Venerable Stones
In the great house of the master stones
are venerable, and those we cast are often
cast only in a brave attempt to soften
the blows cast on our house, our pride, a clone.
The correspondences to all are clear
because our stones, just like our paradigms,
are copies of the master’s, as sincere,
but little more than prose we gild with rhymes.
David Orr reviews Helen Vendler’s “Our Secret Discipline: Yeats and Lyric Form” (“Vendler’s Yeats, ” NYT Book Review, May 11,2008) :
If “Our Secret Discipline” isn’t as strong as it could be, it’s because Vendler has thought deeply about Yeats’s use of form, but not about form apart from Yeats. And this isn’t surprising, really. Her great strength has always been her close reading of individual poets. If that causes her occasionally to find correspondences that don’t exist, well, what steward hasn’t wanted to find a world perfected in the venerable stones of the master’s great house?
5/11/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Related quotes
Like The Burglar
Like the burglar who distracts
the guard dog with a piece of meat,
the poet, serving meager facts,
intends the words to be his treat.
The words are music that should wow
but their meanings’ mist and fog
if higher than the reader’s brow
may leave him barking like a dog.
TS Eliot in The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism, cited by Mark Ford reviewing Our Secret Discipline: Yeats and Lyric Form by Helen Vendler, compared the ostensible meaning of a poem to the bit of meat with which a burglar distract a guard dog.
3/22/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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I carry Yeats with me wherever I go. He's my constant companion. I always can find some comfort in Yeats no matter what the situation is. Months and months and months go by and I know I need to switch to Shelley or somebody else, but right now Yeats is enough for me.
quote by Linda Hamilton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seen in a Glass
Behind the tree, behind the house, behind the stars
In the presence that I cannot see
Otherwise than as house and stars and tree.
Tree, house and stars
Extend to infinity within themselves
Into the mystery of the world
Where whirl the wheels of power whose pulse beat
Out of nothing, out of night,
Leaves, stones and fires,
The living tree whose maypole dance
Of chromosome and nucleus
Traces the maze of boughs and leaves.
The standing house of stone that poured
In molten torrent when was hurled
Out of chaos this great world,
And suns whose kindling begins anew
Or ends the course that tree, house, world move through.
Upheld by being that I cannot know
In other form than stars and stones and trees
Assume in nature’s glass, in nature’s eyes.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Cemetery Gates
A dreaded sunny day
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
while Wilde is on mine
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
all those people all those lives
where are they now ?
with loves, and hates
and passions just like mine
they were born
and then they lived and then they died
which seems so unfair
and I wantr to crv
You say: "ere thrice the sun hath done salutation to the dawn"
and you claim these words as your own
but Im well-read, have heard them said
a hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
if you must write prose/poems
the words you use should be your own
dont plagiarise or take "on loans"
there's alweays someone, somewhere
with a big nose, who knows
and who trips you up and laughs
when you fall
You say: "ere long done do does did "
words which could only be your own
you then produce the text
from whence was ripped
(some dizzy whore, 1804)
A dreaded sunny day
so let's go where we're happy
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
so let's go where we're wanted
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
but you lose
because Wilde is on mine
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fixation On Blue
in kandinsky's* quest
to catch st. george
he knew
blue was best.
and can we not
still hear yeats#
tap tap tapping
from tombstone-
cast cold eye
on life on death?
so who am i
to dispute
such wisdom,
being
in effect
in complete
agreement with it?
*Wassily Kandinsky (1866 - 1944)
#W. B. Yeats (1865 - 1939)
poem by Doug Bentley
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Cemetry Gates
A dreaded sunny day
I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So i meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
While wilde is on mine
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now ?
With loves, with hates
With passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
It seems so unfair
Oh, i want to cry
You say : "'ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But i've read well, and i've heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
If you must write prose and poems
The word you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loan"
There's always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And trips you up and laughs
When you fall
Who'll trip you up and laugh
When you fall
You say : "long done do does did"
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(some dizzy whore, 1804)
A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're happy
And i meet you at the cemetry gates
Oh, keats and yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And i meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
But you lose
'cause weird lover wilde is on mine
Sure !
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I didn't want to be like Yeats; I wanted to be Yeats.
quote by John Berryman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crazy Jane Reproved
I care not what the sailors say:
All those dreadful thunder-stones,
All that storm that blots the day
Can but show that Heaven yawns;
Great Europa played the fool
That changed a lover for a bull.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
To round that shell's elaborate whorl,
Adorning every secret track
With the delicate mother-of-pearl,
Made the joints of Heaven crack:
So never hang your heart upon
A roaring, ranting journeyman.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Wrong House
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The literary life
We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.
Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.
We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.
We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.
Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.
At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.
Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Peace
AH, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer's age
Bred to be a hero's wage.
'Were not all her life but storm
Would not painters paint a form
Of such noble lines,' I said,
'Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?'
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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He Thinks Of Those Who Have Spoken Evil Of His Beloved
HALF close your eyelids, loosen your hair,
And dream about the great and their pride;
They have spoken against you everywhere,
But weigh this song with the great and their pride;
I made it out of a mouthful of air,
Their children's children shall say they have lied.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Nasrudin's donkeys
1
it’s graduation day
and the teacher gives awards
to each:
a book to one
a staff to another
silk or precious stones;
and to Nasrudin
the teacher
gives a donkey
2
It is some years
and the teacher
hears of Nasrudin’s fame
and comes to visit
the House of Prayer Nasrudin oversees
and to pay homage to the Saint
buried just beside
3
O Nasrudin,
says the teacher -
how great your fame
and vast your following
Tell me, which Eminent Saint
is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?
O Master,
says Nasrudin
It’s the donkey
you gave me
It died just 4 years after
and I buried him here
And everyone wants a Saint
so I have not disabused people
of their faith
4
The teacher nods with a smile
and Nasrudin continues:
But tell me Master –
which Eminent Saint is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?
Ah, Nasrudin, says the teacher
though people believe it’s a Saint
it’s really your dead donkey’s mother
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
quote by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pilgrim
I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she'd have but little luck
Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,
With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,
But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,
And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,
For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Sea Of Forgetfulness
WHY HAVE YOUR COMPANION FALLEN THERE-OF
INTO A SEA OF ERROR
WALKING IN A DARK TERROR
BECAUSE OF HIS BOUNTIFUL ERROR
WHY HAVE YOU CAST YOUR COMPANION
IN YOUR SEA OF COMPASSION
WITH A HOPE OF REMISSION
TO CREATE A NEW EDITION
WHY HAVE YOU CAST HIS DIRTYNESS
IN YOUR SEA OF FORGIVENESS
AS A LAMB SLAUGHTERED IN WICKEDNESS
BY A TRAITORS FOOLISHNESS
WHY HAVE YOU CAST HIS SINFULNESS
IN YOUR SEA OF FORGETFULNESS
TO REMEMBER NO MORE HIS WRONGFULNESS
GIVING HIM ROOM FOR HOPEFULNESS
WHY AM I CAST OH MASTER
IN THE OCEAN OF YOUR LOVE
TO SWIM FOREVER MY MASTER
IN YOUR OCEANS OF MERCY AND LOVE
poem by Chidubem Okeke
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To be Carved on a Stone at Ballylee
I, the poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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To be Carved On A Stone At Thoor Ballylee
I, THE poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Mystery House
That door had been shut for years
No sound ever passed its ears
Its eyes were starved, for light,
Inside was just silent Night
Why was it closed, what had it been
Had it some kind of mishap seen
Was it waiting for its master, last,
To free it from some spell he cast
The wood cracked, the metal, rusted
cobwebs on its top vested
' The house of ghosts ',
it was taunted
Little John too knew the house was haunted
Eerie spirits, you could hear all night,
poor Ken, you see, huddled in fright
mother forbade, no one went close
into the death trap, none tried nor chose
' The Winchester House ', it was named once
None gave the manor's house a glance
I believe the house, will forever remain
Yet none its mystery will ever explain.
poem by Vishnu Sampoorn
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Another Song Of A Fool
This great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark, denying look;
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell,
Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet.
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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