"marvell" poems
Whan the turuf is thy tour
anonymous Middle English poem, circa the 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
only sullen worms shall note.
What help unto you, then
was all your worldly hope?
***
Original Middle English text:
Whan the turuf is thy tour,
And thy pit is thy bour,
Thy fel and thy whitë throtë
Shullen wormës to notë.
What helpëth thee thennë
Al the worildë wennë?
“Whan the turuf is thy tour” may be one of the oldest carpe diem (“seize the day”) poems in the English language, and an ancestor of Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” with its virginity-destroying worms. Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, medieval, anonymous, rhyme, rhyming, medieval, lament, complaint, lamentation, turf, tower, pit, bower, skin, throat, worms, note, help, worldly, hope
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow
And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change
And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass
And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land
Nor now the long light on the sea
And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
4.1k
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain.
I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 9:16 AM UTC
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
*But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;*
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
*The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.*
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
THAT ADLESTROP MOMENT
Train stops.
Stranding us in real life countryside.
Townies gobsmacked.
Silence attacks.
The world melting
in a heat haze.
Where has our real
reality gone?
Tracks lead away from us
be we are going
nowhere
fast.
As if the future
had ceased to exist.
We are like the male member
caught in the teeth
of a too hastily
done-up zip.
Yep,,,,,,,doesn't go up!
Oooops,,,,doesn't go down!
A kestrel free
of our dilemma.
Laughs at us
"Humans, eh....who'd 'ave 'em!"
Smaller birds gossip
discussing this all too human
situation.
I recite Adlestrop
in my mind
to my reflection
staring dumbly back at me.
"There is a countryside
in my face..."
I Marvell.
As if Nature
had invaded my physiognomy .
"Unwontedly...something
something something or other."
Oh bother!
"No one left and no one came."
The birds stop to listen.
"Yes, we remember Adlestrop!"
they twitter.
"Hear it one day
in what you humans
call
the Past.
Wot a laugh!
They unaware that there is only
one great big forever."
I fell silent.
Deserted by all thought.
"Give us some more
of that good old Adlestrop stuff!
The birds chirrup.
"No what less still and lonely fair
through cloudlets in the sky."
I ventured.
"Naw...naw...naw mate!"
a crow caws.
"The bit 'bout us birds
if you please!"
I cough and continue.
"Farther and farther, all the birds
of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire."
The birds all cheep and cheer.
"Hip hip hooray for Edward Thomas!"
The train remembers itself.
Rouses itself from its slumbers.
As if all this
had been but a dream.
"Yes, I remember Adlestrop"
But not all of it.
It was June.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
A
Lone
Note
Hangs
Sustained
Upon A Staff
Time Signature ~ Eternity
A
Measureless
Canticle Scrolling
From Alpha To Omega ~ Resounding
A
Living Song
To Those ~ Who Listen
In Hymnal Wonder
Tongues ~ Rest ~ Quiescent
A
Grace
Note
Stilled
Upon A Staff
A
Choir
Risen
gv Mar.14.2018
HOW wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see ;
Till eyes and tears be the same things ;
And each the other's difference bears,
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
Excerpts from:
EYES AND TEARS.
by Andrew Marvell
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Nor call’d the gods with ****** spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the state
Foresaw its happy fate.
from:
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
by Andrew Marvell, 1651
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.
This is my translation of a Latin epigram by the English poet Thomas Campion. In Campion’s era some English poets continued to write poems in Latin and/or Greek. For instance, John Milton and Andrew Marvell wrote poems in Latin, while Shakespeare was criticized by Ben Jonson, if I remember things correctly, for having “little” Greek and Latin.
Not being “versed” in the senior languages was seen as a deficiency in literary circles back then. Shakespeare was called an “upstart crow” for daring to write “litter-chure” without a proper university degree. How could he properly quote the ancients if he couldn’t read them in their original languages? The Bard of Avon was doomed to failure and obscurity … or perhaps not, since the English language was finally in vogue in England (where for centuries English kings had been unable to read, write or even speak the mother tongue, preferring French, Latin and Greek).
My title is a bit of a pun, because novels were new to the world when they first arrived, and were thus considered by the literary elites to be “novelties” not on par with more serious verse plays. Some of the more popular early novels were “subversive” (pardon the pun) explorations of ****** naughtiness, through characters like Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, et al.
Campion probably didn’t have such campy (enough with the puns, already!) novels in mind when he wrote his epigram, since the more titillating (cease! desist!) ones had yet to arrive. But perhaps he would prove to be a “profit” (I’m udderly hopeless!).
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, epigram, novels, novelties, booksellers, publishers, authors, pimps, ****** prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC
I saw you walk by with a jar of stars,
As soon as I saw them I yearned for them, I needed them; I would not be complete without them.
I set out to find them. I waited all night, but the stars didn’t show.
So I looked the next night, now they glimmered.
I climbed up a tree and branched out my hands.
I stretched forth with all my strength, but I could not reach.
The night after that, I sat in defeat, until I saw you carrying your jars of stars.
I ran to you, hoping and praying you would reveal your secret.
As I approached I realized there were no stars at all.
The closer I came I saw that the jar was full of dying fireflies.
Their glow growing dim.
I took your jar and ****** it at the cement.
The fireflies flew, free.
I turned to you, my lip trembling.
*“Therefore the love which us doth bind,
but fate so enviously debars,
is the conjunction of the mind,
and opposition of the stars.”
*quote by: Andrew Marvell
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
have we strayed far from art?
Oh, Marvell?
Oh, Donne?
Oh, Jonson? And
sometime Wyatt?
forgive these modern
fornicating gluttonous
whirl of words.
pastoral shepherds are dead,
old friends
sultry sweet snatches
to sing of and dampen your quill,
mossy memories
those pining poets deflowering tulips
with their multi-lingual similes,
have been shot for their vague
caresses
mowers now grip their
flaccid scythes,
loitering near the iron
gates of life
forgotten and rotten are
their hot July desires
no.
no need to complain in
metered rhyme, just
give it to me straight
and hard
i'll take it all the same
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
With all your expert mouth and
tongue of many tribes you
call me to the dance floor
of your poetry.
I ear your accent, I tongue the
vowels of your incredible name
which blossoms every morning.
I bed to your brown eyes when
touch begs rest from incessant
breathing.
You are wheat chaff and I am
the wind which blows over the dead dreams of aged memory.
I understand now the satiety
of your love. The desert of
uncertainty where the bridge
of your wanderings
crossed my month
of ecstasy.
You are the list I take to
mind's far places when
thoughts of you are
exhausted.
Caroline Shank
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 2:56 PM UTC
The masculine assault upon the reluctance of the “coy” woman lies at the heart of Marvell’s best-known love poem—perhaps the most famous “persuasion to love” or carpe diem poem in English—”To his Coy Mistress.” Everything we know about Marvell’s poetry should warn us to beware of taking its exhortation to carnality at face value. Critics from T. S. Eliot on took note of the poem’s “logical” structure, but then it began to be noticed that the conditional syllogism in that structure is invalid—a textbook case of affirming the consequent or the fallacy of the converse. Has Marvell made an error? Or does he attribute an error to the speaking persona of the poem? Or is the fallacy part of the sophistry that a seducer uses on an ingenuous young woman? Or is it a supersubtle compliment to a woman expected to recognize and laugh at the fallacy? These alternatives must be judged in the light of the abrupt shifts in tone among the three verse paragraphs. In the opening lines the seducer assumes a pose of disdainful insouciance with his extravagant parody of the Petrarchan blason:
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.
Two hundred to adore each Breast:
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An Age at least to every part,
And the last Age should show your Heart.
Although the Lady is said to “deserve this State,” the compliment is more than a little diminished when the speaker adds that he simply lacks the time for such elaborate wooing. It is also likely that most women would be put off rather than tempted by the charnel-house imagery of the poem’s middle section where the seducer, sounding like a fire-and-brimstone preacher, warns that “Worms shall try / That long preserv’d Virginity.” Finally, the depiction of ****** intimacy at the poem’s close, with its vision of the lovers as “am’rous birds of prey” who will “tear our Pleasures with rough strife,” is again a disconcerting image in an ostensible seduction poem. The persona’s desire for the reluctant Lady is mingled with revulsion at the prospect of mortality and fleshly decay, and he manifests an ambivalence toward ****** love that is pervasive in Marvell’s poetry.”
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
Wanted to start with an honest take
On T.S. Eliot's fulmination towards criticisms
Regarding the debater, Mr. Grierson's
Point of view on metaphysical writings
In purview of genuine poetic dissertation and discussion
Presentation of the nuances of poems are intriguing
Wherewithal that there is a diligent approach taken
To study John Donne and Cowley
Marvell, one of the social upheavilists
Of this time t'was real t'was true to naturalism
However, Goethe points out " in their unnaturalism they poised on naturalism"
There is a lot to say for Mr. Eliot's debate
Not too much for Mr. Grierson's review of some good old fashioned
Amorous verse, inasmuch it bewitches the languid sensuality
Often the purer and fairer opposite ***
Through genuine use of wit and impressive stoicism
A thoroughly metaphorical use of the term "stoic"
Can be attributed to the use of complex imagery
It would be interesting if one drew parallels
On the concepts of love and spirituality
It is expressed in reading that deals with rapid association of thought
English language canon and poetic implication are there, of course
Basically, what the poet is trying to say and the implicit understanding
Between a lover and a mistress
One could say it is a conversation or a nuanced conversation
Between the reader and poet
Such is the metaphysics of women and their love for genuine metaphor
It is often the velleity of the poet to write in such esoteric language
Therefore, one could understand the heterogeneous ideas potrayed
In each poetic verse of Donne's repertoire cannot be
Misconstrued as unnecessarily analytic
Almost like the dissection of a patient in surgery
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 7:17 PM UTC
Had we but opportunity, and time,
this wanton indolence would be no crime.
We could choose at length, how best to earn our crust,
an inchoate passion, an absolute must.
Ten thousand happy hours spent on traditional grip,
cross stitching, flat-picking or mastery of whip.
Virtuosity would be in our reach,
if inane mundanity did our lives not breach.
In time I would acquire a second language or two,
with a year in each country, just to absorb the milieu.
And in those dwellings embrace their distinctive cuisine,
the sautée and flambé, their palette pristine.
The costume and customs, an utter immersion.
The nuance, their pastimes, a total conversion.
But all around us, we see and hear the seconds fly,
as sands of vast desserts run the hourglass dry.
No lifetime well spent to study: a celestial passion -
that universal canopy, always constant, in fashion.
No time to render from it, a purpose, some meaning.
Or just gaze in stupor, in splendorous feeling.
That desire to leave an insight, impart some great reason;
comes to nought, bears no fruit, the ultimate life’s treason.
Now therefore, while your middle age is sailing on,
and your youthful hue is virtually gone.
And while your dreams, your hopes, are yet expired,
and still inside you lie latent fires.
Now let us cast off life’s binding shackles,
dispose of ignorance and apathy that so raise my hackles.
Let us become coherent, aware of the important,
eschew the trivial and seize the moment.
Dispose of the superfluous, the fleeting sensation,
embrace the devout and devour the vocation.
Thus, though we cannot live our lives afresh,
yet we can ensure life’s iron cogs still mesh.
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 1:52 PM UTC
A BIRD IN HAND & ‘CARPE DIEM’
It has been wisely observed and said,
That a bird in hand is worth two in the
bush always.
Therefore, let us grab this day before it
begins to slip away my friends!
The Afghans are perhaps the only people
in the world who pray after their meal!
Since they are more concerned about the
outcome, -
Than the intentions the behind things!
Just as the proof of the pudding always
remains in its eating!
Now the Latin phrase ‘Carpe Diem’ meaning
‘seize the day’, - has been a popular theme of
English poetry even to this day!
It was first used by the Roman poet Horace in
his ‘Odes’ during 23 BC,
Which spoke of enjoying the day before it
ceases to exist!
This theme is also found in Shakespeare’s sonnets;
In Robert Herrick’s lines ‘To the Virgins to Make
Much of Time’; in Andrew Marvell’s seductive
lyric ‘To His Coy Mistress’; and also in poems of
AE Houseman, and Robert Frost, - among many
other poets.
Here are few lines from Andrew Marvell’s seductive
lyric - ‘To His Coy Mistress’:-
“But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity!
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace!”
Now I conclude with few lines from my
favorite Henry Wordsworth Longfellow’s
poem - ‘The Psalm of Life’:
“.…Trust no future however pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act, in the living Present.
Heart within, and God overhead!
Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us,
Footprints on the sands of time!…”
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
composed on 03 JULY 2020.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow’r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac’d,
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC