Dewey's #readathon Hour 2 Mini-Challenge: Book Spine Poetry!

Welcome to the second hour of Dewey's Readathon!  I am your mini-challenge host for this hour and we are doing poetry!

April is National Poetry Month so I've been doing (almost) daily poetry features.  What's better than reading poetry?  Making book-spine poetry, of course!

Your challenge is thus:

• Using the titles on book spines, make a short poem at least three "books" long/tall. 
• Don't worry about form or meter or anything like that.  Just have fun!  And don't over-think it - I did the one pictured above in about ten minutes.
• Take a picture of your book spine poem, post it on your blog/Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram/etc., then paste the permalink to that post in the comments to this post.
• You have about six hours.  At the beginning of Hour 8 I will use Ye Olde Random Number Generator to pick a random book-spine poem entry.
• The winner gets: Lauren Willig's The Deception of the Emerald Ring on audio read by Kate Reading!
• I'm willing to ship the prize anywhere in the world so get cracking!

April is NPM: Dante Alighieri

I admit I have a bit of a soft spot for Dante Alighieri.  Anyone who gets exiled for political reasons then writes a very, very long poem where all his least favorite people receive imaginative punishments in Hell gets a thumbs up in my book.  Dante also wrote in Italian, rather than Latin, and so The Divine Comedy became the preeminent work of Italian literature.

The punishments of Hell (Inferno) are many and diverse.  One of the more illustrative is the punishment of simonaics, those who sold Church offices - they are buried upside down with their feet set alight.  In another Circle, the suicides are sympathetically represented as a weeping wood.

I have decided to post my favorite canto, the fifth from Inferno, here in both Italian and English.  I love the rhythm of the original terza rima when read in Italian.  The fifth canto concerns the second circle of Hell wherein the lascivious are confined.  The condemned souls are buffeted about by a wind to represent their inability to control their lusts.  At the end of the canto, Dante speaks with Francesca di Rimini and her lover/brother-in-law Paolo Malatesta who committed adultery together after reading about Lancelot and Guinevere and were subsequently killed by her husband.

(In a little pingback, John Keats wrote the sonnet "On a Dream" that imagines part of this scene from the point-of-view of Paolo.)

Canto V

Così discesi del cerchio primaio giù nel secondo, che men loco cinghia e tanto più dolor, che punge a guaio.Stavvi Minòs orribilmente, e ringhia: essamina le colpe ne l’intrata; giudica e manda secondo ch’avvinghia.Dico che quando l’anima mal nata li vien dinanzi, tutta si confessa; e quel conoscitor de le peccatavede qual loco d’inferno è da essa;10 cignesi con la coda tante volte quantunque gradi vuol che giù sia messa.Sempre dinanzi a lui ne stanno molte: vanno a vicenda ciascuna al giudizio, dicono e odono e poi son giù volte.«O tu che vieni al doloroso ospizio», disse Minòs a me quando mi vide, lasciando l’atto di cotanto offizio,«guarda com’ entri e di cui tu ti fide; non t’inganni l’ampiezza de l’intrare!».20 E ’l duca mio a lui: «Perché pur gride?Non impedir lo suo fatale andare: vuolsi così colà dove si puote ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare».Or incomincian le dolenti note a farmisi sentire; or son venuto là dove molto pianto mi percuote.Io venni in loco d’ogne luce muto, che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta, se da contrari venti è combattuto.30La bufera infernal, che mai non resta, mena li spirti con la sua rapina; voltando e percotendo li molesta.Quando giungon davanti a la ruina, quivi le strida, il compianto, il lamento; bestemmian quivi la virtù divina.Intesi ch’a così fatto tormento enno dannati i peccator carnali, che la ragion sommettono al talento.E come li stornei ne portan l’ali40 nel freddo tempo, a schiera larga e piena, così quel fiato li spiriti malidi qua, di là, di giù, di sù li mena; nulla speranza li conforta mai, non che di posa, ma di minor pena.E come i gru van cantando lor lai, faccendo in aere di sé lunga riga, così vid’ io venir, traendo guai,ombre portate da la detta briga; per ch’i’ dissi: «Maestro, chi son quelle50 genti che l’aura nera sì gastiga?».«La prima di color di cui novelle tu vuo’ saper», mi disse quelli allotta, «fu imperadrice di molte favelle.A vizio di lussuria fu sì rotta, che libito fé licito in sua legge, per tòrre il biasmo in che era condotta.Ell’ è Semiramìs, di cui si legge che succedette a Nino e fu sua sposa: tenne la terra che ’l Soldan corregge.60L’altra è colei che s’ancise amorosa, e ruppe fede al cener di Sicheo; poi è Cleopatràs lussurïosa.Elena vedi, per cui tanto reo tempo si volse, e vedi ’l grande Achille, che con amore al fine combatteo.Vedi Parìs, Tristano»; e più di mille ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito, ch’amor di nostra vita dipartille.Poscia ch’io ebbi ’l mio dottore udito70 nomar le donne antiche e ’ cavalieri, pietà mi giunse, e fui quasi smarrito.I’ cominciai: «Poeta, volontieri parlerei a quei due che ’nsieme vanno, e paion sì al vento esser leggeri».Ed elli a me: «Vedrai quando saranno più presso a noi; e tu allor li priega per quello amor che i mena, ed ei verranno».Sì tosto come il vento a noi li piega, mossi la voce: «O anime affannate,80 venite a noi parlar, s’altri nol niega!».Quali colombe dal disio chiamate con l’ali alzate e ferme al dolce nido vegnon per l’aere, dal voler portate;cotali uscir de la schiera ov’ è Dido, a noi venendo per l’aere maligno, sì forte fu l’affettüoso grido.«O animal grazïoso e benigno che visitando vai per l’aere perso noi che tignemmo il mondo di sanguigno,90se fosse amico il re de l’universo, noi pregheremmo lui de la tua pace, poi c’hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.Di quel che udire e che parlar vi piace, noi udiremo e parleremo a voi, mentre che ’l vento, come fa, ci tace.Siede la terra dove nata fui su la marina dove ’l Po discende per aver pace co’ seguaci sui.Amor, ch’al cor gentil ratto s’apprende,100 prese costui de la bella persona che mi fu tolta; e ’l modo ancor m’offende.Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona.Amor condusse noi ad una morte. Caina attende chi a vita ci spense». Queste parole da lor ci fuor porte.Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime offense, china’ il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,110 fin che ’l poeta mi disse: «Che pense?».Quando rispuosi, cominciai: «Oh lasso, quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio menò costoro al doloroso passo!».Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io, e cominciai: «Francesca, i tuoi martìri a lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri, a che e come concedette amore che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?».120E quella a me: «Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto, dirò come colui che piange e dice.Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse; soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse130 quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.Quando leggemmo il disïato riso esser basciato da cotanto amante, questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante. Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse: quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante».Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse, l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade140 io venni men così com’ io morisse. E caddi come corpo morto cade.

Thus I descended out of the first circle Down to the second, that less space begirds, And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing.There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls; Examines the transgressions at the entrance; Judges, and sends according as he girds him.I say, that when the spirit evil-born Cometh before him, wholly it confesses; And this discriminator of transgressionsSeeth what place in Hell is meet for it;10 Girds himself with his tail as many times As grades he wishes it should be thrust down.Always before him many of them stand; They go by turns each one unto the judgment; They speak, and hear, and then are downward hurled."O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me, Leaving the practice of so great an office,"Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest; Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee."20 And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too?Do not impede his journey fate-ordained; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and ask no further question."And now begin the dolesome notes to grow Audible unto me; now am I come There where much lamentation strikes upon me.I came into a place mute of all light, Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest, If by opposing winds 't is combated.30The infernal hurricane that never rests Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine; Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.When they arrive before the precipice, There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments, There they blaspheme the puissance divine.I understood that unto such a torment The carnal malefactors were condemned, Who reason subjugate to appetite.And as the wings of starlings bear them on40 In the cold season in large band and full, So doth that blast the spirits maledict;It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them; No hope doth comfort them for evermore, Not of repose, but even of lesser pain.And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays, Making in air a long line of themselves, So saw I coming, uttering lamentations,Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress. Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those50 People, whom the black air so castigates?""The first of those, of whom intelligence Thou fain wouldst have," then said he unto me, "The empress was of many languages.To sensual vices she was so abandoned, That lustful she made licit in her law, To remove the blame to which she had been led.She is Semiramis, of whom we read That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse; She held the land which now the Sultan rules.60The next is she who killed herself for love, And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus; Then Cleopatra the voluptuous."Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles, Who at the last hour combated with Love.Paris I saw, Tristan; and more than a thousand Shades did he name and point out with his finger, Whom Love had separated from our life.After that I had listened to my Teacher,70 Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers, Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered.And I began: "O Poet, willingly Speak would I to those two, who go together, And seem upon the wind to be so light."And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them By love which leadeth them, and they will come."Soon as the wind in our direction sways them, My voice uplift I: "O ye weary souls!80 Come speak to us, if no one interdicts it."As turtle-doves, called onward by desire, With open and steady wings to the sweet nest Fly through the air by their volition borne,So came they from the band where Dido is, Approaching us athwart the air malign, So strong was the affectionate appeal."O living creature gracious and benignant, Who visiting goest through the purple air Us, who have stained the world incarnadine,90If were the King of the Universe our friend, We would pray unto him to give thee peace, Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse.Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak, That will we hear, and we will speak to you, While silent is the wind, as it is now.Sitteth the city, wherein I was born, Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends To rest in peace with all his retinue.Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,100 Seized this man for the person beautiful That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me.Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving, Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly, That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;Love has conducted us unto one death; Caina waiteth him who quenched our life!" These words were borne along from them to us.As soon as I had heard those souls tormented, I bowed my face, and so long held it down110 Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?"When I made answer, I began: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire, Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!"Then unto them I turned me, and I spake, And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca, Sad and compassionate to weeping make me.But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs, By what and in what manner Love conceded, That you should know your dubious desires?"120And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery, and that thy Teacher knows.But, if to recognise the earliest root Of love in us thou hast so great desire, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.One day we reading were for our delight Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral. Alone we were and without any fear.Full many a time our eyes together drew130 That reading, and drove the colour from our faces; But one point only was it that o'ercame us.When as we read of the much-longed-for smile Being by such a noble lover kissed, This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided,Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein."And all the while one spirit uttered this, The other one did weep so, that, for pity,140 I swooned away as if I had been dying,And fell, even as a dead body falls.

April is NPM: Chaucer

English poet Geoffrey Chaucer modeled his long poem on an Italian prose work, The Decameron.  In Chaucer's version, the motely crew is on pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral.  Unfortunately, posterity hasn't preserved the entire work so it is grouped in ten fragments.  I've chosen to post the beginning of the General Prologue although my favorite tale is told by the Wife of Bath.

Now, reading in Middle English isn't all that hard - just read it aloud to get the hang of it then consult a footnote or two for those words you're not sure of.

Here bygynneth the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury

	Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
	The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
	And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
	Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5	Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
	Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
	The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
	Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
	And smale foweles maken melodye,
10	That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
	(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
	Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
	And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
	To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
15	And specially from every shires ende
	Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
	The hooly blisful martir for to seke
	That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.

	Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
20	In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
	Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
	To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
	At nyght was come into that hostelrye
	Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
25	Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
	In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
	That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
	The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
	And wel we weren esed atte beste;
30	And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
	So hadde I spoken with hem everichon
	That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
	And made forward erly for to ryse
	To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.

(ok, fine, have mercy - check out the Librarius site to see a side-by-side translation and listen to audio tracks)

April is NPM: William Shakespeare

April 23 is generally regarded as the date of Shakespeare's death.  So today's poet is, of course, the Bard of Stratford-on-Avon.

Because Shakespeare = poetry.  Because he wrote in an era when many people were illiterate every thing he wrote was meant to be spoken aloud, not read.  That's how I was able to get into Shakespeare.  I watched films, saw the plays performed onstage (in Shakespeare's day one "heard" a play, not "saw" one), and then started reading.  The first play I read and heard?  Henry V (the Branagh version).  I loved all of it, from the first Chorus to the last.  I was about twelve and I asked for a complete Shakespeare for Christmas.

So here is a sonnet, Sonnet 116.  It's one of my favorites.  Read it aloud, shout it, sing it. Enjoy it.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
      If this be error and upon me proved,
     I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

April is NPM: How to be Horton

This is how you dress up as Horton from Horton Hears a Who for Dr Seuss Day at work.

Step 1: Make a pattern.  Cut two ears from gray felt.

Step 2:  Use the pattern to cut out batting then trim to make the inserts smaller than the felt.

Step 3:  Set up the sewing machine.

Step 4:  Straight-stitch approximately 1/4 inch from the edge of the felt with the batting sandwiched between (but don't stitch across the channels you made for the headband).

Step 5: Show one of the cats the partially finished ears.  He is unimpressed because you won't let him eat thread.

Step 6: Trim any excess batting then zig-zag stitch around the edges of the ears (again, not stitching across the headband channels).

Step 7: Cut apart a stretchy Goody sports headband, thread through the channels in the ears, and re-sew the ends of the headband together.

Step 8:  Try and get one of the cats to model the ears.  It doesn't work so well.

Step 9:  Take a picture of yourself at work.  With luck, one customer will get right off the bat you are Horton.  The others will stare at you then ask if you're a moose.

April is NPM: Rumi

Jalaluddin Rumi is another Persian poet, but from the early 13th century.  He was born on the eastern edge of the Persian empire but settled in Turkey when his family fled the Mongol invasion.  He followed his father's path and became a scholar and mystic.  Rumi wrote about divine love and the soul in many of his poems.

This poem comes from Ladinsky and Barton's work on The Purity of Desire.

THINGS ARE SUCH

Things are such, that someone lifting a cup,
or watching the rain, petting a dog,

or singing, just singing - could be doing as
much for this universe as anyone.

April is NPM: Beowulf

Beowulf is the ultimate hero of Old English literature.  Big, strong, of heroic bloodline, and un-conflicted.  Although I can't read Old English, I can muddle along as someone reads it.  This University of Virginia site has a lot of short recordings of the poem as it is read in Old English (I love the end of line 11).



HWÆT, WE GAR-DEna in geardagum,
þeodcyninga þrym gefrunon,
hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon!

Oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena þreatum,
monegum mægþum meodosetla ofteah,
egsode eorlas, syððanærest wearð
feasceaft funden; he þæs frofre gebad,
weox under wolcnum weorðmyndum þah,
oð þæt him æghwylc ymbsittendra
ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
gomban gyldan; þæt wæs god cyning!

(So.  The Spear-Danes in days gone by

And the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.

We have heard of those princes’ heroic campaigns.

There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes,

A wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes.

This terror of the hall-troops had come far.

A foundling to start with, he would flourish later on

As his powers waxed and his worth was proved.

In the end each clan on the outlying coasts

Beyond the whale-road had to yield to him             

And begin to pay tribute.  That was one good king.)

For Boston

I had another poet lined up for today but after yesterday's horrific pictures at the Boston Marathon I decided to circle back to Christina Rossetti.  "Remember" is a bittersweet little poem, posted here for those who lost their lives Monday.

Remember me when I am gone away,

         Gone far away into the silent land;
         When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day

         You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

         Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
         And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
         For if the darkness and corruption leave
         A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
         Than that you should remember and be sad.

April is NPM: Sappho

Sappho was a Greek poet born on the island of Lesbos.  Very little is known about her and much of her poetry was lost to time.  Although Lesbos has now lent its name as the root of the word "lesbian", it is likely that Sappho had much the same relationship to women as Socrates did to his students.

I've chosen "Hymn to Aphrodite" for poetry month.  This is a Victorian translation - to contrast read Elizabeth Vandiver's translation made in the 1980s.

Hymn to Aphrodite

THRONED in splendor, immortal Aphrodite!

Child of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee

Slay me not in this distress and anguish,

Lady of beauty.

 

Hither come as once before thou camest,

When from afar thou heard'st my voice lamenting,

Heard'st and camest, leaving thy glorious father's Palace golden,

 

Yoking thy chariot. Fair the doves that bore thee;

Swift to the darksome earth their course directing,

Waving their thick wings from the highest heaven

Down through the ether.

 

Quickly they came. Then thou, O blessed goddess,

All in smiling wreathed thy face immortal,

Bade me tell thee the cause of all my suffering,

Why now I called thee;

 

What for my maddened heart I most was longing.

"Whom," thou criest, "dost wish that sweet Persuasion

Now win over and lead to thy love, my Sappho?

Who is it wrongs thee?

 

"For, though now he flies, he soon shall follow,

Soon shall be giving gifts who now rejects them.

Even though now he love not, soon shall he love thee

Even though thou wouldst not."

 

Come then now, dear goddess, and release me

From my anguish. All my heart's desiring

Grant thou now. Now too again as aforetime,

Be thou my ally.   

April is NPM: Jorge Luis Borges

Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentinian writer, librarian, lecturer, translator, and all-around cool dude who wrote some killer short stories - my favorite is "The Library of Babel" but "The Aleph" runs a close second - essays, and poems.  Borges derived much of his amazing imagery from his imagination - he had begun to lose his sight in his thirties and was likely totally blind by fifty.

Borges's Sonnets have all sorts of subjects, including Saxon poetry (he lectured on Anglo-Saxon poetry).  I am rather partial to "To a Saxon Poet" (the English translation follows the original Spanish).



A Un Poeta Sajón

La nieve de Nortumbria ha conocido
y ha olvidado la huella de tus pasos
y son innumerables los ocasos
que entre nosotros, gris hermano, han sido.

Lento en la lenta sombra labrarías
metáforas de espadas en los mares
y del horror que mora en los pinares
y de la soledad que traen los días.

¿Dónde buscar tus rasgos y tu nombre?
Esas son cosas que el antiguo olvido
guarda. Nunca sabré cómo habrás sido
cuando sobre la tierra fuiste un hombre.
Seguiste los caminos del destierro;
ahora sólo eres tu cantar de hierro.

(The snowscape of Northumbria has known
And forgotten the footprints left by you.
Innumerable are the days the sun
Has set, gray brother, in between us two.

Slow in slow shadow you would work your lines
Out into metaphors of swords at sea
And of the dread that dwelt among the pines
And of the lonely thing that time could be.

Where shall I seek your features and your name?
Such things as these antique oblivion can
Never divulge. I'll never know what came
Of you when you on earth were yet a man.
You walked the ways of exile. You were strong;
Now you are nothing but your iron song. )

April is NPM: Hafiz

I've been reading Daniel Ladinsky's A Year With Hafiz.  Hafiz was a Persian poet who lived in 14th century Shiraz.  The short poems collected by Ladinsky are occasionally sweet, contemplative, or prescriptive.  I particularly liked the pithiness of today's poem:

ABOUT JUDGMENT DAY

I hope you have come to your senses
and stopped believing everything you
hear.

April is NPM: Christina Rossetti

Like Emily Dickinson, Christina Rossetti is one of my favorite poets.  She had some interaction with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood through her brothers and she was even engaged to a member for some time.  However, she was devoutly Anglican and broke the engagement when her fiancée converted to Catholicism (she also later refused an engagement on the grounds the man wasn't a Christian).  Although much of her poetry is religious or devotional in nature, she also wrote on the frustration and renunciation of love.  She also wrote children's songs and what is most-likely her most famous work, Goblin Market (I wrote a term paper comparing the imagery in Goblin Market to opiate addiction).

But for today, I'm going to focus on promises.  When reading "Promises like Piecrust" the nature of the promises can slant from romantic to platonic.  But at heart, make me no promises because they will eventually crumble like pie-crust.

Promise me no promises,

So will I not promise you;

Keep we both our liberties,

Never false and never true:

Let us hold the die uncast,

Free to come as free to go;

For I cannot know your past,

And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been

Warmer towards another one;

I, so cold, may once have seen

Sunlight, once have felt the sun:

Who shall show us if it was

Thus indeed in time of old?

Fades the image from the glass

And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve

For lost liberty again;

If I promised, I believe

I should fret to break the chain:

Let us be the friends we were,

Nothing more but nothing less;

Many thrive on frugal fare

Who would perish of excess.

 

For added fun, look up the song "Promises like Piecrust" sung by Carla Bruni (yes, that Carla Bruni) on her album No Promises. 

April is NPM: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

I was introduced to the infamous Earl of Rochester in a class on Restoration literature.  He is the ultimate excessive nobleman in a court known for excess.  He was a close confidante of Charles II (when Wilmot hadn't got himself banished from court for offending the King) and was the pattern-card for rakes in plays for the next century (cf. The Man of Mode): raunchy, naughty, and uncontrollable.  He wrote some poems about performance anxiety ("The Imperfect Enjoyment"), masturbation ("Song to Cloris"), King Charles II, and so on.

For maximum impact, read "A Ramble in St. James's Park" then go listen to Johnny Depp recite the opening lines in the movie The Libertine. Once you get past the weirdness of John Malkovich as King Charles II The Libertine is an excellent recreation of the dregs of Restoration London.  (Before you get to the actual poem, I'm just going to warn you that John Wilmot did like his profanity - at the time of Rochester's writing, St. James's Park was the place to go if you planned an outing of a more, salacious nature.)

A Ramble in St. James's Park

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse Of who fucks who, and who does worse (Such as you usually do hear From those that diet at the Bear), When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery, Weent out into St. James's Park To cool my head and fire my heart. But though St. James has th' honor on 't, 'Tis consecrate to prick and cunt.
There, by a most incestuous birth, Strange woods spring from the teeming earth; For they relate how heretofore, When ancient Pict behan to whore, Deluded of his assignation
(Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion), Poor pensive lover, in this place Would frig upon his mother's face; Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise Whose lewd tops fucked the very skies. There's a full 166 lines in this poem and Rochester pushes all the buttons.

April is NPM: Walt Whitman

The poet I find most rewarding to read is Walt Whitman.  Such imagery and beauty in his words.  Even "O Captain! My Captain!" is lovely to read even though it got a bit overdone between Dead Poets Society and having been set to music and sung by nearly every male choir while I was in high school.

But the poem I chose is the opening of Song of Myself which begs to be read aloud, slam poetry style.
I CELEBRATE myself;
And what I assume you shall assume;
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes;
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless;
It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

April is NPM: Emily Dickinson

If I ever got a literary tattoo (which is a pretty slim chance because I'm a big baby about needles), it would be taken from a poem from Emily Dickinson.

This poem, to be precise:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

This is the poem that I repeated to myself while waiting for my mom to wake up from surgery, while waiting to see if the treatment would work. It's the only poem that I can recite more or less by heart.  And the Belle of Amherst is right - hope never asks anything of you but it sure takes a beating.

April is NPM: John Keats

Keats is an all-time favorite poet (one of my "Overdue Reads" books is The Complete Poems and Selected Letters of John Keats).  There are so many poems I could choose - "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", "Ode to a Nightingale", "Hyperion", "To Autumn" - but I picked the one that breaks my heart every time I read it.

"Bright Star" is Fanny Brawne, the young woman who loved Keats, and who loved her back, yet they could never be together because of Keats's terminal case of tuberculosis.  How many poems would Keats have written, children he may have passed his gift to, had he not died in Rome at the age of twenty-five?  "Bright Star" was written some time in 1819-1820 and the final revisions done on his way to Rome, never to see Fanny again.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
   Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
   Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
   Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
   Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
   Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
   Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
   And so live ever--or else swoon to death.       

April is National Poetry Month! First up, Lewis Carroll

I love April - it's National Poetry Month!  I try to read more poetry this month - it's a type of literature that's harder for me to read (I can't read quickly due to the form) but I love the rhyming and rhythm.  Which is why I tend to gravitate toward older poems with set forms.

I've always wanted to do a set of April posts about poems but never got around to it.  This year, though, I am on top of it!

Since April 1st is also April Fools' Day, I decided to start the month off with Lewis Carroll.  With nonsense words and silly rhymes Lewis is always good for a laugh.  "The Hunting of the Snark" isn't as widely read as, say, Alice in Wonderland, but it rolls along delightfully.  Here's the opening of the poem, the "Fit the First" (and those Jasper Fforde fans will recognize the Bellman as, well, the Bellman).

Fit the First

            The Landing

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,

   As he landed his crew with care;

Supporting each man on the top of the tide

   By a finger entwined in his hair.

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:

   That alone should encourage the crew.

Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:

   What I tell you three times is true."

The crew was complete: it included a Boots—

   A maker of Bonnets and Hoods—

A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes—

   And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,

   Might perhaps have won more than his share—

But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,

   Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
   Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
   Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
   He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
   And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
   With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
   They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
   He had seven coats on when he came,

With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was,

   He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
   Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
   But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,

   He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends,"
   And his enemies "Toasted-cheese."

"His form is ungainly—his intellect small—"
   (So the Bellman would often remark)
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
   Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hænas, returning their stare

   With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
   "Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late—

   And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad—
He could only bake Bride-cake—for which, I may state,
   No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,

   Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea—but, that one being "Snark,"
   The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,

   When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
   And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,

   There was only one Beaver on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
   Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark,

   Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
   Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be

   Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
   With the plans he had made for the trip: