On Monsieur's Departure -- Queen Elizabeth I

Guest poem submitted by Abhishek:

(Poem #1662) On Monsieur's Departure I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly to prate. I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned. Since from myself another self I turned. My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be supprest. Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low. Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die and so forget what love ere meant. -- Queen Elizabeth I

Adding to the list of 'Q's in the minstrels, this poem is probably one of
Queen Elizabeth's most well known... and also perhaps her most human and
poignant one. It is said to have been written around the time when Francis,
Duke of Alencon, tired of the politics of a royal match, gave up his suit
and returned to France. Elizabeth was known to be very fond of her French
suitor, calling him her 'little frog', and even announcing in 1581 that she
would marry him. It would be her last suit, and the aging Queen realized
that. Some argue however that the poem was written with Robert Dudley
('Sweet Robin'), the Earl of Leicester in mind -- someone whom Elizabeth
apparently loved her entire life but couldn't marry due to political and
personal compulsions.

Elizabeth still remains one of the biggest enigmas of history. A women who
was passionate yet repressed, strong yet confused, regal yet human, one of
the most powerful women in history who was forever haunted by the murder of
her mother (by her father of all the people!), a Queen who had the
self-avowed "heart of a King", a woman who always searched for love yet
spurned marriage ("I will have here but one mistress and no master").
Despite it all, this poem lays out her heart for all to see. And like all
great poetry it reaches beyond the confines of its circumstances. It talks
about the (self-imposed?) contradictions of adult life. We all grow and make
choices in life... the conflict often altering us forever. For isn't it the
great Bard who said, "Anything that is mended is but patched"? And with all
these patches on our souls, haven't many of us yearned for the purity of
being... of freedom, of love, of death?

A list of Queen Elizabeth's suitors:
http://www.tudorplace.com.ar/Documents/suitors_of_queen_elizabeth.htm

Life of Elizabeth (check out the link to her works):
http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/eliza.htm

Another good site:
http://www.elizabethi.org/uk/

Abhishek.

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Mirror, Mirror -- Spike Milligan

Guest poem submitted by Kamalika Chowdhury:

It's been a while since you've run Spike Milligan on the Minstrels. I
thought this one would make a good addition to the archive.

(Poem #1661) Mirror, Mirror A young spring-tender girl combed her joyous hair 'You are very ugly' said the mirror. But, on her lips hung a smile of dove-secret loveliness, for only that morning had not the blind boy said, 'You are beautiful'? -- Spike Milligan

"Spike was entirely his own mad Irish self. He came out of nowhere."
Comedian Stephen Fry's tribute to Milligan's talent speaks perfectly for his
poems. Among the typically crazy comic fare of his verse, there lie poems
that convey a less cavalier and more poignant voice - these are rarer, but
equally memorable. One such is "The Soldiers at Lauro" (Poem #831 on the
Minstrels).

Browsing through Milligan's work, I found another lovely little poem, that
deviates from the norm. This one is not dire and helpless in tone on the
lines of ".. Lauro"; in fact it is soft-textured and full of light, like the
girl's "dove-secret loveliness" and "joyous hair". Nonetheless, it manages
to very gently bring home a huge point about life, love and happiness.

Milligan's touch has a salt-of-the-earth quality to it that makes it
immediately credible. He does not disguise the young girl's objective
ugliness in mirror-image, just as he manages to completely convey her
new-found beauty from within. And what a master wordsmith he was! I can't
imagine a better way to say so much in a single line than: "on her lips
hung/ a smile of dove-secret loveliness".

Kamalika.

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Small Blue Thing -- Suzanne Vega

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1660) Small Blue Thing Today I am a small blue thing Like a marble or an eye With my knees against my mouth I am perfectly round I am watching you I am cold against your skin You are perfectly reflected I am lost inside your pocket I am lost against your fingers I am falling down the stairs I am skipping on the sidewalk I am thrown against the sky I am raining down in pieces I am scattered like light Scattering like light Scattering like light Today I am A small blue thing Made of china made of glass I am cool and smooth and curious I never blink I am turning in your hand Turning in your hand small blue thing -- Suzanne Vega

Somewhere on the fringes of music, there's a country with a language and a
sound all its own - a thin strip of a land, trapped between the borders of
folk and punk and mainstream rock, a land through which the sound of the
acoustic guitar flows like a river, and where poetry sings like a migratory
bird, on its way to warmer climes.

And of all the wonderful voices that sing to us from this land, there are
few finer than that of Suzanne Vega. Vega exists in that nowhere land
between poetry and song-writing: her work is rarely good enough to be
considered poetry by itself (though listening to her sing her songs you are
easily betrayed into thinking it is) but also rarely banal enough to be
dismissed as just another rock song. Because somewhere, even in the simplest
of her songs, there is that one lurking line that is the authentic poetic
image. In 'Left of Centre' Vega sings "If you want me, you can find me /
Left of center, off of the strip / In the outskirts and in the fringes / In
the corner out of the grip". I can't think of a better description.

Today's poem is a fine example of just how incredible a poet Vega can be -
it's a tiny gem of a poem, literally 'a small blue thing' it's lines
multi-faceted and sparkling, constantly revealing new perspectives. At its
best, it is a poem that seems to echo Plath (try reading "I am cool and
smooth and curious" and not thinking of "I am silver and exact") but it's
also a poem with incredible drive - the first four stanzas building into a
crescendo that dies away in the last two - a poem that is thrown against the
sky and then comes raining down in pieces. Most of all though, it's a poem
that truly captures the sense of something small and insignificant and
fragile that can both be played with and wondered at.

I must admit I'm not overly fond of the music this song is set to (it's from
her self-titled 1985 album) but the words are so incredibly, intensely
beautiful that they more than make up for it.

Aseem.

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Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth -- Arthur Hugh Clough

Guest poem submitted by Patrick Brinton :

(Poem #1659) Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth Say not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright! -- Arthur Hugh Clough

I am amazed, actually, that today's poem is not listed in the Minstrels
archive; it is my second favorite poem that I know of so far (Kubla Khan is
#1!). It is by Arthur Hugh Clough, and is quite different in tone from the
two examples you have of his work. It also contains at least one aphorism
that has entered the language ("If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars"). I
thing that the reason I like it so much is that I am fundamentally an
optimist, and it is a very optimistic poem.

Patrick Brinton.

[Minstrels Links]

Poem #30, Kubla Khan
Poem #69, There is no god, the wicked sayeth  -- Arthur Hugh Clough
Poem #159, The Latest Decalogue  -- Arthur Hugh Clough

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The Night Wind -- Emily Bronte

Guest poem sent in by John Barr

(Poem #1658) The Night Wind In summer's mellow midnight A cloudless moon shone through Our open parlour window And rosetrees wet with dew - I sat in silent musing - The soft wind waved my hair; It told me Heaven was glorious And sleeping Earth was fair - I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me, But still it whispered lowly "How dark the woods will be! - "The thick leaves in my murmur Are rustling like a dream, And all their myriad voices Instinct with spirit seem." I said "Go, gentle singer Thy wooing voice is kind But do not think its music Has power to reach my mind - "Play with the scented flower, The young tree's supple bough - And leave my human feelings In their own course to flow." The Wanderer would not leave me; Its kiss grew warmer still - "O come", it sighed so sweetly, "I'll win thee 'gainst thy will." "Have we not been from childhood friends? Have I not loved thee long? As long as though hast loved the night Whose silence wakes my song. "And when thy heart is resting Beneath the churchyard stone I shall have time for mourning And thou for being alone." -- Emily Bronte

I love the poetry of Emily Bronte. Her best known works ("No Coward Soul is
Mine" etc) are frequently quoted, yet some of her other poetry is equally
powerful, despite its relative obscurity.

"The Night Wind" is such a poem. This poem is rich in allusion to the
semi-supernatural, or perhaps more accurately natural, world evoked in much
of her work. Every time I read this poem, the hairs on the back of my neck
rise. Something dark drifts through the language of this poem like tendrils
of smoke.

Emily Bronte frequently used the 'life-giving wind' as a metaphor for the
being she communed with on a daily basis, the 'soul' of nature. A deity
perhaps, but one far removed from Christian theology, despite alternative
interpretations of 'No Coward Soul..' and other poems. Emily's deity was an
elemental force. Her Heaven was an eternity 'without identity' at one with
this natural spirit.

In this poem, as in many others, Emily Bronte is visited by a spiritual
manifestation of nature. After setting the scene briefly and efficiently: an
open window, midnight, a cloudless moon (another recurring image in her
poetry, cf. 'How Clear she Shines'), we are introduced directly to the
quasi-mystical concept of the night wind entering through the open window
and addressing her in human terms. This is remarkable. We are invited to
share this moment with the writer, not in the sense that 'a very strange
thing happened..', but that it is perfectly natural, right and ordinary for
the night wind to interact and communicate in this way. Perhaps it is the
paradox between Emily Bronte's relaxed description and the mystical
significance of this encounter that first sets alarm bells ringing.

It is impossible not to see parallels between the persuasive language of the
night wind and the allegorical serpent of Genesis, "O come', it sighed so
sweetly/I'll win thee 'gainst thy will...", as the zephyr spirit attempts to
persuade the writer to go out into the night with him. As her denial becomes
stronger, the wind's language becomes more persuasive, more beguiling. "Have
we not been from childhood friends/Have I not loved thee long.". There is a
darkness here, which attracts us, yet scares us, like the fascination of the
Vampire, understood and interpreted so well by Bram Stoker and others. We
want to go with the spirits of the night. Is the night wind the serpent of
Eden?

"How dark the woods will be..." The truth is, that as human beings, we want
to walk with the spirits, we want to lift the veil and see the other side.
Emily Bronte's whole life was a personal quest for this enlightenment: In
this poem she shares with us some of this odyssey.

Every time I read this poem, I feel an exhilaration, an apprehension. And
what a superb finale - the mortal and the immortal embrace in a climax of
icy sadness!

"And when thy heart is resting Beneath the churchyard stone, I shall have
time for mourning And thou for being alone."

John

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The Heaven of Animals -- James Dickey

Guest poem sent in by Kerri Clarke

(Poem #1657) The Heaven of Animals Here they are. The soft eyes open. If they have lived in a wood It is a wood. If they have lived on plains it is grass rolling Under their feet forever. Having no souls, they have come, Anyway, beyond their knowing. Their instincts wholly bloom And they rise. The soft eyes open. To match them, the landscape flowers, Outdoing, desperately Outdoing what is required: The richest wood, The deepest field. For some of these, it could not be the place It is, without blood. These hunt, as they have done, But with claws and teeth grown perfect, More deadly than they can believe. They stalk more silently, And crouch on the limbs of trees, And their descent Upon the bright backs of their prey May take years In a sovereign floating of joy. And those that are hunted Know this as their life, Their reward: to walk Under such trees in full knowledge Of what is in glory above them, And to feel no fear, But acceptance, compliance. Fulfilling themselves without pain At the cycle's center, They tremble, they walk Under the tree, They fall, they are torn, They rise, they walk again. -- James Dickey

Following a recent discussion amongst friends about whether or not animals
possess souls (and whether beloved pets will meet us in the afterlife), I
was very happy to come across this entirely beautiful poem by James Dickey.
I hope that it acts as a valuable addition to the Dickey poems already on
your site.

Kerri Clarke
Sydney

[Links]

http://james.dickey.com/ contains several interesting pages on Dickey,
including biographical snippets under http://james.dickey.com/life.html

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The Rose of the World -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Aseem

(Poem #1656) The Rose of the World Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died. We and the labouring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face. Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet. -- William Butler Yeats

I was reading Yeats on Minstrels in honour of St. Patrick's day and realised
to my horror that the thirty or so poems of his on Minstrels did not include
one of my personal favourites - this one.

This is, quite simply, a beautiful poem. For starters, it's a wonderfully
melodic poem - with a soft cadence to the words and an intriguing rhyme
pattern (abba followed by that breathtaking shortened b again). Then there's
the vividness of the images - the crimson fire of the first stanza, the
gently rippling wake of the second and the verdant green of the third - and
the way that they mirror so perfectly the three stages of the poet's
emotion: the passion of the first stanza, the uncertainty and restlessness
of the second, the surrender of the third (elsewhere (Poem #597) Yeats
writes "I have spread my dreams under your feet / Tread softly, because you
tread on my dreams" - it's hard to read the last lines of this poem without
thinking of those lines).

But what makes this poem truly unforgettable for me is the question that it
opens with. It's an incredible first line; not just because it's so
memorable and sticks in your head forever, but because it sets the tone so
beautifully for what is to follow - the dreaminess, the sadness, the sense
of defeat, the sense of acceptance.

Aseem

[Links]

 For reference to Usna's children, see the story of Dierdre of
Sorrows:
http://www.irishmythology.com/Irish_Mythology_Conor_&_Deirdre_Page_2.htm

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