(1830-1886) “After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes”
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Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) “After great pain, a formal feeling comes” After great pain, a formal feeling comes - The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs - The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round - Of Ground, or Air, or Ought - A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone - This is the Hour of Lead - Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow - First - Chill - then Stupor - then the letting go - _____________________________________________________________________________ “After great pain, a formal feeling comes” After great pain, a formal feeling comes: The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs. The stiff heart questions, was it he that bore, And yesterday, or centuries before? The feet, mechanical, go round— Of ground, or air, or ought— A wooden way Regardless grown, A quartz contentment, like a stone. This is the hour of lead— Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons recollect the snow: First chill, then stupor, then the letting go… Adam Zagajewski (1945– ) Try to Praise the Mutilated World Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world and the gray feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. [translated from Polish by Clare Cavanagh] W.H. Auden (1907-1972) September 1, 1939 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death 10 Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, 20 Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, 30 The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long 40 In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume 50 The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev 60 Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; 70 "I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work," And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the deaf, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain 80 Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; 90 Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. [First published October 11, 1939] Notes on the poem: September 1, 1939: the date of Germany’s invasion of Poland and the outbreak of World War II. Martin Luther (1483-1546): founder of the Protestant Reformation. Linz: Austrian city where Hitler spent his childhood. imago: unconscious representation of a parental figure (psychoanalysis). Thucydides: Greek general (460-400 B.C.) and historian of the Peloponnesian War, exiled from Athens because he failed to prevent the Spartans from seizing a colony. Nijinsky (1890-1950): Russian dancer and choreographer, who wrote that his former lover Sergei Diaghilev (1872-1929), ballet impressario, “does not want universal love, but to be loved alone.” “Who can speak for the dumb?”: Proverbs 21.8. Eros: Greek god of desire. W.H. Auden (1907-1972) September 1, 1939 I sit in one of the dives The furniture of home; On Fifty-second Street Lest we should see where we are, Uncertain and afraid Lost in a haunted wood, As the clever hopes expire Children afraid of the night Of a low dishonest decade: Who have never been happy or good. Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright The windiest militant trash And darkened lands of the earth, Important Persons shout Obsessing our private lives; Is not so crude as our wish: The unmentionable odour of death 10 What mad Nijinsky wrote Offends the September night. About Diaghilev 60 Is true of the normal heart; Accurate scholarship can For the error bred in the bone Unearth the whole offence Of each woman and each man From Luther until now Craves what it cannot have, That has driven a culture mad, Not universal love Find what occurred at Linz, But to be loved alone. What huge imago made A psychopathic god: From the conservative dark I and the public know Into the ethical life What all schoolchildren learn, 20 The dense commuters come, Those to whom evil is done Repeating their morning vow; 70 Do evil in return. "I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work," Exiled Thucydides knew And helpless governors wake All that a speech can say To resume their compulsory game: About Democracy, Who can release them now, And what dictators do, Who can reach the deaf, The elderly rubbish they talk Who can speak for the dumb? To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, All I have is a voice The enlightenment driven away, 30 To undo the folded lie, The habit-forming pain, The romantic lie in the brain 80 Mismanagement and grief: Of the sensual man-in-the-street We must suffer them all again. And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: Into this neutral air There is no such thing as the State Where blind skyscrapers use And no one exists alone; Their full height to proclaim Hunger allows no choice The strength of Collective Man, To the citizen or the police; Each language pours its vain We must love one another or die. Competitive excuse: But who can live for long 40 Defenceless under the night In an euphoric dream; Our world in stupor lies; 90 Out of the mirror they stare, Yet, dotted everywhere, Imperialism's face Ironic points of light And the international wrong. Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: Faces along the bar May I, composed like them Cling to their average day: Of Eros and of dust, The lights must never go out, Beleaguered by the same The music must always play, Negation and despair, All the conventions conspire Show an affirming flame. To make this fort assume 50 Adrienne Rich (1929– ) North American Time I When my dreams showed signs of becoming politically correct no unruly images escaping beyond border when walking in the street I found my themes cut out for me knew what I would not report for fear of enemies' usage then I began to wonder 10 II Everything we write will be used against us or against those we love. These are the terms, take them or leave them. Poetry never stood a chance of standing outside history. One line typed twenty years ago can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint glorify art as detachment 20 or torture of those we did not love but also did not want to kill We move but our words stand become responsible and this is verbal privilege III Try sitting at a typewriter one calm summer evening at a table by a window in the country, try pretending 30 your time does not exist that you are simply you that the imagination simply strays like a great moth, unintentional try telling yourself you are not accountable to the life of your tribe the breath of your planet IV It doesn't matter what you think.