The Alfred Lord Tennyson Fan Club

[Beren3000]

Ok, I've asked around and I found some Tennyson fans among you. So here is the thread where you can talk about your favorite Tennyson poems and discuss his work in general.

[Beren3000]

My favorite Tennyson poem is called The Miller's Daughter, here it goes(continued in the next post):
I see the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes?
The slow wise smile that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curl’d,
Seem’d half-within and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cup–
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet
At his own jest–gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,
His memory scarce can make me sad.


Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There’s somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.
There’s somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.


Have I not found a happy earth?
I least should breathe a thought of pain.
Would God renew me from my birth
I’d almost live my life again.
So sweet it seems with thee to walk,
And once again to woo thee mine–
It seems in after-dinner talk
Across the walnuts and the wine–


To be the long and listless boy
Late-left an orphan of the squire,
Where this old mansion mounted high
Looks down upon the village spire:
For even here, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long,
Each morn my sleep was broken thro’
By some wild skylark’s matin song.


And oft I heard the tender dove
In firry woodlands making moan;
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,
I had no motion of my own.
For scarce my life with fancy play’d
Before I dream’d that pleasant dream–
Still hither thither idly sway’d
Like those long mosses in the stream.


Or from the bridge I lean’d to hear
The milldam rushing down with noise,
And see the minnows everywhere
In crystal eddies glance and poise,
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung
Below the range of stepping-stones,
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung
In masses thick with milky cones.


But, Alice, what an hour was that,
When after roving in the woods
(’Twas April then), I came and sat
Below the chestnuts, when their buds
Were glistening to the breezy blue;
And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool.


A love-song I had somewhere read,
An echo from a measured strain,
Beat time to nothing in my head
From some odd corner of the brain.
It haunted me, the morning long,
With weary sameness in the rhymes,
The phantom of a silent song,
That went and came a thousand times.


Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood
I watch’d the little circles die;
They past into the level flood,
And there a vision caught my eye;
The reflex of a beauteous form,
A glowing arm, a gleaming neck,
As when a sunbeam wavers warm
Within the dark and dimpled beck.


For you remember, you had set,
That morning, on the casement-edge
A long green box of mignonette,
And you were leaning from the ledge
And when I raised my eyes, above
They met with two so full and bright–
Such eyes! I swear to you, my love,
That these have never lost their light.

[Beren3000]

(Continued; italics mine to indicate "the songs")
I loved, and love dispell’d the fear
That I should die an early death:
For love possess’d the atmosphere,
And fill’d the breast with purer breath.
My mother thought, what ails the boy?
For I was alter’d, and began
To move about the house with joy,
And with the certain step of man.


I loved the brimming wave that swam
Thro’ quiet meadows round the mill,
The sleepy pool above the dam,
The pool beneath it never still,
The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor,
The dark round of the dripping wheel,
The very air about the door
Made misty with the floating meal.


And oft in ramblings on the wold,
When April nights began to blow,
And April’s crescent glimmer’d cold,
I saw the village lights below;
I knew your taper far away,
And full at heart of trembling hope,
From off the wold I came, and lay
Upon the freshly-flower’d slope.


The deep brook groan’d beneath the mill;
And ‘by that lamp,’ I thought, ‘she sits!’
The white chalk-quarry from the hill
Gleam’d to the flying moon by fits.
‘O that I were beside her now!
O will she answer if I call?
O would she give me vow for vow,
Sweet Alice, if I told her all?’


Sometimes I saw you sit and spin;
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within;
Sometimes your shadow cross’d the blind.
At last you rose and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across into the night,
And all the casement darken’d there.


But when at last I dared to speak,
The lanes, you know, were white with may,
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
Flush’d like the coming of the day;
And so it was–half-sly, half-shy,
You would, and would not, little one!
Although I pleaded tenderly,
And you and I were all alone.


And slowly was my mother brought
To yield consent to my desire:
She wish’d me happy, but she thought
I might have look’d a little higher;
And I was young–too young to wed:
‘Yet must I love her for your sake;
Go fetch your Alice here,’ she said:
Her eyelid quiver’d as she spake.


And down I went to fetch my bride:
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,
I knew you could not look but well;
And dews, that would have fall’n in tears,
I kiss’d away before they fell.


I watch’d the little flutterings,
The doubt my mother would not see;
She spoke at large of many things,
And at the last she spoke of me;
And turning look’d upon your face,
As near this door you sat apart,
And rose, and, with a silent grace
Approaching, press’d you heart to heart.


Ah, well–but sing the foolish song
I gave you, Alice, on the day
When, arm in arm, we went along,
A pensive pair, and you were gay
With bridal flowers–that I may seem,
As in the nights of old, to lie
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
While those full chestnuts whisper by.


It is the miller’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.


And I would be the girdle
About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.


And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.


A trifle, sweet! which true love spells–
True love interprets–right alone.
His light upon the letter dwells,
For all the spirit is his own.
So, if I waste words now, in truth
You must blame Love. His early rage
Had force to make me rhyme in youth,
And makes me talk too much in age.


And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like mine own life to me thou art,
Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart:
So sing that other song I made,
Half-anger’d with my happy lot,
The day, when in the chestnut shade
I found the blue Forget-me-not.


Love that hath us in the net,
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set.
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debt.


Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!


Look thro’ mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine
My other dearer life in life,
Look thro’ my very soul with thine!
Untouch’d with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell!
They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow: for when time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart
Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness past again,
And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss had brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,


With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,
The comfort, I have found in thee:
But that God bless thee, dear–who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind–
With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find.


Arise, and let us wander forth,
To yon old mill across the wolds;
For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below:
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
To those who actually got this far :D, what do you think?

[Mercutio]

He's on my list to read, what do you reccommend I start with?

[Beren3000]

Well, look here (http://tennysonpoetry.home.att.net/). I'd recommend Amphion, Edward Gray, Ulysses, Lilian, Claribel, Isabel and The Lady of Shalott.
After you get familiar with his style, you should try his longer poems like the one I posted just above and Locksley Hall and finally, before you switch to another poet read his magnum opus: In Memoriam A. H. H. an elegy for his friend in 131 parts (which I have yet to read)

[inked]

Well, I should say begin with In Memoriam , if only the introduction. This poem made such an impact on me that I memorized the opening in HS and have inscribed its inital words on pottery and used it in memorials to friends who have died.

So potent is the opening and so utterly human!

Strong Son of God, Immortal Love,
Whom we that have not seen thy face
By faith and faith alone embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove.

Thine are these orbs of light and shade!
Thou madest life in man and brute.
Thou madest death, and, lo Thy foot
Is on the skull which Thou hast made!

as is the ending of another of his great poems,

This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends.
Not with a bang
But with a whimper.

The Charybdis of hope and the Scylla of despair! What a poet!

[Beren3000]

Inked, that was great! I'd recommend Amphion and The Miller's Daughter from the link I posted above...

[sun-star]

as is the ending of another of his great poems,

This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends.
Not with a bang
But with a whimper.

The Charybdis of hope and the Scylla of despair! What a poet!

That's great, except it's by T.S. Eliot ;) (The Hollow Men)

I recommend Ulysses, Crossing the Bar, Mariana and the Idylls of the King as Tennyson's most accessible poems. In Memoriam also works very well if you just dip into it, rather than trying to read the whole thing in one go. Lots of the poems there are good stand-alones.

[inked]

Sun-star,

:o


I shall blame it on too many years reading anthologies and linking opposites in the formerly robust neurons which, alas, occasionally short-circuit!

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!

[Beren3000]

Ok, fans! We need to be discussing a poem here (at least I say so :o ).
Here's one I never understood:
The Kraken
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber’d and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
So what is this Kraken? an Apocalyptic monster or a representation of some hateful quality in humans? or something else entirely?

[inked]

Conquered Chaos released and destroyed for eternity in the Final Judgment.

[Beren3000]

Conquered Chaos released and destroyed for eternity in the Final Judgment.
Great interpretation! However, it has 2 flaws (IMHO). First, I don't see how this explains the "huge seaworms" the Kraken battens upon. Second, the idea of conquered Chaos is rather pagan because it presupposes the existence of Chaos before Creation (please correct me if I'm wrong). But we can see from other poems that Tennyson is a Christian, so.... :confused:

[Earniel]

The Kraken could stand for that which man never could discover and never will, since the creature sleeps and will only reveal itself to die at the end of things.

[Beren3000]

The Kraken could stand for that which man never could discover and never will, since the creature sleeps and will only reveal itself to die at the end of things.
Yeah, that explanation makes more sense to me.

[inked]

Great interpretation! However, it has 2 flaws (IMHO). First, I don't see how this explains the "huge seaworms" the Kraken battens upon. Second, the idea of conquered Chaos is rather pagan because it presupposes the existence of Chaos before Creation (please correct me if I'm wrong). But we can see from other poems that Tennyson is a Christian, so.... :confused:

It does explain the huge seaworms if we take worms in the sense of dragons in the western understanding of destructive forces. You could make the same objection about the polypi whose growth and winnowing the slumbering kraken battening the worms allows, that they are not explained either.

Tennyson was a Christian by profession and we see that explicitly in this poem affirming the conquering of chaos in its manifestation as kraken and seaworms. It is a very image of the Psalmist - YHWH is without peer. The pagan gods may have arisen from matter and chaos to control it, but YHWH is above that and His might unimpeachable. Also, if I am correct in the association of the sea and its creatures being in God's control, that final line about surfacing, roaring and dying is a statement of the Apocalypse of St John that "there will be no more sea" when the enemies are made Christ's footstool. So the conquering of the sea is an image of God's ultimate power of all Creation.

That help?

[Beren3000]

The pagan gods may have arisen from matter and chaos to control it, but YHWH is above that and His might unimpeachable.
But the fact that Chaos should be conquered first seems to suggest that it's a match to God! In my edition of Paradise Lost, the editor called the idea that God made order out of Chaos "Milton's heresy".

[inked]

Beren3000,

The fact is clearly stated as a matter of belief that God made matter: Genesis 1:1 IN THE BEGINNING GOD CREATED THE HEAVEN AND THE EARTH. This foundational statement NECESSITATES the relegation of all matter as under his control. It also NECESSITATES that all pagan gods attributed to have arisen from matter and subjugated chaos by non-Hebraic religions were INFERIOR to GOD the CREATOR. So, the imagery of God conquering chaos or Chaos is literary and dramatic shorthand, not heresy. And the sea is the traditonal imagery for chaos or Chaos. So, in this context, the Kraken's sleep is an image for the mastery of chaos and "battening down the seaworms" an image of the lesser false gods, the polypi survive in and due to the calm due to God's victory. In the final battle, the Master leaves no witness unconvinced of the mastery - significantly men and angels (those groups of whom there are faithful and rebels, believers and unbelievers) and faith or lack of it thus becomes incontrovertible fact.

More better?

[Minielin]

Having just recently read a book to my little niece on the subject (in a way), I'll venture my thoughts... the Kraken (in this particular storybook, anyway) is, simply put, a mythical sea-monster, the tales of which probably originated from sightings of giant squid. More here (http://unmuseum.mus.pa.us/kraken.htm). Of course, it's entirely possible and highly probable that in this context Tennyson was using it to symbolize the mastery of Chaos.

[Rosie Gamgee]

I love Tennyson! My favorite poems are his Idylls of the King- my favorite being Lancelot and Elaine. As for his other poems, I like Roses on the Terrace, The Lady of Shalott (this one's the one that caught me), and lots more.

Anyone read Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue (I think that's it's full title)? I love the part where T makes up a history for the headwaiter and the rooster. It's very funny.

The Two Voices is also very good. The ending is powerful, when he wonders "how the mind was brought/ To anchor by one gloomy thought// And wherefore rather I made choice/ To commune with that barren voice/ Than him that said 'Rejoice! Rejoice!'"

[inked]

RG, you whet my appetite for greater experience of Tennyson. Thank you for your descriptions.

Minielin, have you perused the X'n Themes in HP thread. I started on Fawkes. Would love your reactions/impressions/evaluations. Gracias!

[Rosie Gamgee]

RG, you whet my appetite for greater experience of Tennyson. Thank you for your descriptions.
No problem- I could go on forever. Call me Rosie.

When my sister was first learning how to drive, my mother quoted Tennyson a lot. Mostly going around corners; she would suddenly come out with "Break! Break! Break!" :D

[Beren3000]

When my sister was first learning how to drive, my mother quoted Tennyson a lot. Mostly going around corners; she would suddenly come out with "Break! Break! Break!"
LOL :D Very funny!
Anyone read Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue (I think that's it's full title)? I love the part where T makes up a history for the headwaiter and the rooster. It's very funny.
I've read it. I don't quite understand it but the image of the Muse dipping the laurel in the wine and touching Tennyson's lips with it...it blows me away!

[inked]

Hey, Beren3000, what about #17 in the thread?

[Beren3000]

Hey, Beren3000, what about #17 in the thread?
So, the imagery of God conquering chaos or Chaos is literary and dramatic shorthand, not heresy
Now you put it that way, I see what you mean and agree with you.
Btw, why do you keep calling me Beren3000? Everyone around here calls me just Beren. Save yourself a few keystrokes :p

[inked]

Sure, Beren. I just figured the 3000 was significant for you. But as Fen Branklin is falsely reputed to have said, a keystroke saved is a keystroke not done. :cool:

[Beren3000]

I just figured the 3000 was significant for you.
Not really, I just put a random number because the name "Beren" was already taken.
But as Fen Branklin is falsely reputed to have said, a keystroke saved is a keystroke not done.
:D

[sun-star]

How about this one...

The Poet’s Mind

I.

Vex not thou the poet’s mind
With thy shallow wit;
Vex not thou the poet’s mind,
For thou canst not fathom it.
Clear and bright it should be ever,
Flowing like a crystal river,
Bright as light, and clear as wind.

II.

Dark-brow’d sophist, come not anear;
All the place is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer
Come not here.
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wild-bird’s din.
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants.
It would fall to the ground if you came in.
In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,
Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder;
All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder.
It springs on a level of bowery lawn,
And the mountain draws it from heaven above,
And it sings a song of undying love;
And yet, tho’ its voice be so clear and full,
You never would hear it, your ears are so dull;
So keep where you are; you are foul with sin;
It would shrink to the earth if you came in.


Do you agree with him? Do we ruin poetry by analysing it?

[Rosie Gamgee]

Do you agree with him? Do we ruin poetry by analysing it?
I do not think we ruin poetry by analysing it at all. But the thing to keep in mind is exactly what he said- "Vex not thou the poet's mind.. thou canst not fathom it.." Even we who write poetry can still not guess all that a poet has in mind when he writes. We may look at a piece and think it pure trash, but we do not know the thought behind it. If we did, we might say that the poet nailed the feeling on the head. Poetry is such a form of expression that to try to dissect it is to try to dissect a single thought of the human brain- it's impossible unless you were actually in that brain at the time of the thought- and even then you might have difficulty. A poem is like a mirror. You can stand in front of it and study it forever, but the next person to stand in front of it will invariably see something entirely different. Oh, sure, both images have noses, both have eyes and mouths, but the placement is different, the thought when veiwing it is is different, and thus the impression is different to each person.
I think his warnings not to enter the garden of the poet's mind convey well the feeling one gets when one's writing is dissected. Take Tolkien, for example, with LotR. Many people have attempted to 'figure out' his work- was it allegory? does any of it have a hidden meaning? was he attacking the society of the day? was he prediciting the future?- but what those people do not realize is that he wrote a book. It was a bit imaginative, being set in a different world and all that, but it was, pure and simple, a book. To analyse and compare and dissect is to make a living thing dead. The minute you say you have figured out all that a poem means is the minute you are furthest from what it means. And so it is well for us, the reader, to stand aside and let the poet say what he wishes, to appreciate it for the impression it leaves on us, and to not think that our impression is the only one the poet meant to give.

[Beren3000]

Do you agree with him? Do we ruin poetry by analysing it?
No, I disagree with him and for the exact reasons that RG just stated! I agree with you, RG, that it's almost impossible to figure out what the poet really means by a poem, but to me, that's the beauty of it. The deeper you dig into a poem to find its meaning the more you get, and not all of your impressions have to be the right ones, but you'll certainly enjoy the process.

[Beren3000]

Hey, RG, what about Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue? How do you interpret it? I couldn't understand it. Is it about how destructive criticism smohters artists in general (or poets in particular)? What is your interpretation?

[Rosie Gamgee]

Well, I believe that T states at the beginning of the poem (WWLM) that he was sitting in a pub as he wrote it. And the whole thing strikes me as random thoughts strung together on that theme (pub). I've not read the whole thing for sometime now- I suppose I'll find a copy and then give a more detailed report.

[inked]

If we cannot figure out what a poet meant by a poem, why bother reading it?

[Rosie Gamgee]

It's not nessicarily about figuring out what the poet meant. Sometimes that is obvious, other times it isn't. It is good to try and figure out what a poem means, but if you think too highly of your own interpretation, you are practically plagerizing the poem (ooo, that would make a good tongue-twister- if only I could spell 'plagerize'). Not to say that you can't have an opinion- everyone's entitled to one of those. But- especially if the poet is unavailable for comment- I think that keeping an open mind about the original intent of the work is a healthy thing.

[sun-star]

If we cannot figure out what a poet meant by a poem, why bother reading it?

Because to travel hopefully is better than to arrive :D You can have more fun speculating and guessing and trying to prove your contention, turning every bit of the poem inside out to work out what it might mean, than you can have by seeing instantly what the poem is 'meant' to be about. One of my favourite poets wrote in almost unintelligibly complex language, but there is a meaning there, and the fact that you have to examine every word makes you appreciate his artistry (and his meaning when you get to it) a lot more.

That said, I can't make head nor tale of Will Waterproof. I don't think it was meant to be taken that seriously, as Rosie said...

[inked]

I disavow completely the non sequiter that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive. In fact, there is no better statement of bovine feces by another name in the English language save that which attributes such drivel to male members of the species! If your own experience has not yet taught you this, take an international flight of 19 hours or so and then evaluate it. :evil:

If we cannot discern a poet's meaning, there is not reason to invest the most precious commodity we have on the process. This view of poetry is untenable. The mere mellifluity and harmony of sound is known as music. The words are intended to convey meaning. If they do not, or if all they convey is the receptive interpretation of the reader with no basis in objective experience between the poet and reader, bash cymbals and clang gongs. It will mean as much.

Did RG's poem communicate about the nature of words under the emblem of cutlery or not?

[sun-star]

If we cannot discern a poet's meaning, there is not reason to invest the most precious commodity we have on the process. This view of poetry is untenable. The mere mellifluity and harmony of sound is known as music. The words are intended to convey meaning. If they do not, or if all they convey is the receptive interpretation of the reader with no basis in objective experience between the poet and reader, bash cymbals and clang gongs. It will mean as much.

That's irrelevant. Your question was "if we can't figure out what a poet means, why bother reading the poem?" You began by talking about authorial intention, and now you're talking about finding meaning of any kind. My reply was to your first point - that it's nearly impossible to discern exactly what a poet 'meant' by a poem. Sometimes poets don't 'mean' anything by a poem, but that doesn't suggest that the poem has no meaning. Poetry is not glass through which the poet's intention is completely clear - the best poetry is that which doesn't just tell you its meaning upfront, but uses language to elaborate on and consider different aspects of meaning. Can you read Shakespeare's mind? There are places in Shakespeare (and even more so in older writers) where the meaning is almost entirely obscure to us, but this tells us nothing about whether the meaning is worth finding. The clarity of 'meaning' does not determine literary value.

But if you don't find the process of analysing poetry enjoyable, I can see how this would be a foreign concept to you.

Did RG's poem communicate about the nature of words under the emblem of cutlery or not?

What? :confused:

[inked]

Sun-star,

Clearly we share a joint understanding of the concept of bovine feces which is delineated by series of letters in sequence to which meaning is attributed. That joint conceptualization allows us to communicate. It may be that our particular "accidents" of association differ when the term is used but the "substance" is understood between us. I for instance have a childhood farm memory of barefooting it through the feces blissfully unaware that it was poop UNTIL the odour and ordure became unbearable. Your experience may be similar or not. But it is NOT the lens of personal adumbration of the concept that allows us to communicate, it is the concept. And my contention is that the author of a poem intends to convey an experience which is delineable and discoverable by the reader. It may be true that the nuances of the concept conveyed is coloured by the individual's personal adumbration of the concept, BUT THE POET CAN CONVEY THE CONCEPT (the meaning) and the reader grasp it. This is an intellectual feat. Once that concept has been communicated it is true that there may nuances which escape us due in part to personal adumbrations of the concept, but if the poet is effective in communication, we may add his adumbrations to ours and enlarge the concept.

I find the process of analyzing poetry very useful and enjoyable BUT that is because there is discernable communication and meaning.

Now, "Did RG's poem communicate about the nature of words under the emblem of cutlery or not?"

[sun-star]

Now, "Did RG's poem communicate about the nature of words under the emblem of cutlery or not?"

Let me take this quote to illustrate my point. Now, I have no idea what you're saying here. The words make sense to me individually, but you're obviously referring to something which I don't have the requisite information to understand. If we follow your line of reasoning, there is no point in me trying to understand this question, because it's not possible for me to work out what the writer (you) 'means' by it. However, this does not suggest that it doesn't mean anything, because clearly you understood it when you wrote it (and perhaps Rosie understands it). Should I say "it is not possible for me to discern what this writer is saying; clearly he is a bad writer, since he has failed to communicate; therefore I will give up trying"? That seems to me a short-sighted and limited way of looking at communication - and at poetry in particular.

So, because I choose not to give up, despite your failure to 'convey the concept' in a way the reader can grasp, I assume you're talking about something RG posted in another thread. I don't know this for sure, and if you were dead (like Tennyson) I couldn't ask you. Your meaning is almost entirely obscure, and it is not possible for me ever to say definitively what that meaning is. That does not suggest that what you said has no meaning or value.

[inked]

Sun-star,

I beg your pardon for not realizing that Rosie's poem was elsewhere on the site. It is at:http://www.entmoot.com/showthread.php?t=11272&page=3&pp=20 and the post number is 55, IIRC. That shall perhaps make sense of what I wrote earlier since you will have the reference. :o

[Rosie Gamgee]

Sun-star,

Clearly we share a joint understanding of the concept of bovine feces which is delineated by series of letters in sequence to which meaning is attributed. That joint conceptualization allows us to communicate. It may be that our particular "accidents" of association differ when the term is used but the "substance" is understood between us. I for instance have a childhood farm memory...
Wow, now that's a post. Talk about having to discern meaning!

Well, I went back and read WWLM. It seems to me that the first part deals almost exclusively with the exultation of liquor and its effects on the brain. The second part, concocted, it would seem, largely under the influence of said drink, is a fantastical monolouge concerning the origins of the headwaiter. The last part seems to me to be a series of thoughts on the lamentable state of the hangover. The final stanza is a blessing on the headwaiter, made in gratitude for the hour of happiness and inspiration his beverage effected upon the poet. The poem seems then, in short, to be a series of thoughts had while sitting in a public house put down in verse and rhyme for the purpose of killing a few spare moments that would have otherwise been spent in boredom.

:)

[Beren3000]

Well, I went back and read WWLM. It seems to me that the first part deals almost exclusively with the exultation of liquor and its effects on the brain. The second part, concocted, it would seem, largely under the influence of said drink, is a fantastical monolouge concerning the origins of the headwaiter. The last part seems to me to be a series of thoughts on the lamentable state of the hangover. The final stanza is a blessing on the headwaiter, made in gratitude for the hour of happiness and inspiration his beverage effected upon the poet. The poem seems then, in short, to be a series of thoughts had while sitting in a public house put down in verse and rhyme for the purpose of killing a few spare moments that would have otherwise been spent in boredom.
Sure...if you look at it literally :rolleyes:
When I first read the poem it seemed to me that the liquor was a metaphor for poetic inspiration (cf. the allegory with the Muse) but this seems to run amiss with the story of the headwaiter. However, I still think the poem has meaning beyond the literal one...

[inked]

All poems have meaning beyond the literal one! It is just that one cannot deny the literal one! Since poetry is concentrated symbols (words and images they evoke or suggest) it is pregnant with possibility. But to use the metaphor, the union of the poet's DNA with the reader's DNA results in a unique experience of the poet which is definitely recognizable as a "personality" of the poem and which different readers may experience as persons are experienced (daughter/mother/grandmother/friend/aunt/artist/coworker/etc).

Each of these experiental states is valid, but they find their unity in the person (the poem).

:)

[sun-star]

When I first read the poem it seemed to me that the liquor was a metaphor for poetic inspiration (cf. the allegory with the Muse) but this seems to run amiss with the story of the headwaiter.

I agree, partly, about inspiration. I think the poem is about the conflict between high-minded ideas and reality. The speaker remembers his ambitions and hopes of the past and the alcohol leads him to believe in great possibilities - like peace between political parties, future human progress, and especially being a poet (hence the talk of Muses and libations, associated with Greek poetry). He recalls his past dreams:

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child’s heart within the man’s
Begins to move and tremble.

Then he remembers that none of this will happen. This is just a pub and the waiter is just an ordinary man ("As just and mere a serving-man/ As any born of woman), and the speaker himself will never achieve more than he is at the moment. Only the port made him think otherwise for a little while. Moral: we have our "lot" and can't escape it by ambition and idealistic hopes, so we should be content.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Sure...if you look at it literally :rolleyes:
When I first read the poem it seemed to me that the liquor was a metaphor for poetic inspiration (cf. the allegory with the Muse) but this seems to run amiss with the story of the headwaiter. However, I still think the poem has meaning beyond the literal one...
Oh, agreed! One of them would probably be that despite the idealistic dreams of our youth, we all seem to end up with gray hair "before [we] know it." But I think as a whole the poem is devoid of much of the heavy melancholy that seems to pervade most of T's works. Rather light-hearted I think.

p.s. I think that the 'Muse' is a pseudonym for the ale, not the other way around.

[Beren3000]

p.s. I think that the 'Muse' is a pseudonym for the ale, not the other way around.
Good way to look at it!

[Beren3000]

I started In Memoriam yesterday. Powerful stuff! I just finished reading canto VI and I love its ending!

[Rosie Gamgee]

I must admit that the sheer volume of In Memoriam really intimidates me. I have not read it, save for stray verses here and there- that, consequently, I cannot remember. I'll get around to it one of these days, I suppose.

I just bought a book of peotry by famous authors- Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tennyson, etc. It has Charge of the Light Brigade in it. I love that poem! The sheer darkness of it all- the tradegy, the glory, the loss, the victory! Wonderful! I love T's way of exalting the nameless nobodies without giving them a name- 'Noble six hundred!', etc.

[sun-star]

'The Charge of the Light Brigade' is an interesting poem to think of in terms of a poet's public role. Tennyson seems to have been one of the more successful Poet Laureates* and I think this poem demonstates why - he manages to capture a national mood, while also writing a poem which stands alone as good poetry. Some wonderful poets have been Poet Laureate, but few of them have succeeded in adapting their work to the public requirements as well as Tennyson did. Do you think there is a particular reason for this? Is Tennyson a more accessible writer, who can be enjoyed by people who don't usually like poetry?

Also, it's curious that 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', which is about failure, is more popular than 'The Charge of the Heavy Brigade', which is about success. They're similar in other respects. Heroic failure must make better subject matter for poetry - like the Battle of Maldon :D

*Poets Laureate, I suppose, but you know what I mean

[Beren3000]

Check this out

Tennyson reads The Charge of the Light Brigade (http://www.bbc.co.uk/artzone/poetry/outloud/tennyson.shtml)

[Rosie Gamgee]

Is Tennyson a more accessible writer, who can be enjoyed by people who don't usually like poetry?
I don't know that on the whole he is a particularily engaging poet (his poems are often very loooooong and hard to digest), but he could write some catchy stuff- The Lady of Shalott, Roses on the Terrace, or The Charge of the Light Brigade, for instance. I think this may be the reason that particular poem is well-liked- it is very eloquent and moving, emotionally stirring, full of national pride, and hey, it rhymes and the meter is practical.

About it being more popular than The Charge of the Heavy Brigade (which I have never read)- which is, you say, about a victory- I personally am attracted to tragic stories. I think that poetry is a medium that lends itself partcularily well to tragedy- there's probably more melancholy poems than there are really happy ones- and it therefore stands to reason that, in general, if you like poetry you like tragedy, to a certain extent. Thus a poem about failure and sadness is more appealing than a poem where everyone lives happily ever after- in general.
Anyway, it's a theory.

[Lotesse]

all you Tennyson addicts out there, ;) here is my all-time favourtie Tennyson poem, which is rather lenghy so I'll break it up into a couple posts.




ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

[Falagar]

Ulysses is, I think, my favorite as well, though there are quite a few of his I enjoy

[Beren3000]

Lotesse, Ulysses is indeed a great Tennyson poem. What other poems by Tennyson do you like?

[Lotesse]

here's one for you, Beren...


In Memoriam
A. H. H.

XLIII
If Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit's folded bloom
Thro' all its intervital gloom
In some long trance should slumber on;

Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last,
And silent traces of the past
Be all the colour of the flower :

So then were nothing lost to man;
So that still garden of the souls
In many a figured leaf enrolls
The total world since life began;

And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime
Rewaken with the dawning soul.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

[Beren3000]

In Memoriam is definitely great. My favorite Canto of it is:

XXI.

I sing to him that rests below,
And, since the grasses round me wave,
I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then,
And sometimes harshly will he speak:
‘This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men.’

Another answers, ‘Let him be,
He loves to make parade of pain,
That with his piping he may gain
The praise that comes to constancy.’

A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour
For private sorrow’s barren song,
When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?

‘A time to sicken and to swoon,
When Science reaches forth her arms
To feel from world to world, and charms
Her secret from the latest moon?’

Behold, ye speak an idle thing:
Ye never knew the sacred dust:
I do but sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing:

And one is glad; her note is gay,
For now her little ones have ranged;
And one is sad; her note is changed,
Because her brood is stol’n away.

Have you read The Miller's Daughter? It's in my second post in this thread. If you find time tell me what you think of it.

[Lotesse]

I hadn't read "The Miller's Daughter" before; of course I feel this poem. Anyway, it is an impossibility for me to remain unaffected by the subtle emotional power of Tennyson's verse. He was a lingual artist, a genius.
My wonderful, terribly missed grandfather in England was passionate about Tennyson, and turned me on to his works while I was still very young, for which I'm eternallly grateful. :)
Did it seem to you that there were a few word combinations in "Millers Daughter" reminiscent of "Ulysses"?

[Beren3000]

My wonderful, terribly missed grandfather in England was passionate about Tennyson, and turned me on to his works while I was still very young, for which I'm eternallly grateful.
Discovering poetry at an early age...now that sounds interesting!
Did it seem to you that there were a few word combinations in "Millers Daughter" reminiscent of "Ulysses"?
Not really. What's your take on it?

[Lotesse]

Here is the way I am feeling as of late...


Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly glows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

- A. Lord Tennyson, 1830

[Rosie Gamgee]

I'm sorry. How come? :( Take a walk in the woods, eh? The flowers are blooming and the trees are leaving (or is the leafing?)...

'And all so variously wrought;
I wondered how the mind was brought
To anchor by one gloomy thought

And wherefore rather I made choice
To commune with that barren voice
Than him that said "Rejoice! Rejoice!"'

~ A, LT

[Beren3000]

This may not be news to some of you but I never knew it before:
Yesterday I was watching a Discovery Channel documentary on war. They were talking about industrialized war and all... and they mentioned the charge of the light brigade at Balaklava. Apparently the light brigade was real and they were charged to capture a russian cannon battery. According to the documentary, the light brigade numbered about 637 men!
The strange thing is they never mentioned Tennyson at all...

[Lotesse]

here's a poignant one to savor...


After-Thought


I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. -Vain sympathies!
For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; -be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

[sun-star]

I like this one, written at the same time as In Memoriam:

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

[Lotesse]

Sun- Star, that one s tremendously elven, don't you think? I immediately think of the elves going home on the swan boat. :)

[sun-star]

I'd never thought of that before, but now you mention it... "stately ships" and the "haven under the hill" do sound very elven!

[Lotesse]

My absolute, all-time, very very favourite Tennyson poem:

Ulysses



It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

[sun-star]

That's my favourite too. And he was only 24 when he wrote it :eek:

[Lotesse]

He WAS?!? Wow, I never knew that. That poem has had such an intense impact on me; I discovered it years ago, and memorised it right away. I remember reciting it to one of my best friends, years ago, and I could hardly finish speaking the poem it choked me up so much. There's something viscerally moving about what he says here, on a grand soulful level.

[Lotesse]

Tonight, I watched this 1968 Tony Richardson film "The Charge of the Light Brigade," which I really, really enjoyed. They used 670 horses for the charge. It stars Sir John Gielgud, and Vanessa Redgrave, among others. Just thought I'd mention it here!

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0062790/

http://movies2.nytimes.com/gst/movies/movie.html?v_id=86974

[hectorberlioz]

Idylls of the King is on my list of next-to-reads... :D I bought a very nice paperback awhile ago. Reading Ivanhoe right now...

[Beren3000]

Idylls of the King are very well written. Enjoy! :)

[Brian Fawcett]

Does anyone know the name of that extremely popular-at-the-time novelist that Tennyson hated so much? Mrs Willman, or something like that? She apparently wrote quite a few very bad novels that sold in tremendous numbers, like a kind of 19th century Danielle Steel.

[Lotesse]

No, not at all. It couldn't have been Jane Austen, could it? Well, post it here when it comes to you, because now you've got ME wondering! Welcome 2 the Moot, by the way, Brian. Happy to see a new mooter! :)