Who is Anne Gregory? Someone Yeats cares for. He speaks to her and there is a conversation about love and its conditions. — Amity

Turns out she is the granddaughter of a good friend of Yeat's, so I think it's likely he does care for her and knows her fairly well.

The Englishness of a fair maiden. — Amity

Irish, if that makes any difference.

'Ramparts' suggest an external barrier, defence or gateway.
'At your ear' - a veil hanging down or styled as Princess Leia in 'Star Wars'? — Amity

I wondered about this too.

Next up, the view of traditional religion. Only God loves you for who you are. The Bible tells us so. — Amity

I see this last, religious, section of the poem as ironic. I see the whole poem as lighthearted.

The Englishness of a fair maiden.
— Amity

Irish, if that makes any difference. — T Clark

Poetic licence.

Turns out she is the granddaughter of a good friend of Yeat's, so I think it's likely he does care for her and knows her fairly well. — T Clark

This is a fascinating 2003 interview with 'Anne Gregory', then Anne de Winton in her mid-80's, living in Devon:

As Nanno brought in the china cups and cream cakes, I recited a verse of Yeats's poem to her:

Never shall a young man
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts of your ear . . .

But she interrupted me. "I thought it was doggerel at first and was not impressed. It was not as romantic as I would have liked it." But when Yeats publicly announced the publication of the poem and described the young Anne as "having hair like a cornfield in the sun", she warmed to it. As Nanno served the tea, de Winton recited the rest of it in a soft, still discernibly Irish voice.

"It all started," she said, "when Yeats sent a message at Coole for me to go down to his sitting room as he had just written a poem called 'Yellow Hair' which he had dedicated to me. He then proceeded to read it aloud in his humming voice.

"We would hear him humming away for hours while he wrote his verses. He used to hum the rhythm of the verse before he wrote the words. Grandma told us that was why his poems were so good to read aloud.

"But on this occasion, I was petrified. I had no idea that he was going to write a poem for me. It was agony. I was nearly in tears for fear of doing something silly."

[...]

Then, somewhat wistfully, she said, "I often think now of those years at Coole. They were the happiest years of my life. I can always see that wonderful clear light of Galway."
Anne de Winton has known tragedy as well as happiness in her 85 years - the loss of her father, then the loss of her husband in the second World War.

And one suspects another, more tenuous loss - that of her Anglo-Irish identity.

Her house, with its books and letters, is her only link now to a vanished past. Few people in the area know who she is. — The Irish Times - Yeats's girl with the yellow hair

A dual identity. Anglo-Irish. Fair enough?

This is a fascinating 2003 interview with 'Anne Gregory', then Anne de Winton in her mid-80's: — Amity

Wonderful. Thank you.

Wonderful. Thank you. — T Clark

A real pleasure. I thank you for the introduction :sparkle:

This is exciting: I have a copy of William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience that includes printings of the original artwork that he drew into the book -- and it turns out they've got a multitude of the works archived digitally. Here's a link to several of the copies of Songs of Innocence -- and it's easy enough to scooch around the website to see the other illustrations. (Thinking about more poems to add to the mix, but thought I should share this good find)

POETS’ CORNER
there’s lots of poets
round our way,
can’t move for ’em
(though I should like to).
not so handy
should there be a fire,
a traffic accident,
or an unexpected
celery stick-up job
at the wholefood store,
but should your
iambic pentameter
get broke
and need mendin’
these folk
are the ones
to send in.

I'm not sure I like this one. It's almost saying that poets are useless and can't do anything else other than write and theorise about poetry...or that firemen would rather pick up a hose and have no nose for anything else. — Amity

I read this poem as ironic and self-deprecatory. I hear it as the imagined voice of a country resident complaining about the influx of all those useless artsy types from the city. That includes Bilson who, after all, is a poet.

Something for our antinatalist/pessimist friends.

This Be The Verse

By Philip Larkin

They fuck 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 fucked 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.

This Be The Verse

By Philip Larkin

They fuck 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 fucked 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. — Tom Storm

This shares the sour distaste for humanity that all anti-natalist polemics do. Added to that is the smug, self-congratulatory, vulgar language. The author clearly thinks it's funny. Lord, maybe he thinks it's witty.

As for the poetry, why? I see no poetic purpose in these verses. Nothing beyond than that the person spouting off happens to be a poet. Perhaps it's the old hammer seeing everything as a nail thing. Perhaps he thinks his renown as a poet will add heft to his argument.

I see it retains its power to provoke and rankle.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf. — Tom Storm

Thinking more, I kind of liked, but ignored this image - misery depositing on top of misery like sediment on the continental shelf. Then as I thought about it I changed my mind. The continental shelf is part of the continent. It doesn't form from sediment. Perhaps it should have read:

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a delta deposit.

I see it retains its power to provoke and rankle. — Tom Storm

Sure, anti-natalism always makes me bare my teeth. But this is a poetry discussion. As I noted, there is no reason for Larkin's thoughts to be a poem.

I don't intend any of this as a criticism of you.

I don't intend any of this as a criticism of you. — T Clark

Didn't take it that way. I first encountered this poem 30 years ago and it enlarged my thinking. I am not an anti-natalist or a pessimist. I'm not even a Larkin fan. But I think it's vivid and it encapsulates a way of thinking.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Gives me chills. I think of Larkin as a poor, sad bastard.

Pallet cleanser? I have a thing for bittersweet.

Day in Autum

BY RAINER MARIA RILKE
TRANSLATED BY MARY KINZIE

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

Billy Collins, Poet Laureate, says this about poetry and meaning:

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means. — Bitter Crank

@Bitter Crank - I hope you don't mind me stealing your post for this different thread.

Pallet cleanser? — Tom Storm

I do like this poem. I'm thinking about my response.

Talking of poems about poems--and apologies to Moliere if this is off-topic--I recently read the "The Thought Fox" by Ted Hughes. It's a poem about writing poems, or about creativity, and foxes:

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Day in Autum

BY RAINER MARIA RILKE
TRANSLATED BY MARY KINZIE

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen. — Tom Storm

This hits hard for me. It encapsulates my own mixed feelings about autumn. The third stanza expresses the feeling that it's now too late for projects, for any positive change. The year's production is done and all you can do is fitfully wander as life is gradually drained away around you.

Talking of poems about poems--and apologies to Moliere if this is off-topic--I recently read the "The Thought Fox" by Ted Hughes. It's a poem about writing poems, or about creativity, and foxes: — Jamal

Thank you. It's not off-topic at all.
I enjoyed the poem very much.

And this blank page where my fingers move.

The blank page like a blanket of snow, you know you want to make your mark.

Sets neat prints into the snow

The foxy writer typing or writing in the snow...hopefully not with yellow fluid.

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

The creative process. The increasing awareness of something about to come into focus.

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Wow. Is this what it is like for you and other authors?
What an amazing experience.
It reminds me of midwifery and Socrates. Creative and productive philosophy in art.

The chatter of resignation, "They don't mean to but they do", always plays to me to the tune of Stardust: google tells me the line is "and I am once again with you".

BY RAINER MARIA RILKE
TRANSLATED BY MARY KINZIE

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen. — Tom Storm

As I wrote previously, I like this poem. The first two stanzas are lush and evocative... sensual, especially the second. There is particular light in the fall, the long shadows. There are wild grapes in my front yard that give off a very strong sweet smell in fall, so "the last few drops of sweetness through the wine" means something specific to me. It's funny, although there is this sensuality, I also get a feeling of rushing. Let's go, let's go. Snap it up. Closing time.

The third stanza feels like it could be a separate poem. The first two lines are dark, bleak. I guess the whole stanza is supposed to be, but I got a different feeling. "Waking up to read a little, draft long letters..." doesn't sound so bad to me. My posts here are my long letters. I don't mind being alone. I like winter, even "fitfully wandering." I picture a small apartment, warm, lit by a single lamp next to a comfortable chair. I'm sure that wasn't what the poet had in mind.

Nice. Yeah, I see it as bittersweet. There is something grand yet bleak about the end of the third stanza, almost a heroic loneliness. It's always interesting how a poem with so few words can open up a universe of associations in one's brain.

It's interesting to read the translation of the Rilke poem. Here's the German version, for those who speak the language, or for those otherwise curious. German's my mother tongue, and while I haven't read too much Rilke, I've liked each poem I read by him. Interestingly, the language felt... wrong? I got a Rilke feel from the content, but not the language.

There are quite a few things I'd have translated differently. The translation is very loose on structure. For example, the poem opens with: "Herr: es ist Zeit." Basically, "Lord: it is time." And then, in the same line, "Der Sommer war sehr groß." (The article is hard to translate; you either remove it or say "this". It means, literally, "This summer was very great.") The language is declarative and simple, here. (I'd probably use "quite" instead of "very" for rhythm reason, but it'd make the language more casual, less solemn, so I'd actually be on the lookout for a better word.)

"After the summer's yield, lord, it is time..." is a lead-in that flows into the next line. There's no grand declaration, no "it is time." From the outset, the mood differs, for me. The wine, in the original, is "heavy"; sugesting both sweet and sluggish, to me. It's at that point, that I get a sense of aging in the German version (blood thickens, the juices don't flow as they used to...) that I didn't get in the translation.

[edit: Warning, this paragraph is incorrect. I misread. The translation is correct.]Finally, the opening of the third paragraph "Who builds no house now, will build no more." There's a sense of agency. Basically, I get the opposite feeling: "Whoever's homeless now will build no shelter" in the translation, vs. "Whoever's not building a shelter now, will be homeless..." The poem doesn't predict what people will do; it predicts what will happen if they don't.

The translation is quite a nice poem in its own right, and I'd recognise the original in it, but I get different things out of both of them.

The translation is quite a nice poem in its own right, and I'd recognise the original in it, but I get different things out of both of them. — Dawnstorm

It has always struck me that when I read a translation, I'm reading something new, not the original. It seems like translating a novel, story, or poem would be harder than writing it in the first place.

The translation is quite a nice poem in its own right, and I'd recognise the original in it, but I get different things out of both of them. — Dawnstorm

I never expect translations to be the same as an original. They are their own thing.

Interestingly, the language felt... wrong? — Dawnstorm

It felt right to the translator but it is clearly a contemporisation.

It has always struck me that when I read a translation, I'm reading something new, not the original. It seems like translating a novel, story, or poem would be harder than writing it in the first place. — T Clark

I never expect translations to be the same as an original. They are their own thing. — Tom Storm

I tend to agree when reading. Interestingly, when translating, I feel a sort of responsibility to get as close to the poem as I possibly can (even if the only judgement I have is mine, and even if I know the poet wouldn't care). It's a weird doubling.

I've translated poems from English to German at university in a workshop. I took the workshop each semester (beyond need for the degree), because it was just so fun. I published two translations with an accompanying article in the course of that workshop. The article was bad and is best forgotten (I cringe remembering it), but one of the translations must have been at least decent, since it got reprinted in a local mag.

Translating is hard; and I never once felt I did the poem justice. In the translation that got reprinted I chose to focus on atmosphere, because I simply couldn't reproduce the wit. So whatever I said about the translation above wasn't actually meant to denigrate the translation. It's just the sort of thing I would have said in that workshop (with the difference that the translaters would have been present to respond).

What I said about the translation is also marred by my rather embarrassing misreading of "hat" for "baut". Well, a "b" and an "h" do look sort of similar, but I do seem to have smuggled in an extra "u". So I basically can't even trust my initial take anymore.

I tend to agree when reading. Interestingly, when translating, I feel a sort of responsibility to get as close to the poem as I possibly can — Dawnstorm

The issue is that this is based upon personal perspectives and choices about language, intent, mood, culture. Translators do not always agree on how things should be reconstructed and all they can point to is our personal preferences and justification.

It has always struck me that when I read a translation, I'm reading something new, not the original. It seems like translating a novel, story, or poem would be harder than writing it in the first place. — T Clark

How does this play out in your appreciation of the Tao Te Ching?

So whatever I said about the translation above wasn't actually meant to denigrate the translation. — Dawnstorm

I thought your comments were interesting. I didn't think you were denigrating the the translation. It's something I've often wondered about.

How does this play out in your appreciation of the Tao Te Ching? — Tom Storm

I've read lots of translations. When I'm fiddling around with a verse I'll usually read four or five. I see each one as looking at the text from a slightly different angle. I try to look at them all impressionistically to try to build up an understanding.

Also, I come at it from the other side. I think Lao Tzu is trying to describe an experience, help us share it with him. If I start with an idea of what that experience is like, I can try to work back to the meaning of the text. For me, it's a circular process. Iterative. Without any real feeling I'm trying to get anything right. I try not to try too hard.