The Second Coming
Some lines from this poem came up recently; they seemed quite apropos to the current state of the nation. It was decided that X and I should memorize it, as it is definitely one for memorizing. (I've managed just the first stanza so far.) Some visualization was required on my part for the "blood-dimmed" lines, which put me in mind of the poetry group I used to be part of before going to Spain. Apropos of which (yay! got both meanings in!) I offer the question: who would be interested in participating in such a thing? I'm thinking something along these lines: a gathering of an evening at mine every month or so. I'll provide dessert and drinks both hot and cold. You bring a poem you like (not your own was the rule at the other one, but I'm easy), we go around reading ours aloud and we all discuss them in turn. It's not about being right or doing research or knowing all about poetry, just responding and exploring the language and imagery and emotions and... I discovered many an interesting piece in looking for my submissions amongst the library's collection. I would be up for varying the day of the gathering, so as to accommodate different folks' schedules and provide a changing cast of characters.The Second Coming
- Turning and turning in the widening gyre
- The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
- Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
- Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
- The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
- The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
- The best lack all conviction, while the worst
- Are full of passionate intensity.
- Surely some revelation is at hand;
- Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
- The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
- When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
- Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
- A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
- A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
- Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
- Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
- The darkness drops again; but now I know
- That twenty centuries of stony sleep
- Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
- And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
- Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
--W.B. Yeats
Labels: poetry
posted by Ned @ 4:10 PM
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