A gathering of ideas, rants, reflections leading up to the big day

Monday, March 16, 2009

Poem-a-week6

Yikes, we traveled yesterday this weekend and the poem slipped my mind as we didn't get home till late.

This we, I don't have a poem of my own, but rather will share with you MY favorite poem ever.

I have a really strange sense of memory, I never forget a face (or rarely a name) but I can't memorize lines, quotes or verses. For one exception, this poem. I heard it before I read it. The world's worst Poetry professor ever read it, nay performed it for us on the first day of class. Let me remind you, that I was a creative writing major at an Agricultural/Architectural hub. So, there were like 10 of us in class. It was the first day and the professor (who is still "teaching" uggh) got up and recited this to us with such passion and force, I will never forget that moment. Unfortunately, that was the best day of class.

Anywhoo without further ado:

The Lady's First Song by William Butler Yeats

I turn round
Like a dumb beast in a show.
Neither know what I am
Nor where I go,
My language beaten
Into one name;
I am in love
And that is my shame.
What hurts the soul
My soul adores,
No better than a beast
Upon all fours.


Ah, soothes my soul. Whats your favorite poem?

2 comments:

Blablover5 said...

I like Pope's Eloise to Abelard though there's no way I could ever have it memorized.

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n."

faithharkness said...

Hi! It's Mel! I just realized I can use my LJ id to comment here. I am a dork. Anyway, my favorite poem is "somewhere i have never travelled" by ee cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands