ChrisMims

Written Analysis for my poem(s) My poem is about what comes to my mind or in a way which i am feeling.

A quote on poetry “Poetry is the music of the soul, And, above all, of great and feeling souls.”

Memory poem - The learning stage

Started off as a baby getting fed and pamper getting changed learning how to walk, talk, read and write and later how to ride a bike learning is a good experience i don't where anybody would be if they didn't learn any thing learning is something everyone needs in life learning is the key to life.

Dreaming Dreaming is something people do every night Dreaming is something that people have to clear their minds dreaming is a gift that god gave us to sleep well, dreaming is such a good feeling, it helps me daily dreaming helps me forget or not think about the things i don't want to dreaming is a since of happiness dreaming is a good thing i believe in dreaming, dreaming oh dreaming oh how i love dreaming i hope it comes true.

"The Vision" The vision,the vision is something i see the vision is what i want to be, the vision is something i think everyone has but everybody doesn't have green grass the vision is what i want to last live in the present not in the past, the vision is what i want to last the vision.

"Ode to A Hoodie"

The soft comfortably fit cotton, white hoodie it's knitted with threads of twilight and Goatskin, by the soft smooth and slick material, makes me want to fall asleep, into a deep sleep where i dream things, Iv'e never dreamed before I don't know why this hoodie gives me such a good feeling made in Bangledash by the time breasing by fast i noticed that the hoodie was meant to last.

code format="poembox" "Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae"

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was grey: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

code -- [|Ernest Dowson]

ERNEST DOWSON To One in Bedlam 1 2 for henry davray With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares, 5 Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine, And make his melancholy germane to the stars’? O lamentable brother! if those pity thee, 10 Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me; Half a fool’s kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? 3 Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours! A Last Word Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o’er the land, 5 Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, 10 To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust 1. Insane asylum (specifically, an ancient mad- house in London). 2. Henry Davray was a French critic and great friend of Dowson’s; he reviewed English books for the Mercure de France. The habit of dedicating individual poems to particular friends Dowson and Lionel Johnson picked up from the French poet Paul Verlaine (1844–96), who entitled one of his volumes of poetry Dédicaces (“Dedications”), and explained in the introduction that “these ballads and sonnets are all intimate and are directed only to certain friends and good companions of the author who dedicates the poems to them exclusively, with- out any other intention than of pleasing them.” 3. The sense of lines 10–12 is: “Would I not be glad to have all that your eyes promise me—namely, half a fool’s kingdom—far from men who are engaged in ordinary mundane activities and who thus pass their days in vanity?” The “fool’s kingdom” is the lunatic’s world of imagination; the lunatic’s eyes promise to share that kingdom with the poet. 1892, 1896 12 / Ernest Dowson Find end of labor, where’s rest for the old, Freedom to all from love and fear and lust. Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust. Spleen 1 for arthur symons I was not sorrowful, I could not weep, And all my memories were put to sleep. I watched the river grow more white and strange, All day till evening I watched it change. 5 All day till evening I watched the rain Beat wearily upon the window pane. I was not sorrowful, but only tired Of everything that ever I desired. Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me 10 The shadow of a shadow utterly. All day mine hunger for her heart became Oblivion, until the evening came, And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep, With all my memories that could not sleep. Flos Lunae 1 2 for yvanhoé rambosson I would not alter thy cold eyes, Nor trouble the calm fount of speech With aught of passion or surprise. The heart of thee I cannot reach: 5 I would not alter thy cold eyes! 1896, 1899 1896 1. 1865–1945. English poet and critic influential in spreading knowledge in England of the French symbolist poets. 1. “Flower of the moon.” 2. Thisnamesoundstoogoodtobetrue,andper- haps is. Desmond Flower’s annotated edition of Dowson’s poetical works identifies the other char- acters to whom Dowson dedicated poems but is silent on this one. I would not alter thy cold eyes; Nor have thee smile, nor make thee weep: Though all my life droops down and dies, Desiring thee, desiring sleep, 10 I would not alter thy cold eyes. I would not alter thy cold eyes; I would not change thee if I might, To whom my prayers for incense rise, Daughter of dreams! my moon of night! 15 I would not alter thy cold eyes. I would not alter thy cold eyes, With trouble of the human heart: Within their glance my spirit lies. A frozen thing, alone, apart: 20 I would not alter thy cold eyes. Dregs The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain; 5 And health and hope have gone the way of love Into the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end; This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait 10 For the dropped curtain and the closing gate; This is the end of all the songs man sings. Exchanges All that I had I brought. Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought, A rose to match thy snow: 5 All that I had I brought. Little enough I sought; But a word compassionate, A passing glance, or thought, 1891, 1896 1899 Exchanges / 3 4 / Ernest Dowson For me outside the gate: 5 10 15 20 Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, Despising the world’s wisdom and the world’s desire, Which from the body of this death bring no release? Within their austere walls no voices penetrate; A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains; Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate; This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pains. From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways; Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys; 10 15 Little enough I sought. Little enough I found: All that you had, perchance! With the dead leaves on the ground, I dance the devil’s dance. All that you had I found Carthusians 1 And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with bays, 2 And each was tired at last of the world’s foolish noise. It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God’s holy wrath, They were too stern to bear sweet Francis’ gentle sway; 3 Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path, To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray. A cloistered company, they are companionless, None knoweth here the secret of his brother’s heart: They are but come together for more loneliness, Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part. O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay, Your great refusal’s victory, your little loss, Deserting vanity’ for the more perfect way, The sweeter service of the most dolorous Cross. 1. A monastic order founded in 1084 at Char- treuse in the French Alps. The Carthusian regimen is stringently ascetic; each white-robed monk is a silent solitary except when participating in services of worship. Cf. Arnold’s Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse. 2. A crown of bay leaves (or laurel) was awarded to poets whose work was admired. 3. St. Dominic, founder of the Dominican order of friars (1215), whose preaching was especially directed to converting heathens in Christianity; St. Francis of Assisi, founder of the Franciscan order of friars in 1209, was a gentle and tender-spirited leader who worked and preached among the poor. 1899 25 30 35 Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail! Your silence and austerity shall win at last: Desire and mirth, the world’s ephemeral lights shall fail, The sweet star of your queen is never overcast. We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine; With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art; Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine: None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart. Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed! Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail: Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ! Though the world fall apart, surely ye shall prevail.

code I watched the glory of her childhood change, Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew, (Loved long ago in lily-time), Become a maid, mysterious and strange, With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew Of old, in the olden time!
 * Ernest Dowson - Growth**||

Till on my doubting soul the ancient good Of her dear childhood in the new disguise Dawned, and I hastened to adore The glory of her waking maidenhead, And found the old tenderness within her deepening eyes, But kinder than before. code