On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
From The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchen:
Tom O'Bedlam's Song
From the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, All the saints that stand by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye.
That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
Chorus: While I do sing: "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing. Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure no one.
With a thought I took for maudlin And a cruise of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I scarcely waken, Till the roguish boy of love Me found and stripped me naked.
The moon's my constant mistress And the lonely owl my marrow, The flaming drake and nightcrow make Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars And the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly farrier.
The gypsies Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's companions The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn And the raging boy's bravado.
[something missing here]
With a Host of Furious Fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney. Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey.
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l- bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of katey gilligan Sent: Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM To: alums Subject: [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
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