Guess the poet, win a teddy bear?1.000 frequent flyer miles?

Discussion of other topics not necessarily Keats or poetry-related, i.e. other authors, literature, film, music, the arts etc.

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Guess the poet, win a teddy bear?1.000 frequent flyer miles?

Postby redan » Wed May 10, 2006 12:05 am

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persian roses flew to kiss
The curled lashes of Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies,
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl
Blind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.


Do you know the author? I give this a difficulty level 8.5
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Postby Saturn » Wed May 10, 2006 12:41 am

What era are we talking about.

I'm guessing this is an 18th century poet?
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Postby redan » Wed May 10, 2006 1:02 am

A clue? What era? okay: The queen is dead.
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Postby Discovery » Wed May 10, 2006 3:48 am

What, not Morrissey :wink:
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Postby redan » Wed May 10, 2006 7:11 am

Not Mo. Teddy is President, Vicky is the dead queen, No human has flown 1.000 miles-- but they're about to!
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Postby Saturn » Wed May 10, 2006 9:23 am

Robert Frost?
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Postby redan » Wed May 10, 2006 12:46 pm

Neither Jack nor Robert Frost. But a good guess! I will post a link to a site for the actual poet in 24 hours. Lovers of Keats will certainly love this Yankee as well.... He/She is not one of the usual suspects...
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Postby Brave Archer » Wed May 10, 2006 2:40 pm

Loneliness


These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown,
The sward with shrivelled foliage strown,
The shrubs and trees
By weary wings of sunshine overflown
And timid silences,

Since first you, darling, called my spirit yours,
Seem happy, and the gladness pours
From day to day,
And yester-year across this year endures
Unto next year away.

Now in these places where I used to rove
And give the dropping leaves my love
And weep to them,
They seem to fall divinely from above,
Like to a diadem

Closing in one with the disheartened flowers.
High up the migrant birds in showers
Shine in the sky,
And all the movement of the natural hours
Turns into melody.


My favorite by Stickney
Why don't you really tell me how you feel!
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Postby redan » Wed May 10, 2006 4:32 pm

We have a winner!
Yes, it's the tragical fin-de-c' American, Trumbull Stickney!

I knew someone on a Keats website would know Trumbull!

O brave! archer! 8)
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Postby dks » Thu May 11, 2006 12:58 am

I'm not up on my Trumbull. :?
"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the Truth of Imagination."
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Postby redan » Thu May 11, 2006 6:59 am

Trumbull could well have been a character in a Henry James novel. Born in Geneva, 1874, Harvard Graduate, doctorat es lettres University of Paris, Classical Greek Scholar, brain tumor at 29, dead at 30. Let's see... he would have been a year or two ahead of Wallace Stevens at Harvard.... the race is not always to the swift...

I have the 1972 FSG Poems of Trumbull Stickney...
back dust jacket faded photo of mustach'd young man in white shirt and vest...seated in formidable carved wood chair, puffing on long ashed cheroot reading a french journal...

I played with shadows at their game;
The meadow thought my song was wind.
I called the sunrise up: it came.
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Postby dks » Thu May 11, 2006 2:10 pm

redan wrote:in white shirt and vest...seated in formidable carved wood chair, puffing on long ashed cheroot reading a french journal...


Now THAT'S a picture--that's the way I see Saturn. :lol: :wink:
"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the Truth of Imagination."
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Postby Brave Archer » Thu May 11, 2006 3:25 pm

dks wrote:I'm not up on my Trumbull. :?


Not sure if you're missing out on much or not. I don't think of him as a "GREAT" poet, but I do think he is underappreciated. When he was on he touches you and gives you beautiful imagery, but when off you may question why you're reading him. At least I did. He did live a short life, so who knows what may have happen'd to the name Trumbell Stickney had he lived a few more decades.

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persian roses flew to kiss.............

Love those lines.
Why don't you really tell me how you feel!
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Postby redan » Thu May 11, 2006 5:10 pm

I agree with Brave Archer, some of the stuff is a little hard to take. I've always seen Stickney as perhaps representative of the verse Wallace Stevens would have aspired to as a teen ager--- Stickney as sort of a shadow or phantom juvenalia of Stevens. Just a quirky thought that got into my head a long time ago and won't leave.

I said I would leave a link to a Stickney site on line, but I won't because the site has way too many weird pop-ups. But do a search and there are several places that have most of his good verse. I didn't see any that had the photo I described, however. Quel dommage. :D
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Postby Saturn » Thu May 11, 2006 9:27 pm

dks wrote:
redan wrote:in white shirt and vest...seated in formidable carved wood chair, puffing on long ashed cheroot reading a french journal...


Now THAT'S a picture--that's the way I see Saturn. :lol: :wink:


:shock:

Far too refined a picture - think t-shirt and jeans and an office chair :lol:
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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