You're right that it's famous: "In Memory of W.B.
Yeats" by W.H. Auden. Shouldn't the author be credited
somewhere?
Candice
--- Anny Ballardini <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Congratulations for this incredible snap, your very
> first one, exceptional,
> indeed,
>
> Anny
>
>
> On 2/15/07, TheOldMole <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> >
> > I
> > He disappeared in the dead of winter:
> > The brooks were frozen, the airports almost
> deserted,
> > And snow disfigured the public statues;
> > The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
> > What instruments we have agree
> > The day of his death was a dark cold day.
> >
> > Far from his illness
> > The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
> > The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable
> quays;
> > By mourning tongues
> > The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
> >
> > But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
> > An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
> > The provinces of his body revolted,
> > The squares of his mind were empty,
> > Silence invaded the suburbs,
> > The current of his feeling failed; he became his
> admirers.
> >
> > Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
> > And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
> > To find his happiness in another kind of wood
> > And be punished under a foreign code of
> conscience.
> > The words of a dead man
> > Are modified in the guts of the living.
> >
> > But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
> > When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the
> floor of the Bourse,
> > And the poor have the sufferings to which they are
> fairly accustomed,
> > And each in the cell of himself is almost
> convinced of his freedom,
> > A few thousand will think of this day
> > As one thinks of a day when one did something
> slightly unusual.
> >
> > What instruments we have agree
> > The day of his death was a dark cold day.
> >
> > II
> >
> > You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
> > The parish of rich women, physical decay,
> > Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
> > Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
> > For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
> > In the valley of its making where executives
> > Would never want to tamper, flows on south
> > From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
> > Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
> > A way of happening, a mouth.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > III
> >
> > Earth, receive an honoured guest:
> > William Yeats is laid to rest.
> > Let the Irish vessel lie
> > Emptied of its poetry.
> >
> > In the nightmare of the dark
> > All the dogs of Europe bark,
> > And the living nations wait,
> > Each sequestered in its hate;
> >
> > Intellectual disgrace
> > Stares from every human face,
> > And the seas of pity lie
> > Locked and frozen in each eye.
> >
> > Follow, poet, follow right
> > To the bottom of the night,
> > With your unconstraining voice
> > Still persuade us to rejoice;
> >
> > With the farming of a verse
> > Make a vineyard of the curse,
> > Sing of human unsuccess
> > In a rapture of distress;
> >
> > In the deserts of the heart
> > Let the healing fountain start,
> > In the prison of his days
> > Teach the free man how to praise.
> > ----- Original Message -----
> > From: "kasper salonen" <[log in to unmask]>
> > To: <[log in to unmask]>
> > Sent: Thursday, February 15, 2007 3:45 PM
> > Subject: Re: Early Snap - Famous
> >
> >
> > >a poem should never have the word 'poet' or
> 'poem' in them, as an
> > > undeviating rule.
> > > a poem about _the_ poet is even wronger.
> > >
> > > you've definitely posted better poems onto this
> list Janet. I wasn't
> > > really entertained by this at all, I'm afraid.
> > >
> > > KS
> > >
> > > On 13/02/07, Janet Jackson
> <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> > >> Nearly Wednesday.
> > >> This is not at all what I set out to write!
> > >> And the ending in particular is crap.
> > >> But the Muse has flown and I want to go to bed
> now. Goodnight!
> > >>
> > >> Janet
> > >>
> > >> ----------
> > >>
> > >> Famous
> > >>
> > >> When I was 17 a palm-reader told me,
> > >> "you're going to be famous", but
> > >> it hasn't happened. Yet
> > >> I can hardly go anywhere without
> > >> meeting some person who knows me
> > >>
> > >> and when I recite my poems at readings
> > >> in a dramatic black outfit
> > >> some people act
> > >> like fans, waiting for a tidbit,
> > >> a chapbook autographed, saying kind things.
> > >>
> > >> In a dream I visit the main residence
> > >> of a man famous as any president
> > >> (he is, indeed, a poet,
> > >> but he is not famous for that)
> > >> and his famous wife, sleek and gracious.
> > >>
> > >> She greets me politely. I tell her my name
> > >> and am suddenly aware of the state
> > >> of my clothes: the ragged t-shirt
> > >> and stained jeans in which I'd slept
> > >> under a tree, in the rain, earlier in the
> dream.
> > >>
> > >> I hope she forgets me, but people rarely do.
> > >> But no-one will ever forget
> > >> her. The poor woman can't
> > >> just sleep out on the street
> > >> in old clothes, the way poets do.
> > >>
> > >> A first draft by Janet
> Jackson
> > >> Tue Feb 13 22:45:19 WST 2007
> > >>
> > >>
>
-------------------------------------------------------
> > >> Janet Jackson
> <[log in to unmask]>
> > >> Poems at Proximity:
> > >> http://www.proximity.webhop.net
> > >>
> > >> The choice is between nonviolence and
> nonexistence.
> > >> Martin Luther
> King Jr.
> > >> s
> > >>
> >
>
____________________________________________________________________________________
Be a PS3 game guru.
Get your game face on with the latest PS3 news and previews at Yahoo! Games.
http://videogames.yahoo.com/platform?platform=120121
|