'Forgetfulness' by Hart Crane

There is another perhaps more famous poem of the same title by Billy Collins which I have posted on an earlier blog but this is the first time for this one.

Forgetfulness

 Forgetfulness is like a song,
That freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, 
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

 Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, - or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, - white as a blasted tree,
And it my stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.

 I can remember much forgetfulness.


Hart Crane





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

'The Truisms' by Louis MacNiece

Image
My Dad was a treasury of truisms (or maxims?) the majority of which he would be very proud  to acknowledge would be banned as being totally unsuitable material for the internet. Mephistopheles by choice but Faust by fate in Goethe's account of the reconciliation of man's divided nature. The one he lived by though was 'profess only evil, but do only good'.  Too easy to get that the wrong way round for me.  Lofty thoughts, noble purpose, universal benevolence, marvellous aspirations, pious hopes, the best of intentions and the grandest of plans are all to be applauded, but what counts, what makes the difference, what makes a man is what he actually does.  The rules are strict on this, there is no court of appeal. Sorry it took me so long to work that one out Dad, but thanks for the tip. Make a mental note of the last line because I have a poem to come shortly from Hermann Hesse that will have relevance. THE TRUISMS His father gave him a box...
Read more

'Fanfare for the Makers' by Louis Macneice

Image
Another poem that has lasted the course: first read in my 1967 copy of the 'Oxford Book of English Verse', it never fails to create a sense of optimism and purpose. FANFARE FOR THE MAKERS A cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what? To the small fire that never leaves the sky. To the great fire that boils the daily pot. To all the things we are not remembered by, Which we remember and bless. To all the things That will not notice when we die, Yet lend the passing moment words and wings. So fanfare for the Makers: who compose A book of words or deeds who runs may write As many who do run, as a family grows At times like sunflowers turning towards the light. As sometimes in the blackout and the raids One joke composed an island in the night. As sometimes one man’s kindness pervades A room or house or village, as sometimes Merely to tighten screws or sharpen blades Can catch a meaning, as to hear the chimes At midnight means to share them, as one man In ol...
Read more

'After Visiting Hours' by UA Fanthorpe

Image
Another recent interesting stay in hospital for an emergency operation brings to mind this old favourite of Ms Fanthorpe's..... I know that Jill and Jo will be interested at least.... Don't we all imagine how much more of a success we could make of life if we started off with say, the best of seven decades of life experiences? That's nonsense in medicine - innocence, naive enthusiasm, a complete ignorance of the subjective suffering of patients, an astonishing capacity to dissociate from horrible circumstances, intolerable demands, pressures and expectations- all these are fundamental survival techniques for young medical and nursing professionals just to get through the working day - and the loneliest hours after visiting hour left to you and a hundred or so patients. It is very often like a war - but maybe in the right company, good colleagues, with the kindness, good will and forgiveness of one's patients (the best are those that, despite experience, keep coming b...
Read more