The Year by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Burning the Old Year by Naomi Shihab Nye
Peace by Gerard Manley Hopkins
It Couldn’t Be Done by Edgar Guest, 1881 - 1959
It Couldn’t Be Done by Edgar Guest, 1881 - 1959
January by William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963
Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams by Kenneth Koch
This Is Just to Say-- William Carlos Williams
To a Poor Old Woman
A New Law by Greg Delanty
The New Year Awakening by Thomas Hardy
After one of the coldest spells I remember ever experiencing with temperatures below zero,
with events cancelled because of the cold, it seemed fitting to continue "New Year" poems...
What is it, beside weather, that we yearn to talk about?
Ella tells us in rhymes, turning clichés with a deft hand, with a sprinkle of chiasmus (that inversed crossing, "we know we dream / we dream we know) alliterative enumeration, that indeed...
the year, no matter how or where it starts, continues it's "burden", or round of seasons...
I love that the six couplets contain a line for each month...
"Wreathe our brides" has undertones for me not just of wedding bower, but other uses of wreathes,
whether on the door at Christmas, or on a grave... I asked how people felt about the odd
verb choice of hugging the world "until it stings" and like this response the best: "she must have
wanted a rhyme for "sigh for wings".
Quite a contrast with Naomi Shihab Nye who weaves "burning", flame, blazing along with explosive consonants in "sizzle" and "crackle", and one can hear the fire "shuffle losses and leaves",
see the vivid image of letters burning, as they "swallow themselves in seconds."
What do we part with-- and what is bound to leave no matter what our decision?
Perhaps Joss paper, bonfires all have to do with what is "real" and what must be imagined--
memories of those who have passed, and dreams and hopes of what might be as the smoke
rises. Mike commented on a feeling of two themes jumbled together -- absence, and the need to let go. Lori brought up Rumi's idea of "living as firewood."
I love how the poems ends with the things undone... how the sound of their call does not die
after the blazing dies. A lovely call to think not so much about regret, as what actions we
take or not, and to borrow the verb from the next poem, to "brood" on them -- think deeply--
understanding such pondering is not to arrive with a shrug of anything that is not happy.
Peace, by Jesuit priest Hopkins, with a capital P, is not the same as the alliterated "piecemeal peace, poor and pure peace" which allows wars. The poem was indeed published in 1918-- the end of
the Great War which was to end all wars -- although written long before the beginning of that war.
What is Peace? God, beyond our understanding -- how to understand "reaving" -- carrying out
a raid in order to plunder... leaving us the solution-- Patience... to do the work of Peace. The questions in the first stanza are not straight forward in their syntax, but unfinished fragments, like the description of Peace "round me roaming "that wild wood dove "under be my boughs..."
The straight-forward "Night before Christmas" rhyming of Edgar Guest's poem was welcome.
This Is Just to Say-- William Carlos Williams
To a Poor Old Woman
A New Law by Greg Delanty
The New Year Awakening by Thomas Hardy
After one of the coldest spells I remember ever experiencing with temperatures below zero,
with events cancelled because of the cold, it seemed fitting to continue "New Year" poems...
What is it, beside weather, that we yearn to talk about?
Ella tells us in rhymes, turning clichés with a deft hand, with a sprinkle of chiasmus (that inversed crossing, "we know we dream / we dream we know) alliterative enumeration, that indeed...
the year, no matter how or where it starts, continues it's "burden", or round of seasons...
I love that the six couplets contain a line for each month...
"Wreathe our brides" has undertones for me not just of wedding bower, but other uses of wreathes,
whether on the door at Christmas, or on a grave... I asked how people felt about the odd
verb choice of hugging the world "until it stings" and like this response the best: "she must have
wanted a rhyme for "sigh for wings".
Quite a contrast with Naomi Shihab Nye who weaves "burning", flame, blazing along with explosive consonants in "sizzle" and "crackle", and one can hear the fire "shuffle losses and leaves",
see the vivid image of letters burning, as they "swallow themselves in seconds."
What do we part with-- and what is bound to leave no matter what our decision?
Perhaps Joss paper, bonfires all have to do with what is "real" and what must be imagined--
memories of those who have passed, and dreams and hopes of what might be as the smoke
rises. Mike commented on a feeling of two themes jumbled together -- absence, and the need to let go. Lori brought up Rumi's idea of "living as firewood."
I love how the poems ends with the things undone... how the sound of their call does not die
after the blazing dies. A lovely call to think not so much about regret, as what actions we
take or not, and to borrow the verb from the next poem, to "brood" on them -- think deeply--
understanding such pondering is not to arrive with a shrug of anything that is not happy.
Peace, by Jesuit priest Hopkins, with a capital P, is not the same as the alliterated "piecemeal peace, poor and pure peace" which allows wars. The poem was indeed published in 1918-- the end of
the Great War which was to end all wars -- although written long before the beginning of that war.
What is Peace? God, beyond our understanding -- how to understand "reaving" -- carrying out
a raid in order to plunder... leaving us the solution-- Patience... to do the work of Peace. The questions in the first stanza are not straight forward in their syntax, but unfinished fragments, like the description of Peace "round me roaming "that wild wood dove "under be my boughs..."
John commented on the struggling with wondering what peace is with this quote:
"The crooked timber of humanity,
nothing straight was ever made".
and "how the
sausage is made my hand getting all greasy…". Jan countered that the poem felt like
an elegy for peace and the questions are invocation for peace as prayer…
Somebody said... How do we respond to "somebody"? Especially when we are told "can't be done".
We were glad for the thrice repeated "tackled the thing/that couldn't be done, and he did it.
How it ends in the present tense -- you tackle the thing... and you'll do it.
Enjoyable language, such as 5th line, first stanza, "buckled right in" -- a gang-ho Brit attitude
by gum, by jove... and the sound of the 6th line in 2nd stanza where "quiddit" sounds like
quit it.
(although meaning "quibbling subtleties.).
Back to confusion with January, which draws on wind as woodwinds, the triple winds, meaning
variety in an orchestra section: example 2 flutes, 1 piccolo, 2 clarinets, 1 bass clarinet.
We are given a chance to overhear a conversation between wind and the writer -- Go ahead,
play louder says the good doctor. The wind of course, does, playing its music with contempt.
We had quite a romp with William Carlos Williams, and the Kenneth Koch. I'm not sure it's fair
to the good Doctor to use the sarcastic tone of Koch to understand the eating of the plums. Many
went for sexual overtones but others picked up on compassion... "you would have liked them too"...
How do we break "bad news"? For the "Poor old woman", "poor" could be both without money,
and pitiable... is it a peep show, or showing a moment of content -- at first the repeated breakdown
of "they taste good to her" -- confirming: they taste good; a reminder, of who is eating them.
the emphasis on the good, a convincing solace of ripe plums and the pleasure they bring.
The next poem starts as if scrolling sentences by Scrooge. Ends with the grief of recognizing
so many are gone... and how hard it is then, to celebrate a holiday.
We ended with a bit of mystery... The rhyming takes us through the stars, astrological signs to arrive in Spring. O crocus... how do you know? How do you know?
Questions are so satisfying, allowing by the repeat, to dwell with the mystery that compels them.
We had quite a romp with William Carlos Williams, and the Kenneth Koch. I'm not sure it's fair
to the good Doctor to use the sarcastic tone of Koch to understand the eating of the plums. Many
went for sexual overtones but others picked up on compassion... "you would have liked them too"...
How do we break "bad news"? For the "Poor old woman", "poor" could be both without money,
and pitiable... is it a peep show, or showing a moment of content -- at first the repeated breakdown
of "they taste good to her" -- confirming: they taste good; a reminder, of who is eating them.
the emphasis on the good, a convincing solace of ripe plums and the pleasure they bring.
The next poem starts as if scrolling sentences by Scrooge. Ends with the grief of recognizing
so many are gone... and how hard it is then, to celebrate a holiday.
We ended with a bit of mystery... The rhyming takes us through the stars, astrological signs to arrive in Spring. O crocus... how do you know? How do you know?
Questions are so satisfying, allowing by the repeat, to dwell with the mystery that compels them.
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