This blog is a tribute to all of the greater poets whom have written and that I admire at some level.
You may not always agree with the choice, but it is hard to disagree with the material.
For the inaugural post, I chose no less than W. B. Yeats. For some he is iconic, for others he is comic at best. For me, he was the epitome of a Romantic time during a troubled time. For better or for worse, he gave us poetry that will stand the test of time. Many of his poems will fall by the way side, many will never be recited again.
However, "The Second Coming" will never cease to stimulate some sort of reaction.
Chinua Achebe wrote a book called, "Things Fall Apart" based upon the opening lines of this poem, and it is one for the ages.
Currently, in my life, I feel the ever-widening gyre spinning out of control at times. I want to stop Time, I want to reel it in, but, alas, we cannot. It continues to move, and we must move with it.
The opening lines to this poems are emblazoned upon my mind. They sit there like a skulking gargoyle, always reminding me that Time is just around the corner, and that we, fellow travelers are just that, traveling.
The words speak more of their worth:
From "The Second Coming"
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
You may not always agree with the choice, but it is hard to disagree with the material.
For the inaugural post, I chose no less than W. B. Yeats. For some he is iconic, for others he is comic at best. For me, he was the epitome of a Romantic time during a troubled time. For better or for worse, he gave us poetry that will stand the test of time. Many of his poems will fall by the way side, many will never be recited again.
However, "The Second Coming" will never cease to stimulate some sort of reaction.
Chinua Achebe wrote a book called, "Things Fall Apart" based upon the opening lines of this poem, and it is one for the ages.
Currently, in my life, I feel the ever-widening gyre spinning out of control at times. I want to stop Time, I want to reel it in, but, alas, we cannot. It continues to move, and we must move with it.
The opening lines to this poems are emblazoned upon my mind. They sit there like a skulking gargoyle, always reminding me that Time is just around the corner, and that we, fellow travelers are just that, traveling.
The words speak more of their worth:
From "The Second Coming"
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The Falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
