I was thinking of a number of lines in Rilke but figured I would turn to something more painful to reflect the 'unbearable' aspect.

My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand

he says I did not go
to see my parent very often you know
and I say yes I know

even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes

he says the last time I went to seem father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me

oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father's hand the last time

he says and my father
turned in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me

oh yes I say

but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I am here

I say nothing

he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing somebody I don't want to keep you

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere to go
and nothing I had to do — W.S. Merwin, Yesterday from Flower and Hand

The rhythm of 'American' English is key to the evocation.

Hey Paine! Thanks for sharing a poem. It is fine. I think reaching the 'unbearable' feeling, as Kundera says, is quite complex. We can even include pain inside unbearable, and we may get to a point where Kundera wanted to approach: gloom or heaviness of something.

he says I did not go
to see my parent very often you know
and I say yes I know — W.S. Merwin, Yesterday from Flower and Hand

Family is always a key aspect in poetry. It reminds me of Kundera, actually. The main character, Agnes, has a current emotional breakdown for the death of her parents. But I don't want to be off the poem. Yet I wanted to highlight how important the family is regarding poetry.

he says the last time I went to seem father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me — W.S. Merwin, Yesterday from Flower and Hand

He repeats three times, "the last time he saw his father." I can feel a heavy and unbearable feeling of anguish for not visiting a father. It seems like this neglect is choking him. He is suffering because he is aware that he abandoned a parent. 

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere to go
and nothing I had to do — W.S. Merwin, Yesterday from Flower and Hand

Ambiguity? Well, he ended up visiting his father. Maybe we cannot ask him more than that. I feel an awkward situation in the room. The boy of the poem finally crosses the line and decides to visit his father, but since he is there, he doesn't know how to proceed, even with trifle conversations. These things take time.

Thanks @Paine a great poem. I felt an unbearable sorrow. Maybe we can get another approach: nostalgia because of the old times the boy spent with his father, but I think we lack some information to get this.

Another example of 'unbearable' nostalgia that may fit in Kundera's view of poetry. This one by Sikelianos:

Share
With her hair closely cropped up to the nape
Like Dorian Apollo’s, the girl lay on the narrow
Pallet, keeping her limbs stiffly frozen
Within a heavy cloud she could not escape...

Artemis emptied her quiver—every arrow
Shot through her body. And though very soon
She’d be no virgin, like cold honeycomb,
Her virgin thighs still kept her pleasure sealed...

As if to the arena, the youth came
Oiled with myrrh, and like a wrestler kneeled
To pin her down; and although he broke past

Her arms that she had thrust against his chest,
Only much later, with one cry, face to face,
Did they join lips, and out of their sweat, embrace... — Angelos Sikelianos.

Don't you feel nostalgia because a girl is evolving into a woman losing her virginity? Hmm. The poem speaks about a purity about to be lost.

Yes, there is a lot of ambiguity involved. The presence of the friend who judges him harshly but also lets him have his own way. The details of the event obscure it at the same time bringing it into immediate experience. That makes it different from the examples of lost pleasure and innocence you have referred to. I will think about how Rilke does this sort of thing. His boat is further from the shore than others.

Merwin himself is a contrast to the poem since much of his other work involves memory holding onto particular events and things as a way of treading water in one's 'now'. What is reflecting what?

There is a brutal honesty in this particular poem I am not capable of.

I will think about Sikelianos. Is that different from Yeats thinking about naughty gods?

The presence of the friend who judges him harshly but also lets him have his own way. — Paine

I didn't gaze at the presence of the friend that closely. I thought the poet was playing with time and everything was in his head. I mean, he plays with nostalgia of different moments of his dad and then with a conversation he had with his friend about why he didn't see his father.

Merwin himself is a contrast to the poem since much of his other work involves memory holding onto particular events and things as a way of treading water in one's 'now'. What is reflecting what? — Paine

What a magnificent question! I am very interested in Merwin now. Thanks for introducing me to his poetry. I want to read him in English this autumn. :smile:

I will think about Sikelianos. Is that different from Yeats thinking about naughty gods? — Paine

I think yes, he is different from Yeats. Even though Sikelianos is frequently compared to him, he [Sikelianos] seems to be more despairing and puzzled.

The rhythm of 'American' English is key to the evocation. — Paine

'Poetry always begins and ends with listening.' W.S. Merwin reads his poem:

Since I am very sentient to these poems, I ask you if you know anything similar to them, and I will very much appreciate it if you want to join me this windy Friday in Madrid to read nostalgic poems and drink sake. — javi2541997

Sorry, I couldn't make it! I hope you weren't drowning in sake sorrows?
We've met before to discuss poetry and I seem to remember sharing Goethe's poem in German as well as English. In audio, the former sounding better. I'm now feeling a sense of nostalgia but not the unbearable kind!

After reading a poem, Kundera, as a narrator of the story, says: The purpose of the poetry is not to dazzle with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia. — javi2541997

Well, the purpose of poetry is, of course, debatable. Edit - I misread. K. is referring to 'the' poetry.
Just as in Kundera's novel, I think being part of a reading/listening group selecting poems can be wonderful and enlightening. Thank you :sparkle:

An aside:
[Just as sharing what books you are reading. That is a Main Page discussion not moved to the side Lounge, as this has been! Would a poetry thread not be better placed and appreciated under another main category? Philosophy of Art? Aesthetics?]

Sorry, I couldn't make it! — Amity

No worries, Amity. :smile:

I hope you weren't drowning in sake sorrows? — Amity

I was, actually. There are periods of time where I feel more sensitive than others, although I am always pretty sensitive, honestly.

In audio, the former sounding better. I'm now feeling a sense of nostalgia but not the unbearable kind! — Amity

I agree, and as I also commented with Paine, I know it is difficult to approach Kundera's point. I also read other novels of his, and in these, he also used the expression 'unbearable' when he, as a narrator, talks about love, sex, art, dictatorships, etc. I think it is a very 'Kundera' thing. I have never read Czech poets, and he quoted a lot. It is another task for this autumn: reading Czech poets too.

Just as in Kundera's novel, I think being part of a reading/listening group selecting poems can be wonderful and enlightening. Thank you — Amity

It is, indeed! :heart:

Would a poetry thread not be better placed and appreciated under another main category? Philosophy of Art? Aesthetics?] — Amity

Before posting this thread, I asked myself to what category could have been placed. But, note that it is just a quote by Kundera in a book of his, and I just welcome everyone to share poems with that feeling. I mean, I guess it doesn't have as much philosophical content as the ones on the main page. So, I decided to place it in The Lounge.

Family is always a key aspect in poetry. — javi2541997

And this can be extended from the nuclear family to that of the world. Perhaps consider the 'unbearable nostalgia' from the perspective of ecology. There is not only a distancing in family relationships but also that of people from nature. Merwin sees the consequences of this alienation as disastrous.

I haven't watched all of this yet but putting it here, for later...

National Poet Laureate W.S. Merwin reads his poems and talks of caring for the Earth

Whether planting trees or tending endangered species, concern for the environment permeates all Merwin's writings -- prose, poetry or translation. Merwin sits casually in his blue jeans, and talks of the environment and villanelles. He reads five poems from The Rain in the Trees ("Late Spring," "West Wall" and "The Solstice") and two from his latest volume, Travels, ("Witness" and "Place").

***
Analysis of 'Yesterday' here: https://poemanalysis.com/w-s-merwin/yesterday/

Perhaps consider the 'unbearable nostalgia' from the perspective of ecology. — Amity

Beautiful approach. I know ecology and nature are also key elements for poetry. Haiku is a good example, for instance. Yet I said family is a key element because (as I interpreted both Kundera and Merwin) it seemed the core element of that 'unbearable nostalgia' in those poems. First, Agnes (the character of Kundera) felt the unbearable nostalgia because she went from the day she was a girl learning German to the day where she is a mature woman living in France. Life showed up to her like a sparkle. I understand this feeling gave her an 'unbearable' nostalgia.

On the other hand, the poem shared by @Paine of Merwin, seems to send a similar message. An adult person who is in a difficult relationship with his father, and misses old times when he was a child, and he didn't need to worry whether he visited his father or not.
 
But that's how I just interpret it. Poetry is infinite in its own interpretation. :sparkle:

I guess it doesn't have as much philosophical content as the ones on the main page. So, I decided to place it in The Lounge. — javi2541997

I guess it depends on what you mean by 'philosophical content' :roll:
I used the search box to find other threads related to poems and poetry. Under 'Philosophy of Art': @Moliere's https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/13562/poem-meaning/p1

Remember your words there?:

Poems are an artistic representation of ourselves through words. I enjoyed reading the poem of the picture of your OP. I interpret it as the beautiful essence of a normal day. Where everything happens as is used to be. Fortunately, there is nothing what can disturb our serene day.

Verses make different emotions on people. I am against all of those who are rigid towards interpreting a poem. There isn’t anyone clever than other in terms of experiencing poetry. I want share another poem with you:

[He] said:
“the sea used to come here”
And and [he] put more wood on the fire. Ozaki Hōsai.

This haiku poem gives me nostalgia because the author is missing something that is no longer with him: the sea.

Sharing poems for their 'unbearable nostalgia' - I would argue that this does have 'philosophical content' and involve reflection and expressing thoughts about self, life and the world (philosophy). Even to consider what makes them 'unbearable'. It lies in the meaning we bring or give to them, no?

I guess it depends on what you mean by 'philosophical content' — Amity

I am not the one who wrote the rules of this forum. :sweat:

I fully consider poetry as a topic of philosophy. But, according to the rules, I think I would have to write the thread in a different manner. I wanted to share my astonishment with that quote of Kundera and share other poems with the rest. But maybe, it is not that philosophical. If I had tried to place the thread on the main page, I guess the moderators would have placed it in The Lounge, anyway.

Remember your words there?: — Amity

Yes, I do. I tried to give my opinion on poem meaning using haiku. I can't remember what came afterwards.

Sharing poems for their 'unbearable nostalgia' - I would argue that this does have 'philosophical content' and involve reflection and expressing thoughts about self, life and the world (philosophy). — Amity

I agree. Thank you for giving a chance to my thread in such a way. I really like to discuss nostalgia and melancholia, for instance. It is hard for me to distinguish both, and I think it is worth debating. I am also interested in shadows, colours, and night/day. I gave my best arguing in the 'Perception' thread and I learnt from other users. 

A poem that brings me nostalgic vibes (or maybe melancholia? Because it is something I will probably no longer live). Summer is ending.
 

Finally
the cicadas stopped shrilling—
summer gale.

―Yamaguchi Seishi. :sparkle:

I am not the one who wrote the rules of this forum. :sweat:

I fully consider poetry as a topic of philosophy. But, according to the rules, I think I would have to write the thread in a different manner — javi2541997

I had a look at the 'Site Guidelines' and see what you mean. Perhaps, this is better discussed in 'Feedback'?

If I had tried to place the thread on the main page, I guess the moderators would have placed it in The Lounge, anyway. — javi2541997

I think you could have placed it under 'Philosophy of Art' without any objections. But who knows? Even that is debatable. I'll move this to 'Feedback' so as not to derail your thread!

I think you could have placed it under 'Philosophy of Art' without any objections. But who knows? Even that is debatable. I'll move this to 'Feedback' so as not to derail your thread! — Amity

Fine. Good idea. I still believe that it doesn't have philosophical content, but we can discuss the 'unbearable nostalgia' of Kundera in The Lounge, though. There are also good threads here.

...

This is not a 'corner time'. :sweat:

Of course, the Lounge seems open to all and everything!
In my 'corner', I admit to having a bit of a bee in my bonnet about poetry being seen as separate from philosophy. And of less worth. I'll leave it now.

Edit to add:

I still believe that it doesn't have philosophical content, — javi2541997

It does. Arguably, even more than the Main Page 'Currently Reading' thread!

Thank you for the readings.
I did not realize he was a National Poet Laureate. I was turned on to him by a fellow New Yorker years ago. The words from city and country spoken as if to us in particular.

The words from city and country spoken as if to us in particular. — Paine

How lovely to have shared that feeling and thoughts arising. I hadn't even heard of him - so grateful your words about 'the rhythm of 'American' English' led me to the sounds. Lately, I'm finding audio can make all the difference :cool:

Perhaps that harks back to original story-telling - the oral tradition of the ancients and mothers :wink: Nostalgia?

I found a Rilke poem that approaches Goethe's pursuit of memory and goes on from there:

Behold the flowers, those true to the earthly,
to whom we lend fate from the edge of fate,--
Yet who can say? If they regret their fading,
it is for us to be their regret.

Everything wants to float. And yet we move about like weights,
attaching ourselves to everything, in thrall to gravity;
O what wearisome teachers we are for things,
while in them eternal childhood prospers.

If someone were to take them into his inmost sleep
and sleep deeply with them--, O how light he'd emerge,
changed, to a changed day, from the mutual depth.

Or perhaps he'd stay; and they'd bloom and praise him,
the convert, become now like one of their own,
all the quiet brothers and sisters in the meadow's wind. — Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, 2nd part, 14, translated by Edward Snow

I have no problem with it being in a corner I visit regularly, rather than being buries in Philosophy of Art, which can get ponderous and pretentious at times.

Here's one I like:

"The Full Heart" by Robert Nichols (1893-1944)

Alone on the shore in the pause of the night-time
I stand and I hear the long wind blow light;
I view the constellations quietly, quietly burning;
I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night.

Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey,
Many another whose heart holds no light
Shall your solemn sweetness hush, awe and comfort,
O my companions, Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night.

I found a Rilke poem... — Paine

Rilke was an excellent poet. I sadly didn't read that much from him. We don't have enough time in this life to read every important author of every country.

Behold the flowers, those true to the earthly,
to whom we lend fate from the edge of fate,--
Yet who can say? If they regret their fading,
it is for us to be their regret. — Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, 2nd part, 14, translated by Edward Snow

Ah, regret the fate. I couldn't have thought of a better bittersweet example of unbearable nostalgia.

O what wearisome teachers we are for things,
while in them eternal childhood prospers. — Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, 2nd part, 14, translated by Edward Snow

Another nostalgic feature: a childhood that will no longer be back.

all the quiet brothers and sisters in the meadow's wind. — Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, 2nd part, 14, translated by Edward Snow

I would pay to see a painting representing those two last verses!

Some brief but good poems by Gloria Fuertes:

I’m alone… and I don’t know why
I would like to know, but I won’t tell…
I’m alone and I don’t know why,
I would like to kiss, and I don’t know who.
I’m in love… and I don’t know what.
I would like to know… and it can’t be.
I’m sad and lonely… and I don’t know why.

I was
born to be a poet or to be dead, I chose
the difficult
—I survive all the shipwrecks—,
and I continue with my verses,
alive and kicking.
I was born to be a whore or a clown,
I chose the difficult
part —to make evicted customers laugh—,
and I continue with my tricks,
pulling a dove out of my petticoat.
I was born for nothing or a soldier,
and I chose the difficult—
not to be hardly anything on the stage—
and I continue between rifles and pistols
without getting my hands dirty.

I have no problem with it being in a corner I visit regularly, rather than being buries in Philosophy of Art, which can get ponderous and pretentious at times. — Vera Mont

Understood :smile: I agree that the very heading PoA can be off-putting! However, if this discussion was placed there then it would appear on the Main Page and not be 'buried'. It would be more obvious and accessible. PoA includes all kinds of interesting threads, not only the heavier questions as to what constitutes Art or Beauty. Moving on...

From the useful Feedback discussion, a post by @Tom Storm led me to the philosopher, Richard Rorty. In the last stage of pancreatic cancer, he talks of his regrets - wishing he'd spent more time with verse. He shared his comforting friends, pieces of poetry, from memory:

"Hasn't anything you've read been of any use?" my son persisted. "Yes," I found myself blurting out, "poetry." "Which poems?" he asked. I quoted two old chestnuts that I had recently dredged up from memory and been oddly cheered by, the most quoted lines of Swinburne's "Garden of  Proserpine":


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.


and Landor's "On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday":

Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.


I found comfort in those slow meanders and those stuttering embers. I suspect that no comparable effect could have been produced by prose. Not just imagery, but also rhyme and rhythm were needed to do the job. In lines such as these, all three conspire to produce a degree of compression, and thus of  impact, that only verse can achieve. — Poetry Foundation - Rorty's 'The Fire of Life'

Those obviously resonate with me. At the rate the rental on this body is increasing, I won't be able to stay very much longer. It's a time to appreciate what I've had* and come to term with all that's left undone.
*Not a poem; a song. The iconic Louis and Ella.

Here's one I like: "The Full Heart" by Robert Nichols (1893-1944) — Vera Mont

Lovely and sounds like an 'old friend', not one you had to go seek out. Do you try to memorise poems?
'Alone on the shore in the pause of the night time - I stand and I hear...'

It's a time to appreciate what I've had* and come to term with all that's left undone.
*Not a poem; a song. The iconic Louis and Ella. — Vera Mont

Yes, there comes a time...in the bitter-sweet journey from birth to death. We all share. We are not so very 'alone' in thinking these thoughts. Although it certainly seems so at times. Poetry or songs can help.

I don't know if this is the song you mean but I'll play it anyway. Lean back and listen or sing along... :cool:

Do you try to memorise poems? — Amity

Not anymore. If I'm introduced to a new person now, another name falls through a lacuna in my brain - I just hope it's a dead pop singer's, not my next-door neighbour's. But I still know If and Invictus pretty well, most of the Walrus and the Carpenter and scraps of The Highwayman (because my brother would strut about declaiming it endlessly when he was in Grade 6) tatters of Shakespeare's soliloquies and for no reason i can understand, fragments of Murder in the Cathedral.

I don't know if this is the song you mean but I'll play it anyway. Lean back and listen or sing along... :cool: — Amity

That's the one. I like old songs - you know, from when they had discernible melodies and intelligible lyrics. I caught from my mother the habit of singing while I do mundane chores, and so from years of repetition, I have a much bigger store of song lyrics than poems.

The two poems on bulletin board, lest I forget, are:

Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

and Yeats' Second Coming, which I wouldn't even try to memorize.

Rilke was an excellent poet. I sadly didn't read that much from him. We don't have enough time in this life to read every important author of every country. — javi2541997

Indeed. I wish I had a better facility at languages and much more time left. I try to view translations against original texts. I love Neruda and Baudelaire, but I need the translations in the end. Rilke's German is not something I studied enough to revive. I re-read more than trying new poems because I want to offset my weaker memory with the immediate. That also uncovers perspectives I never had before.

The matter of memory is a keen interest of mine as I experience the shrinking of the field. Unlike many of my family and friends, I do not have a vivid recall of childhood. There are some fixed stones in the river, but I leap from one to the other with little sense of continuity in between. My wife, for instance, has a clear recall of chronology of events where my events are like a well shuffled deck. I rely upon others to keep a coherent timeline. I have not and never would be able to experience the vivacity of a Proust recalling his past.

So, that condition is why I find Rilke's presentation of the need for a guide to reach the past to be a central action in the sonnet. The first verse you present from Gloria Fuertes is similar. The limit to self-sufficiency must also be imagined, not recalled.

and for no reason i can understand, fragments of Murder in the Cathedral. — Vera Mont

Well, that is a bit of synchronicity. I played the Third Tempter in that play while being a very young man. I haven't thought about that for a long time. I do wish I could do some of that again.

My Gr 13 English teacher arranged for some of us to attend a small theater performance in Toronto. Low stage, no orchestra pit, actors making their entrances and exits down the aisles - intimate. Damn thing blew me away, especially the chorus! I've read it several times since, plus all things Eliot. The film version was okay, but nothing like being there.

Playing my role on different nights evoked an interaction that was spooky at times. Eliot is not generally recognized as a genius of theater. I am going to let the mystery be.

I am closer to Auden than Eliot as a life partner. Maybe it is a generational thing. My affection for Auden was strengthened by my relationship with my father-in-law. He often wondered why it appealed to me. For him, Auden was the voice of his generation.

Just posting observations, not concluding anything.

I am closer to Auden than Eliot as a life partner. — Paine

Can't say I feel 'close' to Eliot. It's admiration, rather than kinship. At heart, I'm with the Romantics - Shelly, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Tennyson, then Dickinson, Auden, Housman and I'd have to add Frost and LePan as later editions. I appreciate many modern poets, but that's more cerebral than emotional.

I mean, who's going to match

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

I've heard that Richard Burton learned to project by standing on a cliff and reciting it to the ocean.