tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post6003364864164433788..comments2024-03-23T20:37:37.891-07:00Comments on First Known When Lost: MysteryStephen Pentzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-21853859851000192252015-06-16T16:15:19.496-07:002015-06-16T16:15:19.496-07:00Sam Vega: It's very nice to hear from you aga...Sam Vega: It's very nice to hear from you again. I'm pleased you like Warren's poem: as I say, it's a favorite of mine. I came across it while browsing through Christopher Ricks's The New Oxford Book of Victorian Verse a long time ago, and was immediately taken aback. I've never forgotten it.<br /><br />I agree with you on the latter use of "through," and, thus, my reading of the poem is the same as yours. The Italian short story that you reference is very apt. And I fully concur with your thought that "being reminded of our common humanity is a more profound experience than being overawed by talent." This gets to the heart of the poem, I think.<br /><br />By the way (and you may already have come across it), if you wish to look into Warren further, the Internet Archive has a copy of a short book (61 pages) by Hugh Walker titled John B. Leicester Warren, Lord de Tabley: A Biographical Sketch, which was published in 1903. Walker notes the influence of Tennyson, Swinburne, and Browning on Warren. I searched out Warren's poetry after first coming across "The Knight in the Wood": although there are some nice poems to be found there (in the Victorian manner exemplified by the three mentioned above), nothing compares with "The Knight." But to be remembered for even one fine poem is no small thing (in my opinion). I'm privileged to do my tiny part to keep it alive.<br /><br />As always, thank you very much for visiting, and for sharing your thoughts.Stephen Pentzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-60755523317926207512015-06-16T15:44:21.427-07:002015-06-16T15:44:21.427-07:00Anonymous: Thank you for Hecht's poem, which ...Anonymous: Thank you for Hecht's poem, which is new to me. Very nice. An aside: whenever I come across "propitiatory," I am reminded of the final line of Philip Larkin's "The Building": "With wasteful, weak, propitiatory flowers." As it turns out, the two poems are on the same theme. (With Larkin's -- no surprise! -- being a great deal more harrowing.)<br /><br />Thank you again.Stephen Pentzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-62682683686861942082015-06-16T11:37:47.178-07:002015-06-16T11:37:47.178-07:00I had never heard of John Warren before; I had to ...I had never heard of John Warren before; I had to look him up. That is a really remarkable poem. I especially like the lines<br /><br />"And through its utter failure the thing spoke<br />With more of human message, heart to heart,<br />Than all these faultless, smirking, skin-deep saints".<br /><br />"Through" is an interesting word here. I'm not sure whether he means that the force of the craftsman's vision shone "through" the poor execution; or he is using "through" in the sense of "because" or "by reason of". If the latter, he is pointing to the pathos inherent in all human endeavour, and which is often apparent in the botched and bungled. The human, in fact.<br /><br />It reminds me of an Italian short story I read many years ago, and have been unable to locate since. The writer describes the street musicians who play or sing for money in his neighbourhood. Some are very skilled amateurs or decayed professionals who perform with emotion. But the really affecting ones are the hopelessly unmusical bunglers who do their best and somehow transcend the ridicule of those who mock them.<br /><br />Perhaps being reminded of our common humanity is a more profound experience than being overawed by talent. Or maybe I have completely misunderstood. Either way, this is a superb poem that I will remember. Thank you again.Sam Vegahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05978971199859845931noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-4126590902595626992015-06-16T09:47:44.753-07:002015-06-16T09:47:44.753-07:00I've recently been reading through the two vol...I've recently been reading through the two volumes of Anthony Hecht's "Collected Poems." I had not read the poem below. As you note, it's a delight to run across a poem you've never read before and find it stirring, plucking at the tuning fork of the imagination. I think Hecht's poem a splendid one about growing old. <br /><br />Sarabande On Attaining The Age Of Seventy-Seven<br /> by Anthony Hecht<br /><br />The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;<br />White is their colour; and behold my head.<br />-- George Herbert<br /><br />Long gone the smoke-and-pepper childhood smell<br />Of the smoldering immolation of the year,<br />Leaf-strewn in scattered grandeur where it fell,<br />Golden and poxed with frost, tarnished and sere.<br /><br />And I myself have whitened in the weathers<br />Of heaped-up Januaries as they bequeath<br />The annual rings and wrongs that wring my withers,<br />Sober my thoughts, and undermine my teeth.<br /><br />The dramatis personae of our lives<br />Dwindle and wizen; familiar boyhood shames,<br />The tribulations one somehow survives,<br />Rise smokily from propitiatory flames<br /><br />Of our forgetfulness until we find<br />It becomes strangely easy to forgive<br />Even ourselves with this clouding of the mind,<br />This cinerous blur and smudge in which we live.<br /><br />A turn, a glide, a quarter turn and bow,<br />The stately dance advances; these are airs<br />Bone-deep and numbing as I should know by now,<br />Diminishing the cast, like musical chairs.<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com