There was an up-and-coming modern artist
Who went by the pseudonym "Arthur Fartist."
He painted with flair
From his derriere,
'Til critics judged his work, "not the smartest."
Modern Art Limerick
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Tag Archives: Lyric Poetry
“Drinking” by Abraham Cowley [w/ Audio]
The thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The Plants suck in the Earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and faire.
The Sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of Drink,
Drinks ten thousand Rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the Cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the Sea, and when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature 's Sober found,
But an eternal Health goes round.
Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the Glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I,
Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
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“Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
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“Memory” by William Butler Yeats [w/ Audio]
One had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.
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“Butterflies in Love with Flowers” by Zhu Shuzhen [w/ Audio]
Thousands of willow twigs beyond my bower sway;
They try to retain spring, but she won't stay
For long and goes away.
In vernal breeze the willow down still wafts with grace;
It tries to follow spring to find her dwelling place.
Hills and rills greened all over, I hear cuckoos sing;
Feeling no grief, why should they give me a sharp sting?
With wine cup in hand, I ask spring who won't reply.
When evening grizzles,
A cold rain drizzles.
Translation: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, pp. 146-147.
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“The Call” by Charlotte Mew [w/ Audio]
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stopping so
We scarcely saw the sun or rain
Above, or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire.
To-night we heard a call,
A rattle on the window-pane,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us: Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or dark angel? Who can know?
It left no mark upon the snow,
But suddenly it snapped the chain
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again;
And so we cannot sit here anymore.
We must arise and go:
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
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“Meeting at Night” by Robert Browning [w/ Audio]
I
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
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“The Builders” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]
All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time,
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall tomorrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.
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“The Fly” by William Blake [w/ Audio]
Little fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
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BOOKS: “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Baudelaire
Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles BaudelaireMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Amazon.in Page
I read the 1909 Cyril Scott translation of Baudelaire’s poetry collection. It consists of 54 poems, including “Condemned Women” but not including others of the six poems that were banned in early editions and which only came to be included in later editions. (I did look up and read a couple translations each for the six poems — because censorship can’t be allowed to prevail. Not surprisingly, they are calm by today’s standards. It should be noted that Baudelaire played in symbolism, and so his poems – while ahead of their time in subject matter – didn’t tend toward explicit vulgarity in the first place.)
The Scott translation is all in rhymed verse, the largest share of it presented as sonnets — though there are some longer pieces (longer, but not long. It’s a quick read.) “The Broken Bell” and “Spleen” were highlights for me, but the whole collection is intriguing, evocative, and readable.
I enjoyed this collection tremendously, even with such an old translation. The hedonism, eroticism, and macabre of Baudelaire’s work creates an intense tone.
I’d highly recommend this collection for all poetry readers.
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