wikipedia: Iron Horse is a poem written by Allen Ginsberg. It is an important part of his The Fall of America: Poems of These States sequence of poems written in the mid to late sixties. Iron Horse was published as a booklet in 1974 by City Lights.
The first part of Iron Horse was composed July 22, 1966, as Ginsberg rode a train from the West Coast to Chicago. It was initially dictated to tape and later transcribed. The second part of the poem takes place on a Greyhound bus.
The poem is typified by its fluctuating observations, and uses many of the same devises and expressions found in other poems in The Fall of America.
Some of the topics Ginsberg touches upon in the poem include: a group of soldiers riding the train some of them probably on their way to Vietnam and their mentality; a nostalgic feeling for his past and youth, ruminations on his own public persona, entertaining the thought of retiring to some solitary life; current events, headlines, conversations (overheard or imaginary) taking place on the train, and sights; both on and off the train.
I believe that you heard your master sing when I was sick in bed. I suppose that he told you everything that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling, well at least that's what you said. And now do you come back to bring your prisoner wine and bread?
You met him at some temple, where they take your clothes at the door. He was just a numberless man in a chair who'd just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair and he hands you the apple core. Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare of all the kisses we put on some time before.
And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk with a collar of leather and nails, and he never once made you explain or talk about all of the little details,
such as who had a word and who had a rock, and who had you through the mails. Now your love is a secret all over the block, and it never stops not even when your master fails.
And he took you up in his aeroplane, which he flew without any hands, and you cruised above the ribbons of rain that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane and, an ape with angel glands, erased the final wisps of pain with the music of rubber bands.
And now I hear your master sing, you kneel for him to come. His body is a golden string that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string, my body has grown numb. Oh now you hear your master sing, your shirt is all undone.
And will you kneel beside this bed that we polished so long ago, before your master chose instead to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red and you're speaking far too low. No I can't make out what your master said before he made you go.
Then I think you're playing far too rough for a lady who's been to the moon; I've lain by this window long enough to get used to an empty room.
And your love is some dust in an old man's cough who is tapping his foot to a tune, and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much, let's say you came back some time too soon.
I loved your master perfectly I taught him all that he knew. He was starving in some deep mystery like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee I could teach him something new, and I taught him how you would long for me no matter what he said no matter what you'd do.
I believe that you heard your master sing while I was sick in bed, I'm sure that he told you everything I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling, well at least that's what you said, And now do you come back to bring your prisoner wine and bread?
The postman comes when I am still in bed. "Postman, what do you have for me today?" I say to him. (But really I'm in bed.) Then he says - what shall I have him say?
"This letter says that you are president Of - this word here; it's a republic." Tell them I can't answer right away. "It's your duty." No, I'd rather just be sick.
Then he tells me there are letters saying everything That I can think of that I want for them to say. I say, "Well, thank you very much. Good-bye." He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.
If I can think of it, it isn't what I want. I want . . . I want a ship from some near star To land in the yard, and beings to come out And think to me: "So this is where you are!
Come." Except that they won't do, I thought of them. . . . And yet somewhere there must be Something that's different from everything. All that I've never thought of - think of me!
video info: Richard Wilbur was Poet Laureate in 1986. He is famous as a translator of French classics, particularly Moliere and Racine. So it's pretty certain that he's got the facts right.
video info: A provincial boy who found his spiritual home in New York and wrote abstruse poems about its wonders. Wall means Wall Street. The bedlamite is a suicide leaper.
learn about the nuts and bolts from an experienced, published author:
You have been writing for a while, would like to get started creating your own poetry or short-stories or simply need helpful (!) feedback and support from a group of fellow writers? Let’s work together.
In this class we’re covering basic elements of Creative Writing like
- POV (Point of View)
- Character
- Plot
- Show don’t Tell!
…
Each lesson will teach you about one of those skills but most importantly we’ll have regular writing assignments and feedback rounds to really ground this knowledge in practice. Ladies & Gentlemen, get your Pencils sharpened…
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here, our country moving closer to its own truth and dread, its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light— ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise: I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these to have you listen at all, it's necessary to talk about trees.
The way we speak sets up a first image as strong as our clothing, body size, etc. Our voice can be a decisive factor in getting this job at the interview, or impressing that new found romance :)
In this course I want to practice reading out loud with you, you will receive feedback from me, and also I would like you to learn how to give feedback yourself.
Note: I am working as a voice-over artists for video-productions, have conducted numerous readings of stories and poetry on stage and taugt quite a few offline classes about Speaking. now, let’s do it online :)
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"The next big killer application for the Net is going to be education. It's going to be so big it is going to make e-mail look like a rounding error in terms of the Internet capacity it will consume" - John Chambers
Get over the idea that only children should spend their time in study. Be a student so long as you still have something to learn, and this will mean all your life. ~Henry L. Doherty
You can teach a student a lesson for a day; but if you can teach him to learn by creating curiosity, he will continue the learning process as long as he lives. ~Clay P. Bedford
L Ferlinghetti starts reading after ca. 5 min of introduction
video infO: A prominent figure in the wide-open poetry movement of the 50s, Ferlinghetti gave voice to a generation that changed the face of poetry forever. Challenging the elite's definition of art and the artist's role, Ferlinghetti founded City Lights Bookstore, providing a meeting place for writers, artists, and intellectuals for over a half century. Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island of the Mind continues to be the most popular poetry book in the United States. His most recent work, Americus Book I was published by New Directions in 2004. Lunch Poems: Lawrence Ferlinghetti 2006 Lunch Poems is a monthly poetry reading held on the UC Berkeley campus. This reading features Lawrence Ferlinghetti. [events]...
info: Heres a virtual movie of the great American poet Emily Dickinson reading her much loved poem "Because I could not stop for death".
Because i could not stop for death...
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove At recess, in the ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, be passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle.
We paused before house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.
Kind Regards
Jim Clark All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2008
video info: Edna, who sometimes preferred to be called Vincent, was enamoured with the concept of "free love". Free Love is a misnomer because the term usually means the most costly kind of love: costly because it inflicts the most harm and provides the least valuable returns.
The idea of being in love with love where you can find it rather than entering into a mutually committed exclusive relationship is more attractive to the young, who can easily find a new relationship when they've ruined the old one by being selfish and unfaithful.
She is right that vows are worthless (unless they relate to a code of morality, such as wedding vows, but even then they are only as strong as that code.)
You can't trust a lover's promises because as soon as they get annoyed with you they will deliberately break them. The only person you can trust is one who has high standards of integrity. You can guess what their standards are from how they have behaved in the past. Whatever happened with their last lover will probably happen with you.
This sonnet expresses the idea that she won't need other lovers because she had found a lover who is so changeable and fickle thay they supply her need for variety. Of course, like most love poetry, it's not much more than spurious advertising for pretty falsehood. When poets promise undying fidelity or say that, "love is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is not shaken", they are more concerned about their lover straying - which motivates them to write a poem expressing lofty ideals in an attempt to prevent that eventuality. It probably won't work because, for one thing, by then it's too late. Three months later they'll be saying similar things to somebody else.
Or perhaps it's just me that's cynical about it.
Edna's critics would say that she did nothing new, nothing in the way of technical innovation, which is the hallmark of genius. However,they invented that standard of measurement. If the poet's job is " to tell you what it's like to be me" then Edna did that very well and most memorably. Why should it be a criterion of poetic genius that they break new ground?
Well I stepped into an avalanche, it covered up my soul; when I am not this hunchback that you see, I sleep beneath the golden hill. You who wish to conquer pain, you must learn, learn to serve me well. You strike my side by accident as you go down for your gold. The cripple here that you clothe and feed is neither starved nor cold; he does not ask for your company, not at the centre, the centre of the world.
When I am on a pedestal, you did not raise me there. Your laws do not compel me to kneel grotesque and bare. I myself am the pedestal for this ugly hump at which you stare.
[ Leonard Cohen Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ] You who wish to conquer pain, you must learn what makes me kind; the crumbs of love that you offer me, they're the crumbs I've left behind. Your pain is no credential here, it's just the shadow, shadow of my wound.
I have begun to long for you, I who have no greed; I have begun to ask for you, I who have no need. You say you've gone away from me, but I can feel you when you breathe.
Do not dress in those rags for me, I know you are not poor; you don't love me quite so fiercely now when you know that you are not sure, it is your turn, beloved, it is your flesh that I wear.
