Ring Out, Wild Bells by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Some thoughts…

On the Poet: Tennyson (1809 – 1892) was among the fortunate few poets who enjoyed both literary eminence and popular appeal during his lifetime. His admirers included Queen Victoria who appointed him Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland, and who told him that his poem ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ had brought her solace after the death of Prince Albert.

On the Poem: This poem is from ‘In Memoriam’ the elegy he wrote for ‘A.H.H’ – Arthur Henry Hallam – a dear friend who prematurely died of cerebral hemorrhage at the age of twenty-two.

Tennyson introduced many phrases into the English language, so many that he probably goes uncredited for them. An example can be seen in this very poem: Ring out the old, ring in the new.

Hallam was not just Tennyson’s friend; he was soon to have become a family member. He was engaged to Tennyson’s younger sister. Elsewhere in this blog, there’s a post on another work of his, ‘Break, Break, Break’, a poem that more directly expresses the raw grief of losing a loved one. ‘Ring Out, Wild Bells’ is among the last of the poems in the elegy, and by this point Tennyson seems to have worked through his anguish and seems nearer to finding closure –

The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die…

…The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more.

These lines would seem indicative of the poet’s catharsis. Released from the grip of personal loss, he seems tentatively ready to relinquish mourning and embrace life once more –

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells…

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

The remainder of the poem is a paean to the idealism, noble values, and faith that are a hallmark of Tennyson’s work.

On a Personal Note: In our irreverent times, Tennyson’s style might be considered emo. I find him authentic. Perhaps it’s best to let grief have its way with us when it must. It’s tiring to pretend that we’re okay when we’re not. There are ways to channel pain – creative expression, work, friends and family, solitude…whatever works for you.

Whether we find light at the end of the tunnel or not depends on our individual disposition. Life goes on regardless of how we feel; and that I find, is a great motivator in itself. No matter what we have gone through there is still beauty in Art and Nature; humor to be found within and without; and a sense of purpose to Being. I wish my Readers all this and more in 2020. Happy New Year.

Choice by Angela Morgan

I'd rather have the thought of you 

To hold against my heart,
My spirit to be taught of you
With west winds blowing,
Than all the warm caresses
Of another love's bestowing,
Or all the glories of the world
In which you had no part.

I'd rather have the theme of you
To thread my nights and days,
I'd rather have the dream of you
With faint stars glowing,
I'd rather have the want of you,
The rich, elusive taunt of you
Forever and forever and forever unconfessed
Than claim the alien comfort
Of any other's breast.

O lover! O my lover,
That this should come to me!
I'd rather have the hope for you,
Ah, Love, I'd rather grope for you
Within the great abyss
Than claim another's kiss --
Alone I'd rather go my way
Throughout eternity. 

Some thoughts…

On the poet: Angela Morgan (1875-1957) was an American poet who worked as a journalist in Chicago and New York. On her beat she covered court cases, interviews, and topics of a social or human interest nature. Her first book of poetry, The Hour has Struck, was published in 1914.

On this poem: Perhaps it’s the masochist in us that finds poetry of unfulfilled love appealing. There must be an exquisite agony that the object of one’s affections either will not, or cannot, reciprocate one’s feelings.

I'd rather have the thought of you… 

I'd rather have the theme of you… 

I'd rather have the dream of you… 

I'd rather have the want of you…

So, nothing substantial then; she’s not going to settle for anything messy or real or unpretty. Oh, well.

Forever and forever and forever unconfessed 

Unconfessed…Unconfessed?

WAIT A MINUTE! She hasn’t even made a single move to realizing the dream, the theme etc. etc. What the hell’s wrong with her?!!? She’d prefer to mope around, marinating in thoughts of impossible romance, and bravely go her lonesome way throughout eternity. Martyrs mostly send the wrong message to posterity; and martyrs in love are positively annoying.

Buuuut…it’s her Choice. And I’m all for women having choices. So, there’s that.

Why, though? I mean, why leave unuttered this great heaving, throbbing amour that scorns another’s caress or, even all the glories of the world?

Perhaps, ‘Lover’ is already spoken for? Either show honorableness, or, play by the policy that all is fair in love and war. That’s a choice, I guess.

What if it’s a variety of love that dare not say its name? Either to thine own self be true, or bow to society’s tyranny and vengeful retribution. There’s another choice. And a tough one at that.

What if Lover is sailing the seven seas with either Adventure as their only mistress, or a gal in every port? What if Lover is a celibate priest, monk, or hermit? What if Lover has nobly dedicated self to a higher cause and is impermeable to emotional distractions?

Hmmm…on second thoughts, the narrator/poet might have any number of solid reasons to stay silent about her feelings. That might even be a wise choice under some circumstances, I suppose.

In fact, I can think of only one instance where her decision could be wrong – if the only thing holding her back is the fear that when Lover chooses, it won’t be her. And you know what they say – faint heart never won fair gentleman. Or, something along those lines.

On a personal note:

I hope, Readers, that none of you are under any similar compulsion to let your love go unconfessed. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds (Sonnet 116) by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  

Admit impediments. Love is not love  

Which alters when it alteration finds,  

Or bends with the remover to remove:  

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  

It is the star to every wandering bark,  

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.  

Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  

  If this be error, and upon me prov’d,  

  I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Some thoughts…

On the Poet: William Shakespeare (1564-1616), wrote in addition to his plays, 154 sonnets featuring love, beauty, and impending mortality as their main themes. They were published in 1609 and abound in controversy and mystery. There is not only the eternal question of whom they addressed; but also, to whom they were bequeathed; and, whether the publisher (Thomas Thorpe) had secured the Bard’s permission to publish his poetry. And whether, in fact, Shakespeare himself was the author of all 154 sonnets.

Barring any conclusive evidence to the contrary, let’s give the Bard the credit of authorship; and set aside the other controversies for the experts to sort out.

On the Poem: The term sonnet is a derivative of sonetto - Italian for ‘a little sound’ or ‘song’. The ordinary sonnet consists of fourteen lines. The Shakespearean Sonnet is notable for having three quatrains and a couplet with a rhyming scheme of abab, cdcd, efef,gg. 

On a Personal Note: What I find most striking about this poem is its deliberate, discursive tone. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  

Admit impediments.

The poet is not talking of marriage in a literal sense, but of hearts united in love. No obstacles should be permitted to bar such a union.

The next few lines are a thoughtful look at what love is by eliminating that which it is not.

Love is not love  

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Love is constant in the face of inconstancy – be it the fickleness of the beloved, or changes in circumstances (you know - ‘for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health’).

Or bends with the remover to remove:  

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

No one can ‘remove’ true love; it abides, it endures, it prevails.

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  

It is the star to every wandering bark,  

 Love is steady in the face of storms; the North Star by which we navigate our lives.

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

This line continues the previous nautical allusion and the metaphor of the North Star; the interpretation is that though the star’s make-up is unfathomable, yet its position is known to mariners.

Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

The charms of youth are subject to the changes inflicted upon them by Time. Love, however, is untouched by its vicissitudes. The ‘bending sickle’ is a reference to the Grim Reaper, a personification of Death. Time brings Death in its wake.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  

Love is immutable, eternal; ‘…until death do us part’.

 If this be error, and upon me prov’d,  

 I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

And if it may be proved that what the poet says is false, then he has never written anything true; nor has anyone ever loved.

The poet employs some weighty metaphors and Elizabethan legalese to declare his point. But leaving aside its solemnity and logical deconstruction, the essence of the poem is the essence of love – l’amour est éternel.

Elegy in Joy by Muriel Rukeyser (an excerpt)

We tell beginnings: for the flesh and the answer,
or the look, the lake in the eye that knows,
for the despair that flows down in widest rivers,
cloud of home; and also the green tree of grace,
all in the leaf, in the love that gives us ourselves.

The word of nourishment passes through the women,
soldiers and orchards rooted in constellations,
white towers, eyes of children: 
saying in time of war What shall we feed?
I cannot say the end.

Nourish beginnings, let us nourish beginnings.
Not all things are blest, but the
seeds of all things are blest.
The blessing is in the seed.

This moment, this seed, this wave of the sea, this look, this instant of love.
Years over wars and an imagining of peace. Or the expiation journey
toward peace which is many wishes flaming together,
fierce pure life, the many-living home.
Love that gives us ourselves, in the world known to all
new techniques for the healing of the wound,
and the unknown world. One life, or the faring stars. 

Some thoughts…

On the Poet: Muriel Rukeyser’s (1913-1980) poetry was driven by her passion for a higher way of living. Her works reflected her concern about the inequalities in society – gender, racial, and class. Having lived through two world wars, the Korean war and the Vietnam war, she was an insistent pacifist.

On this Poem: This poem is from the anthology, Elegies, published in 1949. The themes are healing and peace. They were written over a seven year period – “from the end of the Spanish Civil War, through World War II, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to the start of the Cold War.”

…Years over wars and an imagining of peace. Or the expiation journey

toward peace which is many wishes flaming together…”

On a Personal Note: Elegy in Joy… Elegies, by definition, are not joyful – they are poems that mourn the dead. The joy in this poem comes from the repudiation of a way of life that is built on violence, and instead, embracing ‘the love that gives us ourselves’.

The joy comes from discarding the false promises of militancy, and the resolve to:-

Nourish beginnings, let us nourish beginnings.
Not all things are blest, but the
seeds of all things are blest.
The blessing is in the seed

When the ‘seeds of all things are blest’, the choice then lies with us.  We decide what to do with this instant of love.

Wishing all my Readers a New Year of new beginnings and many blessings. Love, Peace and Joy to you and yours.

‘On Children’ (from the ‘The Prophet’) by Khalil Gibran

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Some thoughts…

On the Poet: Khalil Gibran (1883-1931) was a Lebanese-American poet best known for The Prophet, a collection of twenty-six poetic essays that he considered his magnum opus.

On this Poem: The premise of The Prophet is that the prophet – Almustafa - is finally returning home, after having stayed in the city of Orphalese for twelve years. Before he boards his ship, he’s surrounded by the townsmen who crave one last audience with him, and put forward questions about the human condition. ‘On Children’ is his response to a mother who entreats him – “Speak to us of Children”.

On a Personal Note: While Gibran’s perspective was mystical, his writing is surprisingly accessible. This was a book that I loved as a teenager; one that didn’t baffle in any way. However this particular poem resonates more strongly with me now. Parenthood has had a way of elucidating vague notions that had floated, half-formed and half-understood, in my callow mind. Among the clichéd phrases that sounded like so much nonsense – ‘love till it hurts’. ?!? What hurts? And why? If it hurts, is it even still love? Cue in Time, the ultimate Prophet - even the simplest, sweetest, most drama-free relationships can hurt.

There is pain when the relationship changes from what we once knew it to be, growing

pains -

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

There is the ache of uncertainty – not knowing what the future holds for those we love; but painfully accepting that things may not work out as we had assumed they would -  

…their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

Most assuredly, there is pain in letting go. Holding on was never an option. We were always meant to let go -

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

On an aside, both my sons left for college last week.

For eighteen years, I had the privilege of witnessing the unfolding of two beautiful human beings who somehow evolved from being bundles of pudge, and grins and unending questions to being two clever, kind-hearted young men who have grown in the most surprising ways. If it’s hard enough to say goodbye to your children, it’s infinitely worse when said off-spring are also two of your best friends with a sense of humor that is sometimes sarcastic, sometimes poker-faced; who sometimes share your interests, and sometimes draw you into their own young world; who are in equal parts in love with technology and are yet still awe-struck by the wonders of the natural world; who are way smarter than you ever were at their age but are still wounded by the many injustices of the world they live in.

And the one secret of successful parenting reveals itself: somehow, in spite of all our missteps, blunders, and errors of judgment along the way, the kids turned out okay after all. There was an over-watching Grace that amends and replenishes wherever we had failed to meet the mark -

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself…

It’s like we were just incidental to the process -

…The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Admittedly, there is a sense of relief in realizing that I’m no longer in the driver’s seat. My role is different now; but hey, at least I’m still along for the ride and it promises to be a joyous one -

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

Some thoughts…

On the poet: Wendell Berry (1931-Present) is an American writer, environmentalist, and farmer. Mr. Berry’s activism stems from the Sixties when he delivered ‘A Statement against the War in Vietnam’. He has engaged in non-violent protests for several environmental causes; championing tirelessly against fossil fuels - coal in particular - and is a defender of rural values that incorporate the practice of sustainable agriculture.

On this poem: This is not a poem that requires a great deal of analysis. The truth that it voices is as accessible as it is incontrovertible. But its simplicity is still touched by notes of beauty –

“still waters”

“day-blind stars"

“I rest in the grace of the world, and am free”

On a personal note: Happy Earth Week.

Wendell Berry is a writer that I came upon relatively recently, but one whom I shall be studying with great interest. Generally, I prefer poetry that is free of political statements. Unfortunately, more than at any other point in history, the future of our planet is now dependent on man-made decisions. Perhaps it’s good when poets too turn to environmental activism, and defend the earth and all its species from human depredation.

“The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy, and after all our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope.” – Wendell Berry

Scheherazade by Richard Siken

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake

and dress them in warm clothes again.

How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running

until they forget that they are horses.

It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,

it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,

how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days

were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple

to slice into pieces.

Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means

we’re inconsolable.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

Some thoughts…

On the poet: Richard Siken (1967 – Present) lives and works in Arizona. ‘Scheherazade’ is from his collection of poems titled ‘Crush’ – the themes of which center around love and obsession. Published in 2005 it had earlier won the ‘Yale Series of Younger Poets Competition’ in 2004, in addition to receiving several other recognitions.

He has since released a second collection of poems – ‘War of the Foxes’.

On this poem: Let me be honest – this poem entranced me from my first reading. Perhaps I found it all the more fascinating because I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. And I still don’t. Neither does there seem to be any other definitive analysis of this poem. So, what I can offer is only my own cock-eyed interpretation with no expert authority backing it.

Let’s start with the title, shall we? Scheherazade is both a character and the narrator of ‘One Thousand and One Nights’, the famed anthology from Persia containing gems like the tales of Alaadin, Ali Baba, and others. A brief backdrop to Sheherazade – Sultan Shahryar of Persia has gone a bit demented since discovering his Queen’s infidelity. The cuckolded monarch thence decides to avenge himself on all womankind by marrying a virgin each day and having her beheaded the next morning. Enter Scheherazade – wise, witty, and courageous.

On her wedding night, Scheherazade beseeches the King to be allowed to tell her younger sister one last story. He agrees, and listens entranced to the tale she weaves. The Sultan receives no satisfaction on that night or the thousand nights that follow, because silver-tongued Scheherazade ends her tale each night on a cliff-hanger – ‘to be continued tomorrow night’.  The King’s burning desire to know how one story ended and hear the next one overcomes his unreasonable blood-lust. After the thousand and one nights are over, he is completely under the spell of Scheherazade. Her life is spared and she is made Queen. Presumably, Shahryar came to his senses and stopped being a homicidal maniac.

Why this title?

The lover begs the beloved for a story –

“Tell me about the dream…”

a story of a dream remembered, or good times past,

“Tell me how all this, and love…”

a story of love,

“Tell me we’ll never…”

a story of a love that will never fade with familiarity.

A story that is not like a tree with roots that need to end somewhere, but a melody that lingers in the mind even as its notes fade away.

A story of a love that seduces with its sensuality, pulling the lovers into a dance; brightening each day with rosy promise;

“and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces…”

a love that leads not to satiation, but to fresh discovery as desire is whetted.

 “Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means

we’re inconsolable…”

Night breaks into day and all stories need to have an end, though we wish it otherwise. Love will break our hearts; Love will be our ruination.

On a personal note: What snagged my interest on reading this poem was its intensity, and the underlying tone of despair. Apparently the poet has said that it was the death of his boyfriend in 1991 that led to his writing Crush.

 “These our bodies possessed by light,

Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”

To get used to it…that moment that we get used to love is the moment we start taking it for granted. As long as we don’t ‘get used to it’, we cherish love for the rare gift it is.

In the normal course of events, time renders all things ordinary; love being no exception. The mundane is transformed into the magical when we live in the intense awareness that we - lover and beloved – are both vessels of light, each illumining the other.

Barring that sacred awareness, the story of Love, recaptured in the prism of memory and scattering its rainbow hues in glorious verse will have to serve as a stand-in.

Happy Valentine’s Day.