The Anime Alley

I reread the poem "Hope is the Thing with Feathers"... it is quite uplifting.

A friend showed me a book of poetry that she had since she was a little girl. The poet is Robert Burns. She pointed out her favorite poem in the book, which I read with delight. Here is that poem:


TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)

I

EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I was be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

II

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An' fellow-mortal!

III

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
And never miss't!

IV

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

V

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

VI

That wee bit heap o' leaves an stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

VII

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

VIII

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I cannot see,
I guess an' fear!

This poem is by one of my favorite writers ever: Yevgeny Yevtushenko. It feels kinda modern despite being a pretty old poem from his youth. Reminds of something a GOOD high school poetry writer would write.

Breaking Up

I fell out of love: that’s our story’s dull ending,
as flat as life is, as dull as the grave.
Excuse me--I’ll break off the string of this love song
and smash the guitar. We have nothing to save.

The puppy is puzzled. Our furry small monster
can’t decide why we complicate simple things so--
he whines at your door and I let him enter,
when he scratches at my door, you always go.

Dog, sentimental dog, you’ll surely go crazy,
running from one to the othe like this--
too young to conceive of an ancient idea:
it’s ended, done with, over, kaput. Finis.

Get sentimental and we end up by playing
the old melodrama, "Salvation of Love."
"Forgiveness," we whisper, and hope for an echo;
but nothing returns from the silence above.

Better save love at the very beginning,
avoiding all passionate "nevers," "forevers;"
we ought to have heard what the train wheels were shouting,
"Do not make promises!" Promises are levers.

We should have made note of the broken branches,
we should have looked up at the smokey sky,
warning the witless pretensions of lovers--
the greater the hope is, the greater the lie.

True kindness in love means staying quite sober,
weighing each link of the chain you must bear.
Don’t promise her heaven--suggest half an acre;
not "unto death," but at least to next year.

And don’t keep declaring, "I love you, I love you."
That little phrase leads a durable life--
when remembered again in some loveless hereafter,
it can sting like a hornet or stab like a knife.

So--our little dog in all his confusion
turns and returns from door to door.
I won’t say "forgive me" because I have left you;
I ask pardon for one thing: I loved you before.

Aw... nice poem, a bit sad. It needs to sink in for a bit... my wheels are turning. Thanks for posting it!

Here's a collection of all his works, http://lightning.prohosting.com/~zhenka ... chive.html
the man deserves more appreciation. I like poetry and all but this man's works are some of the few writings that really effect me.

Sentire wrote:TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)

I

EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
...

Actually, that is kind of awesome. I just wish I understood more of it. I could figure a lot of it out, but people don't really talk (or write) like that any more.

Dorcas_Aurelia wrote:

Sentire wrote:TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)

I

EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
...

Actually, that is kind of awesome. I just wish I understood more of it. I could figure a lot of it out, but people don't really talk (or write) like that any more.

The woman who shared this with me said her grandfather read that poem to her as a child. He came to the US from Scotland. She said he would read it with the proper Scottish accent.... how cool.

chrisb wrote:This poem is by one of my favorite writers ever: Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

It hit too close to home, but it made me feel better. Nice one, Chris.

Because this thread shouldn't have been left so long forgotten and because it really is a lovely one, I decided to post again here. Sentire, I hope you won't leave me alone around here.

I am a really big fan of Yeats and the elegant style in which he writes some of his poems. And this is one of my favorite poems from him.

HE REMEMBERS FORGOTTEN BEAUTY

by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew,
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

It seems I have deserted you.... I'm sorry! I just noticed your post now when I came to post my own poem! Beautiful choice. I don't know if it is just me, but I seem to always read Yeats poems twice... in order to take in the full gist of it. Does that make sense? Maybe I am a bit slower than others....

Well, it has been a rough time at work lately, but my mind is elsewhere - or at least wants to be... tehehe. So, the following poem reflects my wandering mind and spirit.

"Afternoon on a Hill"

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!

-by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Sentire wrote:It seems I have deserted you.... I'm sorry! I just noticed your post now when I came to post my own poem! Beautiful choice. I don't know if it is just me, but I seem to always read Yeats poems twice... in order to take in the full gist of it. Does that make sense? Maybe I am a bit slower than others....

It's no problem; better late than ever. That's what I always say. And it's not just you with Yeats. At the beginning it was somehow difficult for me too, especially since English is my second language. But he's one of my all time favourites so I kind of become addicted to his poems.

I came across this poem and I liked it, although I'm not a fan of Cummings. However I like how everybody can imagine their loved ones in this one (their really loved ones )

i like my body when it is with your
by E. E. Cummings (1894 - 1962)


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new.

I think we are way overdue for a poem. Yours had me a little steamy Aya .... but I like it. Well, I was reading up on our current Poet Laureate, Kay Ryan. I had never read any of her work. I'm glad I took up this endeavor. I find her work refreshingly blunt in a way. It is visual, and has substance. Her poems make you think and feel, without being mysterious. If any of what I just said makes any sense...

In any case. I read on the one site the following:

'At 29, Kay Ryan undertook a 4,000 mile cross-country bicycle trip, to give herself time to consider whether to devote herself to poetry as a vocation. As she pedaled through Colorado, the repetitive, rhythmic exercise gave her a sense of oneness with her surroundings, as if "I could pass through the pine trees and they through me." She suddenly felt as if she "knew everything," she says. "I wasn't bound by the ordinary structures of ego."'

Here is one of hers I was particularly struck with.

A Hundred Bolts of Satin
by Kay Ryan


All you
have to lose
is one
connection
and the mind
uncouples
all the way back.
It seems
to have been
a train.
There seems
to have been
a track.
The things
that you
unpack
from the
abandoned cars
cannot sustain
life: a crate of
tractor axles,
for example,
a dozen dozen
clasp knives,
a hundred
bolts of satin—
perhaps you
specialized
more than
you imagined.

I bought a new book of poetry to add to my collection. It is called "The Book of Celtic Verse". Here is a poem from that book that has a lightness that I find serene and welcoming... plus I have a thing for owls.

Iolo Aneurin Williams (1890 - 1962)

Silences

We glide and are still on the river
In quiet that drugs the wit,
The sun has charmed our hearts
As the day is charmed with it.

And the little owl in the willow -
So passionless, still, we seem -
As little fears our passing
As he fears the passing stream.

The sun has charmed our hearts,
Our sense, to tranquility -
Quiet as weeds in the river
Or the little owl in the tree.

I fell in love with this poem.


The Archipelago Of Kisses

by Jeffrey McDaniel

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

I figured I would be the first to post some Haiku here:


An old silent pond...

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

By Basho Matsuo (1644-1694)




Over the wintry

forest, winds howl in rage

with no leaves to blow.

By Natsume Soseki (1275-1351)
(considered the Charles Dickens of Japan supposedly)

Sentire wrote:I figured I would be the first to post some Haiku here:


An old silent pond...

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

By Basho Matsuo (1644-1694)

Love that one

I'm not quite sure if this classifies as poetry, but my Utena DVD set came with a booklet that has commentary by the director and some of his words are very poetic and speak to me.

A prince is someone who can exercise power.

What is that power for?
Who is it for?

I stopped seeking to be sought after. That wasn't being true to myself.

I want to become someone who can exercise power. I want to become a prince.

-For friendship perhaps.

I tried to live true to myself.

"You're just like an alien." someone said to me one day. They must have meant I'm not normal.

In other words living true to yourself means living as an alien. And so I became an alien all alone in the world.

I came across this poem today while I was surfing the web. What got to me was how over-the-top some of the lines were. If I was back in my high school English class, this would be gold mine of a poem to analyze.

Hate Poem

Julie Sheehan

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

^ The more I read that poem, the more I like it...in an odd fashion. I sort of feel it wouldn't have been out of place in Edwardian England or very early twentieth century America.

I THINK that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer.
A brew that’s best straight from a tap
With golden hue and snowy cap;
The liquid bread I drink all day,
Until my memory melts away;
A beer that’s made with summer malt
Too little hops its only fault;
Upon whose brow the yeast has lain;
In water clear as falling rain.
Poems are made by fools I fear,
But only wort can make a beer.