[David Anthony]

Originally Posted by Holly Martins

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

A.E. Housman

This must be one of the saddest poems ever written. It's interesting that in such a short poem both 'blue remembered hills' and 'land of lost content' have become (relatively) common phrases.

--I think this is, in fact, quite an imperfect poem.
But it is a great one.

[Holly Martins]

That's interesting, David. Tell us why you think the Housman falls down. A poem doesn't have to be wonderful to be perfect. Perfection means there's nothing in the poem you could ever change to make it better. I feel this is the case with several of Housman's poems. Short simple lyrics stand more chance of attaining perfection than long complex poems. 'The Waste Land' is a great poem but it can't be perfect. Byron's 'So we'll go no more a-roving' is perfect but is not as great as 'The Waste Land'. Or is it????

[David Anthony]

Dear Alf,

There's definite promise in this one. It's obviously an early draft and you fall into a few beginner's traps. You are wise to try the workshop experience and we will help you improve.

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:

--Excellent opening image and the Chernobyl allusion is powerful. However, you should avoid archaisms like 'yon' and strive to avoid inversions to achieve a more conversational tone.

What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

--'Blue' hills? If you can see the spires and farms, how can you say it's a far country? 'Those' is obviously rhyme-driven.

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,

--For 'plain' consider 'plainly', which is grammatically correct.


The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

--Good close.

Thus, you might consider:

Into my heart an air that kills
blows from the not very distant country over there:
What are those (green? brown?) remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are they?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plainly,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Take or leave as you think appropriate.

Welcome to Erato, and good luck in revision.

Best regards,

David

[Holly Martins]

Yes David, Alf would get slaughtered on the Deep End. But you forget the N is a Shropshire lad - a nineteenth century countryman who would certainly say 'yon', possibly use inversions in his speech and maybe not be as grammatically correct as you would like him to be. The 'voice' Housman uses in his poems is very far from the Victorian intellectual he was.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Surely David is being ironic and spoofing us, playing on the content of real crits. I seem to remember that there was a whole thread devoted to that idea here on Eratosphere once upon a time. And quite a clever one, as I recall. It was before my time, but I've read it.

[wendy v]

Really interesting thread.

I think it was one of those Dead French Guys who said, perfect is the enemy of good. Being a neurotic and a perfectionist, I think that's a bunch of hoo haw, but it sounds good.

When I think of the word 'perfect' I think of diamonds, gemstones, the golden mean, mathematical formulas, roses, orchids, and all the sacred texts and creation myths seem to mention perfection. And all of them do seem to speak to symmetry, balance, etc., which has come up so often here when discussing the perfect poem. But what of classical music ? We also think of newborns as perfect, and I suppose that often means having ten fingers and toes. Seems perfection, whether it exists in the disciplines, or not, and no matter how we balk at the word, is all wrapped up in our hunger for balance and form. Where is Mark to say that is anti- nature ??? But not necessarily...

--

Let chaos storm !
Let cloud shapes swarm !
I wait for form.

(Frost)

[W.F. Lantry]

Has anyone posted this one yet?


The Open Sea


We say the sea is lonely; better say
Ourselves are lonesome creatures whom the sea
Gives neither yes or no for company.

Oh, there are people, all right, settled in the sea-
It is as populous as Maine today-
But no one who will give you the time of day.

A man who asks there of his family
Or a friend or teacher gets a cold reply
Or finds him dead against that vast majority.

Nor does it signify that people who stay
Very long, bereaved or not, at the edge of the sea
Hear the drowned folk call: that is mere fancy,

They are speechless. And the famous noise of the sea,
Which a poet has beautifully told us in our day,
Is hardly a sound to speak comfort to the lonely.

Although not yet a man given to prayer, I pray
For each creature lost since the start of the sea,
And give thanks that it was not I, nor yet one close to me.

William Meredith

Oh, to write one, just one, piece like that, in my lifetime...

Thanks,

Bill

[Philip Quinlan]

Originally Posted by wendy v

...When I think of the word 'perfect' I think of diamonds, gemstones, the golden mean, mathematical formulas

Wendy

It is spooky you mentioning diamonds because I was thinking today that that elusive quality of perfection in a poem is sometimes at least to do with a certain crystalline order to things. Moreso when this is non-obvious on a surface level but you kind of infer that the poet put a lot more internal logic into the poem than he/she explicitly tells you about.

And mathematical formulae are most definitely beautiful and pefect.

Nice to see you here.

Philip

[Mark Allinson]

Where is Mark to say that is anti- nature ???

Wendy, I agree that there may well be perfection in Nature and in art, but when perfectionism is applied to our selves and to our society, then I have some issues.

For the second time today I will quote from a letter by Keats:

"But in truth I do not at all believe in this sort of perfectibility - the nature of the world would not admit of it - the inhabitants of the world will correspond to itself - Let the fish philosophise the ice away from the Rivers in winter time and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight of summer. Look at the Poles and at the sands of Africa, Whirlpools and volcanoes - Let men exterminate them and I will say that they may arrive at earthly Happiness - The point at which Man may arrive is as far as the parallel state in inanimate nature and no further."

- Letter to the George Keatses, Feb-May, 1819

[Alan Wickes]

I can understand why people might go for Keats' Ode to Autumn. However, if I was the castaway on some sort of poetic equivalent of Desert Island Discs , and forced to choose just one poem - it would have to be (drumroll), Kubla Khan.

Alan