My young love said to me,
My mother won't mind
And my father won't slight you
For your lack of kind"
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day"
As she stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there
And then she turned homeward
With one star awake
Like the swan in the evening
Moves over the lake
The people were saying,
No two e'er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear.
Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in
So softly she came
That her feet made no din
As she laid her hand on me
And this she did say
It will not be long, love,
'Til our wedding day
Dead chicks, eh!
Always trouble.
There's something puzzling me about this poem. I can't work it out
ReplyDeleteHow so, Squib?
ReplyDeleteI read some Keats in one of those five centuries of poetry anthologies once and there were dead chicks everywhere; it was awesome. I particularly like dead chicks who turn into serpents.
ReplyDeleteSquib I found the line about goods and gear a bit weird; shameless rhyming on 'gear' and 'dear'? Any particular bits weird you out?
I just get the impression I'm missing something, like how she died. I don't know
ReplyDeleteIn the 19th century Squib, you couldn't move for dead brides popping up all over the place.
ReplyDeleteLike Flinders Street station it was.
She probably died of dropsy, or ague or angst or something.
I got the feeling she was ice skating on a lake and she fell through
ReplyDeletedidn't you?
ReplyDeleteI was thinking tigers, but - yeah - ice skating does make more sense.
ReplyDeletefell under a plow
ReplyDeleteRamon, what's the name of that poet who is a bit like Gertrude Stein as in quirky and female?
ReplyDeleteLiving or dead, Squib?
ReplyDeleteMCL, plough related fatalities were shocking in that neck of the woods.
dead
ReplyDeleteDorothy Parker, perhaps?
ReplyDeletenup
ReplyDeleteA long time ago you posted a mystery poem and I guessed this woman but got it wrong. I've trawled the archives but can't find it
I have to choose a poem every fortnight for a newsletter that goes out and I wanted to do one of whatshername's
wasn't emily dickinson or something, was it?
ReplyDeleteIgnore that. Found it.
ReplyDeleteMiles Franklin was your guess.
I remember Ramon said no cheating, so searched for that and up it popped :)
Squib, was it about death stopping for someone?
ReplyDelete"well heck", she says googling after she posted, "the miles chick was a writer and not a poet, d'oh".
ReplyDeleteCan't half tell I only read sci-fi/fantasy. If it doesn't have a dragon in it, I've probably not read it.
okay, i am just going to chuck names out there now - Neruda?
Neruda wasn't a chick.
ReplyDeletereally? gosh
ReplyDeleteoh well, detection now rests on your head - I am off to eat pizza
"Pablo" didn't give it away, Melba?
ReplyDeleteCompletely off topic, but I wonder if someone has come up with a smiley face denoting sarcasm. I've tried to think of one and can't.
Sheesh Puss. Do you need glasses? I'm not even involved in this conversation, yet you are casting nasturtians at me.
ReplyDeleteIs it because I broke my promise re that article? I haven't broken it, I just haven't done it yet. It's saved for you, but just buried in piles of papers. One day.
Puss is on the sauce already.
ReplyDeleteThanks Ramon, but fuck. Some people are just busting to trip me up for some reason.
ReplyDeleteI'm hot, menstrual and tired. Plus I have to go out tonight and I don't want to. To hear loud music, after my bedtime, in a place where there are guaranteed to be many drunks.
I'm in a foul mood people. Foul.
no, no, no
ReplyDeleteSeriously, I think it's just that I look at the first letter of the poster's name and make assumptions from there. M = Melba as far as I'm concerned. Sorry dude. Didn't mean to offend. Ask Ramon/Boogey. They don't even start with the same letter and I used to constantly get them mixed up.
ReplyDeleteMixing up Melba and myself is rather like mistaking Germaine Greer for the blond girl from Hi-5
ReplyDeleteSuuuuuuure, Puss.
ReplyDeleteI can smell the gin fumes from here.
Which is which MCL? I do hope I'M the Greer.
ReplyDeleteThat's ok Puss. Sorry I wasn't really offended but it's happened more than once. I'm probably reading more into than I should. Touchy world-class intellectual and famous ex-pat feminist that I am.
ReplyDelete*um* - you guessed - "Persey!!!!" in response to the pirate poem.
ReplyDeleteI thought you were talking about the guy Percy, but perhaps you meant Marge Piercy?
sorry sorry i know i should stop, but it's like when people ask one for a four letter word ending in 'e' in answer to a crossword puzzle - drives me nuts.
Melba: of course you are
ReplyDelete- smart insightful comments as opposed to my mistyped / spelt / generally grammatically incorrect impulsive blather :)
*um* - you guessed - "Persey!!!!" in response to the pirate poem.
ReplyDeleteNot one of my finer moments
Edith Wharton?
ReplyDeleteLike I said Melba, you should ask Boogey/Ramon about the number of times I confused them. I will try to look more carefully next time, but seriously, it will probably happen a few more times yet. Don't take it personally. I'm just a retard.
ReplyDeleteYou're like a dog at a bone with this, MCL.
ReplyDeleteMCL you are a star
ReplyDeleteNow I remember, not that Edith but the other one. Edith Sitwell. Pheeew. We can all rest easy now
RINH: yes, sorry about that.
ReplyDeleteThings like that bug the heck out of me until I know.
I can be a little anal sometimes.
She probably died of dropsy, or ague or angst or something.
ReplyDeleteDropsy probably isn't what I think it is, hey?