I Took the Road Less Travelled Here
I Took the Road Less Travelled Here
If I were to pick three famous poems from the many that I know they would be these three:
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough
before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over
the edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused
a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels
of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold
are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink
at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders,
and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into
that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing
himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed
in an undignified haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
I chose that poem because it took me through the most hidden depths of his mind, it displayed his emotions, thoughts of horror, fascination, desire, loss, regret. and fantasy.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
Is there a time in your past that you loved so much you wished Scotty would beam you back there? This poem brings that feeling to life.
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Can a poem conjure up in your mind visions of a magical land? It did for me, and maybe that was one of the reasons I was able to immediately take advantage of the opportunity to be in that magical land when the opportunity arose.
Are there any aspiring poets, or those who have favourite poems to tell us about? Let's hear from you - take advantage of this opportunity.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud
And now that poems are allowed
I thought I’d post this on NT
In hopes for members all to see
That we don’t need to spend our days
In hostile rancour but to raise
The quality of how we treat
Each other when we often meet.
Instead then let us change our tune
And cause this home that is a boon
To grow and prosper more and more
Then for us the best’s in store.
If poetry be the food of love, let's have a feast, and post your poetry or favourite poems here.
Hey, Buzz. This post is not meant to detract from the wonderful poetry above, but add to it
This is the youtube video for Rush - Xanadu, but I know that you cannot see it. I tell you because if there is some alternate way that you can listen to this, please do.
Thanks, Thomas, I just watched Rush perform it live in Germany on Yukou. Here is the link -> Rush - Xanadu (Live in Germany 2004)-音乐-高清完整正版视频在线观看-优酷
The only two that come to mind right off the top of my head are High Flight by John Gillespie and In Flanders Fields by John McCrae.
High Flight
First time I ever got to ride the back seat of a TA-4J Skyhawk jet trainer was on a cloudy day with scattered cumulous clouds in the sky over MCAS Yuma, AZ. The Marine pilot knew it was my first time and wanted to make it special for me and he did. Spent almost an hour doing climbs, slow rolls, dives and other maneuvers in and between the clouds. Even let me take the controls briefly. A unforgettable experience with words to High Flight in my mind the whole time. Did other flights, but none as memorable as that one. It was the first.
I can only imagine the feeling, because driving a car is nowhere near it. However, driving my bowrider around the lake is about as close as I could get to the "experience". One doesn't get it as a passenger in an airliner, but having been flown from Nassau to Eleuthera in a Cessna was different
LOL. So it took more than a day for as many as TWO NT members to indicate that they are literate. I should have realized that it was a mistake here of NOT having posted a POLITICAL poem, so here you go...
next to of course god america i E.E. Cummings“Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable, Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused....”
from I Sing the Body Electric by Walt Whitman
…great post, my friend…
Thank you. Now THREE rather than just two.
another favorite and as relevant today as the day it was penned…
Tact by Ralph Waldo Emerson:
What boots it, thy virtue,
What profit thy parts,
While one thing thou lackest,
The art of all arts!
The only credentials,
Passport to success,
Opens castle and parlor,
Address, man, Address.
The maiden in danger
Was saved by the swain,
His stout arm restored her
To Broadway again:
The maid would reward him,--
Gay company come,--
They laugh, she laughs with them,
He is moonstruck and dumb.
This clenches the bargain,
Sails out of the bay,
Gets the vote in the Senate,
Spite of Webster and Clay;
Has for genius no mercy,
For speeches no heed,--
It lurks in the eyebeam,
It leaps to its deed.
Church, tavern, and market,
Bed and board it will sway;
It has no to-morrow,
It ends with to-day.
And thanks to you, Buzz, in your efforts to elevate the level of conversation hereabouts…guessing Hallux is lurking…
You're welcome, and I'm sure we'll hear from my fellow Canuck.
Invictus
By William Ernest Henley
Thanks JR. I knew I could count on you. I guess it's time to stop counting - NT DOES have literate members.
LOL. With 6 or 7 articles on the Front (Home) Page about Biden's pardon, it's good to see that there are NT members who are still interested in more cultured pursuits than political vitriol. In fact there are at this moment 515 "Visitors" (non-members) noted at the bottom of this page.
It is a song rather than a poem, but it always reminds me of a small town (full of coal miners, steel workers and farmers) that I grew up in -
Shootin' B.B.'s at old beer cans
Chokin' on the smoke from a lucky strike
Somebody lifted off of his old man
Crackin' up the stereos
Singin' loud and proud to Gimme Three Steps
Simple Man and Curtis Lou, we were good you know
Where we majored in beer and girls
It was all real funny 'til we ran out of money
And they threw us out into the world
Ain't runnin' much of anything
Just lovin' and laughin', and bustin' our asses
And we call it all livin' the dream
We're givin' this life everything we've got and then some
It ain't always pretty, but it's real
It's the way we were made wouldn't have it any other way
These are my people
'Til we make it to a Friday night
And it's church league softball holler 'bout a bad call
Preacher breakin' up the fight
Well, everybody's gatherin' as friends
And the beer is pourin' until Monday mornin'
Then we start all over again
We're givin' this life everything we've got and then some
It ain't always pretty, but it's real
It's the way we were made wouldn't have it any other way
These are my people
We walk proud and we talk tough
We got heart and we got nerve
Even if we are a bit disturbed
C'mon
We're givin' this life everything we've got and then some
It ain't always pretty, but it's real
It's the way we were made wouldn't have it any other way, oh no
These are my people, yeah, woo!
These Are My People
Song by Rodney Atkins
good song
Perfectly acceptable as literature. Did you notice that I posted an amazing biography of Leonard Cohen on this Literature group? His songs are as profound as his novels and poetry.
Thanks - Cohen is an American treasure for sure
LOL Perhaps you meant NORTH American treasure - he's a Canadian, born in Montreal, and he had no other citizenship.
I did indeed know he was Canadian and was making the point that he is considered a treasure in the United States
I apologize if I misled anyone with my comment
No problem. My comment was just in case anyone was unaware of where he was actually from.
Well, I don't know how famous this is. When I was a child, circumstances led to my reading- a lot. One day while ensconced on the throne in my house's reading room, I came across a poem by Ogden Nash in one of my mother's magazines.
WOW!!! Did YOU just bring back my past. "Velleity" is a derivation of the Latin word "velle" and it means volition in its weakest form. But the word "velle" means "to wish" or "to will". The reason I know this is because the motto of the high school I graduated from was "Velle est posse" which means "To will is to be able", which is a positive expression, whereas "velleity", used by Nash, is negative.
I am not so sure, because that is one of my favorite poems even though I rose above the vellatious minimum and posted it ...
Oh, and I forgot to say that "To will is to be able" is more commonly expressed as "Where there's a will, there's a way".
Where there is a Will, there is no way, was what I would express to a guy named Bill, as he was an avid Trumpster, but I guess I'm left with the check, as this country is a let down, and I prefer hard rock, and it violently does rock away at the sentiment of the sediment, so the check will be paid, but not by the words i've done say'ed
Thanks for the poem.
"Sea Fever"
I remember in my composite grade 3/4 our whole class having to recite this poem, time and time again. Also, without fail, we recited it at our annual end-of-year concert.
It was obviously a favourite of our teacher , as year after year, his class would have to give the same rendition !!
I never made my class recite it, but now that I think of it, maybe I should have.
Forever long, but a small excerpt from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron:
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
A poem that takes us on a trip from the greatness of nature to a depressing note of what man has wrought. Good choice.