Poesy Part III: Songs of a Shepherd and Sir Sydney

In my last two blog posts I've explored how poetry can give voice to unbearable suffering, and inexpressible beauty, as well as creatively record archaic legends and acts of history for posterity.

Now in this installment, I would like to explore what a young shepherd discovered in the wilderness of ancient Israel and later used in the courts of King Saul, as well as in hiding, fearing for his life, and eventually as the King himself.

Poetry is a gift from God and is a beautiful expression of worship.

Consider David's timeless verses which both glorify the Lord's magnificence, using poesy's greatest literary devices, and serve as an epitome for the deepest cries of the human soul, redeemed by God and striving along the journey of life.

"Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me.
By day the Lord commands his steadfast
love,
and at night his song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life" (Psalm 42:7-8).

"You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?" (Psalm 56:8).

"And I say, 'Oh, that I had wings like a dove! 

I would fly away and be at rest..." (Psalm 55:6). 

"And they say, 'The Lord does not see;
the God of Jacob does not perceive'...
He who planted the ear, does he not hear?
He who formed the eye, does he not see?
He who disciplines the nations, does he not
rebuke?
He who teaches man knowledge
- the Lord - knows the thoughts of
man,
that they are but a breadth" (Psalm 94:7, 9-11)

"Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions" (Psalm 51:1)"

"Bless the Lord, O my soul!
O Lord my God, you are very
great!
You are clothed with splendour and majesty,
covering yourself with light as with a
garment,
stretching out the heavens like a tent.
He lays the beams of his chambers on the
waters;
he makes the clouds his chariots;
he rides on the wings of the wind" (Psalm 104:1-3).


Arguably one of David's most famous songs, The Lord is My Shepherd (Psalm 23) is included in an anthology of English poetry that I found in a secondhand bookstore. My goal was to read one poem from the collection every day... I have definitely not succeeded in that, but the poems I have read are treasures, particularly a poem by Sir Philip Sydney (1554-1586) that I thought would be fitting to share with you, dear readers.
I will let it speak for itself, only highlighting a few of the many instances where the poet makes reference to Scripture. 

Note  

When I read poetry I often follow these steps (feel free to change and improve this method to make it work for you):

1. Read
2. Read aloud to get a sense of the rhythm and rhyme.
3. Read again, slowly, to ponder the devices, theme and 'voice' of the poem.
4. Read once more as "quickly" as the first time (You'll be surprised how much better you understand and appreciate the words!).

Leave Me, O Love, Which Reachest but to Dust
By Sir Philip Sydney

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;1
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;2

Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;3
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That both doth shine and give us sight to see.4
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.5

1. 2 Corinthians 4:18

2. Matthew 6:19-21

3. Matthew 11:28-30
4. Psalm 119:105
5. John 3:16

Poesy Part II: Camelot and Quotes from Anne

"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.  

"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees. 

"There. . .down in the brook. . .that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw." 

"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines and verses." 

"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are you, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . .and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul. . .even of a poem." (Anne of Avonlea)

I find myself quoting and thinking continually about L. M. Montgomery's character, "Anne Shirley. Anne with an 'e,'" as I prepare this series, which not only reveals the tremendous influence the vivacious young heroine with her love of big words and her romantic flair has played in cultivating within me an appreciation and reveling for poetry, but how Montgomery weaves poetic thought, movement, and imagery into the very prose of her stories...

"It was November - the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let the great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul." (Anne of Green Gables)

Those who have watched the beloved movie adaption of the first book (Anne of Green Gables) will recall that it begins with a young, rag-clad Anne walking dreamily through a forest, a basket on her hip, an open book in her hand, reading aloud a poem from its pages...  "...she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay..."
Then, how several years later, now living at Green Gables, Anne and her friends reenact a scene from a poem they've studied in school, which ends calamitously with the sinking of the boat and Anne's near drowning, who is only saved from her precarious position and her "watery grave"  by Gilbert Blythe's timely rescue (to her utter dismay and disdain). Ironically, Gilbert succeeds in what Sir Lancelot could not - rescuing the "Lady of Shalott," the lovely lily maid! 

 "'Of course you must be Elaine, Anne.' said Diana. 'I could never have the courage to float down there.'...It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter... They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. (Anne of Green Gables)"

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, in his timeless lyrical style, a number of versions of this tragic tale, breathing life into almost forgotten, archaic legends. The one I've decided to share with you is the version Anne Shirley reads at the beginning of the movie. Tennyson revised his earlier poem and published it in this form in 1842.
When I first watched the video below I was transported to that romantic, medieval - though far from realistic - world! The narrative, pictures, and music capture the true essence of the poem. So if you can take the time to listen to it, I hope you too will be transported away to this land of lyrical beauty. 

Part I.

On either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 

And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 

And up and down the people go, 

Gazing where the lilies blow 

Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 

Thro' the wave that runs for ever 

By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd 

Slide the heavy barges trail'd 

By slow horses; and unhail'd 

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 

But who hath seen her wave her hand? 

Or at the casement seen her stand? 

Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 

In among the bearded barley, 

Hear a song that echoes cheerly 

From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 

And by the moon the reaper weary, 

Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 

Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

Part II. 

There she weaves by night and day 

A magic web with colours gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be, 

And so she weaveth steadily, 

And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 

That hangs before her all the year, 

Shadows of the world appear. 

There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 

There the river eddy whirls, 

And there the surly village-churls, 

And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 

The knights come riding two and two: 

She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 

To weave the mirror's magic sights, 

For often thro' the silent nights 

A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot: 

Or when the moon was overhead, 

Came two young lovers lately wed; 

"I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A redcross knight for ever kneel'd 

To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle-bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 

And from his blazon'd baldric slung 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 

And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 

The helmet and the helmet-feather 

Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

As often thro' the purple night, 

Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 

From underneath his helmet flow'd 

His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 

"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 

She made three paces thro' the room, 

She saw the water-lily bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 

Out flew the web and floated wide; 

The mirror crack'd from side to side; 

"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 

The pale-yellow woods were waning, 

The broad stream in his banks complaining, 

Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 

Down she came and found a boat 

Beneath a willow left afloat, 

And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse – 

Like some bold seër in a trance, 

Seeing all his own mischance – 

With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 

And at the closing of the day 

She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 

That loosely flew to left and right – 

The leaves upon her falling light – 

Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot: 

And as the boat-head wound along 

The willowy hills and fields among, 

They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her blood was frozen slowly, 

And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; 

For ere she reach'd upon the tide 

The first house by the water-side, 

Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 

Out upon the wharfs they came, 

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 

And in the lighted palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer; 

And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 

But Lancelot mused a little space; 

He said, "She has a lovely face; 

God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott."

Poesy Part I: Crinkly Feelings, Latin Phrases, and Mustard Gas

Dear readers,
"Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back?"
Yes! Do you!? 
The character, Anne Shirley's, inspirited musing gives voice to my own - though minimal - experience with poetry. 
With that said, it is with great felicity and flourish that I present to you a series of posts that will forthwith feature some of my favourite poems (I'm on an alliteration role!)! 
They are just a smattering of verses; poems that I can read time and again without becoming immune to their profundity and the captivating beauty of their words - the way they dance on the end of my tongue, and create a mosaic of colour and emotion in my mind's eye.


The first poem I shall share with you deals with the agonies and horrors of the First World War, and is written by leading British war poet, Wilfred Owen, who was killed at the age of twenty-five on the Front, only a week before the Armistice. The majority of his work was published posthumously.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. 

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling 

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime... 

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

Close up of a gas victim in a painting
I saw at the Canadian War Museum (2013).

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 

Pro patria mori.*

* "It is sweet and right to die for your country." A Latin phrase from an Ode by Horace, often quoted during the War.

If you're interested in delving deeper into this gripping and haunting poem, feel free to peruse some of the sites I've included here below...

• http://www.enotes.com/topics/dulce-et-decorum-est/in-depth
• http://www.shmoop.com/dulce-et-decorum-est/
• http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

A Walk with William Wordsworth

Poetry is considered by many as the most challenging form of writing to read and decipher; and understandably. The art refrains from using many grammatical rules, while making use of "aesthetic and rhythmic" words that often endeavour to evoke difficult emotions, thoughts, and sensations that are inexpressible in prose. The word "poem" itself derives from the Greek, poesis, meaning, "hard to measure." 

In order for a reader to fully "measure" a poem - in other words, comprehend and appreciate the depth of the verse - they must take the time to read and reread; to taste and to savor.  

One of the first steps in executing a thorough (and enjoyable) poetry analysis, is to meet the author; learn about his or her childhood, beliefs, struggles, and successes. This will in turn give dimension and context to the poem.

  
Wait! Did you say analysis!?

Yes, I know that the word "analysis" is often associated with long hours of dull, eye-straining research and endeavours to painstakingly dissect long pieces of writing, but there is another way of looking at it...

Analysis is defined as, "a method of studying the nature of something or determining its essential features and their relations," and though I cannot change the definition itself, I can hearten analyzers to do one simple thing: use their imaginations! 
Think of analyzing as a friendly, intimate walk with the poet or speaker of the poem. As you stroll along you chat candidly. They share with you their thoughts; a funny anecdote from their day, a deep question they've been struggling to answer about the mysteries of life and humanity, or maybe even a deep and painful sorrow. This is personal and meaningful. You have the opportunity to talk, ask questions, and sympathize with them, and they in turn can offer you encouragement or comfort. 
Or think of it as digging for buried treasure and finding a multifaceted diamond. As you examine it, you discover new angles by which it catches the light.
But enough with the metaphors and similes! Let's take the first step in our analyzing journey by meeting the poet... 

William Wordsworth

William was born in the scenic Lake District of England, on 7 April, 1770. He was the second oldest of five children, all of whom, sadly, did not have a strong relationship with their father due to his business excursions that kept him preoccupied and away from home for long periods of time. When his mother died in 1778, William was sent to Grammar school, while Dorothy, his younger and dearest sister, was sent to live with relatives (it would be nine years before they were reunited). These painful events were only intensified when their father died a few years later, leaving William and his siblings orphans. 
The years spent in Grammar school were difficult ones for young William, but it was there that his love for poetry began to emerge and his own hand at verse began to assert itself. 
In 1790, William set out on a walking tour of Europe, where he fell in love with the revolutionary ideologies of France and had an affair with a French girl named Annette. 
On his return to England, he lived with his sister Dorothy and began writing poetry with his close friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge (maybe you've read his poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?). According to a short biography on Wordsworth, these men were pivotal in "launching the Romantic era of English literature," inventing, "a new style of poetry in which nature and the diction of the common man trumped formal, stylized language." 
It goes on to say that, 

"Even in the nineteenth century, Wordsworth felt that the world was 'too much with us' - too fast-paced, too noisy, too full of mindless entertainment. He wanted to create poetry that reunited readers with true emotions and feelings. When he wrote about a field of daffodils, he didn't want you just to think about it - he wanted you to feel those flowers, to feel the breeze against your skin and the sense of peace this sight brought to your soul."

William continued to write and travel (briefly visiting and providing for his mistress and their daughter, Caroline, in France after the Reign of Terror) before settling down and marrying a childhood friend, Mary Hutchinson, in 1802. They had five children, two of whom died in infancy.
One of William Wordsworth's greatest ambitions was to write poetry in the "common speech." In this he succeeded and continued to do until his death in 1850. He is also credited with making England's beautiful Lake District famous. He would wander throughout the "vales and hills" of the countryside he loved and compose poems. The Prelude, considered by many to be his greatest work, was published posthumously by his wife.
  

And now for the moment we've all been waiting for... the poem! (Try reading it aloud!)

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

and twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch in never-ending line

along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves with glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

in such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

A Short Analysis

On the 15 April, 1802, Dorothy, William's sister, wrote in her diary,

"When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side... But as we went along there were more and yet more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore... I never saw daffodils so beautiful... Some rested their heads upon... stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the Lake, they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing." 

This is the memorable walk that William would immortalize in his poem. He paints such a delicate and "jocund" picture, with his sprightly end-rhymes and verbs ("fluttering," "dancing," "sparkling")! It is a poem reveling in imagery, similes (the flowers are likened to the stars) and personification ("lonely as a cloud"). 
I can imagine William standing in blissful awe amidst the daffodils, soaking in the beautiful sight in silence by Dorothy's side, and then running home and composing this poem before the fire in an impulsive fervor of artistic inspiration, while his sister leans contentedly over her open diary, the sound of her feather pen, accompanying his own. 
But it didn't happen that way. 
It would be over two years before he wrote about the event.
So the question I ask is... why? Why did he write about a simple walk that had taken place two years before?
The answer brings us to one of the poem's major themes... The beauty of memory.
In the last stanza, Wordsworth writes, "For oft when on my couch I lie/ In vacant or in pensive mood/ They flash upon that inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude."
We have all felt at one time or another as "lonely as a cloud." Possibly discouraged, or dismal, and distant from the world. But then suddenly we are struck by the beauty of nature, or maybe even the kindness of`a person and awakened from our brooding mood. Later as we recollect the experience it becomes a cherished memory; a beautiful gift.
Wordsworth understood this, as well as the fact that it is a gift that keeps on giving; a gift of memory and imagination; unhindered by time or place. While in a "pensive mood," he recollects the beauty of the walk taken two years before, and is encouraged. "My heart with pleasure fills," he writes, "And dances with the daffodils."
It was impossible for Wordsworth to keep this "wealth" to himself, so he penned a poem, capturing a moment in time and thus sharing this treasure of creation with all of us... even those of us living in 2015, over 200 years later!
Can you see the daffodils "flash(ing) upon (your) inward eye"?

Though Wordsworth does not acknowledge God in his poem, I cannot help but consider the fact that He is the Composer and Conductor of the daffodils in "sprightly dance." They are "tossing their heads" gleefully in worship to Him (the ultimate Poet), which makes the event all the more awe-inspiring! 

"...The mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." Isaiah 55:12

"For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made..." Romans 1:20

Before I end this lengthy "wandering", I would encourage you to consider: 
What beautiful memories uplift your spirits or encourage your soul, and why? 

I hope that such memories bring us to look beyond the event itself and at our Lord, the Creator of "golden daffodils," and that they increase our love for Him and imbue us with a greater knowledge of His Magnificence!


Resources

"Dictionary." Dictionary.com. n.d. Web. 15 Jan. 2015.

Metaxas, Eric. Amazing Grace. Harper Collins. New York, 2007. Print.

"Poet: William Wordsworth." Poets. Academy of American Poets. n.d. Web. 13 Jan. 2015.

Shmoop Editorial Team. "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud." Shmoop. Shmoop University, Inc. Web. 13 Jan. 2015.

"William Wordsworth." Wikipedia. Wikipedia. 9 Jan. 2015. Web. 13 Jan 3015.