Four Folded Corners: A Collection of Poems
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Yet, if at the same time and despite the evidence of the senses, the conviction is firmly held that the ideal world does exist, then the inescapable conclusion is that it somehow lies hidden in this empty void. It is now my task to open it without the aid of any borrowed impressions. It exhibits the same sudden transition from the dark and funereal confines of a closed room to the huge expanse of the night sky, although it occurs this time much earlier in the poem, at the beginning of the second quatrain, and leads to the confident declaration:.
Yes, I now know that far into the night the Earth Is flinging a strange and mysterious shaft of light whose Brilliance will only be increased as the grim centuries pass by. The opposite was the case.
ISBN 13: 9781453617991
Creating ideal forms meant adopting a slow and elaborate process of avoiding overt description in favor of suggestion, allusion, and ambiguity so as not to become too closely tied to reality—which explains why there are so many differences of opinion over the interpretation of his poems. An obvious variation on this theme is that eternal life can come from death, that when a man is reduced to nothingness he can nevertheless live on in some way.
I am a soul longing to sit beside the bright hearth, and To be brought back to life; all I need is to hear from your lips The murmur of my name repeated throughout the night. This was the glorious culmination of what I had longed for, those ideal flowers that I had sought, and my heart leaped within me to see the whole family of the flowers of the goddess Iris rise up in their turn at the prospect of my accepting the task of revealing their existence.
My mouth cannot be sure Of fully savoring its kisses Unless your princely lover. Finally stifles his dreams of glory Burying them like a diamond In the great mass of your hair.
Yet they clearly mark a turning away from the ideal world toward the world of reality. But this time he defines the latter in no more than the vaguest terms. He now seems convinced that his work will never survive, but in a moment of unusually profound pessimism he also wonders whether this outcome will mean the loss to posterity not of a great poet, but of a mere versifier.
A final qualifying clause is then introduced, first in italics and then in roman type, to bring the work to a close. Prose Home Harriet Blog. Visit Home Events Exhibitions Library. Newsletter Subscribe Give. Poetry Foundation. Back to Previous. In the second half of the poem, where the allegory is interpreted, it is no longer through love that the ideal world is to be attained: Je me mire et me vois ange!
My mouth cannot be sure Of fully savoring its kisses Unless your princely lover Finally stifles his dreams of glory Burying them like a diamond In the great mass of your hair. I melt beneath them like a patch of mud. They hold me down to bless me with this rest. It bears the load Slow as possible, holding back its final reach Into the boundless ocean waves of sea Just to kiss each edge of shore it can Before it makes the place where rivers end. Lap my feet and hands on this hot day.
I promise I will meet you on the beach Anonymous as you are in every wave. No longer named a saint inside your course, You play in every current in the sea, Spread thin throughout the watery world, In every cloud and mood of weather swirled, You draw my sweat to join you in humidity. He wails the presence of his train With repetition and from the other shore The blast returns at lower register Bouncing back the message in soft echoes: The murmur of a mutual refrain returned, The reprise of repercussion doubled down Like reciprocated love or unforgotten pain Or the dead who live on in the mind of sound.
Kristina Rozdilsky Stapleton. Kristina Stapleton has always lived in Western Washington. A poetry group she started in still meets today. She writes for pleasure, reads for fun and avoids submission. Summer Constellations A Snohomish hay field rusts in the sun in early July a red the color of an American robin who dusky orisons plea for night.
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The twilight lingers but eventually gives way to moonless star-splashed darkness. You bucked bale after bale under a malingering sun. We all have these arrowheads in us working their way out, leaving scars of elegy. Some young cowgirl riding hard on a summer day and the palomino stumbled. Some golden glove boxer riding a John Deere on a side hill and the tractor tipped.
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Some gearhead hot-rodder who tweaked the carburation just right: fuel, oxygen and spark. He made a chariot of his Chevy and flew off the East Sammamish Road. Along the fence line, tangling wild cucumber is a tiny constellation of white flowers among the fireweed and purple vetch. I put you all among the stars. Their marital troubles found a gloomy truce in conspiracies to shelter the boy from their disintegration. They smoked stubs of cigarettes to stave off the hollow pangs, so the boy could eat dark bread. Everyone was unwell.
The sickly grew sicker then died. A Hooverville bigger than Fargo. A contagion of despair.
As a small boy my dad trudged the railroad tracks with his teenage uncle under a frozen moon, dogged by frost, casting a light as dim as hope. The two of them picked coal that had fallen from cars. Ralph had a plan— bum on the Great Northern to Seattle, then work a steamer north. He would send for my dad to save him from the logging camp he was sure would kill him. James Backstrom. James Backstrom grew up exploring the forests and mountains of the Pacific Northwest.
A long-time teacher in the Northshore School District, he and his wife raised their three children just north of Snohomish. Barely touched Mom just had to notice, had to ask So how did it go today? And lately I enjoy becoming more public with my poetic attempts. The vibrant artistic climate surrounding us here today fills my heart — and my poetic spirit — to overflowing. Apply the oil paints of adjectives, the acrylics of verbs and adverbs. Create colors of music for the hearer, for the reader.
Apply vibrating palettes of color, flaming, energizing, vowels and consonants to stimulate imagination. Spread the water colors of metaphor and allegory over the canvas of your soul. Intensity to nurture spirit, embellishing the mind with texture, fibers of synonyms and antonyms, expressing eccentricity and giftedness. You are the artist and author of your life. You are poetry! Shadow illuminates the form of our constricted humanity, the evidence of divinity within us often unacknowledged or unconfessed.
Daybreak transcends to twilight, evening transforms to morning, quiet moments of timelessness reflect shadow in the windows and mirrors of our mind. Burdened by cultural expectations, we are pregnant with unfulfilled possibilities and undiscovered destinies. Shadow exposes sacred spaces where insight, revelation and musings congeal. Hidden treasures of darkness emerge as unlikely teachers, heart-breaking, soul-splitting situations and circumstances which postulate new levels of conscious mindfulness previously resisted.
Moreover, when we finally grow weary of being overshadowed by shadow, liberation and self-actualization propel us deeper into the periphery of light. Continuing our pilgrimage there, stolen blessings are recovered and we are gifted by the breath lingering between unshared kisses of our lover, the peaceful rests between notes of music, the unspoken love of children and elders in our life, and the ebb and flow of the journeys of beloved souls who cross over before us as the power of shadow is broken.
Donna M. Rudiger began her creative writing journey as an adolescent growing up in Pennsylvania; she relocated to the Seattle area in Donna writes poetry, poetic prose, essay and stories for children. She is a retired technical writer and lives with the wildlife in the woods of Arlington. So little time from moon to rising moon; in his need for novelty, the eye was wandering by noon. What is the harm, he reasoned, as he kindled a spark by texting the identical promise to someone new.
There was scarcely any room for wholesome food. His first collection was Prufrock and Other Observations These had the same poems in a different order except that "Ode" in the British edition was replaced with "Hysteria" in the American edition. From then on, he updated this work as Collected Poems. Exceptions are Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats , a collection of light verse; Poems Written in Early Youth , posthumously published in and consisting mainly of poems published between and in The Harvard Advocate , and Inventions of the March Hare: Poems — , material Eliot never intended to have published, which appeared posthumously in During an interview in , Eliot said of his nationality and its role in his work: "I'd say that my poetry has obviously more in common with my distinguished contemporaries in America than with anything written in my generation in England.
That I'm sure of. It wouldn't be what it is, and I imagine it wouldn't be so good; putting it as modestly as I can, it wouldn't be what it is if I'd been born in England, and it wouldn't be what it is if I'd stayed in America. It's a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.
Cleo McNelly Kearns notes in her biography that Eliot was deeply influenced by Indic traditions, notably the Upanishads. From the Sanskrit ending of The Waste Land to the "What Krishna meant" section of Four Quartets shows how much Indic religions and more specifically Hinduism made up his philosophical basic for his thought process. He himself wrote in his essay on W.
Yeats: "The kind of poetry that I needed to teach me the use of my own voice did not exist in English at all; it was only to be found in French.
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Alfred Prufrock". Its now-famous opening lines, comparing the evening sky to "a patient etherised upon a table", were considered shocking and offensive, especially at a time when Georgian Poetry was hailed for its derivations of the nineteenth century Romantic Poets. The poem's structure was heavily influenced by Eliot's extensive reading of Dante and refers to a number of literary works, including Hamlet and those of the French Symbolists.
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Eliot is surely of the very smallest importance to anyone, even to himself. They certainly have no relation to poetry. Eliot's dedication to il miglior fabbro "the better craftsman" refers to Ezra Pound's significant hand in editing and reshaping the poem from a longer Eliot manuscript to the shortened version that appears in publication.