What poets are you reading now?

Kylabelle

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Especially when rhymed with assorted linoleums.

*walks away in humbled amazement*
 

Billytwice

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I'm reading 'The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith.' A reprint from 1912. First published in 1907. Edited with introduction and notes by Austin Dobson.

Fascinating reading the notes by Mr Dobson before I even get to the poems.

I found it in a charity shop in Brecon recently. I say recently but it was a couple of years ago really.

Whats a couple of years considering Goldsmith was born in 1728...

First impressions are: the poet uses rhyme masterfully and the topical nature of the poems from 200 years ago offer a magical window through which to glimpse history as seen by someone who was actually of the time.

e.g. 'Stanzas On The Taking Of Quebec, And Death Of General Wolfe' prompt me now to research the subject matter.

Fascinating!
 
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Xelebes

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I'm currently leafing through Pauline Johnson's poetry.

One thing I notice: "Land of the Silver Birch" has something odd about it. Silver birch is an invasive specie. o_o
 

Xelebes

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Kylabelle

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Thanks! So what do you think about the celebration of an invasive species? (As a gardener I know invasive plants are only invasive in certain environments and not others, but that's about it.)

Metaphor for Western European invasion of Americas perhaps?
 
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Xelebes

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Pauline Johnson is half-Mohawk, half-British and a daughter of Chief Johnson. Pauline Johnson went into acting and poetry when she was young and played up her nativeness to her audiences. She knew that silver birches were not the primary trees used to make canoes during the time (that would have been the paper birch.) Paper birch are more ghostly than silver. So. . .

Theory one: she was pulling a trick on the audience. The audience was not wise to what she was implying with her idle protest.

Theory two: she was oblivious and was making an obligatory confederationist rowing song, playing to her character she put on stage.

I often get the impression that DC Scott's poem "The Half-Blood Girl" is in reference to Pauline Johnson.
 

Perscribo

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I keep going back to a collection of Icelandic Poetry translated by Bernard Scudder.

SPACECRAFT (GEIMFLAUGAR)

They are barking dogs
darting in front of the moon:
the pale gold clasp of night,
time-honoured friend of lovers.

They are the clenched fist
of my generation,
a punch swung out into space
in our squabbles with god.

They are Columbus' fleet
on a lustrous voyage
away from Earth
out towards glimmering stars.

- Hannes Petursson
 

Vladimir Grimmasi

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Recently it's been Rabindranath Tagores' poetry.

Brink of Eternity
I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.

-Rabindranath Tagore
 

Kylabelle

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Currently reading Margaret Atwood's Eating Fire (Selected Poetry 1963-1995), L. E. Sissman's Hello Darkness (Collected Poems), and a tiny book of surrealist verse called The Keeping of Lights by Alexander Romanovich.

Anyone else? What are you reading?
 

Kylabelle

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A sample from Atwood (stanza from Marsh Languages):

The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave language, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouth's damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for 'I' that did not mean separate,
are all becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has ceased to exist.

A sample from Sissman (from The Time in Venezuela):

Learn the crookbacks of dock cranes, mile on mile;
The bitter pills of storage tanks, the fat
Flames of waste gases; the grand, greasy
jatte
Of Venezuela. And unlearn your smile.

And one from the surrealist poet Romanovich (from Nothing Not No-One):

nothing is more beautiful
than aimless chests at sea
greeting each other at dawn with the oily manes of
aged daimons
full of forgotten things full of unmentionables
nothing is more beautiful more grotesque more perfect
than their keys not accounted for
and the undertow which leads them away