2018年6月6日 星期三

"Cezanne's Ports" by Allen Ginsberg

Poet Allen Ginsberg was born Irwin Allen Ginsberg in Newark, New Jersey on this day in 1926.
"Cezanne's Ports" by Allen Ginsberg
In the foreground we see time and life
swept in a race
toward the left hand side of the picture
where shore meets shore.
But that meeting place
isn't represented;
it doesn't occur on the canvas.
For the other side of the bay
is Heaven and Eternity,
with a bleak white haze over its mountains.
And the immense water of L'Estaque is a go-between
for minute rowboats.
ART AND ARTISTS: Poems is a sumptuous collection of visions in verse—the work of centuries of poets who have used their own art form to illuminate art created by others. A wide variety of visual art forms have inspired great poetry, from painting, sculpture, and photography to tapestry, folk art, and calligraphy. Included here are poems that celebrate Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, Claude Monet’s Water Lilies, and Grant Wood’s American Gothic. Here are such well-known poems as John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and W. H. Auden’s “Musée des Beaux Arts,” Homer’s immortal account of the forging of the shield of Achilles, and Federico García Lorca’s breathtaking ode to the surreal paintings of Salvador Dalí. Allen Ginsberg writes about Cezanne, Anne Sexton about van Gogh, Billy Collins about Hieronymus Bosch, and Kevin Young about Jean-Michel Basquiat. Here too are poems that take on the artists themselves, from Michelangelo and Rembrandt to Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe. Altogether, this brilliantly curated anthology proves that a picture can be worth a thousand words—or a few very well-chosen ones. READ more here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/…/art-and-artists-by-ed…/

Poet Federico Garcia Lorca

Poet Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca was born in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, Andalusia, Spain on this day in 1898.
"Wounds of Love" by Federico Garcia Lorca
This light, this flame that devours,
this grey country that surrounds me,
this pain from a sole idea,
this anguish of the sky, earth and hour,
this lament of blood that now adorns
a lyre with no pulse, lubricious torch,
this weight of sea that breaks on me,
this scorpion that lives inside my breast,
are a garland of love, bed of the wounded,
where dreamlessly, I dream of your presence
among the ruins of my sunken breast.
And though I seek the summit of discretion
your heart grants me a valley stretched below,
with hemlock and bitter wisdom’s passion.
From Sappho to Shakespeare to Cole Porter–a marvelous and wide-ranging collection of classic gay and lesbian love poetry. The poets represented here include Walt Whitman, Hart Crane, Gertrude Stein, Federico García Lorca, Djuna Barnes, Constantine Cavafy, Elizabeth Bishop, W. H. Auden, and James Merrill. Their poems of love are among the most perceptive, the most passionate, the wittiest, and the most moving we have. From Michelangelo’s “Love Misinterpreted” to Noël Coward’s “Mad About the Boy,” from May Swenson’s “Symmetrical Companion” to Muriel Rukeyser’s “Looking at Each Other,” these poems take on both desire and its higher power: love in all its tender or taunting variety. READ an excerpt here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/…/love-speaks-its-name-…/

2018年6月2日 星期六

Thomas Hardy

"The Sun On The Bookcase" by Thomas Hardy
Once more the cauldron of the sun 
Smears the bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they have fled.
Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day....
But wasted--wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imagined one
Beyond the hills there, who, anon,
My great deeds done,
Will be mine alway?
Oxford World's Classics

For June, we will be honoring Thomas Hardy as the #ClassicsInContextAuthor of the Month. Thomas Hardy was born on June 2, 1840 at Higher Bockhampton, near Dorchester in Dorset. The son of a stonemason, whose family had known better days, his father taught Hardy the violin and his mother greatly encouraged his early interest in books. He attended school in Dorchester and at 16 was articled to John Hicks, a local architect.
Follow us on Twitter @OWC_Oxford to learn more throughout the month!

Harvard University Press
In which Mark Ford imagines discussing his new book, Thomas Hardy: Half a Londoner, over lunch in a London pub.

In which Mark Ford imagines discussing his new book, Thomas Hardy: Half a Londoner, over lunch in a London pub.

2018年5月27日 星期日

Did Coleridge See His Own Future in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”?

Oxford World's Classics
When Samuel Taylor Coleridge was not quite nine years old his father died. He became eligible for a place in the great London charity school, Christ's Hospital, to which he was sent a year later. From there he went to Jesus College, Cambridge, but at the end of 1793, during his third year, he ran away and joined the army under an assumed name, Silas Tomkyn Comberbache.
"Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony."

The Paris Review
Proof that poets are time travelers: Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s grim prognosticating in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

In today’s arts and culture news: a scholar contends that Coleridge was a…

2018年5月25日 星期五

Raymond Carver

雷蒙德·卡佛英語:Raymond Carver,1938年5月25日-1988年8月2日),全名小瑞蒙·克列維·卡佛,美國短篇小說家,詩人。



Everyman's Library

Poet and short-story writer Raymond Clevie Carver Jr. was born in Clatskanie, Oregon eighty years ago on this day in 1938.
"The River" by Raymond Carver
I waded, deepening, into the dark water.
Evening, and the push
and swirl of the river as it closed
around my legs and held on.
Young grilse broke water.
Parr darted one way, smolt another.
Gravel turned under my boots as I edged out.
Watched by the furious eyes of king salmon.
Their immense heads turned slowly,
eyes burning with fury, as they hung
in the deep current.
They were there. I fel them there,
and my skin prickled. But
there was something else.
I braced with the wind on my neck.
Felt the hair rise
as something touched my boot.
Grew afraid at what I couldn't see.
Then of everything that filled my eyes—
that other shore heavy with branches,
the dark lip of the mountain range behind.
And this river that had suddenly
grown black and swift.
I drew breath and cast anyway.
Prayed nothing would strike.
THE ART OF ANGLING offers a bountiful catch of poems from around the world and through the ages on every aspect of the beloved sport. Fishing has inspired a wealth of poetry—Tang Dynasty meditations; Japanese haiku; medieval rhymes; classic verses by Homer and Shakespeare; poems by Donne, Goethe, Tennyson, and Yeats. Modern masterpieces abound as well, by the likes of Federico García Lorca, Elizabeth Bishop, Ted Hughes, Robert Lowell, Raymond Carver, Margaret Atwood, Audre Lorde, Richard Hugo, and Derek Walcott. In the hands of the poets collected here, fishing with a hook and line yields reflections both sparklingly light and awe-inspiringly deep. Filled with humor, nostalgia, adventure, celebrations of the beauties of nature, and metaphors for the art of living, The Art of Angling is sure to lure anglers and lovers of poetry alike. READ an excerpt from the foreword here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/…/the-art-of-angling-by…/

"Beauty" "Étienne de la Boéce" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    Étienne de La Boétie
    Étienne or Estienne de La Boétie was a French judge, writer, and "a founder of modern political philosophy in France." Wikipedia
    BornNovember 1, 1530, Sarlat-la-Canéda, France
    DiedAugust 18, 1563, Bordeaux, France

Everyman's Library

"Beauty" by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Was never form and never face
So sweet to SEYD as only grace
Which did not slumber like a stone,
But hovered gleaming and was gone.
Beauty chased he everywhere,
In flame, in storm, in clouds of air.
He smote the lake to feed his eye
With the beryl beam of the broken wave;
He flung in pebbles well to hear
The moment's music which they gave.
Oft pealed for him a lofty tone
From nodding pole and belting zone.
He heard a voice none else could hear
From centred and from errant sphere.
The quaking earth did quake in rhyme,
Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime.
In dens of passion, and pits of woe,
He saw strong Eros struggling through,
To sun the dark and solve the curse,
And beam to the bounds of the universe.
While thus to love he gave his days
In loyal worship, scorning praise,
How spread their lures for him in vain
Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!
He thought it happier to be dead,
To die for Beauty, than live for bread.

"Étienne de la Boéce" by Ralph Waldo Emerson
I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadowlike, o’er hill and hollow;
And bend my fancy to your leading, 
All too nimble for my treading.
When the pilgrimage is done,
And we ’ve the landscape overrun,
I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,
And your heart is unsupported.
Vainly valiant, you have missed
The manhood that should yours resist,—
Its complement; but if I could,
In severe or cordial mood,
Lead you rightly to my altar,
Where the wisest Muses falter,
And worship that world-warming spark
Which dazzles me in midnight dark,
Equalizing small and large,
While the soul it doth surcharge,
Till the poor is wealthy grown,
And the hermit never alone,—
The traveller and the road seem one
With the errand to be done,—
That were a man’s and lover’s part,
That were Freedom’s whitest chart.
Emerson is one of the best-loved figures in nineteenth-century American literature. Though he earned his central place in our culture as an essayist and philosopher, since his death his reputation as a poet has grown as well. Known for challenging traditional thought and for his faith in the individual, Emerson was the chief spokesman for the Transcendentalist movement. His poems speak to his most passionately held belief: that external authority should be disregarded in favor of one’s own experience. From the embattled farmers who “fired the shot heard round the world” in the stirring “Concord Hymn,” to the flower in “The Rhodora,” whose existence demonstrates “that if eyes were made for seeing, / Then Beauty is its own excuse for being,” Emerson celebrates the existence of the sublime in the human and in nature.

2018年5月20日 星期日

Coronach. Sir Walter Scott

Oxford World's Classics

"He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest." - Sir Walter Scott

HE is gone on the mountain, 
  He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 
  When our need was the sorest. 
The font reappearing         5
  From the raindrops shall borrow; 
But to us comes no cheering, 
  To Duncan no morrow! 
The hand of the reaper 
  Takes the ears that are hoary,  10
But the voice of the weeper 
  Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 
  Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing  15
  When blighting was nearest. 
Fleet foot on the correi, 
  Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 
  How sound is thy slumber!  20
Like the dew on the mountain, 
  Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 
  Thou art gone—and for ever!