Thursday, August 31, 2006

Poetry Thursday

The words of the day this week are all about poetry. Here are the words so far this week:

epopee (EP-uh-pee) noun Epic poetry or an epic poem.[From Greek epopoiia, from epos (song) + poiein (to make).]

palinode (PAL-uh-noad) noun A poem in which the author retracts something said in an earlier poem.[From Greek palinoidia, from palin (again) + oide (song).]
The example is from the purple cow poem's author.

monody (MON-uh-dee) noun 1. A poem in which the poet laments someone's death. 2. A piece of music in which a single melodic line predominates.[From Greek monoidos (singing alone), from mono- (one) + (oide) song.]

epithalamion (ep-uh-thuh-LAY-mee-on), also epithalamium, noun A poem or song in honor of a bride and bridegroom.[From Greek epi- (upon) + thalamus (bridal chamber).]

I don't think I've heard any of those recently! Think of all the words out there that you don't know, all the words that have been forgotten from disuse, never learned or passed on. Kind of sad really. But the language marches on, waiting for no word left by the roadside.

But what really caught my eye was this great quote about poets:

"The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness. -Christopher Morley, writer (1890-1957)

I think that is spot on. I know when I write a poem I have to let my brain get into an unusually open state that I don't normally let myself be in. It seems dangerous, this state of grace(?) or near madness?
Not daring to go near madness' door today, I'll share this poem about August, on the last day of August, (can you smell Autumn yet?!)

Algernon Charles Swinburne

There were four red apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow's floor

The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if on lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady's feet
Draw close before the day were done
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves that blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest's middle floor.

1 comment:

jenclair said...

What a lovely poem! I've read a few of Swinburne's poems in anthologies before, but never this one, and it is so beautifully done.