Chamber Music

First Violin: I, in love with the beauty of this world, endow it with my own beauty. The world has no abyss. Streaming out, my heart spends itself. I am only song: I sound.

Second Violin: For me, beside your more ethereal being, it is forbidden to have an I. Not the world — but more firmly and substantially: the earth has taught me. There it is growing dark. Let me accompany you, sister!

Viola: My grey hair makes it my duty to name the abyss for you. As you two childlike kindred spirits skim along, even the quarrel about nothing becomes attractive. But I suffer.

Cello: I know in my heart of hearts, that all is fate, the finely done and the unrelieved. I am true to the whole: enjoy life and repent! I do not warn. I weep with you. I console.

— Josef Weinheber (translated by Patrick Bridgewater)

| Poems

Inspiration

Anna Rabinowitz’s 80-page poem Darkling is an acrostic of Thomas Hardy’s 1900 poem “The Darkling Thrush” — taking the first letter of each line in Rabinowitz’s poem spells out Hardy’s.

“I found myself … haunted by ‘The Darkling Thrush,'” she said, “by its tone of millennial mourning, by its note of hope in the thrush’s song, and most especially by its opening line which situates the poet at he meditates on the passing century: ‘I leant upon a coppice gate.'”

| Language · Poems

“Fifth Philosopher’s Song”

A million million spermatozoa,
All of them alive;
Out of their cataclysm but one poor Noah
Dare hope to survive.

And among that billion minus one
Might have chanced to be
Shakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne —
But the One was Me.

Shame to have ousted your betters thus,
Taking ark while the others remained outside!
Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,
If you’d quietly died!

— Aldous Huxley

| Poems

“The Sniffle”

In spite of her sniffle
Isabel’s chiffle.
Some girls with a sniffle
Would be weepy and tiffle;
They would look awful,
Like a rained-on waffle,
But Isabel’s chiffle
In spite of her sniffle.
Her nose is more red
With a cold in her head,
But then, to be sure,
Her eyes are bluer.
Some girls with a snuffle,
Their tempers are uffle.
But when Isabel’s snivelly
She’s snivelly civilly,
And when she’s snuffly
She’s perfectly luffly.

— Ogden Nash

| Poems

“The Elephant; or the Force of Habit”

A tail behind, a trunk in front,
Complete the usual elephant.
The tail in front, the trunk behind,
Is what you very seldom find;

If you for specimens should hunt
With trunks behind and tails in front,
That hunt would occupy you long;
The force of habit is so strong.

— A.E. Housman

| Poems

“A Square Poem”

This poem, by Lewis Carroll, can be read line by line in the conventional way, but the same text results when it’s scanned “downward” in columns, reading the first word of each of the six lines, then the second, and so on:

I           often     wondered    when     I         cursed

Often       feared    where       I        would     be --

Wondered    where     she'd       yield    her       love,

When        I         yield,      so       will      she.

I           would     her         will     be        pitied!

Cursed      be        love!       She      pitied    me ...
| Language · Poems

“The Fence”

There was a fence with spaces you
Could look through if you wanted to.

An architect who saw this thing
Stood there one summer evening,

Took out the spaces with great care
And built a castle in the air.

The fence was utterly dumbfounded:
Each post stood there with nothing round it.

A sight most terrible to see.
(They charged it with indecency.)

The architect then ran away
To Afric- or Americ-ay.

— Christian Morgenstern

| Poems

A Poem

Sydney Smith wrote a recipe for salad dressing:

Two boiled potatoes, strained through a kitchen sieve,
Softness and smoothness to the salad give;
Of mordant mustard take a single spoon —
Distrust the condiment that bites too soon;
Yet deem it not, thou man of taste, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
True taste requires it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs.
Let onions’ atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole;
And lastly in the flavoured compound toss
A magic spoonful of anchovy sauce.
Oh, great and glorious! oh, herbaceous meat!
‘Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat.
Back to the world he’d turn his weary soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl.

In the late 19th century, such rhymes helped cooks to master recipes. When this one was reproduced in an 1871 cookbook, many committed it to memory.

| History · Literature · Poems