What is poetry?

To The RAF

Never since English ships went out
To singe the beard of Spain,
Or English sea-dogs hunted death
Along the Spanish Main,
Never since Drake and Raleigh won
Our freedom of the seas,
Have sons of Britain dared and done
More valiantly than these.

Whether at midnight or at noon,
Through mist or open sky,
Eagles of freedom, all our hearts
Are up with you on high;
While Britain's mighty ghosts look down
From realms beyond the sun
And whisper, as their record pales,
Their breathless, deep, Well Done!

Alfred Noyes
 
Mr Noyes seems to have taken some poetic liberty to provide his praise; it seems endemic to the genre. Perhaps someone can provide a better example of patriotic poetry; for this occasion I feel the Spitfire provides a more eloquent poetic specimen of the rigors of those days gone by...

I've made a derisory remark about Shakespeare's sonnets somewhere. It seems only fair then to hear from the bard himself:


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
and dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
they youth's proud livery so gazed on now
will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
then, being asked where all thy beauty lies,
where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
to say within thine wn deep-sunken eyes
were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use
if thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
shall sum my count, and make my old excuse',
proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
and see thy blood earm when thou feel's it cold.

Sonnet 2

 
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
make war upon this bloody tyrant Time,
and fortify yourself in your decay
with means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Nor stand you on the top of happy hours,
and many amaiden gardens, yet unset,
with virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
much liker than your painted counterfeit:
so should the lines of life that life repair,
which this time's pencil or my pupil pen
neither in inward worth nor outward fair
can make you live yourself in eyes of men:
to give away yourself keeps your self still,
and you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.


W. Shakespeare
 
IX. The Courtyard

It was the city I had known before;
The ancient, leprous town where mongrel throngs
Chant to strange gods, and beat unhallowed gongs
In crypts beneath foul alleys near the shore.
The rotting, fish-eyed houses leered at me
From where they leaned, drunk and half-animate,
As edging through the filth I passed the gate
To the black courtyard where the man would be.

The dark walls closed me in, and loud I cursed
That ever I had come to such a den,
When suddenly a score of windows burst
Into wild light, and swarmed with dancing men:
Mad, soundless revels of the dragging dead -
And not a corpse had either hands or head!

Fungi from Yuggoth - H.P. Lovecraft
 
That is quite a fantastic poem; I must admit I'm not familiar with the work of H.P. Lovecraft. Returning to my review of Shakespeare's sonnets, I suspect my initial lack of enthusiasm was based on the early sonnets (nrs. 127-154), which are all about Love's labour lost. Here's another one I find exquisite:

5

These hours, that with gentle work did frame
the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
will play the tyrants to the very same,
and that un-fair which fairly doth excel:
for ever-resting Time leads summer on
to hideous winter, and confounds him there,
sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
beauty o'er-snowed and bareness everywhere.
Then, were not summer's distillation left
a liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
lose but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
 
Et aftensblad som dale ned den dag de smile blikke
En spisningsgloed saa lige ned et bryst dets ville ikke.
 
Epigrams are often quite fun, but without a translation few people can enjoy it. Anyway, I've found another little gem:

134

So now I have confessed that he is thine
and I nyself am mortgaged to thy will;
myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
for thou art covetous, and he is kind.
He learned but suret-like to write for me
under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
thou usurer that put'st forth all to use,
and sue a friend came debtor for my sake:
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me;
he pays the whole, and yet am I not free.


It has been suggested that the last line implies a payment for sexual favours. I fear not: the whole Shakespearean treatment of love and passion - though sometimes cruel, because truthful - rather suggests a connection with the tradition of courteous love from the High Middle Ages, combined ofcourse with a Renaissance reacquaintance with Antiquity, obvious from such dramtic works as Anthony and Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Venus and Adonis etc. There's another reading of this sonnet, suggesting a third person, namely that that third person is actually the same as the spurned lover:

myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

So the friend is then the same as the "other mine", which fits Shakespeare's genius wordplay brilliantly. I'm actually in the process of translating these sonnets that I have quoted, for the sake of translating and for a better understanding of the bard.
 
Last one:

126

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle hour,
who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st -
if Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack)
as thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
she keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
may Time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure:
she may detain, but not still keep, her treasure!
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be
and her quietus is to render thee.
(...............................................)
(...............................................)

I quote this sonnet, not as an allusion to Shakespeare's supposed 'deviant sexuality' (meaning he might be gay), but for such lines as '
Time's fickle glass, his sickle hour', where fickle is adjective, but sickle noun and hour refers back to glass. The poem explores the struggle between Time and Nature - Time's hour returning in 'may Time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill./Yet fear her, O thou minion...', eventually apparently victorious over Nature in death - cleverly implied after 'audit...quietus' (two accounting terms meaning questioning/interview/investigation and its conclusion, but in their original Latin sense also referring to audire, i.e. to listen and quiet) by the two blank lines entre parenthèses, possibly referring back once again to 'Time's...sickle hour' by inferring the ominous silence of death. 'Paying one's debt to nature' was a euphemism for death, as is the 'sickle hour' (think only of the Grim Reaper). Nothing gay then in this sonnet, which is a heeding call to an unnamed 'pretty boy' (you know the type) that his pleasure hunting will inevitably come to a very definitive end. So, ending on a light, slightly disrespectful, note:


After reading Shakespeare's sonnets 127-154

Love this, love that -
love's cruel, so what?

 
I've completed an Index of sorts at post #1. It lists the poets quoted (or referred) to, followed by the linked location(s) in this thread. (So far only published poets, sorry.)
 
Chanson d'automne

Les sanglots longs
des violons
de l'automne
blessent mon coeur
d'une langueur
monotone.

Tout suffocant
et blême, quand
sonne l'heure,
je me souviens
des jours anciens
et je pleure;

et je m'en vais
au vent mauvais
qui m'emporte
deçà, delà,
pareil à la
feuille morte.

Paul Verkaine

A voice that sings
like viol strings
through the wane
of the pale year
lulleth me here
with its strain.

My soul is faint
of the bell's plaint
ringing deep;
I think upon
a day bygone
and I weep.

Away! Away!
I must obey
this drear wind,
like a dead leaf
in aimless grief
drifting blind.


(Translation by James Joyce)

Verlaine's Automn song in a translation by James Joyce. Joyce treats the original liberally (for instance "vent mauvais" in the last couplet might perhaps just as well be "ill wind"), but sticks to the original rhyme, even improving upon Verlaine's cripple "... longs... violons... automne...monotone" and replacing the commonplace "deça, delà" (hither, thither) with "in aimless grief/drifting". I still feel that the original's moody languor is somewhat lost, especially with the "Away! Away!" couplet that puts Verlaine's feuille morte in the middle, not at the end. That said it's a remarkable accomplishment. Joyce's poetry is not that well known as his prose, so I may quote some more later.
 
The legacy of Rendra for Indonesia

Cikarang, West Java | Sun, 08/09/2009

The leading Indonesian poet and playwright, W.S. Rendra was buried in his very own backyard in Citayam, a relatively poor hamlet, near the town of Depok, West Java on Friday afternoon, Aug. 6, 2009. He is survived by his third wife, Ken Zuraida, 11 children and 10 grand children. Thousands of his friends, including ministers and the Indonesia vice president to be, Boediono, attended his funeral. The nation has lost their "peacock" - the most flamboyant author ever born in the archipelago.
Rendra was 73 years old. He is widely known not only for his poems, plays and cultural essays, but also his social and political activities. When the country was in trouble during "the age of reform" in 1998, Rendra and his supporters were noted as leading humanitarian activists. They distributed basic supplies, food, medicine and clothes to the needy. They advocated peaceful changes and defended the environment from the bad effects of development and modernization.
For more than five decades Rendra was a voice for the Indonesian voiceless. He has spoken for and about millions of uneducated children, oppressed workers, and the hungry and marginalized grassroots. From the 1950s his poems and plays became the heartbeat of the Indonesian struggle toward the freedom of expression and the aspiration of the powerless. He underlined the rights and just treatment for prostitutes, pickpockets and other unfortunate compatriots.
In his thirties, during the late 1960s, he led "Kaum Urakan" - literally The Uneducated - as a symbolic attack of the establishment. He and his group produced cultural and political criticism that made regular headlines in the 1970s. Although he developed and modernized Javanese gamelan music as the main orchestra of his performances; he remained critical of Javanese feudalism.
As a result of his courage and creativity he was banned from performing in Yogyakarta and that gave birth to his fame. Daulat rakyat di atas daulat tuanku - people power above the ruler's power, was widely understood as the core of his struggle. Rendra encouraged the young generation to think, to judge and to select traditional values. He promoted equality among the rich and the poor, teachers and students, the powerful and the powerless. He even said that fortune and disaster are the same - bencana dan keberuntungan sama saja.
Rendra broke a record of paid poetry readings when he received US$10, 000, - in a single two-hour performance in 1976. He and his group *Bengkel Teater' (Theatre Workshop) created a self-proclaimed world record by performing Bertold Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle at Jakarta's main sports hall, Istora Senayan. The show ran for six hours and was attended by more than 3,000 people.
Undoubtedly Rendra was the giant not only in Indonesian poetry, but also on the stage of South East Asian performing art through the 1970s and 1980s. He and his group also traveled to the US and Europe to perform his plays Struggle of the Naga Tribe and Children of King Salomon. Rendra pioneered the contribution of modern Indonesian plays abroad, and trained many actors as well as directors that flourished in hundreds of theater club at home.
His *Bengkel Teater' - Theatre Workshop became the leading alma mater for many Indonesian playwrights, including Chairul Umam, the late Arifin C. Noer, and Putu Wijaya. His poems inspired the development of narrative poetry and ballads. He called his protest poems puisi pamphlet addressed to the authoritarian government. When Soeharto imprisoned hundreds of students in the late 1970s, Rendra was also among them.
Rendra was very proud that he and his group were purely supported by local resources, instead of international funding commonly identified as the source of (in his words) "frustrated" NGOs. He also believed the stigmatized novelist, Pramoedya Ananta Toer, had received much more foreign support than he did. On many occasions Rendra appeared as a great patriot, more than just a simple nationalist who blindly loved his country. For example, he launched a press conference to attack the British humanitarian activist, Bob Geldoff, when he criticized the Indonesian public for pirating his music.
Rendra defended the rights of the poor more than the interests of the recording industry. "The peacock of Indonesian literature" has left his countrymen with the courage to fight for the poor and the right to live in dignity. He was born into an aristocratic family in Solo, Central Java that was once ruled by Pakubuwono X, the emperor of Java. His mother, Ismadilah was a royal dancer, while his father Suwandi Broto was a school headmaster. Rendra was raised traditionally and educated as a devout Javanese Catholic. Some of his earliest poems are still used in church and school prayers.
He lived a dynamic and colorful life, based on a clear vision of the importance of love and fairness. He hated hypocrisy and lived an honest life. He followed his self conscience more than any teaching and any other influences. Thus, the most important legacy of Rendra to his people and country is a strong sense of morality and being honest. He has proven that a member of once feudalistic and old fashioned family could lead the movement of the uneducated, the Kaum that rebelled against the establishment.
Shortly before he died, Rendra expressed his regret and sorrow for what he saw as the current self-centered political fights. He was unhappy to witness that most Indonesian political figures fought only for power, instead of serving the people. To his close friend, Bakdi Sumanto, he recently said, "We must pay more attention and help our powerless friends" .
Eka Budianta is a poet and an adviser at the Jababeka Multicultural Center, in Cikarang, West Java.


(From: http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2009/08/09/the-legacy-rendra-indonesia.html)

Obituary: Farewell WS Rendra, Poet, Playwright and Father of Indonesian Theater

Poet, writer, dramatist, cultural activist and theater director, WS Rendra, died on Thursday night, approaching the age of 74, after battling heart and kidney problems for around a month. Indonesia has lost one of its most talented artists.

Rendra rose to fame as a poet in the 1950’s and remained the most influential poet in the country until his death. He is also credited as the man who brought modern Indonesian theater to its maturity through his experimental works with Bengkel Teater (Theater Workshop), which he founded in 1968. Before Rendra and his Bengkel Teater, modern Indonesian theater was simply a copy of that in the West, but Rendra brought traditional expressions into a modern context.

Born to a Roman Catholic family and baptized as Willibrordus Surendra Broto, he changed his name to Wahyu Sulaiman Rendra when he embraced Islam in 1970 on his second marriage to Sitoresmi Prabunigrat from the Yogyakarta palace. Rendra leaves behind eleven children from three marriages.

During the repressive New Order era, Rendra was one of the few creative people in this country who had the courage to express dissent. When the novelist Pramoedya Ananta Toer was returned from Indonesia’s gulag — the prison island of Buru — he said Rendra was “one man who has the courage to resist the power of Suharto, under his own name. If you cannot respect that, you should learn to.”

Rendra’s plays and poetry during the Suharto era were very critical of the ideology of development and his performances as a poet or with Bengkel Teater were often banned.

“I learned meditation and disciplines of the traditional Javanese poet from my mother who was a palace dancer. The idea of the Javanese poet is to be a guardian of the spirit of the nation,” Rendra once said. Because of his poetry readings and his sexy performances on the stage, he was dubbed “the Peacock” by the press.

In 1979, during a poetry reading critical of development in the Ismail Marzuki art center in Jakarta, Suharto’s military intelligence agents threw ammonia bombs on to the stage and arrested him. He was imprisoned in the notorious Guntur military prison for nine months, spending time in solitary confinement in a cell with a ceiling too low to stand up and only mosquitoes for company. When he was released, without ever having being charged, his body was covered with sores from mosquito bites.

His experience in Guntur prison inspired him to write the short poem: “Thunder beats and hammers/ Life is forged on stone/ Harsh thunder is my teacher / The sun always shines” and also the ballad “Paman Doblang” (“Uncle Doblang”), which was later set to music by the rock band Kantata Takwa. The ballad tells the story of Uncle Doblang, who is sent to a dark cell for voicing his conscience, and ends with the lines: “Conscience is the sun/ patience is the earth/ courage forms horizons/ and struggle is the implementation of words.”

After he was released from prison he was banned from performing poetry or drama until 1986, when he wrote, directed and starred in his eight hour long play “Panembahan Reso,” which discussed the issue of the succession of power that was a taboo at that time. Before the performance at the Senayan sports center, he told his cast of 40-something actors: “Pack your toiletries, because there is a chance that we might get arrested.” The play took six months to prepare and was performed for two nights. “Modern Indonesian theater has no infrastructure. We must create it ourselves,” he used to tell his performers.

Rendra studied at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, the same school as Marlon Brando, but when he graduated, he chose to return to Indonesia and in 1968 founded Bengkel Teater in Yogyakarta. The group quickly fascinated audiences with works that were artistically experimental and politically critical.

In 1969 he created a series of dramas without any dialog where actors employed their bodies and simple sounds such as bip bop, zzzzz and rambate rate rata. The journalist poet Goenawan Mohamad dubbed these experimental performances as “mini-word theatre.” During the 1970’s, his plays such as “Mastodon and the Condors” and “The Struggle of the Naga Tribe” and “The Regional Secretary” were often banned because they openly criticized Suharto’s development programs that often alienated indigenous people and tended to side with multinational corporations.

Rendra was also a great admirer of Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht, and he translated and performed Hamlet and Macbeth. A keen student of the traditional Indonesian martial art pencak silat, Rendra always looked a lot younger than his age and he played Hamlet when he was well into his sixties.

He translated and performed Brecht’s “Caucasian Chalk Circle,” as well as Sophocles’ Oedipus trilogy. In the process of embracing Islam, he translated and directed the traditional Islamic poems telling of the life of the prophet Muhammad, in his play comprising drums and poetry, “Qasidah Barjanzi.” His works have been translated into many languages and performed all over the world.

Rendra, who was born in Solo on Nov. 7, 1935, will be missed by creative communities all over Indonesia. He was a dedicated mentor who was always willing to help younger artists. He will be remembered for many things, especially by members of his Bengkel Teater. For them, he was a dear friend, a teacher and a father figure.

Bramantyo Prijosusilo is an artist, poet and organic farmer in Ngawi, East Java. He was a student of WS Rendra at Bengkel Teater.

(From : http://thejakartaglobe.com/home/obi...right-and-father-of-indonesian-theater/322679)
 
I was once made to memorise this:

But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, you dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?

We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea
 
The whole poem (thet I could find)

Away, for we are ready to a man!
Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.
Lead on, O Master of the Caravan:
Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad.

Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine,
Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,
And broideries of intricate design,
And printed hangings in enormous bales?

We have rose-candy, we have spikenard,
Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice,
And such sweet jams meticulously jarred
As God's own Prophet eats in Paradise.

And we have manuscripts in peacock styles
By Ali of Damascus; we have swords
Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles,
And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.

But you are nothing but a lot of Jews.

Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay.

But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,


White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away!

O turn your eyes to where your children stand.
Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay!

We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

Have you not girls and garlands in your homes,
Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command?
Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams!

We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.

We travel not for trafficking alone:
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

Open the gate, O watchman of the night!

Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?

We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

The Caravan passes through the gate

What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.

They have their dreams, and do not think of us.
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.
 
It's actually a collection of different people speaking, but I can't remember who says what (I know the caravan-master asks most of the questions). It was written by James E Flecker
 
Yes, I gathered there was a chorus involved. I'd never heard of James E Flecker before. Anyway, thanks for posting. ;)
 
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