Ogden Nash What else is there to say?

Can you put in a poem by him/her, Wer? I'm sorry, I've had very little to do with English/America poetry up to now. My favourite poet, and the only one whose works I know a bit, besides Goethe (who is of course my second favourite), is Emily Bront�. Do you think we could open a topic on her, Wolf? There was a time when my cheek burned To give such scornful fiends the lie Ungoverned nature madly spurned The law that bade it not defy O in the days of ardent youth I would have given my life for truth For truth, for right, for liberty I would have gladly, freely died And now I calmly hear and see The vain man smile the fool deride Though not because my heart is tame Though not for fear though not for shame My soul still chafes at every tone Of selfish and self-blinded error My breast still braves the world alone Steeled as ever was to terror Only I know however I frown The same world will go rolling on. BEAUTIFUL

i can, but i think the bronte sisters have their own conference!

They do, and I've been there. I was there for a long, long time before starting to go to the other conferences It was going great for a time, but nobody's interested anymore. I think everything's been said and done there, frankly. There's only so much one can say about people who lived such short, mysterious lives. But I think it a shame that Emily's poetry should just go quiet like that.

cummings. hands down. no contest. then again, i can't overlook that indelible sonnet by John Gillespie McGee, Jr.

ok, riette, you got it!

(pour tu, mystery girl)... our favorite poem (written by our favorite poet, the incomparable cummings)... a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon (where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stirred) my mirror gives me,on this afternoon; i am a shape that can but eat and turd ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird, a coward waiting clumsily to cease whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss; a hand's impression in an empty glove, a soon forgotten tune,a house for lease. I have never loved you dear as now i love behold this fool who,in the month of June, having certain stars and planets heard, rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred never)and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down,into the abyss -and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight,striking into many a piece. I have never loved you dear as now i love god's terrible face,brighter than a spoon, collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird, a collar looking for a dog,a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who,living,noone is. I have never loved you dear as now i love. Hell(by most humble me which shall increase) open thy fire!for i have had some bliss of one small lady upon earth above; to whom i cry,remembering her face, i have never loved you dear as now i love - e. e. cummings

Ohhhh, Nick! Can you believe I have never before seen that one?? Consider your feet virtually kissed.

now, that's a visual for the art conference!

i'd never seen it before, either, 'til paula jane sent it to me, few months ago... (she found it)... so beautiful it just... i dunno, sorta makes you ache, doesn't it? try and post some more cummings later on... he is always worthwhile... enriches, restores... (etc)...

i'll start a topic for him (e.e. cummings)

And I'll christen it!

great!

Robert Frost is my favorite poet. My favorite poem by him is: "The Road Less Traveled".

I compliment you on your superb taste, Tim.

Thank you, Charlotte. That has been my favorite poem ever since I first read it in grade school.

My favorite poem has always been "High Flight", by John Gillespie McGee, Jr. It is unknown whether he ever wrote any other poems, but this is surely the only one that was ever published, and it was published posthumously. It is that sonnet that inspired me to learn about, and attempt to write, poetry. when I was 45, I attempted to locate Mr. McGee, to write him a fan letter and let him know how his poem had influenced my life. I wish I had the skill to describe how I felt when I discovered that he died before I was born.

I've never seen that poem, Where did you find it? You may not have the skill today, maybe tomorrow you will. keep thinking about it. I look forward to you writing about it.

Oh, I'm sure you've seen this poem! But here it is, just in case: HIGH FLIGHT ---John Gillespie Magee, Jr. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings. Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of; wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace, Where never lark, nor even eagle flew, And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

If you will forgive a little rambling, I'll attempt to explain why I love it so. I was raised in rural Kentucky, during the 50s. Poetry was not a common or very accessible art to me. But my English teacher, while teaching us the sonnet form, read us this poem. I was not impressed. Didn't sound like a poem to me! Very little rhyme. Sounded like a nice paragraph by somebody who loved to fly. But THEN! She passed copies of the poem to each of us. And I was able to see the form of the poem on the page, and read it slowly, pausing at the end of each line, as if a comma were present, so I could see the brilliance of the rhyme, and the perfect iambic pentameter. I wanted to clutch the paper to my heart and run singing from the room to some nearby meadow where I could wallow in the joy that I felt. But this was Kentucky. 50's. High school. I didn't wallow. I hope you find some joy in it, too.

i know that poem! thanks for posting it. and thanks for expressing your love of it (you never need to explain yourself to us) you know, you should write. just in that paragraph above, geez, i saw it all...

WOW!!! I'm a pilot. WOW!! He has captured the essence of the love of flying, which all pilots have! Charlotte, I agree with wolf. I think you are more than ready.

McGee was 18 when he died. And he died while flying. How odd: those two sentences give me grief and peace, simultaneously.

He could not have asked for a better death.

I've always found comfort in that thought, Tim. Once, while I was teaching poetic forms, I wrote the following raccontino to illustrate the form to my students, since it's not easy to find samples of this very old Italian form. Eight lines, iambic pentameter, abcb defe is the rhyme scheme. And if you append the last word in each of the odd- numbered lines to the title, it should form a sentence or a phrase that summarizes the poem. For John Gillespie McGee, Jr. .... All through my poet's life I've held aloft Your sonnet, like a torch against the night. It led me on, through darkened tunnels where I questioned my ability to write. They ask me who you are, and I say: He, A pilot-poet, died before my birth; His single sonnet, wordlit flame, belongs To all who write for joy of 'tumbling mirth'. (John Gillespie McGee, Jr. ... aloft where he belongs.)

See Charlotte, I told you you would find the words to express how you felt when you found out that he was dead. You did a really good job right there.

Not really wanting to break the conversation, but what part of Kentucky and/or city, Charlotte?

Mt. Sterling. 35 miles east of Lexington.

Born in West Liberty Lived in Sandy Hook, Louisville, Lexington, and Winchester

Charlotte, the raccontinos that you wrote here, were works of art. Tell me do you have other examples that you would like to share, either of your work, or that of others. I really like this kind of poetry, and I've not seen it before.

I lived in Louisville right out of college. I worked in the city planning dept. and as a photographer for the Louisville Courier Journal and Times. I also had my own company called Transparency Fair.

yeah... this was written by ernest dowson... second and last verses are especially beautiful, i think... (and have had some occasion to appreciate the prescience of these words) (astonishingly enough) Flos Lunea I would not alter thy cold eyes, Nor trouble the calm fount of speech With aught of passion or surprise. The heart of thee I cannot reach: I would not alter thy cold eyes! I would not alter thy cold eyes; Nor have thee smile, nor make thee weep: Though all my life droops down and dies, Desiring thee, desiring sleep, I would not alter thy cold eyes. I would not alter thy cold eyes; I would not change thee if I might, To whom my prayers for incense rise, Daughter of dreams! my moon of night! I would not alter thy cold eyes. I would not alter thy cold eyes, With trouble of the human heart: Within their glance my spirit lies, A frozen thing, alone, apart; I would not alter thy cold eyes.

once again, thanks for sharing, Nick

That's really good.

I love cummings, Dickinson, Whitman, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Galway Kinnell, W.S. Merwin, Sylvia Plath, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dorothy Parker, Nash (yes, wer...love his humor), W.B. Yeats, etc., but for beauty and power I would choose Wordsworth in his prime. He wrote little of consequence past age 35, in fact he wrote some real dogs (and published them) although he lived a long life and continued to write. He was given a cushy government job and got too comfortable, I'm afraid. He does tend to be long winded, but often it is worth it. Here's a snippet of my favorite poem of his (perhaps my favorite poem, period): What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. from William Wordsworth "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" stanza 10.

Absolutely, Ogden Nash...Myh Dad loved to read him aloud, and he was my favorite from when I was almost too young to understand how clever and witty he really was.

My favourite poet is Ringelnatz. I loved his poems as a child, because I thought them funny, when I grew up I noticed their thoughtfulness and sometimes even sadness that lies between the lines... I don't know if he is translated into english and if he's know in the anglo-phone world.

Certainly not as well known as Goethe

Two Ogden Nash quickies: The trouble with kittens is that They grow up to be a cat. The cow is of the bovine ilk; One end is moo, the other, milk. and a humorous one from Emily Dickinson: Surgeons should be very careful When they take the knife-- Underneath their fine incisisions Stirs the culprit--Life!

Yes, I did misspell "incisions." Sorry.

Somehow I expected you to quote the warhorse Ogden Nash couplet Candy is dandy, But Liquor is quicker. The Lord in his wisdom Made the fly; And then forgot To tell us why.

The shortest Nash of all: FLEAS Adam Had 'em

Candy is dandy But liquor is quicker You can drink all the liquor down in Costa Rica ain't nobody's business but your own. (Bluesman) Taj Mahal

Amy needs to read some Nash. She is living inside all this beautiful but bitter and uncheery stuff she posts.

I think so...but she is submerged in Byron trying to finish her degree... I shall email her some Nashery to brighten her outlook! Thanks for pointing that out.

Wolfie....may we have an Ogden Nash topic, please? Before I flood this one with his humorous little quips...thanks *hugs*

For John: I Wander Lonely As a Cloud William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) ************************************************* I wander lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beaneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be happy, In such a jocund company: I gazed - and gazed but little thought What wealth the snow to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which in the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. *************************************************

you got it!

I can't say that Matthew Arnold is one of my favorite poets, but this poem brings back such memories for me! DOVER BEACH The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits--on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! You will hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

I gathered a little bunch of pebbles from Dover Beach. Upon returning to Hawaii and High School for my son, the first poem they read was Dover Beach. He took my pebbles in for atmosphere! Thanks for posting this poem. Fraught with memories for me, too.

Unfortunately, the Daffodils poem is the only Wordsworth in my sophomore English textbook. That means a lot of photocopying.

...sorry...!

Comes with the territory. Just wish the book editors liked Wordsworth a little more.

Ummm....we could work ourselves into a froth over text books and the lack of really good ones to choose from...but this is not the place. I agree with you, but then, I am also a romantic...*sigh*

I posted two atypical Ogden Nash poems for the first entries in his topic. I have more...He was certainly more than a quick laugh-getter, though he was splendid as that, as well!

He was a New York ad executive. It seems almost a shame that some of his prime writing time went to advertisements, but the pay is excellent and unfortunately, some of our best writers are stuck writing "Ring Around the Collar," and "Yo quiero Taco Bell!"

...and paid VERY WELL, indeed, for their efforts. That enables them to afford the luxury of writing true poetry...one would hope!

One can catch him from time to time on old kinescopes of very old game shows with Clifton Fadiman and Bennet Cerf and other bright lights of the New York Intellectual scene...!

I loved Bennett Cerf!

I think most ad writers become too comfortable to write good poetry. You don't see a lot of excellent poems from wealthy people.

One must not be able to create great literature, great art nor great music...one must suffer for their art as has been oft said. How tragic that is! Bennet Cerf was a brilliant and quick wit - the master of the pun. He turned it into an art form. I also loved Bennet Cerf

There are exceptions. Wallace Stevens was president of Allstate Insurance. William Carlos Williams was a physician. Nash was wealthy (although his poetry is underrated, he is considered more of a humorist). Tennyson was wealthy. Byron, despite being landed, was not particularly wealthy--he wasn't poor as an adult, either. Wordsworth's work went downhill after he became recognized and was given a cushy government post. Blake was dirt poor and both a poetic and artistic genius. He was basically cons dered just a crazy coot while living. Keats was a stableboy with T.B. I guess it's all relative.

(John) Byron, despite being landed, was not particularly wealthy--he wasn't poor as an adult, either Being the resident Byron scholar, allow me to comment on this. Byron, from the time he left school, was in a state of continual debt. His father wasted all of his son's inheritance on debauchery, leaving the infant Byron with nothing but debts. Byron himself borrowed heavily on his estate, nearly ending up in a debtor's prison when he reached his majority. Nevertheless, he threw money around as if he had plenty of it!

John has always been one of my most favorite poets...until this evening. He is now alone atop my Mt Olympus by virtue of posting his new poem in Vulcanism. It is WONDERFUL!!!

It seems that both Byron and Mozart had the same financial disease...

Daddy dipping into the till...? Mine was just the opposite, fortunately! (but who needs a cotillion these days?!)

No, Mozart's daddy wasn't a problem there, although he should have taught his son some social skills...but it appears that both Byron and Mozart were good at throwing around money they didn't really have. You would have loved a cotillion, Marcia. I'm sure the word "debutante" was coined for the somewhat more youthful you.

I went through all of the preparations and the tea dances and the white gloves and the cotillions when I was the proper age...I just could not waste his money on a "debut"...I did not want to become like any of those phonies they were trying to make me into...Dahling! Oh, indeed, I did it all...but had my own Party! (can you believe it?!) I still have the long white gloves to prove it.

*lol* you can bet it was a more youthful me...how ludicrous it would be out here to stick to those rules of etiquette when we usually end up sitting on the floor and leaving our shoes outside!

ah, Hawaii!

May I be so bold as to post a couple of my own poems here? I hardly ever write them, so this is kind of an oddity, but I am quite fond of these. THE ORNAMENT I am an ornament. I will be nothing but A very intelligent wife of A very intelligent husband Trained in the arts, Discourse (of course,) And rhetoric, and always Saying the right thing At a tasteful party. He will not worry, this man, I will keep up house And appearances Raise fine children Send them to Harvard Make them the things That I was not Wasting my education And feeling myself die. L'ORCHID�E I am an orchid in a box With a cellophane window My delicate petals white And blushing a little Held up by ribbons and Long pins in the back Protected from the wind Or a careless rough hand Noli me tangere! Shove me in the freezer For a frigid souvenir When I wilt a little From being next to a Rapidly beating heart Or crushed against a Man's chest while dancing So I will never lose My pristine purity. But how I would love To be a free dandelion Turn my chalky pale face Up to the harsh red sun To drink the cool water Of a torrential rainstorm Experience life outside My non-green greenhouse And be mown down.

Amy, your first poem perfectly encapsulates my 25 year marriage to the University Professor. In fact, I had comments made to me thereafter that they did not realize how witty and clever I was...of course not! That would have been out of the little box into which I had been so carefully fitted. Thanks! I agree with the sentiment of the second one, as well. How terrible! How confining...and how true!

I'm glad you liked them--that's the life I could foresee for myself, too.

You do have the soul of a poet. It is a compliment, but I'm not sure it is a good thing. So did Dickinson, Parker, and Millay. They were doomed to unhappiness and I sense maybe so are you. I so hope I am wrong about that.

Well, at least you didn't say Plath!

Please don't go there! No heads in the oven!

*laugh* Sylvia and I go WAY back... I was a perpetual reader of 'The Bell Jar' for awhile... and Amy, the poems you posted are true and complete and the first quite powerfully stark... I really enjoyed them. Write like the great depressives, but please... live like the dandilion, di like the stars...