 Poetry: July 18, 2007 Issue [#1842] |
  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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Quiet Work
by Matthew Arnold
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,
One lesson which in every wind is blown,
One lesson of two duties kept at one
Though the loud world proclaim their enmity--
Of toil unsever'd from tranquility!
Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows
Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose,
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.
Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,
Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil,
Still do thy sleepless ministers move on,
Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;
Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,
Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.
The Voice
by Matthew Arnold
As the kindling glances,
Queen-like and clear,
Which the bright moon lances
From her tranquil sphere
At the sleepless waters
Of a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
Shiver and die.
As the tears of sorrow
Mothers have shed—
Prayers that tomorrow
Shall in vain be sped
When the flower they flow for
Lies frozen and dead—
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
Bringing no rest.
Like bright waves that fall
With a lifelike motion
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall—
A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall—
Strains of glad music at a funeral—
So sad, and with so wild a start
To this deep-sobered heart,
So anxiously and painfully,
So drearily and doubtfully,
And oh, with such intolerable change
Of thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
Like wanderers from the world's extremity,
Unto their ancient home!
In vain, all, all in vain,
They beat upon mine ear again,
Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
Did steal into mine ear—
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,
Yet could not shake it;
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.
Matthew Arnold was born on December 24, 1822 in Laleham, Middlesex. Thomas Arnold and his wife Mary Penrose had four boys and three girls altogether. Matthew's father Thomas, was headmaster of Rugby. Matthew excelled in all his school studies. He won any school prizes for his essays and Latin and English poetry. In 1841 Matthew won a Scholarship to Balliol College, Oxford. After getting his undergraduate degree he returned to Rugby as a teacher. Matthew won the Newdigate prize for poetry in 1843.
In 1845 he became private secretary to Lord Lansdowne. Matthew met and fell in love with Frances Lucy Wightman in 1850. He wanted to marry her but with his wages he could not support a wife and her father forbid them to wed. Later that same Matthew Arnold became an Inspector of Schools, with this new job he would earn enough to marry and on June 10, 1851 the two were married. Their first son Thomas, "Tommy" was born in July of 1852.
His first book of poetry was, "The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems." His second book "Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems" was published in 1852. In October of 1853 his second son Trevenen was born. His "Poems: Second Series" was published in 1855.A third son Richard Penrose "Dicky" was born in November 1855. His daughter Lucy Charlotte was born in December 1858. "Merope: A Tragedy" was published that same year. His second daughter Nelly was born in 1861. Before the birth of his daughter he was offered a position as Professor of Poetry at Oxford. He stayed there until 1867. During his ten years at Oxford he wrote several volumes of literary, social and religious criticism. "Essays in Criticism" published in 1865 and "Culture and Anarchy" published in1869. Matthew was faces with hardship in 1868, his youngest son was born in January 1868 he died shortly after birth. Then that November his eldest son "Tommy" dies after falling off a horse.
In 1869 Matthew published "St. Paul and Protestantism." That fallowing year he was honored by Oxford with the degree of Doctor of Civil Law. Then tragedy hit again in February 1872, with the death of his son, Trevenen. Matthew published "Literature and Dogma" a year after his son death. The sequel "God and the Bible" was published in 1873 and then " Last Essays on Church and Religion" in 1877.
Matthew had stopped publishing his poems by the time he was forty and spent the second half of his life writing essays and traveling. Matthew traveled for lectures in the US from 1883 to 1886. In 1886 he was appointed "Chief Inspector" for the Cross Commission on primary schools. Two years later on April 15, 1888, Matthew Arnold died of heart complications in Liverpool. He is buried at All Saints churchyard, Laleham-on-Thames.
A Wish
by Matthew Arnold
I ask not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
I ask not each kind soul to keep
Tearless, when of my death he hears;
Let those who will, if any, weep!
There are worse plagues on earth than tears.
I ask but that my death may find
The freedom to my life denied;
Ask but the folly of mankind,
Then, at last, to quit my side.
Spare me the whispering, crowded room,
The friends who come, and gape, and go;
The ceremonious air of gloom—
All which makes death a hideous show!
Nor bring, to see me cease to live,
Some doctor full of phrase and fame,
To shake his sapient head and give
The ill he cannot cure a name.
Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll
Of the poor sinner bound for death,
His brother doctor of the soul,
To canvass with official breath
The future and its viewless things—
That undiscovered mystery
Which one who feels death's winnowing wings
Must need read clearer, sure, than he!
Bring none of these; but let me be,
While all around in silence lies,
Moved to the window near, and see
Once more before my dying eyes
Bathed in the sacred dew of morn
The wide aerial landscape spread—
The world which was ere I was born,
The world which lasts when I am dead.
Which never was the friend of one,
Nor promised love it could not give,
But lit for all its generous sun,
And lived itself, and made us live.
There let me gaze, till I become
In soul with what I gaze on wed!
To feel the universe my home;
To have before my mind -instead
Of the sick-room, the mortal strife,
The turmoil for a little breath—
The pure eternal course of life,
Not human combatings with death.
Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow
Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear;
Then willing let my spirit go
To work or wait elsewhere or here!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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Angry Sun, Bad Day
Blood colored rays filter through the clouds--
blood, like poison.
Red sky in the morning, sailors, take warning--
better start pulling in your nets, it's going to be ugly.
The light exposes everything, reveals the land--
but shadows grow too, creating hidden secrets.
Traffic starts, crawling in grids around skyscrapers--
bustling, never going anywhere important.
People peer out their windows, prepare for the day--
discontentment and prejudice at work will be worse than ever.
Bad things-- arguments, tears, humiliation--
they seem to feed off the angry glare of the sun.
Dreams of the perfect day form--
maybe they'll come true, if you're lucky.
Red sky at night, sailors, delight--
the sun sinks beneath the horizon.
Cool, refreshing night air floods the empty streets--
relaxing, calming, healing the senses.
Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow--
it will be a beautiful day.
Honorable mention:
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#1273697 by Not Available. |
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