Re: Meditative Conversations #1
Posted by: Drew (192.168.128.5)
Date: July 10, 2021 11:56AM


Because I have poems I'd like to discuss, lots of them, thousands, in fact.

Drew



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 07/10/2021 09:04PM by lg.

I'd like to begin with a discussion of this poem:

Love
by Rupert Brooke


Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

================================================================================

How many think this is a crock.

Les

What burns brightly
burns out quickly

Hoh!! I'm touched, thank you Les, very kind of you indeed.

Les, before discussing whether or not the poem's message is a crock, I'd like to try to better understand just what it is saying. The first two lines sound like it's saying that you can only love once, but the rest sounds like it's saying that love itself is a crock?

Drew, an interesting thread to start.

Marty

"For one whom Yeats proclaimed "the handsomest young man in England," Rupert Brooke has not aged well. "

Robert Means

Marty, I think this part is a crock:

>They have known shame, who love unloved.

and this part makes absolutely no sense at all:

>When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
>And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
>Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
>Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
>Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.

Because, mouths don't dream, and they don't sleep with ghosts either.

This next line also is hogwash:

>Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
>But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.

Astonishment, if it ever were a part of love, need not die at all.

============================================================================

That's my take on the poem, Marty, feel free to disagree completely.


Les

Me no like it, but that doesn't mean it's a crock.

Les,

I had to look up "slaking", "credulous", and "citadel" to try to get a handle on this. Slaking being the thirst is quenched, credulous being gullible or something like too ready to believe what they wanted to be the truth, and citadel..well that I don't get. It said something about a military college in South Carolina lol.

Maybe >They have known shame, who love unloved

just means feeling foolish or embarrassed, which I'm sure some people whose love isn't returned might feel.

And I don't think all these lines are referring just to "mouths".

>When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
>And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
>Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
>Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
>Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost

When two people are thirsty for each other (as in when first in love... in the lusting stage) and then they finally start having the intimate relationship they've been agonizing to have with each other, it becomes old hat and they no longer feel that initial unquenchable thirst for one another (this is the point where one might decide they never noticed just how large the other person's nose really is or how annoying snapping gum can be)

>and hushed the crying of credulous hearts, in heaven (as well as all those who've gone to their final resting place with broken hearts... having believed that the one they loved would always love them too)

Both of these people (the living and dead) are alone suffering their crushed hopes and dreams and without the person they love (thus, a ghost).

I don't know, Les. I'm not agreeing or disagreeing with the poem or you. Just trying to make sense out of it's message.

But, for the number of people who fall in love and stay in love for the rest of their lives (not counting senior citizens or people who don't like each other and stay together anyway), I'm not willing to vote the poem down completely.

Marty

I think Mary gets it. I'm not sure Les does. But one thing I do know: I don't get it! lol

Yeah, Keep, but you got one of Johnny's, and you know what they say about a bird in the hand ............

Marty

I got one of Johnny's? I know that can't be true! And I have no idea what they say about a bird in the hand.

Whether I get it, or not, I think Rupert's poem is a crock.

The following poem, I like a lot, and it speaks basically about the same emotional attachment. Why is hers better, because when it comes to love; E.B. gets it!

Sonnet XXXII
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love !--more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,--
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

Les

Here's another good one, not as nice as E.B.B.'s, but still pretty good:

Song
--Alfred Noyes

I came to the door of the House of Love
And knocked as the starry night went by;
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"It is I."

And Love looked down from a lattice above
Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead:
"There is not room in the House of Love
For you both," he said.

I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept
Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns
To a lonely place where I prayed and wept
And wove me a crown of thorns.

I came once more to the House of Love
And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully,
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"None now but thee."

And the great doors opened wide apart
And a voice rang out from a glory of light,
"Make room, make room for a faithful heart
In the House of Love, to-night."

Les

Interesting discussion. I think now is the right time to put an end to objectivity. A love poem and the themes it carries are the subjective viewpoint of the poet, and/or the intake the poet obtains from life experiences and observings.
I like Brooke's love poem. It resonates my own feelings of love. Love like dream dies when it is realized (IMOPOV). He beautifully expresses that. Browning's poem is another take on the theme of love where her speaker is not disillusioned.
Like all abstract ideas, in reality they are imperfect. Some appreciate their imperfection; some resent it. However, there remains a spectrum of in-between compromises. I appreciate all.

crock?

The Crock


As I sailed on down the river

From the Royal River to the RC

On the mighty Chapoya

A crocodile I did see.



He wasn’t very big—this guy

But he sure looked mighty mean

As he took one dive

And surfaced with

A fish between his jaws.



© 1995 William Lowenkamp

Love by Rupert Brooke, it's not that bad :)

"A bird in the hand.....can be pretty messy"
Soupy Sales

This is a crock!

[www.parkseed.com]

And this:
[www.hsn.com]

Wait a minute, it's time to pull out my Funk and Wagnall's:

[www.onelook.com]

Les

(I'll take door #2 for $60.)

This is a Kroc

[en.wikipedia.org]

A citadel is a fort or military castle. In the line below, Love is betraying you.


Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate

pam

Thanks for the explanation, Pam. I still find that line confusing in its meaning, but that's ok.

Les,

The first poem by R.B. is bitter about love, as if love itself is to blame for heartache (the smoking gun). The other poems speak more to the individuals themselves as being responsible for, or holding the key to, love.

Despite it being a contrary subject, I am brought to thinking about the argument that guns are bad because they kill people....and the counter argument that guns don't kill people....people kill people. There are always the grey cases that fall somewhere in between.

There are accidents and mistakes are made. Someone is is in the wrong place at the right time or the right place at the wrong time. People can behave irresponsibly without malice or intent to do harm to another in love or otherwise.

I don't know anything about E.B.B.'s personal life, but perhaps she gets it because she got it. And I don't mean because she "got" lots of love, but was fortunate to be in love with someone whose values, faith, level of committment, and love for her equalled, or was compatible with, her own.

Marty

I agree with your statement about E.B.B.'s possible motivation for her sonnets. But my dislike of Brooke's poem has nothing to do with the fact that he's possibly bitter about love. It has to do with the technical aspects of the poem and some basic assumptions which he makes, that I think are off base.

>They have known shame, who love unloved.

What shame is there in loving, whether or not that love is reciprocated? This is a presumptuous statement.

Then the metaphor, if that's what you call it beginning here:

When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven...

is terrible. Yes love may be compared to two hungry mouths, but this comes out of nowhere and has no logical conclusion.

In the end not only does Brooke have a rather pessimistic view of love, but he says that "all" love is this. To which I say, poppycock.

>All this is love; and all love is but this.


Les



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/12/2021 03:43PM by lg.

Sure, a rather pessimistic view of interpersonal relations, but some truth contained therein as well. To say it is a crock (of shit?) can easily be supported, but I am not sure at what point in Rupert's life this was written. Likely he had just been dumped, right.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.

[Each person is a fortress unto him/herself. If they are mightily fascinated by another person, they leave themselves open to whatever results such a love may bring.]

They have known shame, who love unloved.

[And who has not.]

Even then, [even so?]
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven

[A physical relationship can be immensely satisfying.]

-- such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.

[Each is still an island into hermself. Is the ghost the partner? Or, perhaps the memory of a previous lover?]

Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies [falsehoods] at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.

[Take those nights of bliss as they are available, knowing however that love will eventually fade and die (in most cases). An aside for you who prefer to see the half empty glass: Stanley Tucci's character in the movie, Sidewalks of New York says, "Show me a beautiful woman and I will show you a man who is tired of fucking her!"]

All this is love; and all love is but this.

[But didn't he just say above, "Where that comes in that shall not go again"? Can't have it both ways, Rupie.]

Here's another bitter Brooke poem. One thing that he seems to say is 'once you've loved, you're stuck- you can't unlove,' which is what I see him saying in this one- 'Where that comes in that shall not go again.' Once the citadel has been invaded, the invaders never leave.

A Channel Passage

The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick
My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew
I must think hard of something, or be sick;
And could think hard of only one thing--you!
You, you alone could hold my fancy ever!
And with you memories come, sharp pain, and dole.
Now there's a choice--heartache or tortured liver!
A sea-sick body, or a you-sick soul!

Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets, up I throw.
Do I remember? Acrid return and slimy,
The sobs and slobber of a last year's woe.
And still the sick ship rolls. 'Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose 'twixt love and nausea, heart and belly.

Never Give All The Heart
W. B. Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

*******************************************

Yeats seems to be saying similar things, though a bit more philosophically than Brooke. I'm not familiar with Brooke's poetry. I interpret the poem thus, that the high, happy feelings of love (enfatuation) never last, and that our hearts should be protected....but they never are. Yeats approach is more objective, than Brooke, who by his language and metaphors, sounds bitter (as others have already stated). That does have a significant impact on what one writes.

Decat

"So you see, my son, there is a very fine line between love and nausea. "

King Joffe Juffer - Coming to America

Marty, if you liked Brooke's metaphor, you'll probably really like this poem:

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight
--James Joyce

They mouth love's language. Gnash
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares
Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing. None
Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!

Les

Gee thanks, Les. A lovely read. Did I say I liked the metaphor?

It's not to my liking that I could see some elements of truth in what's his name's bitter poem. Life would have been a little less painful and more how I had once envisioned it if love had turned out to be how E.B.B. writes about it. I still believe in love, just have had some reality checks along the way.

This last poem is ugly, in my opinion. The other poem is sad in its hopelessness, but has a ring of truth to it. (Of course no two people's truths are exactly the same) You can consider yourself blessed if there's nothing within it that rings true for you.

Now can we kiss and make up?

Marty

ewwwwww....get a room you two !

Marty, I wasn't even angry with you, but if you want to kiss and make up, I'm all for it.

Does anyone have an opinion about Noyes' poem?


Les

I'm pleased with the meter

as I am with the "other before self" message

Knock Knock

Who's there?

You

You who?

YooHoo to You too !

Pam, you're right about Brooke's attitude, although that is not why I chose the poem. It was for things like this:

>Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets, up I throw.


"Up I throw"? That is something up with which we should not put!

Les



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/12/2021 08:10PM by lg.

>Marty, I wasn't even angry with you

Well whatever you were to suggest "you'll probably really like this poem"

(the one full of ugly itchy, greedy, sour cat's breath), I forgive you.

XXOO

Now if that ain't lovin' you....God didn't make little green apples, and it don't rain in Indianapolis in the summer time.......

Joyce is not noted as much for his poetry as his other works, I thought someone might be amused by that poem.

Brooke's hungry mouths (as a description of love) are nearly as repulsive to me as Joyce's cat's breath.


Les







Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 07/13/2006 03:32AM by lg.

>Does anyone have an opinion about Noyes' poem?

A couple of things occur to me while reading it. It reminds me of Walter De La Mare's The Listeners: [www.cs.rice.edu]

If they are related, which was the chicken, which the egg? Noyes lived 1880-1958 and De La Mare 1873-1956, so either (or neither) could have been the motivation for the other.

Another thing is the form chosen. Sounds like sapphics [en.wikipedia.org], but is not consistent throughout. Something like Keats's La Belle Dame, you say? [www.cs.rice.edu] Yeah, but closer to the sapphic stanza.

As far as content is concerned, the message seems to be that one must yield his/her personal feelings in a relationship of true love, there not being room therein for two separate egos. What happens if they both yield to the other is less clear. Leaves a zero, that is.


I came to the door of the House of Love
And knocked as the starry night went by;
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"It is I."

And Love looked down from a lattice above
Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead:
"There is not room in the House of Love
For you both," he said.

I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept
Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns
To a lonely place where I prayed and wept
And wove me a crown of thorns.

I came once more to the House of Love
And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully,
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"None now but thee."

And the great doors opened wide apart
And a voice rang out from a glory of light,
"Make room, make room for a faithful heart
In the House of Love, to-night."





Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/13/2006 10:30AM by Hugh Clary.

"Welcome to the House of Fun"

Madness

[homepage.ntlworld.com]

I don't know. It's probably just me, but Noyes sounds like the barker at a local carnival: "Yes sir, step right up here and for a mere pittance, one thin dime, just one-tenth of one dollar, you, too, can enter the House of Love. Don't listen to that silly voice telling you there isn't room for two. Nonsense, I say! Just buy your ticket and you're in."

Perhaps its the meter and rhyming pattern with which he uses for the subject, but I just can't take Noyes seriously here. I do admire many of his other poems, though, especially "The Highwayman," and "The Organ Grinder." Their subjects are far more suitable to his rhyme and meter patterns.

Joe

Joe, I see what you mean about Noyes sounding like a barker, especially here:

And the great doors opened wide apart
And a voice rang out from a glory of light,
"Make room, make room for a faithful heart
In the House of Love, to-night."

Hugh, I chose this poem, because I felt that it fit in somewhere midway between the sentiments expressed by Brooke and Browning. That is:

I see Brooke's take on love as this: No matter how hard you try love is basically a bitter pill.

I see Browning's poem expressing this: No matter how tough the struggle love will conquer all.

And I see Noyes' poem expressing this: Love can be bad, or love can be good, it just depends on fate.


Any comments pro or con on my perception, or misapprehension of these three?

Les

Looks like I did it again - typed before thinking. The Noyes poem I mindlessly referred to as The Organ Grinder is, in reality, The Barrel-Organ.



Joe

You wouldn't be the first guy to mindlessly put his organ somewhere

Two egos yielding- it would be like matter and anti-matter coming together and destroying the universe. Luckily, we're all too egotistical for that one to happen.

pam

I think that poem, "A Channel Passage" is a hoot!!

No clue about that author---can't really call him a poet, seems more a comedian to me ")

Lisa