cannot love me,” says the Ice Maiden finally, who was named Dheryle. “I am sent to remind you of that which is forbidden to you! I have no choice; the spell overwhelms! You should have let me drown; then you would have had some peace. From now on, everyone you touch will catch the curse until the world fills with hate and destroys itself.”

    “So this is how it is going to be,” laments Percevale. “How I shall hate to give up life’s wonders when I am gone!”

    The Greatest Day on Earth

    But, this is to be the day of the new moon; at least there is a chance, thinks Percevale. They arrive on the shore of Iceland, and on this day, as on every day for a month either way in this northern land, the sun does not rise, for it did not set the day before, since it stays aloft all day during these two months of daylight! Just before noon, strange bands of shadows begin to rapidly cross the land and Percevale feels that perhaps the end is near.

    The ground begins to shake and heave for a few moments and then all is silent, so very silent as to strike one dumb. Something terrible seems to be happening. Grazing animals look for shade trees and lie down to sleep. Then, about noontime, the shadow of darkest night covers the land as the moon begins to kiss the sun and cover it—it is a solar eclipse! Merlyn’s old notes in the archive were accurate! Thank the gods for the old wizard!

    During the seven minutes of total darkness, Percevale sees a black disk in the sky, surrounded by faint wisps of flame—it is, of course the new moon in all her black glory; indeed, the new moon can only be seen during a solar eclipse, and never at any other time. There near the sun is a bright “star” that does not twinkle!

    It can only be the planet Mercury! Yes, there it is, in plain sight, at high noon. And farther out, Venus can be seen!

    Now the ground begins to really shake, and Percevale hurries to his ship with the Ice Maiden. They leave Iceland but see the volcano erupt; rocks are flowing to the sea like water! But, the water puts out the fiery flow and so they do not see fire in water, just a lot of steam.

    Then a tremendous plume of smoke and debris is sent up into the sky and is carried south by the unusual winds born of the marriage of summer warmth and ice cold air brought on by the blockage of the sun’s rays by the dense volcanic ash. The spontaneous cold front sweeps south to Gaul on the reversed upper winds, bringing the darkness of the ashen sky with it. As no sunlight can penetrate, the air below grows colder and colder, and what would have been rain now turns to snow over Cisalpine Gaul for a brief time before westerly winds can disperse the volcanic cloud around the earth.

    That evening the sun sinks low, but does not set. On the water is the glitter path of that fiery ball—and so we have fire in water!

    The sun has kissed the moon, and Percevale gathers the Ice Maiden, Dheryle, into his arms and kisses her, his capacity for love far from dead, but growing stronger every minute of this glorious day as both of their curses fall by the wayside.



    Back in Britain, at the shore:

    “There, Dheryle, over those hills, is the former abode of the witch. I must go there to see that all is well, so as to complete my quest that brought us together in the first place.”

    “Well bless her wretched soul! Come Percivale, let us walk the grounds on this late afternoon.”

    Moving through the glittering fields of daylight fireflies, they walk along the lake path, without words. Though still weary from sea travel, love’s energy carries them on its eagles’ wings, as being near to one’s life partner is contentment enough for anyone on a night in the Age of Darkness in the mid-summer.

    There is a strange chill in the air as the woods compel them to enter and share in its secrets on this day of magic.

    Church bells knell the toll of six o’clock from the nearby town. The sounds are muffled and distant because the air has suddenly grown heavy.

    “I think that we are not alone Percivale.”

    “Yes, the forest has many eyes and I have come to love them—and tonight I feel as if the air is filled with the magic, hopes, and dreams of all of the souls which have come before us since the dawn of time.”

    “There is a similar night in my country, during which these feelings of old, sealed in our souls, become known, and float in the air so that we might know of our dim and animal past. Hark! I see movement ahead, and in the trees!”

    They run to the spot, but the impish form is gone; however, the grass is yet bent and marks the small man-creature’s passing.

    “Hold me close, Percevale.”

    “I know this feeling! It is but the witch’s soul on its way to its final and eternal resting spot in hell’s heart. It’s gone now—I again feel the beauty and goodness of man—and only this can ensure the victory of wisdom!”

    The Giant appears.



    The Last Curse on Earth

    Percivale sits down to hear the Giant’s tale and the Giant begins: “The witch placed a curse on me as well. I will forever roam the earth in sadness if I do not accomplish the following by the end of this day: I must see the sun set three times in one day, and, I must, during daylight, create a dark space behind me that never ends. What will I do? I cannot stop the sun and raise it up again, nor can I cause the absence of light behind me and into the infinite depths of space!”

    Day is nearly done and the horizon is rising to meet the bloodshot eye of day. Percivale, having studied under the poet-astronomer, Taliesin, quickly leads the giant to the shore where a small piece of low hilly land juts out into the sea. They face to the west and view the setting sun, now a symbol of the sad giant’s dying hopes. The sun drops though some clouds and is bright again, but half of it is already below the horizon!

    “Look at your shadow, giant! How long is your shadow at sunset or sunrise? What is shortest at noon grows longer as the afternoon wears on, until finally, it stretches forever behind you, since you are directly between the sun and that which is behind you.”

    “That is fine Percivale, but the sun is nearly set and will certainly not rise again until the morrow. I must still see three sunsets!”

    “No time to explain now, giant. Quick! Lie down on the ground and see your first sunset today as the top sliver of the sun falls below, and is extinguished by, the horizon. See! There it goes. Now, quickly, stand up to your great height and what do you see?”

    “I see the tip of the sun again!”

    “And your second sunset of the day, giant?”

    “Yes! I see it, and another green flash as well!”

    “Now run up yonder hill and bring up the sun again so that it may set three times in a day!”

    The gleeful giant runs up the hill in great leaps and turns to see the sun set three, four, even five more times, each sunset lasting a few seconds.
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    over the field where I walked hang a low blanket of autumn mist. Above it, the head of our dog was better to see than her body. Once in a while she playfully jumped out of the blanket, her full self appearing dark white and blue beneath the extraordinary brightly shining moon. The trees, from which drops and nuts fell sometimes, stood tall and black and frozen, without motion. The silence was screaming, besides the puffs of condensed breath coming from our mouth.GraveItty
    Very nice, indeed. Thank you for sharing an intimate experience in such an erudite manner.
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    Thomas Chatterton,Michael Zwingli

    He died at 17 by poison. Keats at 25; Shelley at 29, leaving the great 'Triumph of Life' unfinished; Byron at 35, and more.
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    He died at 17 by poison.PoeticUniverse
    Yep, usually thought to be a suicide secondary to Chatterton's entrapment in poverty, though it has been hypothesized that he was taking a curative for syphilis containing arsenic, and accidentally overdosed himself.

    Byron at 35,PoeticUniverse
    Yeah, romantically in Greece, fighting for Greek independence.
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    When golden Autumn, wreathed in riped’d corn,
    From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,
    Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
    And made the beauties of the season thine.
    Michael Zwingli

    For the whole year:

    austin_s_art_interior_for_kindle-136.jpg

    For the romantic poets (and for Graveltty, whose banning I don't understand, and for all of us temporaries):

    The Permanent and Its Temporaries
    &
    Unity in Multiplicity
    &
    The One and the Many
    &
    Change and the Changeless
    &
    Especially
    The Constant Demise of the Mutables

    (Inspired by Shelley and his style, using few verses)

    Weep for the temporaries; they all fade,
    Those transient bubbles blown and burst
    Through their brief lives, of the Permanent made.
    Oh, weep for the ephemeral dispersed,
    Sad hours all, throughout the months and years,
    To mourn their steady loss with flowing tears;
    Teach them o’er the morrows thine own sorrow
    For the yesterdays they could only borrow
    From the One’s everlasting simplicity.
    Oh, weep for the unsteady, born to flee!

    For now, their light echoes and lights the path
    Continued that they added to, onto more
    Evanescences walking Time’s footpath,
    Til Past has been forgotten by Future.
    Oh, limited Mother, their tales best
    Thine by far e’en in their impermanence,
    But Thou can’t save them from their final rest,
    For they are chained to time’s changing tense.
    Thou cannot rekindle their faded breath,
    Those melodies that hid coming death.
    Like the flowers that mock the corpse beneath,
    The Enduring cloaks their extinguished wreath.

    With veiled eyes, newer moments weep despair,
    While spreading forth their own emergences;
    Dream not that the Eternal Deep can their air
    Restore, for the makeshift must progress, spent.
    The universe has to continue its race,
    Unwinding, like a spring, at time’s fixed pace,
    In which star-generations are born and perish,
    Giving their lives for all we can cherish.
    Energy’s Hunger stalks all creatures made,
    Lying ever just ‘round the corner in the shade.

    Death takes both humans and the beetle as one,
    After their lives are spent from rolling some dung.
    Living clouds wane, having outwept their rain;
    The pale inconstants must e’er pass their reign.
    Like mist’s pageantry on an autumnal night,
    As a slowing pomp, all events made light
    Decay: Desires, Adorations, Destinies,
    Glooms, Splendours, Sighs, Hopes, Fears, and Phantasies.
    Pleasure hails, blinded by tears and sorrow:
    “You took from Death all that Life could borrow.”

    Like our shades dance the walls of Plato’s cave,
    We’re 3D shadows of 4D’s enclave…
    It’s like a lamp lights up a paper shade—
    We are as figures thereupon portrayed.
    We are magic lanterns shining here; 
    Our spirits are the lights in there.
    We’re the One’s Candled Magic Shadow-Show,
    In which we Phantom Figures come and go.
    Come, light your lantern and mine with good cheer;
    We’re magic lamps; our spirits dance in here.

    We are phenomena’s projected face,
    Well-painted from noumena’s unseen base.
    From what bright star came the gleam in your eyes? 
    From what distant sun came your smile, light-wise?
    Our minds and senses interpret and dispense
    The base reality into the colors and sensations
    Of the phenomenal world from the noumenal;
    We may become either rainbows or ugly stains!
    Our beginnings and ends are of nowhere,
    So, let’s radiate, since for now we’re here!

    Ending by Shelley himself:

    The One remains, the many change and pass;
    Heaven’s light forever shines, Earth’s shadows fly;
    Life, like a dome of many-colour’d glass,
    Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
    Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die,
    If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
    Follow where all is fled!—Rome’s azure sky,
    Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
    The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
  • Michael Zwingli
    416
    Graveltty, whose banning I don't understandPoeticUniverse
    What?? This is news to me...

    I just checked under "Bannings", and saw nothing. Where did you hear this?
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    I just checked under "Bannings", and saw nothing. Where did you hear this?Michael Zwingli

    The Banning thread closed for comments a few months ago.

    Saw it here: https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/comment/614876

    It's shocking; he was great!
  • Noble Dust
    7.9k
    Here's one of mine from a few years ago:

    Maybe
    The silence
    Of no applause
    For the subway singer
    Speaks louder than feigned
    Appreciation, than fetishized fawning:
    The standing ovation of the deaf sheep herd.
    Maybe true feeling is only met with silence, the silence
    Of no return to the question of why the silence brings a silent feeling.
    Like when the inner flame of thought is quelled by the outer frame of discursive judgment; the embarrassing lisp of the inner infinite first feeling; the apologetic laugh, crafted to avert the penetration of an eye; coital fumbling blocked by the self-preservation of an unknown inner kingdom -
  • PoeticUniverse
    1.3k
    Seasonings

    Nature springs from winter’s tomb,
    The bloom already in the seed,
    The trees within the acorns.
    Surging sprigs sprout from the soil;
    Spring showers make the summer flower.

    Summer wakes from spring’s dying kiss,
    Blooming when the rose does,
    Sunning after the spring’s running.
    Summer reigns upon the land,
    Eventually fading in the night.

    Autumn falls as summer leaves,
    Harvesting its sum of days,
    Seconding the rose of spring.

    The smile meets the tear—
    Fall’s embers last through December.

    Ice winds stalk the weed flowers,
    The ghosts frosting the dead stalks,
    Snow crystals barring all that grows.

    Winter is life cooled over;
    Melting snows feed spring waters.
  • T Clark
    13.9k


    I like this. It made me think a bit of a poet I like, Carl Dennis. A lot of his poetry has that same feeling of an ironic place between success and failure, of things not being what one might have hoped for, but still of value. Small victories in a life of gentle disappointment. Here's one:

    Before dawn, while you’re still sleeping,
    Playing the part of a dreamer whose house is an ark
    Tossed about by a flood that will never subside,
    Its dove doomed to return with no twig,
    Your neighbor’s already up, pulling his boots on,
    Playing the part of a fisherman,
    Gathering gear and loading his truck
    And driving to the river and wading in
    As if fishing is all he’s ever wanted.

    Three trout by the time you get up and wash
    And come to breakfast served by a woman who smiles
    As if you’re first on her short list of wonders,
    And you greet her as if she’s first on yours.
    Then you’re off to school to fulfill your promise
    To lose yourself for once in your teaching
    And forget the clock facing your desk. Time to behave
    As if the sun’s standing still in a painted sky
    And the day isn’t a page in a one-page notebook
    To be filled by sundown or never filled,
    First the lines and then the margins,
    The words jammed in till no white shows.

    And while you’re speaking as if everyone’s listening,
    A mile from school, at the city hall,
    The mayor is behaving as if it matters
    That the blueprints drawn up for the low-rent housing
    Include the extra windows he’s budgeted,
    That the architects don’t transfer the funds
    To shutters and grates as they did last year
    But understand that brightness is no extravagance.

    And when lunch interrupts him, it’s a business lunch
    To plan the autumn parade, as if the fate of the nation
    Hangs on keeping the floats of the poorer precincts
    From looking skimpy and threadbare. The strollers out on the street today
    Don’t have to believe all men are created equal,
    All endowed by their creator with certain rights,
    As long as they behave as if they do,
    That the blueprints drawn up for the low-rent housing
    Include the extra windows he’s budgeted,
    That the architects don’t transfer the funds
    To shutters and grates as they did last year
    But understand that brightness is no extravagance.
    And when lunch interrupts him, it’s a business lunch
    To plan the autumn parade, as if the fate of the nation
    Hangs on keeping the floats of the poorer precincts
    From looking skimpy and threadbare.

    The strollers out on the street today
    Don’t have to believe all men are created equal,
    All endowed by their creator with certain rights,
    As long as they behave as if they do,
    As if it’s wondering what the man is thinking,
    Its gray eyes glinting like tin or glass.
  • Noble Dust
    7.9k


    Thanks, glad you liked it. It's also supposed to begin in relative "silence", one word, and grow and grow, as a way to emphasize the ideas in the poem.

    I like the Carl Dennis above; I like the style. From that poem I get the theme of what I would describe as "social taboo" or something, or uncomfortable realities that no one wants to admit; I've never come up with the right phrase. Lines like this:

    The strollers out on the street today
    Don’t have to believe all men are created equal,
    All endowed by their creator with certain rights,
    As long as they behave as if they do,
    T Clark
  • T Clark
    13.9k


    I really like Dennis and I've tried to put into words what it is he does. I haven't to my satisfaction yet. I'm not really sure why your poem reminded me of it. Maybe they're both about what comes after disappointment.
  • the affirmation of strife
    46
    So, I was shifting some files around and found some Swinburne poems that I had saved. Not as subtle as some, but he's good at what he does, which is a sort of extravagant romanticism I suppose. A bit too sulky or long-winded at times. Anyway, I didn't see any of his here yet, although he seems fairly popular.

    Here are some bits from "The Garden of Proserpine" (Tilton's "Even This Shall Pass Away" ain't got nothin' on this). Proserpina (aka Persephone) -- goddess of fertility, wine and harvest, abducted by Hades. I'm not great with mythology so I don't think I quite get the reference.

    Here, where the world is quiet;
    Here, where all trouble seems
    Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
    In doubtful dreams of dreams;
    I watch the green field growing
    For reaping folk and sowing,
    For harvest-time and mowing,
    A sleepy world of streams.

    I am tired of tears and laughter,
    And men that laugh and weep;
    Of what may come hereafter
    For men that sow to reap:
    I am weary of days and hours,
    Blown buds of barren flowers,
    Desires and dreams and powers
    And everything but sleep.

    [...]

    Though one were strong as seven,
    He too with death shall dwell,
    Nor wake with wings in heaven,
    Nor weep for pains in hell;
    Though one were fair as roses,
    His beauty clouds and closes;
    And well though love reposes,
    In the end it is not well.

    [...]

    We are not sure of sorrow,
    And joy was never sure;
    To-day will die to-morrow;
    Time stoops to no man's lure;
    And love, grown faint and fretful,
    With lips but half regretful
    Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
    Weeps that no loves endure.

    From too much love of living,
    From hope and fear set free,
    We thank with brief thanksgiving
    Whatever gods may be
    That no life lives for ever;
    That dead men rise up never;
    That even the weariest river
    Winds somewhere safe to sea.

    Then star nor sun shall waken,
    Nor any change of light:
    Nor sound of waters shaken,
    Nor any sound or sight:
    Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
    Nor days nor things diurnal;
    Only the sleep eternal
    In an eternal night.
  • the affirmation of strife
    46
    I am weary of days and hours,
    Blown buds of barren flowers,
    Desires and dreams and powers
    And everything but sleep.

    POV: You are a graduate student.
  • the affirmation of strife
    46
    Also, last time when I looked up Stevens I mistyped it as Stevenson, and so I stumbled on this variation of "carpe diem" (more focus on "play" rather than ambition) by R L Stevenson:

    Gather ye roses while ye may,
    Old time is still a-flying;
    A world where beauty fleets away
    Is no world for denying.
    Come lads and lasses, fall to play
    Lose no more time in sighing

    The very flowers you pluck to-day
    To-morrow will be dying;
    And all the flowers are crying,
    And all the leaves have tongues to say,-
    Gather ye roses while ye may.

    You read right, "and all the flowers are crying" is a line in a motivational poem for children...
  • javi2541997
    5.8k
    Original: Koshibai no nobori nurekeri haru no ame Masaoka Shiki (正岡 子規)

    Translated: The flags
    of the tiny theatre have been wet...
    Spring rain.

    Las banderas
    del pequeño teatro se han mojado...
    Lluvia de primavera.

    I really love this haiku poem because it brings me some nostalgia about my childhood. I guess Masaoka is recording that period of time where you can make a lot of activities outside with your friends,family, etc... Despite the fact it has been raining, it is not bothering us because it is a spring rain where probably a rainbow would show up later on, pretty different from a winter/fall cold rainy day!
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