Lint Upon Tweed

Damn, twenty days since my last post on this blog.  I can’t say I’ve had blogger’s block because I really have been busy writing for Left Of Sean.  The problem is that the material on Left Of Sean isn’t what I want to put on this blog.

Lint Upon Tweed is supposed to be about literature, poetry, art, photography and all that is great in life.

Last night the wife and I rented Dead Poet’s Society.  I won’t bore you with the details regarding this post.  I’ll just let you read it here.  But I will tell you that I have a new found love for poetry, especially Robert Frost.  Who knows how long this will last.  I’m pretty ADD when it comes to hobbies so I could actually give this up in a month or so.

Today, in a raging snow storm, I took a half-day off from work and trucked it over to Barnes and Noble.  The fuckers were closed!!  How dare they close when I have a yearning for a little Whitman, a little Frost, a little Poe!

I had to take the alternative: Books-a-million.  BAM is a craphole bookstore across the street from B&N.  No free Wi-Fi.  No one working in the cafe.  The second I walked in the door there was an underpaid clerk hitting me up with a Can I help you find anything? God I hate that.  Let my eyes at least adjust to the shitty fluorescent lights before you hit me up.

I picked up a handful of books (that I will buy at B&N instead of Books-a-Dozen!) on poetry and started my search.  Whitman was the first.  It was a small book of about 75 pages that contained a selected collection of his poetry.

Of course, after seeing Dead Poet’s Society, the most famous reference is to O Captain, My Captain.  I’m not going to give you analysis here because I’m still taking it all in.  But I will tell you that it is a beautiful poem you really should read.

O Captain, My Captain by Walt Whitman

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up–for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Spectacular!

Next up, Frost.  I’ll admit, I know very little about poetry.  I know the biggies, Moby Dick, the Homer mega-poems, and a select few others.  But then I discovered Robert Frost.  I’m pretty sure I can die happy now that I’ve discovered this man’s work.  Holy shit this is good stuff!

How can you argue with The Road Not Taken or Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

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.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.  Now go out and buy yourself a book or head to the library and rent one for free.  Come on now.  I was uneducated and stupid for a long time.  Now I’m just uneducated!  Be like me.

Related articles by Zemanta

• Scribes of eternity (guardian.co.uk)
• Anne Billson | Invictus aside, poetry in cinema is embarrassing (guardian.co.uk)
• Founder of Dead Poets Society Visits Bards’ Graves (abcnews.go.com)
• 105 Ways to Give a Book (dulemba.com)
• Does chitchat have a place in poetry? (slate.com)
• Butterflies and Parties (seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com)