Famous poet , chosen for today.....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

ALFRED NOYES

Alfred Noyes, (born Sept. 16, 1880, Wolverhampton, Staffordshire, Eng.—died June 28, 1958, Isle of Wight), English poet, a traditionalist remembered chiefly for his lyrical verse.


Niobe
----- ----BY ALFRED NOYES
How like the sky she bends above her child,
One with the great horizon of her pain!
No sob from our low seas where woe runs wild,
No weeping cloud, no momentary rain,
Can mar the heaven-high visage of her grief,
That frozen anguish, proud, majestic, dumb.
She stoops in pity above the labouring earth,
Knowing how fond, how brief
Is all its hope, past, present, and to come,
She stoops in pity, and yearns to assuage its dearth.

Through that fair face the whole dark universe
Speaks, as a thorn-tree speaks thro’ one white flower;
And all those wrenched Promethean souls that curse
The gods, but cannot die before their hour,
Find utterance in her beauty. That fair head
Bows over all earth’s graves. It was her cry
Men heard in Rama when the twisted ways
With children’s blood ran red.
Her silence towers to Silences on high;
And, in her face, the whole earth’s anguish prays.

It is the pity, the pity of human love
That strains her face, upturned to meet the doom,
And her deep bosom, like a snow-white dove
Frozen upon its nest, ne’er to resume
Its happy breathing o’er the golden brace
That she must shield till death. Death, death alone
Can break the anguished horror of that spell.
The sorrow on her face
Is sealed: the living flesh is turned to stone;
She knows all, all, that Life and Time can tell.

Ah, yet, her woman’s love, so vast, so tender,
Her woman’s body, hurt by every dart,
Braving the thunder, still, still hide the slender
Soft frightened child beneath her mighty heart.
She is all one mute immortal cry, one brief
Infinite pang of such victorious pain
That she transcends the heavens and bows them down!
The majesty of grief
Is hers, and her dominion must remain
Eternal. Grief alone can wear that crown.

n/a
Source: Collected Poems (1947)

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1.

https://poets.org/poet/alfred-noyes


2.


https://www.britannica.com/biography/Alfred-Noyes

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My Tribute poem, honoring Alfred Noyes....


Defiance, The Gods Fall, And Mortal Reign Begins

Fiery earth, multitude of chasms deep
The gods rose from their long and restless sleep,
Of those few again stirring brave and wise,
Night’s last breath then magnificent sunrise
Invincible new Gods as yet unborn
Quaked the earth, as high heavens are torn.

Again the gods woke from their restless sleep
Pale the colors as Gods learned to weep
Mortal defiance, as it swiftly grows,
O’ Seer, virgin flesh, in time arose
Dying Gods their powers had failed to keep
Earth's realm free, as mankind's destiny seeps.

Solitude, neglect had laid heavy blows
Universe its powers, had set new shows
As retiring Gods fled the future’s flight,
Man’s spirit therein, sought the blessed light
Yet in that vein, darkness again held sway
From fleeing Gods heard, "Mortals too shall pay".

Robert J. Lindley, 8-13-2020
Rhyme, ( Man's Powers Grew As The Fleeing Gods Fled )

Syllables Per Line:
0 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables:180
Total # Words::::130

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Mocking-Bird
by Paul Hamilton Hayne

A golden pallor of voluptuous light
Filled the warm southern night:
The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene
Moved like a stately queen,
So rife with conscious beauty all the while,
What could she do but smile
At her own perfect loveliness below,
Glassed in the tranquil flow
Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams?
Half lost in waking dreams,
As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed,
Lo! from a neighboring glade,
Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came
A fairy shape of flame.
It rose in dazzling spirals overhead,
Whence to wild sweetness wed,
Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on trill;
The very leaves grew still
On the charmed trees to hearken; while for me,
Heart-trilled to ecstasy,
I followed—followed the bright shape that flew,
Still circling up the blue,
Till as a fountain that has reached its height,
Falls back in sprays of light
Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay,
Divinely melts away
Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist, Soon by the fitful breeze
How gently kissed
Into remote and tender silences.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Hamilton_Hayne

Paul Hamilton Hayne
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Paul Hamilton Hayne
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Paul Hamilton Hayne (January 1, 1830 – July 6, 1886) was a nineteenth-century Southern American poet, critic, and editor.


Contents
1 Biography
2 Writings
3 See also
4 References
5 External links
Biography
Paul Hamilton Hayne was born in Charleston, South Carolina on January 1, 1830.[1] After losing his father as a young child, Hayne was reared by his mother in the home of his prosperous and prominent uncle, Robert Y. Hayne, who was an orator and politician who served in the United States Senate.

Hayne was educated in Charleston city schools and graduated from the College of Charleston in 1852. He began the practice of law but soon abandoned it in order to pursue his literary interests and ambitions. Hayne served in the Confederate army in 1861 and remained in the army until his health failed after four months, where he served as aide-de-camp to South Carolina Governor Francis Pickens.[2] He lost all of his possessions — including his house and an extensive library — when Charleston was bombarded in 1862. In 1863, Hayne moved his family to Grovetown, Georgia, a wooded area about 16 miles from Augusta, Georgia. Here, Hayne lived and worked until his death in 1886. Grovetown was also where his career as a literary critic and magazine editor began. He contributed to important magazines of the South during his era, including the Charleston Literary Gazette, the Southern Literary Messenger, the Home Journal, and Southern Bivouac. Hayne was also instrumental with Southern novelist William Gilmore Simms in the founding of Russell's Magazine, which Hayne edited.

Hayne is also noteworthy for his friendship with fellow Southern poet Henry Timrod, whom Hayne helped with both his life and his career. Timrod was frail and ill throughout his life with tuberculosis, and Hayne helped to provide financially for Timrod and his wife and young son. Most importantly for literature and history, Hayne preserved Timrod's poems and edited them into a collection that was published in 1872 and that presented such historically important poems as "The Cotton Boll" and "Ode Sung On The Occasion Of Decorating The Graves Of The Confederate Dead". Timrod now has the greater reputation as a poet, while Hayne is known more for his role as an editor and literary critic than as a poet. Timrod has continued to influence other modern Southern writers, including the poet Allen Tate, whose most famous poem, "Ode to the Confederate Dead", owes a great deal to Timrod's similarly titled poem.

Hayne died at his home, Copse Hill, at Grovetown, Georgia, on July 6, 1886. His papers are variously preserved in the libraries of the College of Charleston, Duke University, the University of Virginia, and the South Carolina Historical Society.

Writings
Hayne was an emerging poet and published various collections of poems, including a complete edition in 1882. His poetry emphasizes romantic verse, long narrative poems, and ballads. Like other fellow Southern poets of his day, his work was highly descriptive of nature. Some critics contend that his graceful lyrics reflect the influence of poet John Keats.[3] In a review of his work by Rayburn S. Moore, his influences are described as also including Geoffrey Chaucer, Edmund Spenser, William Wordsworth, and Alfred Tennyson, although the derivative nature and lack of intellectual force are considered weaknesses. Moore considers strengths of Hayne's poetry to include the authenticity of detail and observation of locality and situation as well as the versatility of forms, metrical schemes, and techniques, especially in short poems and sonnets.[2] Hayne's sonnets are considered his best work. He was appreciated even in the north and became known throughout the country as the unofficial poet laureate of the South.[3]

The Paul Hayne School in Birmingham, Alabama was named for Hayne after he sent an original poem and book of verse to the school on the occasion of its dedication in 1886.

See also
Biography portal
Four Southern Poets Monument

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

https://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/31/arts/seamus-heaney-acclaimed-irish-poet-dies-at-74.html

Seamus Heaney, Irish Poet of Soil and Strife, Dies at 74
Video
Seamus Heaney, the accomplished and admired Irish poet, reading from his work over the years.CreditCredit...Paul McErlane/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
By Margalit Fox
Aug. 30, 2013

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Seamus Heaney, the 1995 Nobel laureate in literature, who was often called the greatest Irish poet since Yeats, died on Friday in Dublin. He was 74.

His publisher, Faber & Faber, announced the death. The Irish poet Paul Muldoon, a longtime friend, said that Mr. Heaney was hospitalized after a fall on Thursday. Mr. Heaney had suffered a stroke in 2006.

In an address, President Michael D. Higgins of Ireland, himself a poet, praised Mr. Heaney’s “contribution to the republics of letters, conscience and humanity.” Enda Kenny, the Irish prime minister, said that Mr. Heaney’s death had brought “great sorrow to Ireland, to language and to literature.”

A Roman Catholic native of Northern Ireland, Mr. Heaney was renowned for work that powerfully evoked the beauty and blood that together have come to define the modern Irish condition. The author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, as well as critical essays and works for the stage, he repeatedly explored the strife and uncertainties that have afflicted his homeland, while managing simultaneously to steer clear of polemic.

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Mr. Heaney (pronounced HEE-nee), who had made his home in Dublin since the 1970s, was known to a wide public for the profuse white hair and stentorian voice that befit his calling. He held lectureships at some of the world’s foremost universities, including Harvard, where, starting in the 1980s, he taught regularly for many years; Oxford; and the University of California, Berkeley.

As the trade magazine Publishers Weekly observed in 1995, Mr. Heaney “has an aura, if not a star power, shared by few contemporary poets, emanating as much from his leonine features and unpompous sense of civic responsibility as from the immediate accessibility of his lines.”

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Throughout his work, Mr. Heaney was consumed with morality. In his hands, a peat bog is not merely an emblematic feature of the Irish landscape; it is also a spiritual quagmire, evoking the deep ethical conundrums that have long pervaded the place.

“Yeats, despite being quite well known, despite his public role, actually didn’t have anything like the celebrity or, frankly, the ability to touch the people in the way that Seamus did,” Mr. Muldoon, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the poetry editor at The New Yorker, said in an interview on Friday. “It was almost like he was indistinguishable from the country. He was like a rock star who also happened to be a poet.”

Mr. Heaney was enraptured, as he once put it, by “words as bearers of history and mystery.” His poetry, which had an epiphanic quality, was suffused with references to pre-Christian myth — Celtic, of course, but also that of ancient Greece. His style, linguistically dazzling, was nonetheless lacking in the obscurity that can attend poetic pyrotechnics.

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At its best, Mr. Heaney’s work had both a meditative lyricism and an airy velocity. His lines could embody a dark, marshy melancholy, but as often as not they also communicated the wild onrushing joy of being alive.

The result — work that was finely wrought yet notably straightforward — made Mr. Heaney one of the most widely read poets in the world.

Reviewing Mr. Heaney’s collection “North” in The New York Review of Books in 1976, the Irish poet Richard Murphy wrote: “His original power, which even the sternest critics bow to with respect, is that he can give you the feeling as you read his poems that you are actually doing what they describe. His words not only mean what they say, they sound like their meaning.”


ImageThe Irish poet Seamus Heaney in 1995, the year he won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
The Irish poet Seamus Heaney in 1995, the year he won the Nobel Prize for Literature.Credit...Steve Pyke/Getty Images
Mr. Heaney made his reputation with his debut volume, “Death of a Naturalist,” published in 1966. In “Digging,” a poem from the collection, he explored the earthy roots of his art:

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

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Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

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Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Though Mr. Heaney’s poems often have pastoral settings, dewy rural romanticism is notably absent: instead, he depicts country life in all its harsh daily reality. His poem “A Drink of Water” opens this way:

She came every morning to draw water

Like an old bat staggering up the field:

The pump’s whooping cough, the bucket’s clatter

And slow diminuendo as it filled,

Announced her. I recall

Her grey apron, the pocked white enamel

Of the brimming bucket, and the treble

Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle.


Image
Mr. Heaney, who traveled and lectured widely, at the University of Bologna in 2012 at a celebration of the centenary of the author Giovanni Pascoli.
Mr. Heaney, who traveled and lectured widely, at the University of Bologna in 2012 at a celebration of the centenary of the author Giovanni Pascoli.Credit...Mario Carlini - Iguana Press/Getty Images
Mr. Heaney was deeply self-identified as Irish, and much of his work overtly concerned the Troubles, as the long, violent sectarian conflict in late-20th-century Northern Ireland is known.

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But though he condemned British dominion in his homeland (he wrote: “Be advised, my passport’s green/No glass of ours was ever raised/To toast the Queen”), Mr. Heaney refused to disown British tradition — and especially British literature — altogether.

The writers who influenced him deeply, he said, included not only the Irishmen William Butler Yeats and James Joyce but also the Englishman Thomas Hardy.

In his poem “Whatever You Say, Say Nothing,” whose title became a byword in Northern Ireland for the linguistic subterfuge that underpins biographical conversations, Mr. Heaney wrote:

Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us:

Manoeuvrings to find out name and school,

Subtle discrimination by addresses

With hardly an exception to the rule

That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod

And Seamus (call me Sean) was sure-fire Pape.

O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,

Of open minds as open as a trap,

Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks,

Where half of us, as in a wooden horse

Were cabin’d and confined like wily Greeks,

Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.

As a result of Mr. Heaney’s inclusive stance, some supporters of the Irish Republican cause condemned him as accommodationist. His rejoinder can be found, for instance, in lines from his 1974 essay on the Russian poet Osip Mandelstam, who was exiled to Siberia by Stalin’s regime and died there in 1938.

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In the essay, Mr. Heaney set forth an observation that could be applied with equal force to contemporary Ireland:

“We live here in critical times ourselves, when the idea of poetry as an art is in danger of being overshadowed by a quest for poetry as a diagram of political attitudes,” he wrote. “Some commentators have all the fussy literalism of an official from the ministry of truth.”

The eldest of nine children of a cattle dealer, Seamus Justin Heaney was born on April 13, 1939, at Mossbawn, his family’s farm in County Derry, west of Belfast. The farm’s name would appear throughout his work. Mr. Heaney’s intoxication with language, he said in a 1974 lecture, “Feeling into Words,” “began very early when my mother used to recite lists of affixes and suffixes, and Latin roots, with their English meanings, rhymes that formed part of her schooling in the early part of the century.”

Later in the lecture, he ventured an alternative scenario: “Maybe it was stirred by the beautiful sprung rhythms of the old BBC weather forecast: Dogger, Rockall, Malin, Shetland, Faroes, Finisterre; or with the gorgeous and inane phraseology of the catechism; or with the litany of the Blessed Virgin that was part of the enforced poetry in our household: Tower of Gold, Ark of the Covenant, Gate of Heaven, Morning Star, Health of the Sick, Refuge of Sinners, Comforter of the Afflicted.”

In 1961, Mr. Heaney earned a bachelor’s degree with first class honors in English language and literature from Queen’s University of Belfast. He wrote poetry as a student, publishing under the modest pseudonym Incertus, the Latin word for “doubtful.”

He went on to earn a teaching certificate in English from St. Joseph’s College in Belfast and was later appointed to the faculty there. He began writing poetry seriously in the mid-1960s, joining a workshop led by the noted Northern Irish poet Derek Mahon.


Image
Mr. Heaney with his Nobel Prize during ceremonies in Stockholm in 1995.
Mr. Heaney with his Nobel Prize during ceremonies in Stockholm in 1995.Credit...Jan Collsioo/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
Mr. Heaney followed “Death of a Naturalist” with collections including “Door Into the Dark” (1969), “Wintering Out” (1972), “Station Island” (1984) and “The Midnight Verdict,” published in 1993.

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In 1995, he became the fourth Irishman to win the Nobel in literature, following Yeats, who received it in 1923; George Bernard Shaw (1925); and Samuel Beckett (1969).

In awarding the prize to Mr. Heaney, the Swedish Academy cited his “works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past” and also commended his cleareyed analysis of the Northern Ireland conflict.

Though Mr. Heaney was lauded throughout his career, a few critics condemned his work as facile.

“If Heaney really is the best we can do, then the whole troubled, exploratory thrust of modern poetry has been a diversion from the right true way,” the poet and critic Al Alvarez (also known as A. Alvarez) said in The New York Review of Books in 1980, reviewing Mr. Heaney’s collection “Field Work.” Mr. Alvarez continued:

“Eliot and his contemporaries, Lowell and his, Plath and hers had it all wrong: to try to make clearings of sense and discipline and style in the untamed, unfenced darkness was to mistake morbidity for inspiration.”

Among Mr. Heaney’s other volumes of poetry are “The Spirit Level” (1996); “Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996” (1998); “Electric Light” (2001); “District and Circle” (2006); and his last, “Human Chain,” published in 2010.

Mr. Heaney’s survivors include his wife, the former Marie Devlin, whom he married in 1965; two sons, Christopher and Michael; and a daughter, Catherine, The Associated Press reported.


A modern poet that was indeed a true poet, A TRULY MAGNIFICENT POET!!--Tyr