[A. E. Stallings]

We sort of did this on the Ashbery thread ("Some Poems") a while back, and on the "Half of my life is gone" thread just now. Anyway, I thought it would be fun if we posted some obscure--or else somehow atypical poems--by famous poets, for folks to guess.

If you happen to KNOW the poet (this is a well-read bunch, I realize) off hand, or if you look it up or "google" it, keep the answer to yourself for a bit. We can post the answers on, say, October 10th.

I'll put one or two to start, but feel free to put up your own offering. Remember, its no use putting up an obscure poem by an obscure poet. These should all be pretty big names.

(You may wish to omit the title in some cases.)

[A. E. Stallings]

A

Circe's Palace

Around her fountain which flows
With the voice of men in pain,
Are flowers that no man knows.
Their petals are fanged and red
With hideous streak and stain;
They sprang from the limbs of the dead.--
We shall not come here again.

Panthers rise from their lairs
In the forest which thickens below,
Along the garden stairs
The sluggish python lies;
The peacocks walk, stately and slow,
And the look at us with the eyes
Of men whom we knew long ago.

[A. E. Stallings]

B

O have you caught the tiger?
And can you hold him tight?
And what immortal hand or eye
Could frame his fearful symmetry?
And does he try to bite?

Yes, I have caught the tiger,
And he was hard to catch.
O tiger, tiger, do not try
To put your tail into my eye,
And do not bite and scratch.

Yes, I have caught the tiger.
O tiger, do not bray!
And what immortal hand or eye
Could frame his fearful symmetry
I should not like to say.

And may I see the tiger?
I should indeed delight
To see so large an animal
Without a voyage to Bengal
And mind you hold him tight.

Yes, you may see the tiger;
It will amuse you much.
The tiger is, as you will find,
A creature of the feline kind.
And mind you do not touch.

And do you feed the tiger,
And do you keep him clean?
He has a less contented look
Than in the Natural History book,
And seems a trifle lean.

Oh yes, I feed the tiger,
And soon he will be plump;
I give him groundsel fresh and sweet,
And much canary-seed to eat,
And wash him at the pump.

It seems to me the tiger
Has not been lately fed,
Not for a day or two at least;
And that is why the noble beast
Has bitten off your head.

[Carl Sundell]

C

CHAPTER HEADING

For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.



[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited October 01, 2002).]

[RCL]

D

A dented spider like a snow drop white
On a white Heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth -
Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? -
Portent in little, assorted death and blight
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth? -
The beady spider, the flower like a froth,
And the moth carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The blue prunella every child's delight.
What brought the kindred spider to that height?
(Make we no thesis of the miller's plight.)
What but design of darkness and of night?
Design, design! Do I use the word aright?


------------------
Ralph

[peterjb]

E

I’m not sure this would be "obscure" to anyone acquainted with its author's work. However, it's one I particularly like, and here's a sidelight that suggests it may not be all that well known.

In 1979 a graffito appeared on the south wall of the approach (on the line from Oxford) to London's Paddington Station. It read, in very large lettering: "Far away is close at hand in images of elsewhere". This was attributed to a legendary graffiti artist, "The Master of Paddington", and its enigmatic quality provoked comment for a while in the press. The wall was demolished within a couple of years, I think, and the graffito then appeared on a nearby subway wall.

In all the commentary, I don't recall ever seeing a reference to this poem, though it's clear "The Master" stole its first line. Michael Wharton, a conservative with a fantastic imagination who wrote in The Daily Telegraph as "Peter Simple" over a 40-year period, was among those who (initially at least) missed the connection, and he was better-read than most. The collection from his columns, published a couple of years ago, has the title "Far Away Is Close at Hand".



........Song of Contrariety

Far away is close at hand,
Close joined is far away,
Love shall come at your command
Yet will not stay.

At summons of your dream-despair
She might not disobey,
But slid close down beside you there,
And complaisant lay.

Yet now her flesh and blood consent
In the hours of day,
Joy and passion both are spent,
Twining clean away.

Is the person empty air,
Is the spectre clay,
That love, lent substance by despair,
Wanes and leaves you lonely there
On the bridal day?


-----------------------
Peter



[This message has been edited by peterjb (edited October 11, 2002).]

[A. E. Stallings]

One that falls into the unexpected category, rather than necessarily obscure, since encountered in an anthology:

F

Menses

(He speaks, but to himself, being aware how it is with her)

Think not I have not heard.
Well-fanged the double word
And well-directed flew.

I felt it. Down my side
Innocent as oil I see the ugly venom slide:
Poison enough to stiffen us both, and all our friends;
But I am not pierced, so there the mischief ends.

There is more to be said; I see it coiling;
The impact will be pain.
Yet coil; yet strike again.
You cannot riddle the stout mail I wove
Long since, of wit and love.

As for my answer . . . stupid in the sun
He lies, his fangs drawn:
I will not war with you.

You know how wild you are. You are willing to be turned
To other matters; you would be grateful, even.
You watch me shyly. I (for I have learned
More things than one in our few years together)
Chafe at the churlish wind, the unseasonable weather.

"Unseasonable?" you cry, with harsher scorn
Than the theme warrants; "Every year it is the same!
'Unseasonable!' they whine, these stupid peasants!--and never since they were born
Have they known a spring less wintry! Lord, the shame,
The crying shame of seeing a man no wiser than the beasts he feeds--
His skull as empty as a shell!"

("Go to. You are unwell.")

Such is my thought, but such are not my words.

"What is the name," I ask, "of those big birds
With yellow breast and low and heavy flight,
That make such mournful whistling?"
~ "Meadolarks,"
You answer primly, not a little cheered.
"Some people shoot them." Suddenly your eyes are wet
And your chin trembles. On my breast you lean,
And sob most pitifully for all the lovely things that are not and have been.

"How silly I am!--and I know how silly I am!"
You say; "You are very patient. You are very kind.
I shall be better soon. Just Heaven consign and damn
To tedious Hell this body with its muddy feet in my mind!"

[WJG]

A first guess. For poem "F" I'll hazard that it was Anne Sexton. I don't recall seeing it in "Selected Poems," but it *could* be by her.

-- WJG

[Renate]

Ralph, I know D pretty well, I wouldn't have thought it obscure, and Alicia it must have been in the last couple of months that I read B but even so I had to look up the author. There goes the short term memory, I suppose that disqualifies me from answering.

[Roger Slater]

Renate, are you sure about D? I think I know what you think it is --I thought the same thing at first-- but it seems that D is a parody of the more famous poem you may have been thinking of. Or maybe you know that already. Anyway, I don't know who wrote D.