.

And by a prudent flight and cunning save A life which valour could not, from the grave. A better buckler I can soon regain, But who can get another life again? Archilochus

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Bigger Tools

WHAT was he doing the great god Pan
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed the great god Pan
From the deep cool bed of the river;
The limpid water turbidly ran
And the broken lilies a-dying lay
And the dragon-fly had fled away
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan
While turbidly flow'd the river;
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short did the great god Pan
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith like the heart of a man
Steadily from the outside ring
And notch'd the poor dry empty thing
In holes as he sat by the river.

'This is the way ' laugh'd the great god Pan
(Laugh'd while he sat by the river)
'The only way since gods began
To make sweet music they could succeed.'
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet sweet sweet O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die
And the lilies revived and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan
To laugh as he sits by the river
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain¡ª
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds of the river.
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

3 comments:

-FJ the Dangerous and Extreme MAGA Jew said...

Song Translation into English:

A pretty migration
to the dunes
the cranes on the well-kempt fields.

End of September
again every year
and I'm astonished like it's the first time.

My new roses
my little sea men
are packed in a small suitcase.

And stay calm
everything blows through
there light goes on again
when it moves and won't stand still.

I'm not searching anymore, I only find
comes at the start anyway
come what may.
I'm not searching anymore, I only find
was someone already there
is someone always there
was someone always there
who saw deep into my mind.
Yeah yeah yeah!
Yeah yeah yeah!

What I've learned
is to stay relaxed.
Everything comes to the table at it's time.

It's no use to tense up
when the machine is steaming
life's too short and much more than alright.

In perfect weather
in the sun's colors
even broken stuff shines like the shop window

at the jeweler's
I'm very glad to be here
marvellously clueless
when it moves and won't stand still.

I'm not searching anymore, I only find
comes at the start anyway
come what may.
I'm not searching anymore, I only find
was someone already there
is someone always there
was someone always there
who saw deep into my mind.
Yeah yeah yeah!
Yeah yeah yeah!

At the next stop I get off
boardwalk to the little house
lights on, open all windows
lights on, open all windows.
I am out!
I am out!

Was someone always there
was someone always there
who saw deep into my mind
who saw deep into my mind.
Yeah yeah yeah!
Yeah yeah yeah!

I'm not searching anymore, I only find
comes at the start anyway.

FreeThinke said...

ZOWIE! What a great piece by Elizabeth Barrett Browning of all people! It is sanguine, full of vigor and exaltation, -- and a sense of mystery -- and thus far exceeds, I think, most of her more famous Sonnets from the Portuguese.

Do you know if this poem was written after her marriage to Robert Browning? I seem to hear the effects of his sturdy, hearty, masculine influence.

I imagine Mrs. Browning must have inspired parts of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, which contains a marvelous chapter about confronting Pan in all his mysterious, vaguely terrifying-yet-comforting glory.

Eleanor Wylie too seems to have been influenced by this work, perhaps sibconsciously. Wylie's short poem "Atavism" reflects a similar image of river reeds.

-FJ the Dangerous and Extreme MAGA Jew said...

It was dedicated to her husband and published posthumously.