Shawondasee -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem submitted by Lisa:

(Poem #1669) Shawondasee Shawondasee, fat and lazy, Had his dwelling far to southward In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, In the never-ending Summer. He it was who sent the wood-birds, Sent the robin, the Opechee, Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, Sent the melons and tobacco, And the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending Filled the sky with haze and vapor, Filled the air with dreamy softness, Gave a twinkle to the water, Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, Brought the tender Indian Summer To the melancholy north-land, In the dreary Mood of Snow-shoes. Listless, careless Shawondasee! In his life he had one shadow, In his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward, Far away upon a prairie He beheld a maiden standing, Saw a tall and slender maiden All alone upon a prairie ; Brightest green were all her garments, And her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her, Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him Grew more hot with love and longing For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her. Yes, too indolent and easy To pursue her and persuade her; So he only gazed upon her, Only sat and sighed with passion For the maiden of the prairie. Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. "Ah! my brother from the North-land, From the kingdom of Wabasso, From the land of the White Rabbit! You have stolen the maiden from me, You have laid your hand upon her, You have wooed and won my maiden, With your stories of the North-land!" Thus the wretched Shawondasee Breathed into the air his sorrow; And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee, Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, Full of thistle-down the prairie, And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished from his sight forever; Never more did Shawondasee See the maid with yellow tresses! Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'Twas no woman that you gazed at, 'Twas no maiden that you sighed for, 'Twas the prairie dandelion That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever, Blown into the air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee! -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Other exerpts from the epic poem "The Song of Hiawatha" have appeared here
before.  But I adore this little vignette about the South Wind.  Such a
wonderful description, and such a tragic (yet humorous) romance too!  Plus,
the meter is amazing.  This poem begs to be read aloud.  I've read this
particular passage to my husband three times this evening.

Okay, I admit, I was led here by the reference to it in Spiderman 2.  But it
fits well with my latest interest in epic poetry, and now I'm in the middle
of Hiawatha, enjoying every syllable.

Lisa.

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Aedh Laments the Loss of Love -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Kamalika Chowdhury

(Poem #1668) Aedh Laments the Loss of Love (or The Lover Mourns for the Loss of Love) Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair Would end in love in the end: She looked in my heart one day And saw your image was there; She has gone weeping away. -- William Butler Yeats

On reading the recent Yeats poem (Poem #1657 - "The Rose of the World"), I
was reminded that the minstrels does not yet have two of my favourite poems
by Yeats.  This gem of a poem, from "The Wind Among the Reeds" (1899), is
one of them.

The poignancy of loss of love has seldom been better expressed in the
English language. Yet the spell of this poem goes beyond that perfect
execution, and into the intriguingly complex play of time and emotion
captured in these few short, heart-stopping lines. No words are wasted here.
Even as the gentle, patient cadence of the opening lines sets the scene, the
powerful simplicity of the final image brings a sudden and immense sense of
permanence. In the end one is left with a picture far wider than the title
promised. Which was the real loss? Whence the haunting despair, and how deep
love's lament? Beautiful.

Kamalika

[Martin adds]

I also love the way the closing "she has gone weeping away" plays against the
incompleteness of the "missing" eighth line. The poem ends on a brief,
expectant  pause, a held breath, perhaps a hope that this is not then end of
the story. And then the realisation that the poem has indeed come to an end
surges back, and the reader is almost compelled to silently reread the last
line, both to lay to rest the feeling that the poem should continue a line
more, and by the very repetition perhaps to supply that closure. (And yet, in
the end, I am unable to read finality into the last line; the more I look at
it, the more I feel the promise of a second chance. And that, too, is perhaps
as it should be.)

martin

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Love Over Gold -- Mark Knopfler

Guest poem submitted by Sachin Desai:

(Poem #1667) Love Over Gold You walk out on the high wire you're a dancer on thin ice you pay no heed to the danger and less to advice your footsteps are forbidden but with a knowledge of your sin you throw your love to all the strangers and caution to the wind And you go dancing through doorways just to see what you will find leaving nothing to interfere with the crazy balance of your mind and when you finally reappear at the place where you came in you've thrown your love to all the strangers and caution to the wind It takes love over gold and mind over matter to do what you do that you must when the things that you hold can fall and be shattered or run through your fingers like dust -- Mark Knopfler

Seeing the Suzzane Vega poem/song set me thinking about various artists
whose work falls in the twilight zone between poetry and music. I am
submitting a rather well known song by Dire Straits. I love the simplicity
of their songs - straightforward (but meaningful) lyrics, hummable tunes,
and above all the lovely voice and chords of Mark Knopfler. Dire Straits
songs, in my opinion, fall into two categories - the racy rock songs like
Sultans of Swing /Money for Nothing and the softer ones like Love Over
Gold/Brothers In Arms. I think some of the latter songs come close to
qualifying as poetry (or almost poetry with due apologies to all the
purists).

This song expresses a beautiful sentiment.The essence of the human spirit is
intense curiosity. The desire to explore, to experience, to understand is
what sets us apart from other species and is resposible for our current
state of affairs. (For better or for worse). :-) To really appreciate this
song, of course, one has to listen to it.

There have been no previous postings of Dire Straits/Mark Knopfler on the
Minstrels website so here is a short bio - Mark Knopfler, a singer,
songwriter, guitarist formed the group in 1977. The group was immensely
popular during the 70s and 80s. The distinctive feature of the group was the
meaningful songs, excellent guitaring (which seems to be 'singing' along
with Knopfler) and the gravelly voice of Knopfler. They have had many hit
songs among which the best loved song is arguably 'Romeo and Juliet'. Dire
Straits disbanded in 1995 after which Knopfler has pursued a solo career.

Thanks
Sachin Desai.

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Selecting A Reader -- Ted Kooser

Guest poem sent in by Rukmini Kumar

(Poem #1666) Selecting A Reader First, I would have her be beautiful, and walking carefully up on my poetry at the loneliest moment of an afternoon, her hair still damp at the neck from washing it. She should be wearing a raincoat, an old one, dirty from not having money enough for the cleaners. She will take out her glasses, and there in the bookstore, she will thumb over my poems, then put the book back up on its shelf. She will say to herself, "For that kind of money, I can get my raincoat cleaned." And she will. -- Ted Kooser

I heard Ted Kooser interviewed on the show Fresh Air on NPR. Ted Kooser is
America's first poet laureate from the great plains (He was born in Iowa and
lived in Nebraska,check [broken link] http://www.tedkooser.com/about.html). I loved this poem
for its simple sensousness combined with an unaffected practicality
(Interestingly, Kooser was an insurance representative for most of his
professional life).

Rukmini Kumar.

[Martin adds]

I was enjoying this poem in a lazy sort of way until I came to the ending,
which jolted me awake, metaphorically speaking, and put this poem firmly on my
"highly memorable" list. Perhaps I am overly enamoured with endings
(particularly ones that are both powerful and unexpected), but in my opinion,
they have a disproportionately large impact on the reader, and can easily be
responsible for the net effect of the poem. This is not to say that I did not
appreciate the rest of the poem, but it was definitely the last two lines that
made it for me.

martin

[Links]

Repeating the link to the biography:
 [broken link] http://www.tedkooser.com/about.html

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The Rain -- Robert Creeley

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1665) The Rain All night the sound had come back again, and again falls this quiet, persistent rain. What am I to myself that must be remembered, insisted upon so often? Is it the never the ease, even the hardness, of rain falling will have for me something other than this, something not so insistent - am I to be locked in this final uneasiness. Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Be, for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness. -- Robert Creeley

Every time I sit in my room watching the rain falling against the window,
letting my mind wander, this is the poem I'm most reminded of. I can't think
of a poem that captures more accurately that sense of floating restlessness
- the feeling that there is something deeply important to be deciphered out
of the gentle patter of the rain and the sight of the little droplets
trickling down the pane. How, in some way that you can't quite explain, the
rain is a metaphor for your life, the secret key to an uncertain happiness.
An emotion that is at once an overwhelming longing and the intuition of
beauty.

It's a truly exquisite poem - every line, every word sounds exactly right,
yet the overall thought is fragmented, barely hinted at. There's a sense of
earnest questioning here ("what am I to myself / that must be remembered /
insisted upon / so often?") but also an instinctive knowledge of what
happiness would feel like or how it could be brought about ("Love, if you
love me / lie next to me").

Robert Creeley died last Wednesday (30th March 2005). As I think about his
legacy, there's much in the write-ups that accompany his other poems on
Minstrels (Poem #552, Poem #1400) that I find myself agreeing with. What
will always make Creeley special to me, though, is his ability to "be, for
me, like rain / the getting out // of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the
semi-/ lust of intentional indifference.". His ability, in short, to "be wet
/ with a decent happiness."

Aseem.

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The Distracted Centipede -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Gregory Marton:

(Poem #1664) The Distracted Centipede A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run. -- Anonymous

I took a friend back home to Hungary this past week, and in teaching her
Hungarian, and in the simultaneous translation, I oft forgot for a few
moments how to speak either language!  She appraised my predicament with
this apt and catchy limerick, and I am the richer for it.

I have seen several titles " The Puzzled Centipede", "The Frog and the
Centipede", "The Poor Worm", "The Centipede Poem", and several minor
variants: "figuring how to run", "Pray tell which leg...", a/the in several
places, his/her mind and so on. The indentation is mine, and feel free to
quash it.  I was unable to find attribution, as were the editors of the
Oxford Book of Verse for Children, according to one second-hand source:
        [broken link] http://faqs.jmas.co.jp/FAQs/buddhism-faq/questions

[And a few minutes after sending us the original submission, Gremio adds:]
In fact, I find some more variants and titles, when I search without "frog".
The antagonist is often a toad and sometimes a bird.  I hadn't realized how
devious it is of either predator to distract its prey until I read it with a
bird.  This page emphasizes the point, by cleverly (I'm giving benefit of
the doubt) substituting "Prey" for "Pray":
        [broken link] http://www.camp4.com/coolsite.php?newsid=321

I also read in several places:
        This raised his doubts to such a pitch
        He fell distracted in the ditch
        Not knowing how to run.

This has been (probably mis-)attributed to Marion Quinlan Davis here:
        http://www.cognitivebehavior.com/theory/quickconcepts.html
and to Allan Watts here:
        http://www.businessweek.com/smallbiz/0008/an000811.htm

Grem.

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The Echoing Green -- William Blake

Guest poem submitted by Vinod Krishna :

(Poem #1663) The Echoing Green The sun does arise, And make happy the skies. The merry bells ring To welcome the spring. The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around, To the bells' cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green. Old John with white hair Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: 'Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.' Till the little ones weary No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mother Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest; And sport no more seen On the darkening green. -- William Blake

        (1757-1827)

I noticed that the Minstrels archive does not have this poem by William
Blake.

This is a poem that was in one of my high school English textbooks in India.
There is a certain melancholy about this poem, which I remember from the
time I first read it. I thought it would be a nice addition to the
collection of Blake's poems on Minstrels.

Vinod.

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