Sunday, December 18, 2011

A Sunday Interlude


Lesser Ury: London in the Fog (London im Nebel 1926)




In a Sentimental Mood by John Coltrane on Grooveshark



  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                            
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

  And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                              
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

T. S. Eliot
 from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"







white versus yellow--
the butterflies
wrestle too
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue






Photo by Chester B. Long






best,
Don



Send a single haiku for the Wednesday Haiku feature. Here's how.

Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 127 songs

16 comments:

Fred said...

Don,

I couldn't help but think of Carl Sandburg's short poem.


Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

Ah, yes, thanks for the reminder, Fred.

TC and I have been going back and forth a bit. The fog started here, wound its way over here and found its way back to this post.

A bit of fun.

Don

Charles Gramlich said...

Man, I love that poem so much.

bandit said...

Wow . . .

AxoDom Guillerm said...

Reading this, another poet tumbles down in my head, probably because of the endless rain (pluie interminable) of the last verse.

Quelle ville ressemble au vin ?
Paris.
Tu bois le premier verre
Il est âpre.
Au second
il te tombe à la tête,
Au troisième
il te cloue à la table.
Garçon, encore une bouteille !
Et depuis lors, où que tu sois
où que tu ailles
tu es ivrogne de Paris, mon vieux.
Quelle ville
Demeure belle sous la pluie interminable ?
Paris.

Nazim Hikmet

Anonymous said...

this poem AND the Prufrock poem ....
sent me off
into this

Wild Blue Yonder
at a very early age
twisted my 'me'

I think that these two poems
...that Eliot
is yet our Plinth

the last piece that I sent to (%#*)
had the poem on it:

the
women
come
&
go

&

so
do
the
men

TC said...

Don,

Those kitties look like they have been caught in the act of considering a serious Prufrockian muzzle-rub upon the window-pane.

"Who, us?"

That fog keeps creeping under the windows and through the doors, wrestling with the mind like Issa's white and yellow butterflies.

I've been hiding beneath the bed.

Well, to gild the foggy lily, one might call it a strategic Retreat.

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

Charles, glad this one grabs you. Don

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

Bandit, Cheers!

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

AxoDom Guillerm:

Very, very grateful, indeed, for the wonderful Hikmet, which as I puzzle it out is a fine piece on Paris - a city like wine - the first taste, bitter, the 2nd hits you in the head, the third nails you to the table ... something like that perhaps? And the rain or mist or fog ...

Very much appreciated.

Don

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

Ed:

I do remember that last piece and the punning on come that has gone on since the beginning of time, which the Bangles so adroitly lifted, gently inserting into their version of "Dover Beach".

Don

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

TC:

The fog is so lovely and retreating into it, or out of it, such a pleasure.

Thanks for posting all those lovely pictures and the wonderful poems ...

Don

Wrick said...

until seeing your words, I never understood what Paris did to me. now chakunk, yeah.

mahalo

this fog
the days and nights
this mountain road

snowbird said...

"And seeing that it was a soft October night/ Curled once about the house and fell asleep." ...there'll be a time for you and a time for me...and my Dad always said we'll be dead an awfully long time. So while we are here we'll muddle through our decisions and our indecisions...
So many things to think about in a poem like this. Merrill

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

That is good to hear, Wrick.

Issa's Untidy Hut said...

Merrill,

There is just something so archetypal here that evokes the real and its representation.

The Hikmet in the comment section is also spot-on.

Don