Weekly/Fortnightly Poetry Suggestions

[jackhill]

I think it would be fun to celebrate some of Dorothy Parker's poems from Enough Rope which are newly in the public domain. Now to choose one…

[TriciaG]

I think it would be fun to celebrate some of Dorothy Parker's poems from Enough Rope which are newly in the public domain. Now to choose one…

Good idea!

Since she's not PD in Life+70 countries yet, I think we'd only use them as fortnightly poetry (we keep weekly as open as possible).

[jackhill]

Ah yes, copyright has many twists and turns. I think I'll nominate "The Satin Dress" for now, but if we decide that it doesn't fortnightly poetry either that's ok. I may end up reading the whole thing anyway, there's so much good sarcasm in there .

[TriciaG]

Ah yes, copyright has many twists and turns. I think I'll nominate "The Satin Dress" for now, but if we decide that it doesn't fortnightly poetry either that's ok. I may end up reading the whole thing anyway, there's so much good sarcasm in there .

Since you kinda left it up to me, I chose a different poem from the book. It's launched for this next fortnight: viewtopic.php?f=26&t=90783

[jackhill]

Ah yes, copyright has many twists and turns. I think I'll nominate "The Satin Dress" for now, but if we decide that it doesn't fortnightly poetry either that's ok. I may end up reading the whole thing anyway, there's so much good sarcasm in there .

Since you kinda left it up to me, I chose a different poem from the book. It's launched for this next fortnight: viewtopic.php?f=26&t=90783

Cool! I look forward to participating and hearing other's rendition. Thanks for doing the organizational work!

[TriciaG]

While scoping out new poems, I came across a few that I'd like to do (or have done) sometime. I'm logging them here for future reference.

The Quitter, by Robert W. Service (d.1958, so a fortnightly)
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/309

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

Used Week of Feb 13 No real title, only "XVIII" by Rabindranath Tagore (d.1941)
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6522

No: it is not yours to open buds into blossoms.
Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom.
Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces and strew them in the dust.
But no colours appear, and no perfume.
Ah! it is not for you to open the bud into a blossom.

He who can open the bud does it so simply.
He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins.
At his breath the flower spreads its wings and flutters in the wind.
Colours flush out like heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret.
He who can open the bud does it so simply.

It seems like there was another one, but I don't recall what it was...

[lightcrystal]

A suggestion that's a bit wacky. "A Parody on Mary's Ghost" by anonymous, put onto Project Gutenberg a day ago: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/67336/67336-h/67336-h.htm
NOTE the below is NOT the spacing of paragraphs; it's my Gen X attempt to cut and paste.


“’Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep Young William tried;
When Mary’s Ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.”
“O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace,
Is broken into pieces.”
“I thought the last of all my cares,
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I did not stay long in it.”
“The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It’s very hard them kind of men,
Won’t let a body be.”
You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent to the eye;
With roses growing o’er my grave,
In Dr-mm-nd’s Rosary.
But William dear, my rest was short,
It was not very chary;
Them boney-men, they did march in,
And bone away your Mary.
I wish you’d speak to Mr. D.
Who owes the patent ground;
And tell him that his patent graves,
Are neither safe nor sound.

I vow that his new land-of-tombs,
Made so genteel and pretty;
Is not a bit more safer than,
Old Tombland in the City.
Alas! it is a joint-stock-thing,
The shares are down so low;
E’re long they’ll break up all the banks,
Of Dr-mm-nd, Son & Co.
My tender body was pack’d-up,
And in a sack did go;
To be a little body at,
Sir Dalley’s great depôt.
I was cut up as Stratford was,
And Y-ll-ly from Carrow;
Came stealing in—and stole away,
My brains and spinal-marrow.
I vow’d that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You’ll find it there at Doctor Wr-ght’s,
In spirits and a phial.
How very hard my William dear,—
How very hard the loss is;
That both my legs should have to walk,
The Surgery at Cr-ss’s.
And that my arms,—the tender arms,
That now in death do part us;
Should both of them be taken down,
To dwell at Doctor C-rt-r’s.
As for my eyes,—the lovely eyes,
That once beam’d from their sockets;
You’ll find them both at Mr. H-ll’s,
In his large breeches-pockets.

My very skull was lent to St-rk,
Without any apology;
And all my lumps and bumps he found,
That are in Craniology.
But when my skull came back from St-rk,
That clever organ-finder;
It was found out that Cr-wc—r had,
Pluck’d out—every grinder.
As for my feet,—the little feet,
You used to call so pretty;
There’s one I know at the Town-close,
The t’other’s in the city.
The Pupils dear, them sweet young men,
I vow they wrote on vellum;
A letter to the Doctors big,
And got my cerebellum.
As for my hair—the auburn hair,
You used to love so well;
Alas! it’s gone to deck the head,
Of lovely Mrs. B-ll.
My very liver and my lungs,
E’en them were not forgot;
But given to them cruel men,
Long J-hns-n and Page Sc-tt.
I thought I should have lost a rib,
And many other stores;
But Doctor Ev-ns took instead,
A rib from Brazen-doors.
To say where my soft kidneys are,
The Newspapers will tell;
Therefore you need not ring at night,
At “Doctor Engl-nd’s Bell.”
To boil me down—did Doctor Pure,
Affirm ’twould be a sin;
And then Old J-rv-s wink’d his eye,
And swore he’d tan my skin.
I can’t tell where my head is gone,
But M-lls and N-ch-ls can;
Also my trunk which is to go,
By M-n-ym-nt’s night-van.
I wish you’d go to Mr. M.
And save me such a ride;
“I don’t half like the outside place,
They’ve took for my inside.”
“The cock it crows—I must be gone!
My William we must part!
But I’ll be yours in death—altho’
Sweet N-rg-te has my heart.”
“Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They hav’n’t left an atom there,
Of my anatomie.”

[TriciaG]

Ha!

Hmm, hard to record lines like this: "It was found out that Cr-wc—r had,"

[lightcrystal]

Ha!

Hmm, hard to record lines like this: "It was found out that Cr-wc—r had,"

My take on those lines is that as a parody the names of the Body Snatcher characters are being used. I would say it as letters: Cr as the sound Cr, then wc as the sound wc etc. Or say them as the individual letters.
Also maybe the letters are being left out in fear of the body snatcher getting those people!

[TriciaG]

Some more I've come up with for future reference:

The Crystal Gazer
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
https://poets.org/poem/crystal-gazer
scan: https://archive.org/details/darkofmoon00teas

I shall gather myself into myself again,
....I shall take my scattered selves and make them one,
Fusing them into a polished crystal ball
....Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.

I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent,
....Watching the future come and the present go,
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
....In restless self-importance to and fro.

The Heart of the Tree
Henry Cuyler Bunner - 1855-1896
https://poets.org/poem/heart-tree
scan: https://archive.org/details/poemshcbunner00bunniala/page/248

What does he plant who plants a tree?
....He plants a friend of sun and sky;
He plants the flag of breezes free;
....The shaft of beauty, towering high;
....He plants a home to heaven anigh;
........For song and mother-croon of bird
........In hushed and happy twilight heard—
The treble of heaven's harmony—
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
....He plants cool shade and tender rain,
And seed and bud of days to be,
....And years that fade and flush again;
....He plants the glory of the plain;
........He plants the forest's heritage;
........The harvest of a coming age;
The joy that unborn eyes shall see—
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
....He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,
In love of home and loyalty
....And far-cast thought of civic good—
....His blessings on the neighborhood,
........Who in the hollow of His hand
........Holds all the growth of all our land—
A nation's growth from sea to sea
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom
Dorothy Parker - 1893-1967 (fortnightly)
https://poets.org/poem/inscription-ceiling-bedroom
https://archive.org/details/enoughropepoems0000park/page/100/mode/2up

DAILY dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend––
Bed awaits me at the end.

Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall––
I’m a fool to rise at all!

DONE The South
Langston Hughes - 1901-1967 (fortnightly)
https://poets.org/poem/south-1
https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015003918763&view=2up&seq=109&skin=2021

The lazy, laughing South
With blood on its mouth.
The sunny-faced South,
....Beast-strong,
....Idiot-brained.
The child-minded South
Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes
For a Negro’s bones.
....Cotton and the moon,
....Warmth, earth, warmth,
....The sky, the sun, the stars,
....The magnolia-scented South.
Beautiful, like a woman,
Seductive as a dark-eyed whore,
....Passionate, cruel,
....Honey-lipped, syphilitic—
....That is the South.
And I, who am black, would love her
But she spits in my face.
And I, who am black,
Would give her many rare gifts
But she turns her back upon me.
....So now I seek the North—
....The cold-faced North,
....For she, they say,
....Is a kinder mistress,
And in her house my children
May escape the spell of the South.

DONE Keep Going, by Edgar A. Guest
https://freep.newspapers.com/clip/4988587/breakfast-table-chat-by-edgar-a-guest/

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
And the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns.
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man.
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup,
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

[alg1001]

DONE Maybe Epitaph on a Hare By William Cowper
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50599/epitaph-on-a-hare

Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo’,

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domesticate bounds confined,
Was still a wild jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins’ russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor’s sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut-shade
He finds his long, last home,
And waits in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney’s box,
Must soon partake his grave.

[msfry]

Here's a suggestion. I could BC as a fortnightly.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50465/thanatopsis

DONE Thanatopsis
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

[Winnifred]

Would Edward Lear's "The Dong with a Luminous Nose" be a suitable candidate for a Fortnightly Poem? I see it's been done elsewhere, but only a couple of times and it seems like a fun one to read.

Cheers,
Winnifred

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/34906/34906-h/34906-h.htm#LUMINOUS_NOSE

THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE
By Edward Lear

WHEN awful darkness and silence reign
Over the great Gromboolian plain,
Through the long, long wintry nights;—
When the angry breakers roar,
As they beat on the rocky shore;—
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills on the Chankly Bore:—

Then, through the vast and gloomy dark,
There moves what seems a fiery spark,
A lonely spark with silvery rays
Piercing the coal-black night,—
A meteor strange and bright:—
Hither and thither the vision strays,
A single lurid light.

Slowly it wanders,—pauses,—creeps,—
Anon it sparkles,—flashes and leaps;
And ever as onward it gleaming goes
A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws.
And those who watch at that midnight hour
From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry, as the wild light passes along,—
“The Dong!—the Dong!
“The wandering Dong through the forest goes!
“The Dong! the Dong!
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!”

Long years ago
The Dong was happy and gay,
Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl
Who came to those shores one day.
For the Jumblies came in a Sieve, they did,—
Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd
Where the Oblong Oysters grow,
And the rocks are smooth and gray.
And all the woods and the valleys rang
With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang,—
“Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.”

Happily, happily passed those days!
While the cheerful Jumblies staid;
They danced in circlets all night long,
To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong,
In moonlight, shine, or shade,
For day and night he was always there
By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair,
With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair.

Till the morning came of that hateful day
When the Jumblies sailed in their Sieve away,
And the Dong was left on the cruel shore
Gazing—gazing for evermore,—
Ever keeping his weary eyes on
That pea-green sail on the far horizon,—
Singing the Jumbly Chorus still
As he sat all day on the grassy hill,—
“Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.”

But when the sun was low in the West,
The Dong arose and said,—
“What little sense I once possessed
Has quite gone out of my head!”
And since that day he wanders still
By lake and forest, marsh and hill,
Singing—“O somewhere, in valley or plain
“Might I find my Jumbly Girl again!
“For ever I’ll seek by lake and shore
“Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!”
Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks,
Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks,
And because by night he could not see,
He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree
On the flowery plain that grows.
And he wove him a wondrous Nose,—
A Nose as strange as a Nose could be!
Of vast proportions and painted red,
And tied with cords to the back of his head.
—In a hollow rounded space it ended
With a luminous lamp within suspended,
All fenced about
With a bandage stout
To prevent the wind from blowing it out;—
And with holes all round to send the light,
In gleaming rays on the dismal night.

And now each night, and all night long,
Over those plains still roams the Dong!
And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe
You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe,
While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain,
To meet with his Jumbly Girl again;
Lonely and wild—all night he goes,—
The Dong with a luminous Nose!
And all who watch at the midnight hour,
From Hall or Terrace, or Lofty Tower,
Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright,
Moving along through the dreary night,—
“This is the hour when forth he goes,
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!
“Yonder—over the plain he goes;
“He goes;
“He goes!
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!”

[msfry]

Hello, David. So once a poem has been put in the catalogue, should we go ahead and delete our post on this forum, or mark it somehow as "done"? It could save some space, not to mention reading time.

[msfry]

Well, I guess it's time we put this one in as a Fortnightly, and let more people have the pleasure of reading it aloud. When you have a slot (but not til June), I'll BC. https://www.bartleby.com/102/55.html

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

DONE
A Psalm of Life
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.