A Lost Morning / Herman Charles Merivale

A Lost Morning

(Midsummer)

Oh foolish world! The writer's necromancy
    At times is powerless on the restive pen,
And the blank page reflects the lagging fancy,
            Which has no message then.

The honest schoolboy, of his cricket dreaming,
    Could trace no ruder figures o'er the slate,
Than those which yield my brain, with nothing teeming,
            Outlet articulate.

My tale of work, in well-considered order,
    Lies fair before me on the laden desk;
But nothing in me speaks, save dreams that border
            The grave with the grotesque.

Plans jotted down for many-sided labor
    Invite in turn from various pigeon-holes,
Where the next story has some play for neighbor,
            Stocked with imagined souls.

Yet spite of will, o'er which men make such pother,
    I cannot call one spirit from the deep,
Where all the thoughts, which crowded each on other,
            Like very Merlin sleep.

Is it the sweet and heavy hum of summer,
    Full charged with the mesmeric scent of thyme,
That, through my window, an unbidden comer,
            Dissolves them into rhyme?

Is it the sun, in his new kinghood, sharing
    The message of pure luxury with me,
Which to the footsteps of his throne is bearing
            The murmur of the sea?—

And whispering, "Rest thee, over-anxious mortal,
    Awhile oblivious of the world's commands,
Content to offer at my golden portal
            A chaplet from thy hands.

"E'en weave it as thou wilt; thy garden musters
    Mute hints of ditties to inspire the lute;
And to thy lips and sense stoop glowing clusters
            Of glowing flower and fruit.

Fritz Zuber-Bühler, Daydreams.

Wikimedia Commons.

"Bring me no ode of an heroic measure;
    Tell me no tale; seek no satiric theme,
But merely babble, out of very pleasure,
            Thine unconnected dream!"

What could I answer? All the heat was singing,
    The insect chorus hummed in undertone;
Slow to my feet my mighty dog was bringing
            A too-exacting bone.

So happy in mere happiness of living,
    I let the hours slip unimproved by,
And, past the hope of cultured man's forgiving,
            Thus "diem perdidi."

So have I writ lines that begin and end not,
    An idle morning's thriftless castaway;
For whence they came, and whither tend or tend not,
            Critic! 'tis thine to say.

Herman Charles Merivale (1839-1906)
from Through the Year with the Poets: July, 1886

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Herman Charles Merivale biography

June Dreams, in January / Sidney Lanier (2)

[... continued from part 1]

Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed;
And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness,
Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land,
And camped upon the transient Italy
That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul.
"I'll date this dream," he said; "so: `Given, these,
On this, the coldest night in all the year,
From this, the meanest garret in the world,
In this, the greatest city in the land,
To you, the richest folk this side of death,
By one, the hungriest poet under heaven,
– Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust,
And while his last, last ember died of cold,
And while the mortal ice i' the air made free
Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart,
And while soft Luxury made show to strike
Her gloved hands together and to smile
What time her weary feet unconsciously
Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power,
– And while, moreover, – O thou God, thou God –
His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar,
Within the village whence she sent him forth
Into the town to make his name and fame,
Waiting, all confident and proud and calm,
Till he should make for her his name and fame,
Waiting – O Christ, how keen this cuts! – large-eyed,
With Baby Charley till her husband make
For her and him a poet's name and fame.'
– Read me," he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot
Impatiently at Heaven, "read me this,"
(Putting th' inquiry full in the face of God)
"Why can we poets dream us beauty, so,
But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I
Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June
Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul,
Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf
Out of this same chill matter, no, not one
For Mary though she starved upon my breast?"
And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed,
And, late, just when his heart leaned o'er
The very edge of breaking, fain to fall,
God sent him sleep.
                                        There came his room-fellow,
Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream,
Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on
The poem in big-hearted comic rage,
Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed
To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim
And giant-grisly on the stone causeway
That leadeth to his magazine and fame.
Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June
Encountered growling, and at unawares
Stole in upon his poem-battered soul
So that he smiled, – then shook his head upon 't
– Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last,
As one that deadly sinned against his will,
He writ upon the margin of the Dream
A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day
Did turn the fleeting song to very bread,
– Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept,
And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam
Upon long lashes of her serene eyes
From twentieth reading of her poet's news
Quick-sent, "O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power,
And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine,
And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love,
To clothe thy holy loveliness withal,
And I will dream thee here to live by me,
Thee and my little man thou hold'st at breast,
– Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart's feet!"

~~
Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), 1869
from Poems, 1884

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Read complete poem

Sidney Lanier biography

Ballade of the Poet's Thought / Charles G.D. Roberts

Ballade of the Poet's Thought

A poet was vexed with the fume of the street,
    With tumult wearied, with din distraught;
And very few of the passing feet
    Would stay to listen to truths he taught:
    And he said,— "My labor is all for naught;                                  
I will go, and at Nature’s lips drink deep."—
    For he knew not the wealth of the poet’s thought,
Though sweet to win, was bitter to keep.

So he left the hurry, and dust, and heat
    For the free, green forest where man was not;
And found in the wilderness’ deep retreat
    That favor with Nature which he sought.
    She spake with him, nor denied him aught,
In waking vision or visioned sleep,
    But little he guessed the wealth she brought,                              
Though sweet to win, was bitter to keep.

But now when his bosom, grown replete,
    Would lighten itself in song of what
It had gathered in silence, he could meet
    No answering thrill from his passion caught.                              
    Then grieving he fled from that quiet spot,
To where men work, and are weary, and weep;
    For he said,— "The wealth for which I wrought
Is sweet to win, but bitter to keep."

Envoi

Oh, poets bewailing your hapless lot,                                    
    That ye may not in Nature your whole hearts steep,
Know that the wealth of the poet’s thought
    Is sweet to win, but bitter to keep.

~~

Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)

from Orion, and other poems, 1880

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

The Sonnet / George J. Dance

The Sonnet

It starts with staring at an empty page
And trying to find a decent set of rhymes,
With just one thought to stop frustrated rage:
You only have to do this seven times.

Put rhymes in order, notice what they're saying,
Then try to tell that story line-by-line.
When lines are sketched out, then you can start playing
With each one. Use your skills to make it fine:

Use sound to give each line the proper feel,
Alliteration, assonance, and more;
Add concrete images to make it 'real';
Add more of those by using metaphor.

Then at some point you'll stop, read, ponder on it,
And realize you just composed a sonnet.

~~
George J. Dance, 2017

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

George J. Dance biography

Let me Sing of What I Know / William Allingham

Let me Sing of What I Know

A wild west Coast, a little Town,
Where little Folk go up and down,
Tides flow and winds blow:
Night and Tempest and the Sea,
Human Will and Human Fate:
What is little, what is great?
Howsoe'er the answer be,
Let me sing of what I know.

~~
William Allingham (1824-1889)
from Sixteen Poems of William Allingham, 1905.

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Allingham biography

"Let Me Sing of What I Know" read by Liam. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

(Poem begins at 0:00)

In my craft or sullen art / Dylan Thomas

     
In my craft or sullen art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Not for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

~~
Dylan Thomas (1914-1954)
from Deaths and Entrances, 1946

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

"In My Craft or Sullen Art" read by Dylan Thomas. Courtesy Jack Gibbons.

Dylan Thomas biography

Men Made Out of Words / Wallace Stevens

Men Made Out of Words

What should we be without the sexual myth,
The human revery or poem of death?

Castratos of moon-mash – Life consists
Of propositions about life. The human

Revery is a solitude, in which
We compose these propositions, torn by dreams,

By the terrible incantations of defeats
And by the fear that defeats and dreams are one.

The whole race is a poet that writes down
The eccentric propositions of its fate.

---
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), 1946
from Transport to Summer, 1947

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Wallace Stevens biography

"Men Made out of Words" read by TomReads.