Malt does more than Milton can...

I have always loved A. E. Housman, in fact when I was about 10 years old, I memorized this poem and forced everyone I know to listen to it.  Obviously, not much has changed...

Terence, this is stupid stuff

by

A.E. Housman

  "Terence, this is stupid stuff:

 You eat your victuals fast enough;

 There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,

 To see the rate you drink your beer.

 But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,

 It gives a chap the belly-ache.

 The cow, the old cow, she is dead;

 It sleeps well, the horned head:

 We poor lads, 'tis our turn now

 To hear such tunes as killed the cow.

 Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme

 Your friends to death before their time

 Moping melancholy mad:

 Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

  Why, if 'tis dancing you would be

 There's brisker pipes than poetry.

 Say, for what were hop-yards meant,

 Or why was Burton built on Trent?

 Oh, many a peer of England brews

 Livelier liquor than the Muse,

 And malt does more than Milton can

 To justify God's ways to man.

 Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink

 For fellows whom it hurts to think:

 Look into the pewter pot

 To see the world as the world's not.

 And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:

 The mischief is that 'twill not last.

 Oh I have been to Ludlow fair

 And left my necktie god knows where,

 And carried half-way home, or near,

 Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:

 Then the world seemed none so bad,

 And I myself a sterling lad;

 And down in lovely muck I've lain,

 Happy till I woke again.

 Then I saw the morning sky:

 Heigho, the tale was all a lie;

 The world, it was the old world yet,

 I was I, my things were wet,

 And nothing now remained to do

 But begin the game anew.

  Therefore, since the world has still

 Much good, but much less good than ill,

 And while the sun and moon endure

 Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,

 I'd face it as a wise man would,

 And train for ill and not for good.

 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale

 Is not so brisk a brew as ale:

 Out of a stem that scored the hand

 I wrung it in a weary land.

 But take it: if the smack is sour,

 The better for the embittered hour;

 It should do good to heart and head

 When your soul is in my soul's stead;

 And I will friend you, if I may,

 In the dark and cloudy day.

  There was a king reigned in the East:

 There, when kings will sit to feast,

 They get their fill before they think

 With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.

 He gathered all that springs to birth

 From the many-venomed earth;

 First a little, thence to more,

 He sampled all her killing store;

 And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,

 Sate the king when healths went round.

 They put arsenic in his meat

 And stared aghast to watch him eat;

 They poured strychnine in his cup

 And shook to see him drink it up:

 They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:

 Them it was their poison hurt

        - I tell the tale that I heard told.

 Mithridates, he died old.

God does not leave us comfortless...

Jane Kenyon's poems have always offered me comfort and perspective, here's hoping they might do the same for you... 

Let Evening Come

By

Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving   

up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing   

as a woman takes up her needles   

and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned   

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.   

Let the wind die down. Let the shed   

go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop   

in the oats, to air in the lung   

let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t   

be afraid. God does not leave us   

comfortless, so let evening come.

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn...

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Thomas Gray

Hello my lovelies! How cool is it that we take a whole month to celebrate poetry? Very cool, in my opinion. I have said before that I may be the last person who actually buys and reads poetry, but I hope I'm not. There is something truly special about discovering a poem that speaks to you. So, occasionally, throughout the month, I'm going to introduce you to some of my favorite poems and poets. I suspect no one will read this, but it will give me a chance to revisit some amazing poems, so I'm OK with that. If you do stumble onto something you enjoy, that's just icing on the cake!

Today's poet is Theodore Roethke.  

I Knew a Woman

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

Roethke was offered $75 dollars to allow the above poem to be published by Harper's Bazaar, his response is below:

Reply To a Lady Editor


           If the Poem (beginning "I knew a woman, lovely in her bones")
           in The London Times Literary Supplement 
           has not appeared here, we offer you $75 for it.
           Could you wire us collect your answer?
                                Sincerely yours,
                                Alice S. Morris
                                Literary Editor, Harper's Bazaar

Sweet Alice S. Morris, I am pleased, of course,
You take the Times Supplement, and read its verse,
And know that True Love is more than a Life-Forse
- And so like my poem called Poem.

Dan Cupid, I tell you's a braw laddie-buck;
A visit from him is a piece of pure luck,
And should he arrive, why just lean yourself back
- And recite him my poem called Poem.

O print it, my dear, do publish it, yes,
That ladies their true natures never supress,
When they come, dazely, to the pretty pass
- Of acting my poem called Poem.

My darling, my dearest, most-honest-alive,
Just send me along that sweet seventy-five;
I'll continue to think on the nature of love,
- As I dance to my poem called Poem.