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Poem #51, Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1854

“Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.”~Plato

“The Charge of the Light Brigade was a charge of British cavalry led by Lord Cardigan against Russian forces during the Battle of Balaclava on 25 October 1854 in the Crimean War. The charge was the result of a miscommunication in such a way that the brigade attempted a much more difficult objective than intended by the overall commander Lord Raglan. Blame for the miscommunication has remained controversial, as the original order itself was vague. The charge produced no decisive gains and resulted in very high casualties.” ~Wikipedia

The meaning of “honor” in 1854 was very different from the concept of “honor” in 2012. Would we honor men today who gave their lives to obey an order they knew was a mistake? Or would we call them fools?

Poem #50, The Eagle by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1851

“An essay is a glass of water. But if a few drops of that water fall on a hot frying pan and sizzle? Then you have a poem.”~The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker

'Tawny Eagle (Aquila rapax)' photo (c) 2008, Lip Kee - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

I could write an essay on the eagle, a textbook on the care and feeding of eagles, take a photograph of an eagle, write a novel about eagles and eagle-lovers, but would I really have said anything more worthy about The Eagle than this poem says? Tennyson called it a “a fragment” since he was used to writing much longer poems. It’s certainly a memorable fragment.

Poetry Friday: Poem #49, Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1850

“I have lived all my chief joys, and indeed nearly all emotions that go warmly by that name and relate to myself personally, in poetry, and in poetry alone.”~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How’s this for a “homeschooled prodigy”?(from Victorian Web)

“Elizabeth, an accomplished child, had read a number of Shakespearian plays, parts of Pope’s Homeric translations, passages from Paradise Lost, and the histories of England, Greece, and Rome before the age of ten. She was self-taught in almost every respect. During her teen years she read the principal Greek and Latin authors and Dante’s Inferno–all texts in the original languages. Her voracious appetite for knowledge compelled her to learn enough Hebrew to read the Old Testament from beginning to end. Her enjoyment of the works and subject matter of Paine, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Wollstonecraft was later expressed by her concern for human rights in her own letters and poems. By the age of twelve she had written an “epic” poem about the Battle of Marathon, consisting of four books of rhyming couplets. Barrett later referred to her first literary attempt as, “Pope’s Homer done over again, or rather undone.”

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints!—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

More EBB trivia:
The Barretts had 12 children, and Mr. Barrett forbade all those who grew to adulthood to marry. Elizabeth had to elope to marry Robert Browning.
Elizabeth began taking opium for pain relief at age 15, and she remained addicted to it for the rest of her life.
Robert and Elizabeth Browning lived in Italy for most of their marriage–which was apparently very happy and mutually beneficial. They had one child, a son.
Romantically, Elizabeth Barrett Browning died in Italy “in her husband’s arms.”

Poetry Month: Poetry Memorization

“Children were no longer made to learn poetry by heart. And so the deep rhythms of the language, its inner music, was lost to them, because they had never had it embedded in their minds.”~Love Over Scotland by Alexander McCall Smith

A project for April, Poetry Month: Make a Memory Poem Book.

Poems for your memory poem book:
All Things Bright and Beautiful by Cecil Frances Alexander.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Daffodils by William Wordsworth.

The Children’s Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Animal Crackers by Christopher Morley.

Time for Rabbits by Aileen Fisher.

Sea Fever by John Masefield.

A Prayer in Spring by Robert Frost.

Use any poem with vivid images that are easy for a child to draw and remember.

Poetry Month: Favorite Poets

“Poetry may not change the world, but its lack will.”~Carol Willette Bachofner

A few years ago during National Poetry Month a couple of bloggers were highlighting their favorite poets:

Stefanie at So Many Books says “Adrienne Rich is my favorite poet. . . . For Rich, poetry must be engaged with the world. Poetry is action and the poet must be committed to the act of poetry itself and the poem acting in the world.”

At The Common Room, The Headmistress gives us Phyllis McGinley: here, and here, and here, and here.

My favorite poet? Maybe Edgar Allan Poe. He and I love the sounds of words.
Or Robert Frost. He and I like stories, poetic stories.
Or Lewis Carroll. He and I like to laugh.

Who’s yours?

At the Favorite Poem Project you can watch video presentations of many diverse Americans’ favorite poems.
But do tell us here what your favorite is, too. In addition to naming your favorite poet, tell us the title of your favorite poem.

Poem #48, In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850

“Poetry is emotion put into measure.”~Thomas Hardy

Tennyson’s friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, b. 1811, was the subject, upon his death in 1833 at the age of 22, of Tennyson’s famous poem In Memoriam. Hallam was engaged to Tennyson’s sister, Emilia, and he was Tennyson’s close friend. He died suddenly while travelling in Vienna of a brain hemorrhage. The poem wasn’t actually published until 1850; I guess it took Tennyson that long to work through his grief in poetic form over Hallam’s untimely death.

In Memoriam is written in four-line ABBA stanzas of iambic tetrameter, and such stanzas are now called In Memoriam Stanzas. It’s a long poem that traces Tennyson’s grieving over the course of at least three years. Here are a few of the most often quoted lines and stanzas of the poem:

'#25 January 1st week.' photo (c) 2009, next sentence - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

********************************

'Alfred Tennyson' photo (c) 2008, Preus  museum - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’ darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.

********************************

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

********************************

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last — far off — at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

********************************
'Oh MAN!' photo (c) 2005, Brian - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/
Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law–
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed–

******************************
'santorini bells' photo (c) 2007, Owen Benson - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Tennyson struggles with doubt and grief and philosophical questions throughout the poem, but ends with faith in a God who hears his cries:

No, like a child in doubt and fear:
But that blind clamour made me wise;
Then was I as a child that cries,
But, crying, knows his father near;

And what I am beheld again
What is, and no man understands;
And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro’ nature, moulding men.

Queen Victoria, after the death of her beloved husband Albert, said, “Next to the Bible, In Memoriam is my comfort.”

Read the entire poem.

Poem #47, Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe, 1849

“A wounded poet bleeds poetry.”~Richard Jesse Watson

And an insane poet bleeds crazy poetry? This poem was my very favorite poem in all the world, until I read this post several years ago at the blog of English professor Amanda Witt. Now it’s still one of my favorite poems, with a little bit of crazy mixed into my appreciation for the poet and his poem. I like the sound and the content, and if that makes me a little off-the-wall, I’m content to own the adjective.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;–
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee–
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me–
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we–
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea–
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Kelly Fineman has a more positive and down-to-earth interpretation of Poe’s famous love poem.

Edie Hemingway’s middle grade novel Road to Tater Hill features the poem Annabel Lee as a sort of touchstone for the novel’s protagonist, whose name is also Annabel.

Justin at A Bit of Randomness agrees with Ms. Witt that Annabel Lee “gets a little creepy” when the narrator lies down next to a corpse! Adrienne also says that Poe Becomes a Lot More Disturbing After You’ve Lost a Spouse.

More Poe stuff at Semicolon.

Poetry Friday: Poem #46, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. “~Edgar Allan Poe

Poe’s The Raven is Brown Bear Daughter’s favorite poem. She had most of it memorized at one time when she was about thirteen years old. It’s one of my favorites, too; Poe had such an ability to manipulate and massage words into memorable messages.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door —
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this and nothing more.”

You can go to this website, called Knowing Poe, to hear John Astin reciting Poe’s most famous poem, The Raven.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

Poetry Friday: Poem #45, Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1842

“I am thinking of Achilles’ grief, he said. That famous, terrible grief. Let me tell you boys something. Such grief can only be told in form. Maybe it only really exists in form. Form is everything, without it you’ve got nothing but a stub-toed cry, sincere maybe, for what its worth, but with no depth or carry. No echo. You may have a grievance, but you do not have grief, and grievances are for petitions, not poetry.”Old School by Tobias Wolff

This poem by Tennyson features an aged Ulysses (Odysseus), who is still too restless and adventurous to stay put in Ithaca.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

Read the entire poem. I’m getting older myself, and I can sympathize with this version of Odysseus, who wants “life piled on life.”

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

Poetry Friday: Poem #44, My Last Duchess by Robert Browning, 1842

“Poetry is an angel with a gun in its hand.”~Jose Garcia Villa

This narrative poem by Browning is well worth your time and energy if you missed it during your school years. I don’t much like short stories, but narrative poems . . . I guess I prefer my stories, if they’re to be short, to be long poems.

My Last Duchess is a dramatic monologue delivered by an Italian duke who is commenting to a visitor on a painting of his deceased duchess. The duke’s attitude of “she smiled too easily, so she’s better off dead” is chillingly heartless.

'Leonardo Da Vinci's
That’s my last Duchess’ painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
'Monument Brunswick' photo (c) 2009, Kevin Gessner - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me

The poem may be specifically about Duke Alfonso II d’Este, the fifth Duke of Ferrara (1533–1598) who, at the age of 25, married Lucrezia di Cosimo de’ Medici, 14-year-old daughter of Cosimo I de’ Medici. Alfonso d’Este and Lucrezia Borgia are minor characters in one of my favorite historical novels, Prince of Foxes by Samuel Shellabarger. If you want more insight into the times and mores of sixteenth century Italy, Prince of Foxes is an excellent read. The novel tells the story of Andrea Orsini, a social climber who is determined to become a gentleman, to do whatever it takes to overcome his humble origins, including service to Cesare Borgia, the Machiavellian politician who plans to unite Italy, by force if necessary. Orsini’s fate becomes entangled with that of his servant and erstwhile assassin, Mario Belli, and also with the fortunes of a beautiful young woman, Camilla Varano, and her elderly husband, the Duke Varano of Citta del Monte. Throughout the novel, Orsini is torn between the demands of his ambition and his sense of morality and honor.

The painting of the woman is Leonardo da Vinci’s Ginevra de’Benci.