Day 13 - A Dream Within a Dream - by Edgar Allen Poe

I am so tired today.  I'm not sure what's up, maybe the heat - it's making me apathetic.  I haven't done anything all day but get the mail and weed a bit.  After that I needed a nap.  I'm not sure what my dream was, but I slept for an hour.  I still feel groggy, like I'm still asleep, like the air is too thick for me to fully awaken.  You know the moment when you just wake up, and you are in between the dream-state and waking-state?  This tiny moment when both worlds occur simultaneously is strange, like in that instant all possibilities exist.  Dreams within a dream-state.

Edgar Allen Poe (1809 - 1949) only lived for 40 years but produced some incredible poetry.  Many of his poems feel like a dream-state. He was orphaned at the age of 2, first his father abandoned him, and then his mother died.  He was taken in by the Allen family.  At 27, he married his cousin who was 13. They were only married for 11 years when she died. Poe died a short 2 years later. Maybe his heart was broken.

I think I will lay down and have another dream within a dream, and in the meantime I offer you my reading of this:
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/a-dream-within-a-dream

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A Dream Within a Dream - by Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
          Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
          But a dream within a dream?

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I think my absolute favourite Poe Poem is The Raven, but I don't think I can do it justice.  The best reading of all is by Vincent Price.  Maybe one day I will attempt it.  In the meantime, I offer Vincent's reading on this one for you for your enjoyment.  If that one doesn't get you, here is Christopher Lee's version.  And if neither one of those work, here is Alan Parson's version (which I love) of both A Dream Within a Dream and The Raven.

Day 12 - Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave - by Thomas Hardy

I'm taking an Animal Welfare course through the University of Edinburgh put on by Coursera (which I highly recommend) and thought this funny poem was most appropriate.  We love our pets, our cats and dogs, and often anthropomorphise them with having human emotions (it's true, they do).  I love this poem because it highlights not only that we project our own feelings onto others, even animals, but that we think people will actually miss us when we are gone.

Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928) was born in England, and at age sixteen began to apprentice as an Architect. He won some prizes for his work. He met his wife, Emma, while restoring a church in Cornwall. Unfortunately, she died in 1912 and he never fully recovered though he did remarry.

Hardy's work, especially his novels, has been both highly praised and highly criticized.  After intense criticism for his novel Jude the Obscure, he gave up writing novels and concentrated instead on poetry.  He did receive an Order of Merit for his poetry.

Here is my spoken version of this poem:
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/ah-are-you-digging-on-my-grave


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Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave? by Thomas Hardy

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

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I think we miss our pets more than they miss us, don't you think?

Here is a song of this poem:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Jz2aL5njBw

Day 11 - George, Who Played With a Dangerous Toy - by Hillaire Belloc

Hillaire Belloc.  Now, how is it possible I never heard of him before I stumbled on this poem yesterday?  I love it. I love his poetry!!

Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc (1870 - 1953) was born in France, and after losing his father at age 2, moved with his mother to England.  He went to Balliol College in Oxford as a History major with first class honors.  He was a great debater, and was described by H.G. Wells (whom he disputed on 'Outline of History) as "like arguing with a hailstorm".  He was in the French army, was an avid yachtsman, and deeply religious. He loved walking; he once made a  pilgrimage from France to Rome, and reportedly walked from the mid-West US to California to marry his love, Elodie. When she died in 1914, he wore mourning clothes for the rest of his life.  His son also died in 1918 in WWI.

Belloc's much loved book 'Cautionary Tales for Children' contains this poem.

Here is my spoken version of this poem.
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/george-who-played-with-a-dangerous-toy
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George, Who Played With a Dangerous Toy And suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions. - by Hillaire Belloc

When George’s Grandmamma was told
That George had been as good as Gold,
She Promised in the Afternoon
To buy him an Immense BALLOON.
And
so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded
with a loud report!

The Lights went out! The Windows broke!
The Room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness shrieks and yells
Were mingled with Electric Bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worse Of all,
The House itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below-
Which happened to be Seville Row.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When Help arrive, among the Dead
Were
Cousin Mary,
Little Fred,
The Footmen
(both of them),
The Groom,
The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,
The Chaplain, and
The Still-Room Maid.
And I am dreadfully afraid
That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef,
Will now be
permanently deaf-
And both his
Aides
are much the same;
While George, who was in part to blame,
Received, you will regret to hear,
A nasty lump
behind the ear.

MORAL

The moral is that little Boys
Should not be given dangerous Toys.

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The French archaeologist in Raiders of the Lost Ark was named after Belloc.

Syd Barrett, the founder of Pink Floyd wrote a tribute song 'Matilda Mother' based on one of Belloc's poems ("Matilda: Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death.") and issued it on 'Pipers at the Gates of Dawn'.

I think I'm going to buy the book 'Cautionary Tales for Children'. :D

Day 10 - The Chimney Sweeper - by William Blake

I guess I picked this poem today because it reminds me so much of Mary Poppins, and I'm feeling a bit nostalgic.  Remember when Bert and Mary are all covered with soot? I think this might have been the first movie I ever saw with my Grandma. I love Mary Poppins. I loved my Grandma more.  I haven't seen that movie for ages.

But back to the poem.

William Blake (1757-1827) was never a chimney sweep.  He went to school in London until the age of ten, then took a keen interest in drawing.  His parents, who were wealthy enough, bought him Greek antiquities to copy with engravings.  He apprenticed until he was 21, making copies of Westminster Abbey, relief etchings, and sketches. He made seven engravings for Dante's Inferno. He died while working on these, and supposedly after making a sketch of his wife, Catherine. He apparently had visions, and some considered him mad.  This poem is oddly uncharacteristic of Blake's work.  He wrote two versions of this poem - this one in 1789 (the other in 1794).  What I like most of all though is that Blake illustrated his poems, and this is something I do with my own poems.  Back when Blake wrote these poems in London chimney sweeps would get small boys of five or six years old to climb in the chimneys to clean them, often for a pittance of wages.  Perhaps Blake employed some of these chimney sweeps himself.

Here is my spoken version of this poem:
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/the-chimney-sweeper

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The Chimney Sweeper - by Willliam Blake

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

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Picture: from Wikipedia, in the Public Domain.

References: The Chimney Sweeper picture of the illustrated poem is taken from Wikipedia, in the Public Domain.

Day 9 - Invictus - by W. E. Henley

Today's poem is Invictus, written in 1875 by William Ernest Henley.  This is Henley's most famous poem, yet the word Invictus is probably much better known now as the film produced by Clint Eastwood on the life of Nelson Mandela. It's a great film.  Invictus in Latin means "unconquered".  Just as Nelson, born in a royal family, imprisoned for 21 years for treason, then gaining freedom and bringing blacks and whites together in South Africa remained 'unconquered', William also overcame severe hardships.

William developed tuberculosis and had a leg amputated due to complications from it.  He almost lost his other leg, but with a better doctor and surgery was able to save it.  He wrote this poem while recuperating.

Here is my spoken version of this poem.  (I cannot do justice to this poem the way that Morgan Freeman does - see bottom of post).
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/invictus

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Invictus - by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

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It is so fascinating for me when I finally understand where famous quotes come from, such as the last two lines of this poem.  They have been quoted and requoted by Lewis Carroll, by Nelson Mandela himself while in prison (he read the whole poem to his prison-mates), infamously by Timothy McVeigh the Oklahoma bomber, and by Captain Renault to Rick Blaine (Humphrey Boghart) in the movie Casablanca.

     I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

There is something so deeply philosophical in this.

I cannot help but become moved emotionally now knowing about Henley's life.  Not just for Henley, but for Mandela, and Aung San Suu Kyi, and everyone who has also been so touched by these words.  Every time I watch and listen to Morgan Freeman reading this poem from the movie clip 'Invictus' my eyes fill with tears (see this trailer clip ).

Day 8 - a farewell poem (untitled) - Shunryu Suzuki

Shunryu Suzuki (1904-1971) was a Buddhist monk and dogen Zen master, one of the first to come to America and teach this form of Zen Buddhism. He founded the first Buddhist temple outside of Asia.  He was a small man, short of five feet tall, but this just proves that you don't have to be big to have big ideas or big accomplishments.  I like this because I'm small too. He wrote "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind", a small but worldly influential spiritual guide.

Before he died of cancer, Shunryu imparted this wisdom to his students:

"if when I die, the moment I'm dying, if I suffer that is alright, you know; that is suffering Buddha...We should be very grateful to have a limited body..." [1].  

This philosophy of surrendering to death, surrendering to suffering, is I think at the core of all Buddhist teaching.  It is very profound to me. Shunryu taught that all things have Buddha nature, when we bow we do so with reverence to the Buddha-nature in everything - in you, in dogs and cats, in teachers and in students, in the beggar on the street and the rich man in the office buildings.  We bow to every thing, we bow to ourselves.

"Life is like stepping onto a boat which is about to sail out to sea and sink."

How true is that!  We are all destined for death.  I hope I can go half as gracefully as Shunryu Suzuki.

This poem, written in 1971, was imparted to his successor.

Here is my spoken version of this poem.
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/untitled-shunryu-suzuki

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Untitled - Shunryu Suzuki

This piece of incense
Which I have had for a long long time
I offer with no-hand.

To my Master, to my friend, Suzuki Shunryu Diaosho
The founder of these temples
There is no measure of what you have done.

Walking with you in Buddha's gentle rain
Our robes are soaked through
But on the lotus leaves
Not a drop remains

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Day 7 - Daffodils - by William Wordsworth

Since I am heading into the mountains this weekend for a hike, I thought a nice light flowery poem might be appropriate.  I'm hoping to see lots of mountain flowers - bright purple Asters, red, orange, and white Indian Paintbrush, sunny yellow Buttercups, and Moss Heather with tiny white and purple bells.  This particular hike is usually heavily sprinkled with colourful flowers spread across the endless green slopes, and with this weather should be strikingly spectacular against the brilliant blue sky. I hope to lay in the meadow soaking up the warmth, looking up at the vast sky, and catching an imaginary adventure on a drifting cloud. I never feel alone when I am surrounded by this majestic mountain landscape.

But I sometimes wonder if he felt lonely all his life. William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) was only eight years old when his mother died.  His father sent him to a grammar boarding school.  He published his first poem at 17 years of age, and went on to become the Poet Laureate of the UK awarded by the Prime Minister.  He never wrote poetry after his daughter's death in 1847.  His lengthy autobiographical poem The Prelude post-posthumously became his masterpiece, but I think he is most known for the Daffodils.

Here is my spoken version of this poem:
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/daffodils

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Daffodils - by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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Do you believe this - I read it is sometimes misquoted as "I wandered lonely as a cow".  That's funny.

Here is Jeremy Irons' reading of the poem:

Day 3 - If You Forget Me - by Pablo Neruda

Love is a funny thing.  Everyone seems to have a different idea on what it is.  Love between friends, love between parents and children, love between lovers; all of these have different feelings associated with them, yet all are called Love.  Even love between lovers is different for everyone.  What is Love?  Do I feel jealous and say, I must love him.  Do I feel pity and say, I must love him. Do I feel passion and say, I must love him. Or do I simply feel love, no matter the pity, the passion, or the jealousy.  Is jealousy part of love, or is it selfishness?  Is pity part of  love, or is it pride?

I don't agree necessarily with the way Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973) describes it here, in this poem.  How can one forget the person they love so easily? Maybe it's easier to dismiss someone, as easily as he dismissed his real name - Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.  Or as easily as he dismissed his passion for Communism, after it was outlawed in 1948, and suddenly a fugitive, he escaped through the mountains into Argentina after friends hid him for months in their houses. Or as easily as he forgets this, and returns to Chile after his Nobel Prize?  How does a person with such passion simply forget?

Is this jealousy talking through him, as in - I will only love you if you love me?  Is this the beginnings of a love, where it hasn't fully reached the bottom of his soul, and therefore is easily dismissed?  Or is it such longing that the mind compensates the heartache by forgetfulness, like it does sometimes in grief?  This I don't understand.  To me, a love that he talks about here where "everything carries me to you" is not one that can be forgotten.  I think he is deluding himself and I think that is the profound message this poem carries for me, how we simply think we can dismiss feelings, yet deep down in our hearts and our souls, we know we will carry that person with us forever, even if they do not love us.

Here is my spoken version of this poem:
https://soundcloud.com/raindrop-11/if-you-forget-me

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If You Forget Me - by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

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Pablo Neruda died of prostate cancer on 23 September 1973 and the world cried for him.  He has had many tributes.  The film Il Postino is about his life in exile during the 1950s.

Here is Madonna reading If You Forget Me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5yADgMzGJo

If you prefer it set to music, here is another version of Madonna's:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f88n8eQCGvs

A Poetry Challenge to Start Your Day

This is a 30-day poetry challenge to read aloud a poem a day for 30 days. My sister loves doing challenges. Most of the time I fall off of them early. I've completed some - 30 day abs, 30 day squats, 30 days doing nice things - but this challenge - 30 days of speaking poetry - is my absolute favourite.

I started writing poems at the age of ten and have continued writing them all my life. None are published. When I was little, my Grandma would read me Robert Louis Stevenson. My favourite of his was My Shadow. I can still recite it by heart. My Dad also wrote a few poems himself. In Grade Four, I had to memorize The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, and recite it to the Teacher. It was fun even back then to do this.

My sister is also doing this challenge and says it is the hardest one she's done yet. She recites the poems to her long-distance boyfriend over the phone. I think that's so romantic.

So, here is my 30 Day Poetry Challenge. I really enjoy this and if you stumble across this, I hope you enjoy it too. Maybe it will inspire you to do your own challenge. :)