E Is for Ellison

Sunday Poetry LII -- The Most Beautiful Lines in Poetry

Gustave Dore

I don't remember who said it.  I read the quotation somewhere along the line.  Someone important.  You know, like all quotations.  At least the ones we remember.

Anyway, whoever the important person was, he said that the lines from Canto 33 of L'Inferno in which Count Ugolino recounts his story, between chomps at the back of Ruggieri's head, are the most beautiful lines in poetry.  Or else, that's how I remember the quotation going.  

Whatever the quotation, though, and whoever said it, you are the only judge who counts.

From the Longfellow translation –

“Thou hast to know I was Count Ugolino,

  And this one was Ruggieri the Archbishop;

  Now I will tell thee why I am such a neighbour.

That, by effect of his malicious thoughts,

  Trusting in him I was made prisoner,

  And after put to death, I need not say;

 But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard,

  That is to say, how cruel was my death,

  Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me.

A narrow perforation in the mew,

  Which bears because of me the title of Famine,

  And in which others still must be locked up,

Had shown me through its opening many moons

  Already, when I dreamed the evil dream

  Which of the future rent for me the veil.

This one appeared to me as lord and master,

  Hunting the wolf and whelps upon the mountain

  For which the Pisans cannot Lucca see.

With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained,

  Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi

  He had sent out before him to the front.

After brief course seemed unto me forespent

  The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes

  It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open.

When I before the morrow was awake,

  Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons

  Who with me were, and asking after bread.

Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not,

  Thinking of what my heart foreboded me,

  And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at?

They were awake now, and the hour drew nigh

  At which our food used to be brought to us,

  And through his dream was each one apprehensive;

And I heard locking up the under door

  Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word

  I gazed into the faces of my sons.

I wept not, I within so turned to stone;

  They wept; and darling little Anselm mine

  Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?'

Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made

  All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter,

  Until another sun rose on the world.

As now a little glimmer made its way

  Into the dolorous prison, and I saw

  Upon four faces my own very aspect,

Both of my hands in agony I bit;

  And, thinking that I did it from desire

  Of eating, on a sudden they uprose,

And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us

  If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us

  With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.'

I calmed me then, not to make them more sad.

  That day we all were silent, and the next.

  Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?

When we had come unto the fourth day, Gaddo

  Threw himself down outstretched before my feet,

  Saying, 'My father, why dost thou not help me?'

And there he died; and, as thou seest me,

  I saw the three fall, one by one, between

  The fifth day and the sixth; whence I betook me,

Already blind, to groping over each,

  And three days called them after they were dead;

  Then hunger did what sorrow could not do."

D Is for Dante

C Is for Carroll

B Is for Basho

A Is for Aesop

Sunday Poetry XLII -- Suicide and Langston Hughes

I am not an authority on anything.  Well, not yet.  Not really.

That said, I've been reading more Langston Hughes than I ever have.  Not that that's very hard.  My previous experience with this particular master was pretty much limited to "The Weary Blues" and maybe four or five others.

Now maybe I'm one of the few geeky enough to notice this, but, as much as I like textbooks, there are some serious shortcomings to them, because, often, instead of picking great works and teaching the works and the authors, so many of them have a particular objective in mind (rhythm, rhyme, plot development, symbolism, tone, etcetera) and dig through their memories or archives or old college notebooks to find some piece that demonstrates that particular objective.  While that is fine--and little more--and while it indeed introduces young or inexperienced readers to key pieces from some of the great contributors to literature, it also completely skips over so much of the truly great stuff--and maybe stuff that wouldn't otherwise show up, or couldn't, in a textbook, because it just doesn't perfectly match up with any of those objectives.

Back to my claim from above--or admission, really: you know, I am not an authority anything, and much less Langston Hughes, but, well, I never got the suicide theme out of his stuff (you know, those six poems) like I have lately.  Anyway, the theme makes sense, of course, considering his general subject matter, but my surprise and satisfaction are much less about his writing about suicide and that its subtle and graceful alignment  to his general subject or motif or whatever than it is about how absolutely brilliant his treatment of the theme is.

Here's the poem that really got me.  And I guess it "gets me" because it really nails to tumultuous confluence of emotions that must go through one's heart and soul when brought to this, well, place.

Life is Fine

I went down to the river,

I set down on the bank.

I tried to think but couldn't,

So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!

I came up twice and cried!

If that water hadn't a-been so cold

I might've sunk and died.

     But it was

     Cold in that water!

     It was cold!

I took the elevator

Sixteen floors above the ground.

I though about my baby

And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!

I stood there and cried!

If it hadn't a-been so high

I might've jumped and died.

     But it was

     High up there!

     It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',

I guess I will live on.

I couldn've died for love --

But for livin' I was born.

Though you may hear me holler,

And you may see me cry --

I'll be dogged, sweet baby,

If you gonna see me die.

     Life is fine!

     Fine as wine!

     Life is fine!