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Showing posts from October, 2019
Today's poem

The ballad relates to my participation in the workshop of The Hurst, ARVON. During the residency, I walked alone around the field in Shropshire, then found the view was portrayed in the poem (with iambic tetrameter, each quatrain rhymed abab). I suppose, in the verse, strong wind is a clue: the repetition of the line 'The gale, it plies the saplings double' in the first and fifth stanzas. Moreover, there're landscapes concerning the Roman, such as Bath in the UK. I reckon a relationship between the Roman and 'I' in the verse and the strong wind and hilly land could enhance Houseman's imagination. The last two lines lead me to a conclusion that the time pitilessly wipes out various things.


A Shropshire Lad XXXI: On Wenlock Edge
by A. E. Housman

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
     His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
     And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through hol…
Today's poem

What an irony - just the acknowledged poem symbolized Keats' 'Negative Capability' for me. I didn't major in English literature, so too much unknown starting from oft, thy, thou, syllabic control, rhetoric, etc., etc. For me, English was merely a language for science, technology, and legal matters. Now completely changed. I recite, love the poem. However, I can no longer savor the glorious season in the poem for tragic disasters occurring frequently by giant typhoons. Autumn is blue, gloomy nowadays.


To Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they th…
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Today's poem

Ale with a poetess from Surrey in the UK at a sports bar in Shibuya, Tokyo. There, inundated with foreign visitors gathering for Rugby World Cup. I brought up a short poem 'Salmon Port' by Anne-Marie Fyfe to her, in turn, she talked about a quatrain 'The Salmon Fisher to the Salmon' by Seamus Heaney. The salmon hut in Anne-Marie Fyfe's poem might correspond to 番屋 that is seen as, e.g., a herring hut in Hokkaidō. I was nostalgic, recalling the Toyohira River or Murakami city, Niigata. Glint, flicker - did I see, fade-in, fade-out, salmons leaping up from the water in September mist?

The Salmon Fisher to the Salmon
by Seamus Heaney

The ridged lip set upstream, you flail
Inland again; your exile in the sea
Unconditionally cancelled by the pull
Of your home water's gravity.

And I stand in the centre, casting.
The river, cramming under me, reflects
Slung gaff and net, and a white wrist flicking,
Setting you up the well-dressed specks.

Walton thought…
Today's poem

Voilà, this poem is a wildly novel invention or word game, isn't it? - it is patented in the following online magazine. Superb. What is called the poem? Word-optional poem, self-selection poem, or what?

Conversational Chinese by Nina Mingya Powles
from Harana Poetry
https://www.haranapoetry.com/ii19-conversational-chinese-by-nina

Similarly, found a unique poem 'Whereas' by Layli Long Soldier.
(See https://twitter.com/nala_e_bulbul/status/1183828203321864192  )
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Today's poem

It can be understood from the last two lines in the second stanza that Dickinson is not pious but introspective. In lambency of weak light, readers see that the shadow of death is passing over.


There's a certain Slant of light by Emily Dickinson

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –

Self Portrait by Robert Mapplethorpe