Add to list. The Retreat. But ah! Later in life he practiced medicine and propably studied it in college. The major poetry of Vaughan, all religious in nature. This poem is one of Vaughan most outstanding poems. Frankly, when i read this poem for the first time i had some difficulty in figuring out its meaning, but after reading it for two more time i began to understand it. When i read the first stanza, i wondered about the speaker and i asked myself " who could be the speaker and to whom he is speaking?
Poetic Flights or Retreats? Latin Lucretian Poems in Sixteenth-Century Italy
I think he knows that sometimes he is going to die, so he looks back in his life and try to tell us his opinion. In my opinion,I think this is a beautiful poem in which you can give yourself the time to think about you personal view of life, about your achievements and failures, the poet recognizes the life after death, "and when this dust falls to the urn, in that state I came, return",this poem has a lot of metaphors, so it is interesting to the reader.
I like it so much indeed. And how mist rounds the headland till the sea is gone. One feels word should be sent us from some source. It is all roar and cry and suck and snap. The pebbles on the pebbles roll.
One feels one has in custody what one cannot care for for long. Too much is asked. Nothing is coming back the way it was. But one can wait for the next hem, next bride, next oscillation, comedy. Done, the birds fly off. I can see through the trees, through the cane grove, palm grove, out far enough into the clearing where the spine of the picked-clean story shines. Comparison, too, is very slow. Where is the past? I sense that we should keep this coming. Something like joy rivulets along the sand. We go in. One cannot keep all of it.
What is enough of it. And keep? A waking good.
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- The Fandom of the Operator;
- Brooklyn Poets | Hudson Valley Retreat.
- Poetic Flights or Retreats? Latin Lucretian Poems in Sixteenth-Century Italy - Oxford Scholarship?
- The Fugitive.
- For knowledge, for Islam and for Muslim Ummah.
- The Blight of Bitterness.
Visibility blocking the view. Although we associate the manifest with kindness, we do. The journey — some journey — visits one. The journey — some journey — visits me. Then this downslope once again.
‘So many of our children had a loss to mourn. Isn’t that what poetry’s for?’ | Books | The Guardian
And how it makes what happens always more heavily laden, this self only able to sink albeit also lifting as in a sudden draught into the future. Our future. Where everyone is patient. Where all the sentences come to complete themselves. Oh lord what is it. A tent flap falls. Note is taken, then note no longer taken, then what shall we call it history the massive chitter coming on — singleness now truly gone — massive and more or less to the human ear the same pitch and duration, only this time a serious proposal, meaning to stick — formal, ruthless, kind, strange, flaring — then suddenly crawling maggotlike around a single hammering-sound — succession, more succession — our listening replacing almost all the silence now, unaware of division, past differentiation, no single object but the hammer in the sun behind the fence, tappings hardening and softening and always full hits, after which silence tumbling down as if a birdsong without song, a mind of space making of itself a wide existence, nothing else.
Wind silks the fronds. They move their rippling under the harshness of the festival. Everything seems easily born. All without echo. No souvenir.
The Very Quiet Foreign Girls poetry group | Kate Clanchy
Hands everywhere full of nothing, yet very full. Hard prize feeling hard won out to the very edges of the visible — full sun — a buzzsaw now, just once, then once again — its rise, quick fall, pushed deep into the chittering — and then again the chittering poured into seepages and leaks , one gust of wind right into it , pushing up around the buzz and filling in each emptiness.
Elsewhere things stop. Elsewhere there is direction and things go along it and then stop. Here in the hive of sun, only the toothy present moment lives. Widening its grin.
A broom sweeps off the concrete ledge. Two phrases spoken by the sweeper as she turns her head. Even un- vectored, even untrue.
Poems read, and songs sung, at the 12222 Spring Weekend Retreat at Samish Island Campground.
Log In Register for Online Access. Four Poems Jorie Graham. The Complex Mechanism of the Break From here, ten to fourteen rows of folding and branching.