Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
If you would like to hear Stevie Smith read her poem, the BBC has a copy here. Also Poemhunter has a collection of Stevie Smith poems availible as a PDF download here.
With old hours all belfry heads
Are filled, as with thoughts.
With old hours ring the new hours
Between their bells.
And this hour-long ding-donging
So much employs the hour-long silences
That bells hang thinking when not striking,
When striking think of nothing.
Chimes of forgotten hours
More and more are played
While bells stare into space,
And more and more space wears
A look of having heard
But hearing not:
Forgotten hours chime louder
In the meantime, as if always,
And spread ding-donging back
More and more to yesterdays.
Who doesn’t enjoy history, so much of it surrounds war. For some war might be enjoyable, for the unaccustomed it might even look entertaining. War, however, is not such the case. Perhaps Louis Simpson is in such a caliber to speak of war, as he fought in World War II during the Battle of the Bulge.
This poem presumed to have been written 10 years after the battle, “most clearly of that battle I remember the tiredness in eyes, how hands looked thin”. Right from the beginning you can feel a beat a rhythm. Similar to the poem Drum (Hughes). ”Helmet and rifle, pack and overcoat.”
The entire poem is bifurcated in that each line is split with either: and, comma, or period. This leads to a natural cadences for the reader, you can almost imagine a fast pacing drum that would be used to keep the troops at the correct pace. Helmet and rifle …pause… pack and overcoat is how it might be read.
If this poem was given popular culture treatment you might hear it being recited as a soldier walks through the woods in war time France, the sound of mortars or artillery off in the distance draws the soldier back to the trenches. With the sound of gunfire, the soldier drifts to sleep, and the camera fades to black. Starting from white, color fades in with ringing of the ears, corpses on the ground, and snow of black and red.
I could not decide as to what circumstance this poem might be heard or told. At first we thought maybe at the bar with his buddies, other veterans, and the like. However going back to the poem, the only use of pronouns is They, and Their. That language alone has to mean that this kind of poem had no audience at least not to those who were there and experienced it for themselves. (more…)
He would not raise her banner against that; he drifted,
Ceasing, in time, to write, ceasing to think,
But happy in the wild life to the bone;
The riding in vast space, the songs, the drink,
Some careless heart beside him like his own,
The racing and the fights, the ease unknown
In older, soberer lands; his young blood thrilled.
The pampas seemed his own, his cup of joy was filled.
And one day, riding far after strayed horses,
He rode beyond the ranges to a land
Broken and made most green by watercourses,
Which served as strayline to the neighbouring brand.
A house stood near the brook; he stayed his hand,
Seeing a woman there, whose great eyes burned,
So that he could not choose but follow when she
turned.
After that day he often rode to see
That woman at the peach farm near the brook,
And passionate love between them came to be
Ere many days. Their fill of love they took;
And even as the blank leaves of a book
The days went over Mary, day by day,
Blank as the last, was turned, endured, passed, turned
away. (more…)
Colors of the sun
Flashing on the water top
Echo on the land
Picking for a coin
Many other tiny worlds
Singing past my hand
Awake to understand you are not dreaming
It is not seaming just to be this way
Dying men draw numbers in the air
Dream to conquer little bits of time
Scuffle with the crowd to get their share
And fall behind their little bits of time
Voices in the air
Sympathetic harmony
Coming from the trees
Hanging at my door
Many shiny surfaces
Clinging in the breeze
Oh, leave me where I am I am not losing
If I am choosing not to plan my life
Disillusioned savior search the sky
Wanting to just to show someone the way
Asking all the people passing by
Doesn’t anybody want the way
I say goodbye to joseph and maria
They think I see another sky
And from my fallen window I still see them
I’ll never free them from the sky
The moon is cold over the sand-dunes,
And the clumps of sea-grasses flow and glitter;
The thin chime of my watch tells the quarter after midnight;
And still I hear nothing
But the windy beating of the sea.
(1919)
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
Yesterday I spoke of visiting the Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum in Boston, Massachusetts. One of Kennedy’s favorite poems was I have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger. The poem is a reminder of his grim fate while stuck at sea and later marooned on the remote Salomon Islands during World War II. It’s always interesting to find poems of the past, in this case 1916 reused in modern culture.
Last year Gears of War 2 was released for the XBOX 360. The great marketing people at Microsoft Publishing Studios and Epic Games used an abridged version of Alan Seeger’s poem to describe the game. The trailer known as Rendezvous with its eerie narration brings this 90 year old poem back to life in a new light.
Youtube: ”Rendezvous Trailer”
The official trailer from Microsoft is also availible in 720p is availble here.
Flag at John F. Kennedy Presidential Library measures at 45′ x 26′
Yesterday I visited the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library in Boston, Massachusetts. This marks the second Presidential library I’ve had the opportunity to visit, the first being the Lincon Library in Springfield, IL. While at the JFK Library I learned that John F. Kennedy actually wanted to write and become an English Teacher. However, after World War II Kennedy refocused his attention and ran for Congress. (He later wound up writing a book, Profiles in Courage, 1955)
One of the most dramatic events in Kennedy’s early life was while he was serving in the Navy as a commander of a PT Boat in the Soloman Islands during World War II. His ship was severely damaged and after 15 hours in the open sea without a life jacket he and his 11 men became stranded on an island. He was later rescued after giving an inscribed coconut to a Native with instructions to the Navy base.
Kennedy remarked that one of his favorite poems was “I have a Rendezvous with Death” by Alan Seeger (1888-1916). Seeger’s poems were released a year after his death, coincidentally the same year Kennedy was born (1917).
I have a Rendezvous with Death
by Alan Seeger
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air-
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair. (more…)
Imagine a web site that allows you to create, edit, and share a poem and then later allow it to be manipulated by others at any time. A sort of Wikipedia of user submitted poetry. Open Source Poetry’s front page page shows recent poems that visitors can read. Another tab shows poems that are in progress and users and even vistors can edit them line by line.
Poems are published with the author’s name (or nickname) and a title of their choice. If another person edits their poem, the original author can either finalize , re-edit, or decide finish it on their own. Once a poem is published it is easily accessible on the home page. If another person wants to redo a published poem they are able to, but under a different title. All poetry posted retains the credit of its editors but becomes open source material. Open source is a copyright term for creative commons licensing that in this case uses:
Attribution Share Alike
“ lets others remix, tweak, and build upon your work even for commercial reasons, as long as they credit you and license their new creations under the identical terms.”
A nice poem I found after digging around the site;
Under Sweet Night
by Ron Septimus
Under sweet night
i will write
all my songs for you
even your tears
make it clear
this is right for you
. (more…)
Copyright 2009 by James McGowan. Photos are Copyright by their respective owners, they are listed as Creative Commons, out of copyright, attributed, or my own.
Imagine a web site that allows you to create, edit, and share a poem and then later allow it to be manipulated by others at any time. A sort of Wikipedia of user submitted poetry. 
