Poetry

Well, here it is, the last day of National Poetry Month and with it the last in this series of poetry-related posts. Feel free to breathe a sigh - either of relief or regret, in accordance with your own inclinations. For this final offering, I decided to diverge slightly from the pedantic and make a foray into something a bit more whimsical. After all, poetry isn't always about love, death or the beauty of nature. Sometimes it's just for fun. As an example, I present Mr. Edward Lear (1812-1888), author of the beloved children's poem "The Owl and the Pussycat". Mr. Lear was an English poet, who delighted in that most basic of all poetic forms, the limerick. Here is an example of his work:

There Was an Old Man with a Beard

There was an Old Man with a beard,

Who said, "It is just as I feared! --

Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,

Have all built their nests in my beard!"

In his lifetime, Lear produced a plethora of limericks, songs, stories and other nonsense verse that continues to delight children even to this day. My favorite of his works, however, is his autobiographical poem entitled "How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear":

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more or less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig. He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs; Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs. He sits in a beautiful parlour, With hundreds of books on the wall; He drinks a great deal of Marsala, But never gets tipsy at all. He has many friends, lay men and clerical, Old Foss is the name of his cat; His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat. When he walks in waterproof white, The children run after him so! Calling out, "He's gone out in his night- Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!" He weeps by the side of the ocean, He weeps on the top of the hill; He purchases pancakes and lotion, And chocolate shrimps from the mill. He reads, but he cannot speak, Spanish, He cannot abide ginger beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! from The Complete Nonsense Book, edited by Lady Strachey, 1912

Poetry

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was a Nobel Prize winning Irish poet. His work was influenced by the rising tide of Irish nationalism, and in turn influenced the identity of an emerging Irish nation. The following poem was written for Major Robert Gregory (1881-1918) of the British Royal Flying Corps, killed in action on the Italian front:

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

William Butler Yeats

Note: This post is for JS. Enjoy!

Poetry

Ralph Waldo Emerson was not only one of the famous New England poets of the 19th century, but also a noted orator, essayist and philosopher. He held strong religious and political beliefs, speaking in public in favor of the abolitionist movement during the Civil War. He wrote this poem in 1836 for the dedication of a monument commemorating the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the first battle of the American Revolution:


Concord Hymn

by Ralph Waldo Emerson


By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Poetry

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was a Poet Laureate of the UK. With the exception of Shakespeare, he is perhaps the most quoted English writer of all time. In fact, quotations from some of his works have become so integrated into common usage in the English language that many people are not even aware of the source of the lines when they use them in conversation. See if you can recognize one of these well-used quotations in the following excerpt from his famous poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade":

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Note: This post is dedicated to one of our former employees who used to work in the Children's Department. Those of you who worked with her will know why. If you're still out there reading the blog, Rita, we miss you!

Poetry

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a famously reclusive New England poet, and almost none of the hundreds of poems she wrote were published in her lifetime. Not due to her nonstandard use of capitalization and punctuation, or her refusal to title her works, but because she had little inclination to share her rich, inner life with the rest of the world. Her first collection of poetry was published four years after her death by her friends, though whether or not she would have approved of their actions is a matter for debate. Certainly, poetry lovers have reason to be glad of it. This poem, one of my favorites about the sea, is taken from that volume:

I started Early -- Took my Dog --
And visited the Sea --
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me --

And Frigates -- in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands --
Presuming Me to be a Mouse --
Aground -- upon the Sands --

But no Man moved Me -- till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe --
And past my Apron -- and my Belt --
And past my Bodice -- too --

And made as He would eat me up --
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve --
And then -- I started -- too --

And He -- He followed -- close behind --
I felt his Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle -- Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl --

Until We met the Solid Town --
No One He seemed to know --
And bowing -- with a Mighty look --

At me -- The Sea withdrew --

-- Emily Dickinson

Poetry

It is interesting to note that Robert Frost, the quintessential poet of rural New England, was in fact born in the far more urban setting of San Francisco. Indeed, this Great American poet, winner of four Pulitzer Prizes, lived for several years in England, where his first book of poetry (entitled "A Boy's Will") was published. The following selection is taken from that book: To the Thawing Wind by Robert Frost

Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do to-night, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.

Poetry

Shakespeare, The Bard, Poet of Stratford-on-Avon -- his is a household name which needs no introduction. Indeed, one can scarcely get through high school in this country without being exposed to several of his plays. However, his poetry is not quite as widely-known, except perhaps to those who went on to become English majors in college. But you don't have to be an English major to appreciate the beauty of Shakespeare's sonnets, like the one I'm going to share with you today:


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


-- William Shakespeare



What is a sonnet? A sonnet is a poem composed of fourteen lines of ten syllables each. Shakespeare's sonnets are written in iambic pentameter, a rhythm compared to that of the human heartbeat. Try reading it out loud to hear how it sounds. In each stanza of the sonnet, the first and third lines rhyme, as do the second and fourth. The last stanza is the exception to this rule, having only two lines to rhyme.

Poetry Events

At the beginning of the month, I mentioned that we have some great events planned here at Missoula Public Library for National Poetry Month and I promised to fill you in on them later. Since it's later now, here's the scoop:


Kid's Poetry Read-Out
Grade school students, we would love to hear your original poems! Come to the Children's Department at 3:30pm on Thursday, April 16th and share with us!


Montana's Historic Poets
You've probably heard of E. E. Cummings, but how about J. V. Cunningham? No? Then come join us in the Large Meeting Room on Thursday, April 16th at 7pm. Guest speaker Professor Tami Haaland will be lecturing on the lives and writings of Montana poets of the early twentieth century. Partial funding for the Speakers Bureau program is provided by a legislative grant from Montana's Cultural Trust and from NEH's "We the People" program.


Teen Open Mic
Are you between the ages of 13 and 18 with original poetry that you'd like to share? Then join us on the lower level of the library by eddie's coffeeshop on Thursday, April 16th at 4pm and let your voice be heard.


Hope to see you all there!

Poetry

In the third installment in this series of blogs celebrating National Poetry Month, I'm pleased to present the one and only T. S. (Thomas Stearns) Eliot. Born in the United States in 1988, he emigrated to the United Kingdom in 1914 and liked it so much that he decided to become a British citizen. While he is best known for his magnum opus, "The Wasteland", I have selected a passage from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" to share with you today instead. It is my second favorite work of his next to "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats", which was eventually adapted into the long-running Broadway musical "Cats".

from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

-- T. S. Eliot

Poetry

For my second installment in this month's series of blogs celebrating National Poetry Month, I'd like to introduce you to one of my favorite poets, Walt Whitman. In case you aren't already familiar with his work, he was a New York poet who wrote during the Civil War era. His works were quite controversial in his time, due to the fact that his choice of subject matter was often considerably more liberal than that of his peers. Also, he chose to work outside of the regular meter and rhyme schemes commonly associated with classic poetry, pioneering the art of free verse. Here is a short offering, by his standards:


Beat! beat! drums!

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,	1
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow. -- Walt Whitman

Poetry

April is National Poetry Month, one of my favorite times of the year! We have some great events going on at the Library to celebrate this month (which I'll go into in depth later), so I hope you'll come in and join us. Here's a well-known offering to kick off the month:

OZYMANDIAS

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

Percy Bysshe Shelley was an Englishman who wrote at the beginning of the 19th century, one of the great Romantic poets. His wife, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, achieved fame in her own right as the author of that quintessential horror story "Frankenstein". Followers of current films or readers of graphic novels may recognize the name "Ozymandias" from "The Watchmen".

Direct From the Kid's Department

on behalf of Karen and the rest of the Kid's Department:

On Saturday (April 14), Diann from the County Extension office, entertained children at the Missoula Public Library storytime with stories about construction and homes. The kids all sang along with Old Macdonald Had a Woodshop and each took home their very own carpenter pencil. I like how Diann brought the books in a toolbox and wore a hardhat. She also put up sawhorses that said “Reading Zone”.

We began National Library Week with a performance by Peggy and Rollie Meinholtz. They sang and danced and played music as well as reciting poetry by Vachel Lindsay and Peggy’s original poetry. Very entertaining! It’s also national Poetry Month. We heard several poems including her cowboy poem Coyote’s Tail Peggy also premiered her newest poem, Pate Foie gras. (French for minced fat liver)

The kid's department, as well as the rest of the library have many more programs lined up this week, since it is National Library Week. Stay tuned!