Poems Reflecting How I Feel Right Now
February, 2019
I’ve loved most of these since high school and college days,
but now they mean so much more.
1.
Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth
Arthur Hugh Clough 1919-1861
Say not the Struggle nought Availeth
Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
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2.
A Psalm of Life
1807-1882
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.
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John Milton On his Blindness
1608-1674
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
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(Now it veers more into death and dying —
Indeed, that’s how I have felt like I’ve been doing over these past months.)
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4.
From. Tennyson Morte d’Arthur
Morte d'Arthur by Alfred, Lord Tennyson | Poetry Foundation
Especially this part:
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
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Shakespeare Sonnet 71.
.
Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
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6.
Dylan Thomas, Do not go Gentle into that Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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A collection:
Here’s one from that collection- this one moves me to tears whenever I read it. It’s in the voice of a Salmon.
It’s pretty corny when I stop to think about it but every time I read it cannot stop crying.
I call it the Salmon Poem.
A LEAP OF FAITH
I was coming home
I was coming home to die
I was coming home to die in my own bed
Although buoyed by this hope
I could feel my strength ebbing
As I struggled against the tide of life
That had finally turned against me
Suddenly, the world erupted
Into turbulence and confusion
I had reached the last hurdle
I would now have to overcome
With all the power remaining
In my mortal being
I leapt free from earths’ pull
And soared through the air
I am McSalmon of the Salmonidae
I was home, I was home to die
I was home to die in my own bed
I was coming home to die
I was coming home to die in my own bed
Although buoyed by this hope
I could feel my strength ebbing
As I struggled against the tide of life
That had finally turned against me
Suddenly, the world erupted
Into turbulence and confusion
I had reached the last hurdle
I would now have to overcome
With all the power remaining
In my mortal being
I leapt free from earths’ pull
And soared through the air
I am McSalmon of the Salmonidae
I was home, I was home to die
I was home to die in my own bed
Michael Ashby, Sidmouth
Michael Ashby - thefuneralpoem.com
With Picture at:
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- Something to think about - a short quote!
What if Dying Isn’t so Bad by Mark Twain
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9.
Hamelt’s soliloquy — Shakespeare of course!
Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the question”
(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
From the Yiddish - that best describes this—
Boyle Schaechter-Gottesman. Harbstlid (Song of Autumn)
See Lecture: "The Seasons"
For information about Schaechter-Gottesman, see the webpage by Jane Peppler entitled "Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman: poet, composer, living legend"
Ze, s'iz harbst -- See, it's fall --
Un vos gegrint fargelt, farvyanet. And all that greened has yellowed, withered.
Ze, s'iz harbst -- See, it's fall --
Un vos geblit fargeyt ... And all that bloomed is gone ...
Un ikh, vos kh'hob gemeyn s'iz shtendik friling And I who thought that spring would last forever,
Un kh'halt in hant And in my hand I hold
Di gantse eybikeyt. Eternity.
Oho, falndike bleter! Oho, falling leaves!
Oho, fliyendike teg! Oho, flying days!
Oho, vi vel ikh itster blondzhen, Oho, how will I wander now,
Ven s'ligt gedikhter nepl af mayn veg.. When thick fog settles on my way ...
Kraken feygl, Sadly cawing birds
Zogn troyerik: "Zay gezunt dir!" Say: "Good-bye!"
Krekhtst in fentster At the window
Un se klogt der vint: The moaning, wailing wind:
"O, vi volt ikh itst avek fun danen "I wish that I could get away from here
Tsun a breg To a shore
Vu nokh der friling grint ..." Where there is still green spring ..."
Oho, falndike ... Oho, falling ...
Flit der regn -- Driving rain
A galop af vildn ferdl. Gallops on a wild horse,
Roymt mir ayn a sod: er hot mikh holt. Whispers secret love into my ear:
"Tsu vos zhe darfstu vartn afn friling, "Why do you need to wait for springtime
Az s'hot der osyen fule koyshns gold." When autumn offers baskets full of gold?
Oho, falndike ... Oho, falling ...
Source: Schaechter-Gottesman, Beyle, Zumerteg: Tsvantsik zinglider. Yiddish League, 1990
Also performed here:
by the Schaechter Techter (Sisters, the poet’s granddaughters)
And see:
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