A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman

A noiseless, patient spider,
I marked, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be formed—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.



     I believe we all have had this experience, when we feel alone in a crowded room, and we throw out “lines” to other people, hoping the lines will stick and then the gap will be bridged. This experience is often repeated throughout life to all relationships. Weather the person is an intra- or extra-vert, the desire for a deep, lasting, wholesome friendship is constantly sought after. Whitman creates a wonderful metaphor, comparing the spider casting its gossamer silks into the air, hoping they will connect, to the relationships people strive to have. (I find that a greater sense of beauty is added in this because spider silk is one of the strongest substances known compared to it’s size.)

     The pattern that Whitman uses is a great way to compare these two ideas and meld them into one. Bothe verses are five lines long, and each line is comparatively similar, except the last, when the first verse’s last line is about the spider releasing its thread constantly, and the last verse’s last line is about the hope that it will catch on something or someone.

Vergissmeinnicht by Keith Douglas

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.

The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.

Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonored picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.

We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.

But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.

For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.

             The first thing that needs to be said is that “vergissmeinnicht” can either mean the flower, Forget-me-not, or the phrase “forget me not”, which is perhaps more applicable to this poem (but metaphors can be gleaned from the first.) From this, this small notation adds to the vibe that Douglas is trying to convey, a detached (one must either know German or at least understand the phrase to fully comprehend the poem, and Douglas gives no personal feeling on the subject) yet also profound meaning (just look to the last verse, this is probably the best example of this.)

            The meaning that is most fitting is the classic of how man is full of evil and hurt, but also of love, and how we can destroy things that are dear to others and us. The cadaver in the poem is the symbol of this duality, where the main character’s first impression of him in life was “like that of an entry of a demon.” However, in death, he is a calm, prostrate, almost more humane figure, with a note from his loved one that in his last moments was reading (a gunpit is a slit in a trench where a barrel of a gun rests) representing the humanity that once was or even is still in him. It is also interesting to note how in the last stanza Douglas gives the impression that the soldier’s death was not his fault, but Death’s.

A Thankful Poem

The Last Thursday

The Chill

Rushes through me.

I move toward

the door

looking for warmth

I take

a Knife

a Fork

a Spoon

wrap them in a

paper napkin

like a child

or as a carpenter

that wraps his tools in

leather, to protect

and use for great purpose

The carnage

is all that is left

from the feast

A battle field

of lost bits of

the innards of the yams

the flesh of hams

blood of jello

oozing with spilt gravy

the aroma was most appetizing

as any soldier can smell

be for the storm

now

it is all calm

Laughing

can be heard from the hearth

chairs pulled

around the

television

wondering who will win the game

a game of cards has been started

on the table were the entertainment was previously

the cousins are downstairs

apples to apples

and the air hockey is humming

Late in the evening

I sit

absorbed

in the uncles talk

of business

of livestalk

of general conversation

and speculation

the word’s warmth envelops me

The next day

I savor

and enjoy

the left-overs

and memories

of yesterday.

Curiosity by Alastair Reid

may have killed the cat; more likely 
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious 
to see what death was like, having no cause 
to go on licking paws, or fathering 
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious 
is dangerous enough. To distrust 
what is always said, what seems, 
to ask old questions, interfere in dreams, 
leave home, smell rats, have hunches 
do not endear cats to those doggy circles 
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches 
are the order of things, and where prevails 
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity 
will not cause us to die- 
only lack of it will. 
Never to want to see 
the other side of the hill 
or that improbable country 
where living is an idyll 
(although a probably hell) 
would kill us all. 
Only the curious 
have, if they live, a tale 
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible, 
are changeable, marry too many wives, 
desert their children, chill all dinner tables 
with tales of their nine lives. 
Well, they are lucky. Let them be 
nine-lived and contradictory, 
curious enough to change, prepared to pay 
the cat price, which is to die 
and die again and again, 
each time with no less pain. 
A cat minority of one 
is all that can be counted on 
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell 
on each return from hell 
is this: that dying is what the living do, 
that dying is what the loving do, 
and that dead dogs are those who do not know 
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

                Inspiring. Is not that everyone praises in a person? The ability to look to the horizon and not only admire the beauty of it (any dog can do that) but also wonder what is beyond that, and take it to the next level. Many fall into the normalcy of the everyday, not taking any chances, and wondering why they feel so empty. Others, however, realize that there can be more, if they are willing to pay for it. But in the end it was worth it, because the vibrancy is what life is all about. This can be easily explained with Eli Wiesel’s quote “The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of beauty is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, its indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, but indifference between life and death.” Great variance gives life its meaning, while entropy only gives a general life represented by the color beige.

            From a stylistic point of view, I liked also the format by Mr. Reid, with an almost introduction, a verse in pseudo-paragraph form, a second differently styled verse,  then the last verse much like verse one and the intro combined. Also, the metaphors contrasting the cats and the dogs was clever too.

The Possibility by James Fenton

The lizard on the wall, engrossed,
The sudden silence from the wood
Are telling me that I have lost
The possibility of good.

I know this flower is beautiful
And yesterday it seemed to be,
It opened like a crimson hand.
It was not beautiful to me.

I know that work is beautiful.
It is a boon. It is a good.
Unless my working were a way
Of squandering my solitude.

And solitude was beautiful
When I was sure that I was strong.
I thought it was a medium
In which to grow, but I was wrong.

The jays are swearing in the wood.
The lizard moves with ugly speed.
The flower closes like a fist.
The possibility recedes.

There is danger in believing solitude is the all encompassing escape, refuge, and inspiration of originality and creativity. And perhaps staying in a place for so long that the magical qualities are gone and becoming disenchanted with the once wonderful is just as important. This poem strikes a chord with me because I could see myself becoming in the future a botanist or forester, which would require immense amounts of solitude. The thing is, I am not scared of solitude, but rather I find comforting at times, just as at times a large crowd can become a frightening and/or dull place. I believe that Fenton was conveying the necessity of being brutally honest with ourselves, which is exemplified by stanza four, and especially when “I was sure that I was strong.” If we are not careful, we can isolate ourselves in an environment that is not suited for us “in which to grow,” but will stunt us and stifle us, whether that is in Isolation, like the environment of the poem, or in the opposite spectrum Publicity, which can be almost just like Isolation,  but with different lizards and flowers.

The Coming of Wisdom with Time by William Butler Yeats

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

Why would I choose such a short poem? Probably because something so small is often ultra-concentrated. Or maybe I just chose this poem because perhaps I’m feeling a bit melancholy. Is not the Truth the best thing for everyone? Is not it the most wonderful thing? Best I can tell, Yeats disagrees. To find out, one must pick the poem apart. With the poem being so short, one must take the poem one line at a time.

            “Though leaves are many, the root is one.” Straightforward. Any plant one is likely to find is made up of this. The leaves that in the summer convert the sun to usable energy, and the root, which stores the energy and collects nutrients from the ground.

            “Through all the lying days of my youth” The highlight is lying, which can mean either that he was telling un-truths in his youth, or that he (or the day, depending on who one interprets the subject is) is resting (beneath the shade of a tree perhaps?)

            “I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun” This brings an image of life, whether the swaying is celebration, dancing, or something else vibrant. Also, note the sun, which gives nourishment.

            “Now I may wither into the truth” Now the lying is revealed. No longer is he alive with a lie, but dead, dying, or at least retreating into himself, with the truth to stark for life to grow. The winter has entered his soul, and there is no sun.

The Halo That Would Not Light by Lucie Brock-Broido

When, after many years, the raptor beak   

Let loose of you,

                           He dropped your tiny body   

In the scarab-colored hollow

                           Of a carriage, left you like a finch   

Wrapped in its nest of linens wound

With linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box.   

Tonight the wind is hover-

Hunting as the leather seats of swings go back   

And forth with no one in them

As certain and invisible as

                           Red scarves silking endlessly

From a magician’s hollow hat

                           And the spectacular catastrophe

Of your endless childhood

                                                    Is done.

Oh what a despondent poem. From the very beginning, it has the sorrowful tone of something lost. And from the poem, the best guess of what is lost is a child. Take the title “The Halo That Would Not Light.” What beings have halos? Only things that are pure and gentile, ‘a little angel’ also comes to mind. But it would not light? Something is wrong. Brock-Broido uses these “once removed” clichés through her poem. (This sadness is not uncommon for her poems, a common subject of her poetry is death and mortality, according The Poetry Foundation.org) The second line says, “the raptor beak let loose of you.” What other Avian species are associated with birth? Only Raptor suggests something much more violent. After this, the childish diction continues, with “tiny body,” “carriage,” “linens,” among others, but is followed closely with more foreboding words, words that suggest at least dried-out-and-forgotten, like “scarab-colored hollow” (Egyptian mummy?), “linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box” (which by the way are heart shaped leaves) and no one in swings to be pushed. However, the real decisive factor is that the child never even lived is the very last line. If a childhood is endless, it means that the child never grew up. Moreover, if it is done, they are never going to grow up