How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
for lovers of literature, music and food Junior eBlaher
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One of my favourite poems by T.S Eliot opens with..
'Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table;'....
The reader is immediately struck by dramatic monologue telling them that "The Love Song of J. Alfred Profrock" is no ordinary love song. Filled with evocative and disjointed fragments, its central persona is paralysed by indecision and extreme self-consciousness which makes him hesitant to "dare/ Disturb the universe" (presumably by instigating conversation and/or a relationship with a woman), consoling himself with the thought that "there will be time, there will be time."
Certainly one of the most important poems of the twentieth century because it tells of what men today experience - difficulty in expressing words of love to a woman. I certainly can't even begin to analyse all that makes this poem great. I think that's a task best left to you, gentle readers.
We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Always loved that poem Paula. Here is one that I have hanging on my wall......It says it all for me.
My Quilt
My neighbour is washing her windows and scrubbing and mopping her floors but my house is all topsy-turvy and dust’s behind all the doors.
My neighbour, she keeps her house spotless and she goes all day at a trot, but no-one will know in a fortnight if she swept today or not.
The task I’m doing is enticing, (my poor neighbour is worn like a rag) I am making a quilt out of pieces I’ve saved in a pretty chintz bag.
Oh, and this quilt, I know my descendants will exhibit with pride in their hearts, “It is lovely, my grandmother make it, such an example of patience and art.”
But will her grandchildren remember all her struggles with dirt and decay? They will not – they’ll wish she had made them a quilt like I’m making today.
Anon.
GOODBYE fellow eBlah's .....it sure has been nice meeting yo'all here and I will miss everyone of you
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
But I am going to go out on a very big limb here. I am going to but one of my own poems in. I would like comments on it please and thank you.
The Day I...!
The day I held you in my arms, Was a day that I will never ever forget. It was the day that my heart was filled with absolute joy. The day I saw your big beautiful brown eyes, Was the greatest day of my life. It was the day that my soul lit up with hope. The day you held my finger, Was a wonderful day. It was the day that, I wished you never let go. The day I saw your toothless grin, Was the day I wanted to remember for ever. It was the day that, my heart was filled with joy. The day I saw you walk, Was the day, I remember with so much joy. It was the day that is keyed in my memory for all eternity. The day you called me mum for the first time, I was over the moon. It was the day my heart cried with joy. The day you told me that you love me, Was the day I cried tears of joy. It was the day, I cried my last tear. But the day that I lose you, Will be the day I die as well. It will be the coldest day in h***. I love you, my sweet baby girl and always will. Jasmine Leanne Ludcke
Thank you so much for that. It is a recent poem that I have written. I have plenty more where that came from. I am actually a published poet. (Not bragging or any thing). But I find that my poetry is my release of stress and tension. But thank you so much for your comment.
It's not a poem but, I love the witches scenes in Macbeth.. you know.. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes".. "double bubble toil and trouble" etc They are so fun to say aloud.
@ Dara I am highly impressed that a young lady like you is reading Shakespeare or seeing Shakespeare plays on stage or as a film. I must admit that I discovered the true value of Shakespeare a lot later. At school I was really suffering and even complaining about this 'boring' and dusty stuff.
It is very difficult if not almost impossible to translate poems or if somone nevertheless succeeds he/she could as well be called a poet or at least an artist. There are e.g. so many wonderful German poems from Goethe and Schiller to the Romantic movement over to Heinrich Heine, Rilke a.m.o. But I have rarely ever seen any English translations of modern 20th century or contemporary German poetry, except maybe for B.Brecht. Here is a poem of Erich Kästner who is rather known for his childrens tales or novels like e.g. Emil and the Detektives or The Fliying Classroom, etc. etc. but less for his poems, at least in the Enlish speaking part of the world. Just by accident I found one of my favourite Kästner poems in an English translation which is not too bad:
Erich Kästner: Objective Romance
After knowing each other for eight long years (and those two knew each other well) his love was lost, and so was hers like people lose their hats or cell.
The two felt sad, yet acted happy and tried to kiss and feel it, too looked at each other, feeling crappy he stood there, helpless. As would you.
Outside the window, a ship set sail. He said it was a quarter past four and time for coffee, like every day. Someone was playing the piano next door.
They went to the smallest café in town and silently stirred in their cups. At night the dregs were cooling down. They sat alone, each with their frown Both thinking “man, this sucks”. (The last verse in German is completely different: "They were sitting there and they hardly could believe it.)
He's standing there with pie and sauce And dribbling in a Four-X beer, His beer-gut is on show of course, He relives days out hunting deer.
In sweaty singlet, thongs, and shorts (That hang half-mast on Aussie cracks) He checks out all the real good sorts - Reminds him of the things he lacks.
So throw a shrimp on the barbie mate, Exaggerate the hunting tale, It's time to top another crate - Typical sun-bronzed Aussie male.
And when he's shot a herd of moose, And outdone Crocodile Dundee, His tongue - it's clear - is running loose, He's earned a place in history.
As conquests grow and records fall, And constant patting on the backs, Another "one" upon the wall, It's clear just what it is he lacks:
Some common- sense.. .humility... A brain .... give 'im another ale; A legend in his own mind, he - Typical useless Aussie male.
And when at last the hunting's done. He'll change across to politics, Religion, football. Irishmen, And sure-fire ways of pulling chicks.
He'll solve all of the country's woes, And dream up schemes of dodging tax, And clean the jam between his toes - It's clearer still just what he lacks:
Good manners, hygiene, etiquette; Bull-dust and bull-s**t still prevail; But oh! he is loveable yet - Typical wonderful Aussie male.
HA, your poem immediately reminded me of E.M. Hemingway. Yes, this old warhorse surprisingly also wrote poems.
Here you go:
I Like Americans By A. Foreigner
I like Americans. They are so unlike Canadians. They do not take their policemen seriously. They come to Montreal to drink. Not to criticize. They claim they won the war. But they know at heart that they didn't. They have such respect for Englishmen. They like to live abroad. They do not brag about how they take baths. But they take them. Their teeth are so good. And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round. I wish they didn't brag about it. They have the second best navy in the world. But they never mention it. They would like to have Henry Ford for president. But they will not elect him. They saw through Bill Bryan. They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday. Their men have such funny hair cuts. They are hard to suck in on Europe. They have been there once. They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff. And Jiggs. They do not hang lady murderers. They put them in vaudeville. They read the Saturday Evening Post And believe in Santa Claus. When they make money They make a lot of money. They are fine people.
E.M. Hemingway 1923
I like Canadians By. A. Foreigner
I like Canadians. They are so unlike Americans. They go home at night. Their cigarets don't smell bad. Their hats fit. They really believe that they won the war. They don't believe in Literature. They think Art has been exaggerated. But they are wonderful on ice skates. A few of them are very rich. But when they are rich they buy more horses Than motor cars. Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town. But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal In Chicago. Nobody works on Sunday. Nobody. That doesn't make me mad. There is only one Woodbine. But were you ever at Blue Bonnets? If you kill somebody with a motor car in Ontario You are liable to go to jail. So it isn't done. There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars In Chicago So far this year. It is hard to get rich in Canada. But it is easy to make money. There are too many tea rooms. But, then, there are no cabarets. If you tip a waiter a quarter He says "Thank you." Instead of calling the bouncer. They let women stand up in the street cars. Even if they are good-looknig. They are all in a hurry to get home to supper And their radio sets. They are a fine people. I like them.
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