Friday, 11 July 2008
My Freedom 4: inspired by poetry
Well I'm not that inspired by this class so far in scrapping terms - I'm quite enjoying it in terms of the questions asked and things to think about and they work well as blog prompts but I'm still struggling with something worth actually scrapping over ... maybe I'll do it more as an art journal. Maybe. Anyway this was yesterday's prompt but it came in quite late so I've just got it - have you ever been inspired by the words of a poem? Well - yes - loads! But then I did do a degree in English literature so it would be weird if I hadn't. The problem here is what to choose! But I have always loved this poem, and it seems to suit the time and travel themes as well. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. There are other bits of poems that I find apt too (in fact I keep meaning to do a poetry journal or A-Z maybe): from T S Eliot (The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock): For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; from Andrew Marvell (To His Coy Mistress) But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; The end of Paradise Lost by Milton Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide; They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. And finally - if rather long windedly - thanks for making me search out this one that I remembered bits of - and again it seems that a lot of the poetry I recall and that has made an impression on me is all about time and travel (and I haven't even touched on Joni Mitchell's lyrics yet...) Ulysses Alfred Lord Tennyson It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this grey spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. ... There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me - That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.