After the dazzle of Day

After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark dark night shows
to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of organ majestic,
or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the
symphony true.
Walt Whitman

You can hear this to music if you listen to Fred Hersch's interpretation of Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass". I also speak briefly about this in my blog:

http://abelisle.blogspot.com

This brief poem makes me think both literally and figuratively, just what happens to us when "the dazzle of day is done?"

Another poem that comes to mind as I think about this one is this one by Dylan Thomas:


DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Alex

KARL

WELL thank you for the information

dgrimm60

Karl - It is protected by the Copyright Act of 1976, as are all the poems which are published here. But I was just wondering why you would hope they were not.

Copyright law in the U.S. is governed by federal statute, namely the Copyright Act of 1976. The Copyright Act prevents the unauthorized copying of a work of authorship. Copyrights can be registered in the Copyright Office in the Library of Congress, but newly created works do not need to be registered. In fact, it is no longer necessary to even place a copyright notice on a work for it to be protected by copyright law.

ALEX

THANK you for both poems

dgrimm60

I'm just kidding, long-time aqueous navigator.

Nevertheless, I hereby give anybody permission to copy AND SELL (if someone, by some chance, is willing to pay you for it,) any poetry I post here.

KARL

WELL I am glad that you are willing to do that

dgrimm60

Those are great poems, both public domain Karl, in case you were concerned about copyright protection. Here is one which is not in public domain yet, but it is legal for me to publish. And by the way, anyone who reads my poems and wishes to copy them, has my permission to do so.

SILVER BULLET

If you don't know where you are,
And you don't know where you've been,
And you don't know where to go,
It's silver bullet time again.

If you are building on the sand,
Sinking in the sea of sin,
And you need a helping hand,
It's silver bullet time again.

Looking for the bread of life,
You can tell you're near the end
By the universal strife.
It's silver bullet time again.

The silver bullet is the kiss
That heals the hidden source within
Of mortal pain and emptiness.
It's silver bullet time again.

If confusion takes your day,
And you don't remember when
You didn't feel the need to say,
"It's silver Bullet time again,"

It's silver bullet time again.
Look around yourself, my friend.
Things are getting out of hand.
It's silver bullet time again.

BROKEN HEARTS

"These broken hearts are not for sale," Quietly I said.
"And why would someone want a heart, heavier than lead?"
"I'd think you'd want a cheerful and unblemished heart instead
Of one of these old broken hearts, ripped and stomped, and left for dead."

He said, "I have the balm, to heal the broken hearts.
I'll take away the deadly pain,
And give them sunshine for the rain,
And make them new again."

I said, "I've heard of you before,
Gently knocking at the door
Of any heart within your reach,
To touch and heal, to teach and preach
The Son of man forevermore."

"I'm glad you came for hearts today,
From places near, and far away.
I have been saving them for you,
And that is why I always say
'These broken hearts are not for sale.'
They're yours for healing anyway."

"I know the pain of a broken heart. I know it well," He said.
"For I have given all my love, and my love was rejected.
My heart was broken on he cross, and by the world neglected.
But from my grave and sabbath rest, nearly undetected
I ascended to a place where hearts are well protected.

And now I'm back for others who were
Ripped and stomped and left for dead.
And many will rejoice when they feel the gentle rain
Of the happy tears of those who find the joy of love again."

I couldn't say another word,
For it is very clear,
I'm in the presence of the Lord,
And all the saints are here.

I pray for His eye salve, that I may see my true condition.
I pray for His purest gold, tried in the fires of hell.
I pray for His pure white robe, to keep me from perdition.
I pray for His love, within my heart to dwell.

I only pray for love, to take my heart and mend it.
I only pray for love, to take my pain and end it.
I only pray for love, and peace, and blessings from above.
To heal my broken heart, I only pray for love. Amen.

Who wrote that one old sailor?

Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree--
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."