There is no rhyme or reason to this post
I had this sudden urge to post my favorite poems, and then the lyrics from "My Favorite Things" courtesy of The Sound of Music popped in my head, and I've been wondering...am I unhappy right now? Why does the song only say to remember favorite things when you are feeling sad? Are we supposed to remember our least favorite things when we are happy?
Back to the poems thought. I won't analyze them for you, because after my self-analysis above, any more analysis would make this post a veritable essay.
The Quitter- Robert Service
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .
It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now that’s a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.
It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard.
It’s easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —
Why that’s the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Selection from Coplas por la muerte de su padre (english version here)
...A aquel solo me encomiendo,
aquel solo invoco yo
de verdad,
que en este mundo viviendo,
el mundo no conoció
su deidad.
Este mundo es el camino
para el otro, que es morada
sin pesar;
mas cumple tener buen tino
para andar esta jornada
sin error.
Partimos cuando nacemos,
andamos mientras vivimos,
y llegamos
al tiempo que fenecemos;
así que cuando morimos descansamos.
Este mundo bueno fue
si bien usásemos de el
como debemos,
porque, según nuestra fe,
es para ganar aquel
que atendemos.
Y aun aquel hijo de Dios,
para subirnos al cielo,
descendió
a nacer acá entre nos,
y a vivir en este suelo
do murió....
tomaste forma servil
y bajo nombre;
Tu que a tu divinidad
juntaste cosa tan vil
como el hombre;
Tu que tan grandes tormentos
sufriste sin resistencia
en tu persona,
no por mis merecimientos,
mas por tu sola clemenica
me perdona>~Jorge Manrique
Al nacimiento de Cristo, nuestro Señor (english translation here)
Pender de un leno, traspasado el pecho,
y de espinas clavadas ambas sienes,
dar tus mortales penas en rehenes
de nuestra gloria, bien fue heroico hecho;
pero mas fue nacer en tanto estrecho,
donde, para mostrar en nuestros bienes
a donde bajas y de donde vienes,
no quiere un portalillo tener techo.
No fue esta mas hazana, oh gran Dios mio,
del tiempo por haber la helada ofensa
vencido en flaca edad con pecho fuerte
(que mas fue sudar sangre que haber frío),
sino porque hay distancia mas inmensa
de Dios a hombre, que de hombre a muerte. ~Luis de Gongora
Back to the poems thought. I won't analyze them for you, because after my self-analysis above, any more analysis would make this post a veritable essay.
The Quitter- Robert Service
And Death looks you bang in the eye,And you're sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .
It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard."You're sick of the game!" Well, now that’s a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright."You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.
It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard.It’s easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —
Why that’s the best game of them all!And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
The Lanyard - Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Selection from Coplas por la muerte de su padre (english version here)
...A aquel solo me encomiendo,
aquel solo invoco yo
de verdad,
que en este mundo viviendo,
el mundo no conoció
su deidad.
Este mundo es el camino
para el otro, que es morada
sin pesar;
mas cumple tener buen tino
para andar esta jornada
sin error.
Partimos cuando nacemos,
andamos mientras vivimos,
y llegamos
al tiempo que fenecemos;
así que cuando morimos descansamos.
Este mundo bueno fue
si bien usásemos de el
como debemos,
porque, según nuestra fe,
es para ganar aquel
que atendemos.
Y aun aquel hijo de Dios,
para subirnos al cielo,
descendió
a nacer acá entre nos,
y a vivir en este suelo
do murió....
tomaste forma servil
y bajo nombre;
Tu que a tu divinidad
juntaste cosa tan vil
como el hombre;
Tu que tan grandes tormentos
sufriste sin resistencia
en tu persona,
no por mis merecimientos,
mas por tu sola clemenica
me perdona>~Jorge Manrique
Al nacimiento de Cristo, nuestro Señor (english translation here)
Pender de un leno, traspasado el pecho,
y de espinas clavadas ambas sienes,
dar tus mortales penas en rehenes
de nuestra gloria, bien fue heroico hecho;
pero mas fue nacer en tanto estrecho,
donde, para mostrar en nuestros bienes
a donde bajas y de donde vienes,
no quiere un portalillo tener techo.
No fue esta mas hazana, oh gran Dios mio,
del tiempo por haber la helada ofensa
vencido en flaca edad con pecho fuerte
(que mas fue sudar sangre que haber frío),
sino porque hay distancia mas inmensa
de Dios a hombre, que de hombre a muerte. ~Luis de Gongora
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