The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

i’m really ig’nant about classical poetry. really. i couldn’t recite a single one. i like to think i can write cute rhymes, however. i’ve been doing that a lot lately. i love ERB. vader vs hitler

i enjoy literature. sometimes. i enjoy pop culture, sometimes. i find hip hop to be a fascinating intersection of several skills. i wonder what future historians will call it. is it just “pop” or is it “art?” what is the difference? how are we sure?

but spoken word stuff can be fascinating, i’ll say that. i think a lot of it depends on the presentation. i find my eyes glossing over when i read the classical stuff on text. but i do wonder, if Keats were alive today, what would he be doing? writing, or going to poetry slams and hip hop shows throwing down against Wodsworth or something like that?

you decide. ;-)

At an early The Natural Step conference I read that poem. Donella Meadows, gone too soon, came up to me and showed me the copy that she was carrying. If I hadn’t read it, she would have.

My all-time fave poem is Kipling’s The Young British Soldier…

We never seem to learn, eh…? 8-(

i love Kipling.

my favorite joke, from an old New Yorker magazine.

two young people in the 30s are sitting under a tree, about to make out. he says: do you like Kipling? she says: i don’t know, i’ve never kippled.

heh.

I do not understand poetry. Can’t even articulate what I find so opaque about it.

Help.

Would like to add this aspect of culture to my skills. Don’t know how to do it.

Are there websites that would help? I’ve found academic free courses online, but nothing dealing with poetry yet. Links?

Poetry is when you find the perfect way to say something that maybe nobody else ever saw. You might like the wonderful troika of bitter women, Sara Teasdale, Emily Dickenson and Dorothy Parker

I burn my candle at both ends.
It will not last the night.
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It makes a wondrous light

Godd poetry is rarely about the thing it is about. It is always about something else.

e e cummings
Buffalo Bill’s
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

Or sometimes it just sounds so beautiful on the tongue

Edgar Allen Poe “Annabel Lee”

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Poetry is when you find the perfect way to say something that maybe nobody else ever saw.

I understand that much. My gap is that when the something that nobody else ever saw is expressed in poetry, I can’t see it.

I need lessons.

*heh* Pure Jabberwocky, strato…! ;-)

“Poetry is when you find the perfect way to say something that maybe nobody else ever saw.”

What does that even mean? You can substitute for “poetry” the name of almost every mode of human communication on the planet and the statement would mean about the same thing.

I’ve never been a huge fan of poetry, although I did enjoy some of the Latin poetry I studied in college. It doesn’t help that the notion of scansion seems to have disappeared from poetry, so that inserting random line breaks and not even attempting to come anywhere close to a meter is now enough to be considered poetry. It’s sort of like guitar solos that devolve into ten minutes of noodling that make you want to scream, “If you get near a tune play it!”

Favorite poem…probably Catullus 51. In English, Wallace Stevens’s “Sunday Morning”.

At this point having Yeats’ The Second Coming as your favorite poem is so trite and hackneyed – being nearly quoted to death as it’s been – but good god, it still makes the hair on my forearms stand up:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Dining room of Christ Church college, Oxford, where Lewis Carroll was don, has chairs and andirons with top of uprights carved in his memorable characters.

Sometimes really good songs can count as poetry. Leonard is maybe the very best.

The Partisan

When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.
I have changed my name so often,
I’ve lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.

An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.

There were three of us this morning
I’m the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we’ll come from the shadows.

Or sometimes poetry just paints a picture

Nina Simone “Plain gold Ring”

Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
It was where everyone could see
He belonged to someone, but not me
On his hand was a plain gold ring

Plain gold ring had a story to tell
It was one that I knew too well
And in my heart it will never be spring
Long as he wears that plain gold ring

Nighttime comes calling on me
I know why I’ll never be free
I can’t stop these teardrops of mine
I’m gonna love him till the end of time

Plain gold ring has but one thing to say
I’ll remember till my dying days
In my heart it will never be spring
Long as he wears that plain gold ring

Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore
Plain gold ring on his finger he wore

Or it has layers upon layers.

Robert Frost “Stopping by Woods”

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 5
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake. 10
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep, 15
And miles to go before I sleep.

Poems are the best. Tonight the sky holds up a full moon on a clear, cool palate, here. Step outside, just yourself, and sit on the porch with a blanket if need be. Enjoy the moon. From where I sit you can see the geese with their beaks, all tucked in. That part always cracks me up. A goose with a cold nose. Who’d a thunk?

Sometimes it helps to read it aloud. The great poems – and even the not so great ones – have music in the sound and cadence of the words.

As the poet says (only I forget which one) “All words are fossilized poetry”.

Here’s a favorite bit from my favorite poem all day permanent red by Logue (“first battle scenes from the Illiad rewritten”.

Headlock. Body slam. Hands that do not reach back. Low dust. Stormed by Chylabborak, driven-in by Abassee
The light above his circle hatched with spears
Odysseus to Sheepgrove:
“Get lord Idomeneo from the ridge.”

Then prays:
Brainchild Athena, Holy Girl,
As one you made
As calm as water in a well
I know that you have cares enough
Other than those of me and mine.
Yet, Daughter of God, without your help
We cannot last.”

Setting down her topaz saucer heaped with nectarine jelly
Emptying her blood-red mouth set in her ice-white face
Teenaged Athena jumped up and shrieked:
“Kill! Kill for me!
Better to die than to live without killing!”

Who says prayer does no good?

One other thing that makes poetry worthwhile is the old idea of cultural literacy. If I say to someone, “I have promises to keep” and he (or she) replies. “and miles to go before I sleep”, it’s like a spy story sign and countersign. We recognize each other as members of a group. and we’ve communicated a great deal in a very few words.

If your boss said, when you came to see him about some problem, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow…”, would you get the point that he was weary of the whole damned thing? Shakespeare is as much a common language as are the great poets.

I’m just Chilling at lln…! ;-)

Last one, i promise.

The Mamas and Papas “Dancing Bear”

I wouldn’t want to be a chimney sweep
All black from head to foot
From climbing in them chimneys
And cleaning out that soot.
With a broom and ladder and pail,
The darkened walls I scale—
And far..and high…I see a patch of sky.

I’d rather be the gypsy
(I’d rather be the gypsy)
Whose camped at the edge of town—
(Camped at the edge of town)
The one who has the dancing bear
That follows him around.
And he lifts his big foot up;
He puts his big foot down
And bows…and twirls…
And dances ’round and ’round.

I found I was a cabin boy last night as I did dream—
Bound upon a magic ship for a land I’d never seen.
And the moon she filled our sails;
And the stars they steered out course;
And on our bow there was a golden horse.

The queen eats fruit and candy; the bishop nuts and cheese
And when I am a grown man, I’ll taste just what I please—
The honey from the bee, the shellfish from the sea,
The earth, the wind, a girl, someone to share these things with me.

I wouldn’t want to be a chimney sweep, etc…
(I’d rather be the gypsy, etc…)
(I dreamed I was a cabin boy, etc…)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GM_zeT2xmD0

“No Images” by William Waring Cuney. (I heard this poem recited by Maya Angelou many years ago.)

She does not know her beauty
She thinks her brown body
has no glory.

If she could dance
naked
Under palm trees
by the river
Then she would know.

But there are no palm trees
on the street,
and dishwater gives back
No images.

Sylvia Plath – Tulips

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage —-
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free —-
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

How could one have one favorite? Tulips knocked me over and I can’t forget it. There are so many poems, so little time.

I’m late to this show but when I was 10, my great-aunt gave me a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury (with the Fitzgerald translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam). That is where I discovered this poem by Richard Crashaw.