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On May Morning by John Milton – Famous poet

 

Life of John Milton (1608-1674)

 

John Milton was born on December 9, 1608, in London, as the second child of John and Sara (neé Jeffrey). The family lived on Bread Street in Cheapside, near St. Paul’s Cathedral. John Milton Sr. worked as a scrivener, a legal secretary whose duties included preparation and notarization of documents , as well as real estate transactions and moneylending. Milton’s father was also a composer of church music, and Milton himself experienced a lifelong delight in music. The family’s financial prosperity afforded Milton to be taught classical languages, first by private tutors at home, followed by entrance to St. Paul’s School at age twelve, in 1620. 

In 1625, Milton was admitted to Christ’s College, Cambridge. While Milton was a hardworking student, he was also argumentative to the extent that only a year later, in 1626, he got suspended after a dispute with his tutor, William Chappell.

flower-1

On May Morning

Now the bright morning Star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

On May Morning


by John Milton

The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams – Famous poet

carlos

Born: September 17, 1883
Birthplace: Rutherford, New Jersey
Died: March 4, 1963
William Carlos Williams was a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and medical doctor.

 “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams, was untitled when it first appeared as number xxi in his 1923 collection, Spring and All. Titled or untitled, it’s surely one of the most memorable poems ever written. But do we remember it in the way we usually remember poems? If you’re familiar with “The Red Wheelbarrow”, shut your eyes now and see what happens when you try to recall it. The poem probably appears in front of you, more or less intact. It’s the visual memory that it appeals to: once seen, its overall shape and inner patterns, as well as its key images, seem printed on the brain.

The visual arts had a profound effect on Williams’s poetic development, beginning with the new work he encountered in the epochal 1913 Armory Show. The moving spirit behind this exhibition was the photographer Alfred Stieglitz. His avant-garde Gallery 291 became another hub of creative activity for the new American artists, and Williams was a regular visitor.

As his Autobiography reveals, Williams was interested in Cubism, Futurism, photographic art, and the “readymades” of Marcel Duchamp. He talks particularly about the significance of Paul Cézanne and his successors, approving their concept of “sheer paint: a picture a matter of pigments upon a piece of cloth stretched on a frame.”

The four stanzas here are rather like that “piece of cloth, stretched on a frame”. The structural tension gives every word its space and focus. The dominant nouns are like objects painted vividly onto a neutral ground. Williams emphasises the colours rather than the shapes – the shape, after all, appears in our minds as soon as we see a word like “wheelbarrow” or “chickens”.

“The key, the master-key to the age,” Williams said of the modern movement in literature, “was that jump from the feeling to the word itself: that which had been got down, the thing to be judged and valued accordingly.” But we shouldn’t forget that poems are made of line-breaks as well as words, and “so much depends”, in this poem, on the splitting of the two compound words, “wheelbarrow” and “rainwater”. These dissections slow us down, and help the mind’s eye to register more: the individual wheels as well as the body of the barrow, the water that is more than raindrops.

Important for their spatial emphases are the prepositions. “Upon” and “beside” are two little words that the poem magnifies hugely. Their implications float beyond the phrases that contain them. The abstract “so much” depends upon the objects, but the rainwater also depends physically upon the barrow, and the glazing effect depends upon the rainwater. The idea of the barrow being “beside” the chickens is complex: the barrow is stationary (there is no sign of anyone pushing it) while the chickens are likely to be moving about. If they are not specially posed, their aesthetic effect is sheer lucky chance. The effect is snatched after all from the flux of existence.

Had Williams simply set down his imagery as a description, the poem would still have its visual impact, but we would be in an entirely contained pictorial world. But the poem’s opening assertion, “so much depends/upon…”, shows that, perhaps paradoxically, the speaker is not simply content with the thing itself.

A naive reading could take it as a comment about the great usefulness ofwheelbarrows on small-holdings where chickens are kept. Unharmed by the rain which has simply left a sheen on the painted surface, the barrow will shortly be filled with more useful matter. It would be amusing to think that the doctor-poet, so pragmatic and modest in his daily life, meant nothing more than that. But no: the poem has an obviously aesthetic agenda. Its author is a radical innovator, and he is setting out his poetry-barrow, not describing his wheelbarrow. This is his manifesto, surely – a poem quietly declaring how modern poetry works.

“No ideas but in things,” as he famously said. And yet, in this poem, so much depends on how we interpret the statement “so much depends”.

“The Red Wheelbarrow” evades what it seems to invite: a simple, visual interpretation. It seems to be absolutely clear, but, at the same time, it’s a riddle. Whatever you may decide the poem means intellectually, as an art-object it holds on to its own indelible shape and colour. Its images are irrefutable, and no amount of verbal rain will ever wash them from the memory they have entered – nor dull the shiny, spring-like, fresh-paint patina of happiness that this particular wheelbarrow seems to carry.

The Red Wheelbarrow 

so much depends
upon 

a red wheel
barrow 

glazed with rain
water 

beside the white
chickens.

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOURS

~WAVES~ – Promote Yourself

 

baton
Waves to say hello to constant friends,
Waves to bid goodbye to seasons’ ends;
Waves to rollick, dance and spin,
Waves to conduct an orchestra to begin.
~
 Permanent waves to create new dos;
Bird waves which sweep above you;
Flag waves with mercurial breezes;
Thought waves that rush like sneezes;
Making waves to be constructive;
Electrical waves which are productive.
~
Rippling lakes from waves of wind;
Ocean currents bring waves that bend;
Hot days during waves of heat;
Sports events where waves repeat.
~
Doppler waves, sound waves, and gamma waves, aren’t science fiction;
Microwaves, gravitational waves, and ultraviolet waves could be in your kitchen.
Seismic waves, tidal waves, and rogue waves portend destruction.
Sonic waves, light waves, and mechanical waves which need instruction.
~
Modulating, undulating, standing and plane,
Versus Alpha, Beta Delta; Theta which comprise the brain;
Beach, Reef and Point breaks for surfing the ocean blue;
Other waves too numerous to mention to you.
~
So, I’ve decided to go outside and play
On this temperate, inviting day.
And as the sea beckons a view,
I wave to ask: “Come join me, too.”
 
 
Wendy Shreve

How to Write Well

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1…. Don’t ever present your ideas in the form of a numbered list

2. Never repeat yourself or say things more than once
3. Avoid (whenever possible) the use of parenthetical phrases (unless absolutely necessary)
4. The use of foreign words and expressions is considered a faux pas
5. Avoid cliches like the plague
6. Never adopt a condescending tone with your readers – that means to talk down to them
7. To be avoided at all times is the reverse construction of sentences
8. Eschew obfuscation

THE SNOWMAN BY WALLACE STEENS YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

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Wallace Stevens was regarded as one of the most significant American poets of the 20th century. Stevens largely ignored the literary world and he did not receive widespread recognition until the publication of his Collected Poems (1954). In this work Stevens explored inside a profound philosophical framework the dualism between concrete reality and the human imagination. For most of his adult life, Stevens pursued contrasting careers as a insurance executive and a poet.

The Snow Man

1950S

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

WALLACE STEVENS

Poem on Floods

floods

Strongly built to protect it all

Against a force that beckons to call

Behind this wall, it’s easy to live

No more to get with less to give.

 

In one instant, the flood rages in

Attacking that wall, wearing it thin

The onslaught becomes too much to bear

Unstoppable, without warning, no time to prepare

 

Pain flashes through the heart and soul

Destroying what was once thought whole

Sooner or later, the walls crumble and break

Creating inside an unbearable ache.

 

All at once, never in small measures

Memories invade of all past treasures.

No longer mine, they belong to another

Why would I care? Why even bother?

 

Although the pain is less than before

I beg to be saved from bearing it more. 

I reach for the concrete and mortar of my mind.

In hopes to leave those memories behind.

 

Hastily rebuilding that wall of protection.

Each block in place, no room for rejection.

Built from tears and not from blood

Safe again from memories flash flood.

Water water everywhere 
there has been a flood 
heavy rainfall flooding us 
because there are monsoons

some days we get holidays 
declared by government 
some days we must go to school 
even when its muddy

we don’t get sports periods 
sometimes we miss snacks 
just because the heavy rains 
of winter, are back

people walk in knee deep water 
possibly even more 
but not all places are affected 
but some are prone for sure

watch out, stay at home 
going out your prone 
to get diseases of many types 
which are not very pleasant

water water everywhere 
there has been a flood 
heavy rainfall flooding us 
because there are monsoons

The big thaw

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The days of rain it seems are here to stay
The weather more extreme almost every day
Climate change it it man made ?
Is there still time for the planet to be saved?

Opinions a plenty and theories abound
As the rain falls in torrents soaking the ground
Floods sweeping away all we hold day
No respite for the north the sky isn’t clear

Bridges swept away lives taken in a blink
Is our earth now moving nearer the brink?
Is it our fault this? or just natures way?
A changing earth? or God at play?

Manipulated data scientists making it real
Wade through the evidence but what is the deal
Who do we believe now , what can we do
Does the answer lie, with me and with you

Switch off another light, turn down the heat
Will global warming beat a retreat
Will the ice caps slow their mighty thaw
Or are we all queuing at heavens door

I must admit it does cause concern
As fossils fuels continue to burn
The oil is running out we’ll be in the dark
No flicker no flame no warmth or spark

If it continues on no humans are needed
If we ignore all the signs and warnings unheeded
A great swathe of water will swallow the earth
A new age will begin a time for rebirth

By Terrimac
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