Public Domain Poetry: Excerpt from "Jerusalem," William Blake (1757-1827)

.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

The preface to Milton, as it appeared in Blake's own illuminated version
_______________________________________________

Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

(1804-1820)

_______________________________________________

Originally titled "And did those feet in ancient time," this William Blake poem is from the preface to his epic Milton: a Poem (1804). Today it is best known as the hymn "Jerusalem," with music written by C. Hubert H. Parry in 1916.

This hymn is often referred to as England's unofficial second national anthem.

Thread: What Makes Meaning?

.

(The poet, who wishes to remain anonymous, originally submitted this poem for critique, which appears in its own critique thread. He/she has graciously granted permission to Poets.net to repost it as a starting point for a discussion thread.

The poet believes that the meaning of the following poem should be "obvious," but is it? If not, should it matter?

When do confusing images and allusions blur the artistic qualities of a poem?

On the other hand, what if the meaning of a poem is too obvious? Does that, too, subtract from the artistic qualities?

In the end, what makes meaning?

This is a discussion thread. If you wish to critique this specific poem, click here)

_______________________

A superfortress glides

the catwalk,

head high, torpedo chest--patent

black punctuates a bomb-

shell, a sleek silhouette.

A power walker well-heeled.

The stiletto elongates the leg,

raises the arch.

Hips thrust hereafter

sway like a pendulum.

Flash!

It’s Barbie,

prize on a pedestal,

dolly style.

Bally style.

Versace, Prada, Chanel, Dior, Uggs, Gucci–

D-squared is not a formula.

Coach. No

she never does coach.

Connections.

Power.

Early morning.

A-Bomb in the morning.

_______________________

Critique: A bomb in the morning (free verse poem)

(The poet wishes to remain anonymous. He or she would like to know if this poem would be worthwhile revising. If so, how? The poet would also like to know if the reader can understand the meaning, which feels obvious to the poet.

I asked the poet if this post could also be posted under a discussion thread called What Makes Meaning? He/she has agreed.

For that general discussion, click here.)

_______________________

A superfortress glides

the catwalk,

head high, torpedo chest--patent

black punctuates a bomb-

shell, a sleek silhouette.

A power walker well-heeled.

The stiletto elongates the leg,

raises the arch.

Hips thrust hereafter

sway like a pendulum.

Flash!

It’s Barbie,

prize on a pedestal,

dolly style.

Bally style.

Versace, Prada, Chanel, Dior, Uggs, Gucci–

D-squared is not a formula.

Coach. No

she never does coach.

Connections.

Power.

Early morning.

A-Bomb in the morning.

_______________________

Critique: Selected Lines from the Pearl Poem, Section II (Translation)

Translated by Martha L. Reiner

This translation segment is from the Pearl Poem, written in the late 14th century in the medieval alliterative verse genre. Alliterative poetry was read at estates in developing towns where trading merchants from various nations and urban centers would visit. The concatinative lapidary poem weaves together themes of chivalric rescue, kingly presence in urban settlement, jousting and proto-market competition, clan and interests conflict, authority in disputes and interrogation, residual and emergent human trafficking, smelting of ores and crafting of jewelry, famine and disease including the Black Death of 1347-1351, the grandeur and mystery of nature and artifice, and exploration of seas and development of lands and agriculture.
. . .

. . . I knew in my kestrel quest unusual clues of the cliffs and Leuven. (1)
Toward a forest I revealed face,
Where there were rich rocks to describe.
The arrangements of them must no man misinterpret,
The smouldering glory that of them was lent,
For there were never weirs from which knowledge was woven
Of trial and simulation half so dearly dedicated.

So reproduced were all those going down the truth slides
With ice crystal cliffs, light people, and so free of children.
Wooden holds brought about them sea bound ones
Of low shackles and as far south as the blue of India;
As borne glimmering silver was left beside,
That pikes against haggling in such a complex tender hold;
When glimmering of glowing lodes against them slid,
With chimerical Chinese brilliance their Cyrillic bond choice shone.
The growlings that were around the ground and the grinding stones
Were gradual greyings, precious pearl speakings of the Orient;
The sun beams on the boat show desert winds and blind
. . .

The doubly represented proliferation of the passage of those placed down there
Encloses my ghost spirit to the forgotten forced seizure.
So fresh flowering of freeing test frights were,
As foes of the one hit against me freshly refestival’d.
Fowls of foes there flow in protection in iron,
Of flam band ways, both miniature and gregarious;

But systole-strings stirring, pillar alignment, and trial turning means
There reckon myrth bad mockings rather than revisionings,
For anyone, those captive display brides of their winged beast,
Pay songs with a sweet ascent in Indian smokes.
So gracious the seizures and blows to the seized no one saw delivered
As here and so elsewhere the maiden wife is reproduced.

That coherence of their other Fortune from me goes
For the dearth therof to devise
Nesting no wisely valued words that are borne on tongs.
I whisperingly welcome assent forth in common ways,
No embankment so big that did not have me dare them.
The fir in the rice forage, the fare taker with ruse desire
The plain, the blunt, the spies, the pairings;
And rawes and randies and rich penitence reconciliations
As at harvest time her bank tillage burnt.
I wandered to a waterway by the market shore where they all search the cherished . . . .

(1) Antoniszoon, Cornelis (b. ca.1499)’s Safegarde of saylers, or great rutter. Contayning the courses, distances, soundings, flouds and ebbes, with the marks for the entring of sundry harboroughs both of England, Fraunce, Spaine, Ireland, Flaunders, and the soundes of Denmarke, with other necessarie rules of common nauigation represents geographies and trading contexts that connect with narration and emotion in the Pearl Poem. Antoniszoon’s shipping narrative includes “The course from the Moones to Lubeck [Leuven].”

Leuven in Flanders, Belgium, was connected with the northern shipping route, Ireland to Scandinavia, and with the Baltic. See Hammel-Kiesow, Rolf (2002), Lubeck and the Baltic Trade in Bulk Goods for the North Sea Region 1150-1400, Lars Berggren et al eds., Cogs, Cargoes, and Commerce: Maritime Bulk Trade in Northern Europe 1150-1400, Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, cited in Johan Söderberg, Prices in the Medieval Near East and Europe, Towards a Global History of Prices and Wages, 19-21 Aug. 2004, Department of Economic History, Stockholm University.

More on the Pearl Poem.

Poetree.coop Closed Down by the FBI

While one can sympathize with outsider outrage at the FBI's shutting down of Poetree.coop (as reported by Seth Godin), it appears that the site was breaking all kinds of copyright laws by posting poems without getting permission from poets.

As a writer, I would take great umbrage at some renegade site stealing my work. With freedom of speech comes responsibility to reserve that freedom for your own ideas and work--you are not free to post someone else's work (unless it's in the public domain or with permission).

I firmly believe in spanking, from time to time, the establishment literary community, but for the right reasons. Whether or not you like individual poets or not, you still don't have the right to lift their work, depriving them of their livelihood.

This right to control one's own intellectual property is the cornerstone of the literary community and benefits both insider and outsider.

By the way, I know my way around the domaining community and am aware that the .coop TLD exists, but I believe this is the first time I have seen it in actual use--or in this case, was in use.

Thread: When an Esteemed Poet Writes a Bad Poem

.
During poetry month, I usually open the daily poem email from poets.org, glance over it, and move on. Today, I was compelled to respond to James Tate's Father's Day:

A Non-Poet’s Lament

The poet has lived in a dusty tower since the twentieth
century. He speaks of Michelangelo–the women, too–
and the academy concurs. Royalty, a man with no robes
or under shorts. He lives on celebrity and a few sips
of kudos. He dreams of past book awards. His iconoclastic
child lashes out at his noted conversational surrealism.
Yellow cats rub sleek torsos against his trouser legs.
I detect a whiff of a putrid peach, the poet’s conceit.
I opened my email, trying to quell the mind-numbing
poetic assault. I, too, have written a drawer full of prose
but not to the State Department. They would have never
written back, for I am not a poet–and know it. I
never listened to his nuggets. I was always tapping
away. I never called him anything–I already know
my shortcomings–and he will never know of me.
Chickenshit: this–his–poem’s middle name.

Note: I am never surprised when a poet or writer creates a bad poem--writers are notoriously bad judges of their own work. I have drawers full of questionable work.

What surprises me: when editors fall all over themselves to publish anything by a famous writer, no matter how mediocre.

I do not know James Tate, nor do I have an ax to grind with him personally; I was just struck by the mediocrity of this particular poem.

Of course, you are free to respond, tell me how lousy my imitation is--which I already know. I spent less than one hour on it and don't have time for revision. I have to move on and grade papers.

But could someone please tell me (and others) why Tate's poem is worthy of being the poem-of-the-day for April 16, 2008? Am I missing something? If so, what?