Pomes Penyeach - James Joyce

Joyce in 100 Objects: Pomes Penyeach - James Joyce Quarterly

We know Joyce primarily as a prose writer and novelist, but he did publish two slight volumes of poetry: Chamber Music in 1907 and Pomes Penyeach in…

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Pomes Penyeach

Cover of first edition (Powells.com)
Author	James Joyce
Country	Ireland
Genre	poetry
Publisher	Shakespeare and Company
Publication date	1927
Media type	Print (Hardback & Paperback)
Pages	47
ISBN	978-1-112-86350-9

Pomes Penyeach is a collection of thirteen short poems written by James Joyce.

Contents

  [hide] 

• 1Overview
• 2Contents
• 3References
• 4External links

Overview[edit]

Pomes Penyeach was written over a twenty-year period from 1904 to 1924 and originally published on 7 July 1927 by Shakespeare and Co. for the price of one shilling (twelve pennies) or twelve francs. The title is a play on "poems" and "pommes" (the French word for apples) which are here offered at "a penny each" in either currency. It was the custom for Irish tradespeople of the time to offer their customers a "tilly" (in Irish, tuilleadh) or extra serving – just as English bakers had developed the tradition of the "Baker's dozen", offering thirteen loaves instead of twelve. The first poem of Pomes Penyeach is entitled "Tilly" and represents the bonus offering of this penny-a-poem collection. (The poem was originally entitled "Cabra", after the district of Dublin where Joyce was living at the time of his mother's death.)

The poems were initially rejected for publication by Ezra Pound.^[1] Although paid scant attention on its initial publication,^[2] this slender volume (the collection contains fewer than 1000 words in total) has proven surprisingly durable, and a number of its poems (particularly "Tilly", "A flower given to my daughter", "On the beach at Fontana", and "Bahnhofstrasse") continue to appear in anthologies to this day.^[3]

"Pomes Penyeach" contains a number of Joycean neologisms ("rosefrail", "moongrey" and "sindark", for example) created by melding two words into a new compound. The word "love" appears thirteen times in this collection of thirteen short poems (and the word "heart" appears almost as frequently) in a variety of contexts. Sometimes romantic love is intended, in tones that vary from sentimental or nostalgic ("O sighing grasses,/ Vainly your loveblown bannerets mourn!") to scathing ("They mouth love's language. Gnash/ The thirteen teeth/ Your lean jaws grin with"). Yet at its best Joyce's poetry achieves, like his prose, a sense of vitality and loving compassion. ("From whining wind and colder/ Grey sea I wrap him warm/ And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder/ And boyish arm. // Around us fear, descending/ Darkness of fear above/ And in my heart how deep unending/ Ache of love!")

Contents[edit]

The contents of Pomes Penyeach are listed below, with the date and place of their composition:

Tilly (Dublin, 1904, originally known as "Cabra")
Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba (Trieste, 1912)
A Flower Given to My Daughter (Trieste, 1913)
She Weeps over Rahoon (Trieste, 1913)
Tutto è sciolto (Trieste, 13 July 1914)
On the Beach at Fontana (Trieste, 1914)
Simples (Trieste, 1914)
Flood (Trieste, 1915)
Nightpiece (Trieste, 22 January 1915)
Alone (Zurich,1916)
A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight (Zurich, 1917)
Bahnhofstrasse (Zurich, 1918)
A Prayer (Paris 1924)

References[edit]

1. Jump up^ Ellmann, Richard. James Joyce, page 591 Oxford University Press, 1959, revised edition 1983.
2. Jump up^ George Slocombe, who reviewed it in the Daily Herald, was assured by Joyce that he had the "melancholy distinction" of being the only reviewer. Ellmann, Richard. James Joyce, page 593. Oxford University Press, 1959, revised edition 1983.
3. Jump up^ Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes, for example, include "Tilly", "On the beach at Fontana" and "A flower given to my daughter" in their popular anthology, Rattlebag. Heaney, S. and Hughes, T. (Eds.) "The Rattle Bag", Faber, 1982

External links[edit]

Poems and Exiles at themodernword.com

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Becoming a Redwood

By Dana Gioia

 June 9, 2016

FROM THE ARCHIVE

Dana Gioia’s poem “Becoming a Redwood” appeared in our Summer 1991 issue. His latest collection isPity the Beautiful.

Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds
start up again. The crickets, the invisible
toad who claims that change is possible,

And all the other life too small to name.
First one, then another, until innumerable
they merge into the single voice of a summer hill.

Yes, it’s hard to stand still, hour after hour,
fixed as a fencepost, hearing the steers
snort in the dark pasture, smelling the manure.

And paralyzed by the mystery of how a stone
can bear to be a stone, the pain
the grass endures breaking through the earth’s crust.

Unimaginable the redwoods on the far hill,
rooted for centuries, the living wood grown tall
and thickened with a hundred thousand days of light.

The old windmill creaks in perfect time
to the wind shaking the miles of pasture grass,
and the last farmhouse light goes off.

Something moves nearby. Coyotes hunt
these hills and packs of feral dogs.
But standing here at night accepts all that.

You are your own pale shadow in the quarter moon,
moving more slowly than the crippled stars,
part of the moonlight as the moonlight falls,

Part of the grass that answers the wind,
part of the midnight’s watchfulness that knows
there is no silence but when danger comes.

"I Am The Only Being Whose Doom" by Emily Brontë

"I Am The Only Being Whose Doom" by Emily Brontë

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure - secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there

*

Poems: Bronte contains poems that demonstrate a sensibility elemental in its force with an imaginative discipline and flexibility of the highest order. Also included are an Editor’s Note and an index of first lines. READ more here: http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/…/emily-bronte-poems-by-…/

激情全消融， all passion spent. The Hogarth Press

324. Samson Agonistes ii (excerpt). John Milton. The Oxford Book of ...

www.bartleby.com › Verse › Anthologies › Arthur Quiller-Couch

10. His servants he with new acquist. Of true experience from this great event. With peace and consolation hath dismist,. And calm of mind all passion spent.

他教僕人重新汲取 
這次偉大事件真正的精神
 帶著寧靜和欣慰，心氣肅穆 
激情全消融， 回家樂天倫。

決定要介紹The Hogarth Press，就去圖書館借僅有的2~3本。(有一本書架上找不到)--發現有的我印反了。The Waves 在1931年2刷！(愛丁堡印刷)




讚

On the masks and personas of W B Yeats

The Irish for Noh: The Masks of William Butler Yeats

Although the poetry of William Butler Yeats is often misconstrued as autobiographical, the poet scorned such transparency, calling it…

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Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell

Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell by John Dryden ...

Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell

John Dryden, 1631 - 1700
Written after his funeral. And now ‘tis time; for their officious haste Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly, Though our best notes are treason to his fame Joined with the loud applause of public voice, Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, Hath rendered too authentic by its choice: Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they whose muses have the highest flown Add not to his immortal memory, But do an act of friendship to their own: Yet ‘tis our duty and our interest too Such monuments as we can build to raise, Lest all the world prevent what we should do And claim a title in him by their praise. How shall I then begin or where conclude To draw a fame so truly circular? For in a round what order can be showed, Where all the parts so equal-perfect are? His grandeur he derived from heaven alone, For he was great, ere fortune made him so; And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poisoned, soon as born, With the too early thoughts of being king. Fortune, that easy mistress of the young, But to her ancient servants coy and hard, Him at that age her favourites ranked among When she her best-loved Pompey did discard. He, private, marked the fruits of others’ sway And set as sea-marks for himself to shun; Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone. And yet dominion was not his design; We owe that blessing not to him but heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, Rewards that less to him than us were given. Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war, First sought to inflame the parties, then to poise. The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor, And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise. War, our consumption, was their gainful trade; We inward bled, whilst they prolonged our pain: He fought to end our fighting, and essayed To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. Swift and resistless though the land he passed, Like that bold Greek who did the East subdue, And made to battles such heroic haste As if on wings of victory he flew. He fought, secure of fortune as of fame, Till by new maps the island might be shown, Of conquests, which he strewed where’er he came, Thick as the galaxy with stars is sown. His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thrived; no winter could his laurels fade: Heaven in his portrait showed a workman’s hand And drew it perfect, yet without a shade. Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, Which war had banished and did now restore: Bologna’s walls thus mounted in the air To seat themselves more surely than before. Her safety rescued Ireland to him owes; And treacherous Scotland to no interest true, Yet blessed that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize as to subdue. Nor was he like those stars which only shine When to pale mariners they storms portend; He had his calmer influence, and his mien Did love and majesty together blend. ‘Tis true his countenance did imprint an awe And naturally all souls to his did bow, As wands of divination downward draw And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow. When, past all offerings to Feretrain Jove, He Mars deposed and arms to gowns made yield, Successful counsels did him soon approve As fit for close intrigues as open field. To suppliant Holland he vouchsafed a peace, Our once bold rival in the British main, Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease And buy our friendship with her idol, gain. Fame of the asserted sea, through Europe blown, Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; Each knew that side must conquer he would own And for him fiercely as for empire strove. No sooner was the Frenchman’s cause embraced Than the light Monsieur the grave Don outweighed: His fortune turned the scale where it was cast, Though Indian mines were in the other laid. When absent, yet we conquered in his right: For though some meaner artist’s skill were shown In mingling colours or in placing light, Yet still the fair designment was his own. For from all tempers he could service draw; The worth of each with its alloy he knew; And, as the confident of nature, saw How she complexions did divide and brew: Or he their single virtues did survey By intuition in his own large breast, Where all the rich ideas of them lay That were the rule and measure to the rest. When such heroic virtue heaven sets out, The stars, like commons, sullenly obey, Because it drains them, when it comes about, And therefore is a tax they seldom pay. From this high spring our foreign conquests flow Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, Since their commencement to his arms they owe, If springs as high as fountains may ascend. He made us freemen of the continent Whom nature did like captives treat before, To nobler preys the English lion sent, And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar. That old unquestioned pirate of the land, Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heardl, And trembling wished behind more Alps to stand, Although an Alexander were her guard. By his command we boldly crossed the line, And bravely fought where southern stars arise; We traced the far-fetched gold unto the mine, And that which bribed our fathers made our prize. Such was our prince; yet owned a soul above The highest acts it could produce to show; Thus poor mechanic arts in public move, Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. Nor died he when his ebbing fame went less, But when fresh laurels courted him to live; He seemed but to prevent some new success, As if above what triumphs earth could give. His latest victories still thicket came, As near the centre motion does increase; Till he, pressed down by his own weighty name, Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease. But first the ocean as a tribute sent That giant-prince of all her watery herd; And the isle, when her protecting genius went, Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferred. No civil broils have since his death arose, But faction now by habit does obey; And wars have that respect for his repose As winds for halcyons when they breed at sea. His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; His name a great example stands to show How strangely high endeavours may be blessed Where piety and valour jointly go.



This poem is in the public domain.


John Dryden



Born on August 9, 1631, John Dryden was the leading poet and literary critic of his day and he served as the first official Poet Laureate of England




The British Library


13 April offers a veritable smorgasbord of literary laureates, as Samuel Beckett (1906) and Seamus Heaney (1939) were both born #onthisday.

Hero of the heroic couplet John Dryden also became the first English poet laureate on 13 April 1668. Here’s a fair copy of his first major poem, written after the death of Oliver Cromwell.

"Ballad Of Dead Friends" By Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Everyman's Library

Three time Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Edwin Arlington Robinson died in New York City on this day in 1935 (aged 65).

"Ballad Of Dead Friends"

As we the withered ferns 
By the roadway lying,
Time, the jester, spurns
All our prayers and prying --
All our tears and sighing,
Sorrow, change, and woe --
All our where-and-whying
For friends that come and go.

Life awakes and burns,
Age and death defying,
Till at last it learns
All but Love is dying;
Love's the trade we're plying,
God has willed it so;
Shrouds are what we're buying
For friends that come and go.

Man forever yearns
For the thing that's flying.
Everywhere he turns,
Men to dust are drying, --
Dust that wanders, eying
(With eyes that hardly glow)
New faces, dimly spying
For friends that come and go.

ENVOY

And thus we all are nighing
The truth we fear to know:
Death will end our crying
For friends that come and go.

*

Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) a three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, was the first of the great American modernist poets."No poet ever understood loneliness and separateness better than Robinson," James Dickey has observed. Robinson’s lyric poems illuminate the hearts and minds of the most unlikely subjects—the downtrodden, the bereft, and the misunderstood. Even while writing in meter and rhyme, he used everyday language with unprecedented power, wit, and sensitivity. With his keen understanding of ordinary people and a gift for harnessing the rhythms of conversational speech, Robinson created the vivid character portraits for which he is best known, among them "Aunt Imogen," "Isaac and Archibald," "Miniver Cheevy," and "Richard Cory." Most of his poems are set in the fictive Tilbury Town—based on his boyhood home of Gardiner, Maine—but his work reaches far beyond its particular locality in its focus on struggle and redemption in human experience. READ more here: http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/…/robinson-poems-by-edwi…/

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