I shall go and take a stab at it
That is what I shall do
We shall later see if this, my thrust
Is found to have been true
On His Blindness
by John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: ‘God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.’
How To Be a Poet (to remind myself)
by Wendell Berry
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
To hear Berry read some of his poetry see here.
When he gives to her, and she receives it
With passive and gentle ferocity,
He thanks his God who made their bodies fit
Within these laws of reciprocity.
So then what appears as carnal pleasure
Is really far more — it is sacrifice,
Holy and sacred, an earth-bound treasure,
Reflecting glory, I render thanks twice
For here is the woman, and here is her head
Gathered in this, their tumultuous bed.
For My Gina
If marriage is a prison
Then I am happily jailed with you
Who convict-like have robbed me
Of the incomplete life I knew
Now life has new meaning
And while our new is getting old
In time we find our love’s more rich
That piles of gleaming gold
And I would rather have you
Than whatever else there is
Than independent days without you
And the loneliness I missed
So I’ll keep my life companion
Who solely I will hold
And hope that I can demonstrate
That I love you, from my soul
For My Gina
If marriage is a prison
Then I am happily jailed with you
Who convict-like have robbed me
Of the incomplete life I knew
Now life has new meaning
And while our new is getting old
In time we find our love’s more rich
That piles of gleaming gold
And I would rather have you
Than whatever else there is
Than independent days without you
And the loneliness I missed
So I’ll keep my life companion
Who solely I will hold
And hope that I can demonstrate
That I love you, from my soul
All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.
Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love –a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek–
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.
Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.
What can you say about such a poem? I will only say that I view this as I do much of CSL’s work. That is that it works on two different, but not necessarily competing, scales. I find the measure on the scale of art high, but not the highest. I find the measure on the scale of significance to be, well, atmospheric.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,–rejoicing,–sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
There are poems that are truly beautiful and there are poems that are beautiful and true. This one is better described as the latter. I wish I were more like that Blacksmith. My oldest brother framed this poem (and matted it nicely) for me and gave it to me as a gift for Christmas (which my family usually celebrates on the Saturday nearest Epiphany). What an excellent gift, more of a gift to be received than a commodity to be purchased and passed into other hands (not that there’s anything wrong with that). My brother, in describing why he loves the poem, hit the nail on the head when he said it was just so true to life, like Ecclesiastes, it tells the truth about life. The gift also alludes, at least this is my inference, to the heritage we have from our Papaw, a man who appreciates and writes beautiful poetry. He loves Longfellow, and so do we. So it is a handsome gift, and one I am very thankful for. I hope you enjoy the poem.
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
I am a fan of the “Cavalier Poets.” Primarily Lovelace and Herrick. The whole idea of being a Cavalier is romantic. Think about being fiercely loyal to your King, come what may.
This poem is dedicated to Josh and Erin, with congratulations upon their union on Saturday.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
The Cross of SnowFor more on this poem, and on Longfellow’s tragedy, listen to the free audio extra from Mars Hill Audio here.