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His mission is direct enough in section He behaves like a detective:. The poem asserts with confidence:. His original mission changes from finding the female spirit to finding the natural appearance of the holy presence deep in the physical and psychic woods in the environment of the valley. Solving other mysteries remains the work of serious detectives in the poem. Grammar is as much a part of these investigations as it was for the naturalists.

At points like this — and there are others — Taggart looks like a small boy at the edge of a Hogarth painting who is rolling a hoop or otherwise seeming not to care at all about the other people in a polite and proper painting. A definition follows in section The poet as detective goes back to investigate. The motive toward white drives the necessity of the poem: An unhappy childhood overcomes the resistance to happiness, and allows spiritual peace to emerge. Section 84 brings in qualifications for the nymph: After the process of negating possible visions of the nymph, the multiple versions of the female spirit transformed by renderings of Dickinson and Moore, section 87 rehearses or collects parts of the serial meditation as a way of penetrating the persistent questions of spirituality in the poem.

Wilson somewhere in western China a storm brewing and the light rapidly failing impossible to take a photograph Neither the nature boys, nor detectives, nor nymphs ancient or modern matter now in the immediate, unadorned, undressed, and unmodified reality of the garden itself:. Trace the gold sun about the whitened sky Without evasion by a single metaphor. Look at it in its essential barrenness And say this, this is the centre that I see.

Fix it in eternal foliage. And fill the foliage with arrested peace, Joy of such permanence, right ignorance Of change still possible. But with the veils removed, that particular human experience can come forward as vital spiritual energy. The process of arriving at the point of vision then becomes an essential aspect of the contemplations, and so the poetics of the entire poem. Such moments are stunning achievements. The serial mediation stops here momentarily before moving on to more speculation.

Taggart returns to the woodland garden, both actual and imagined, to generate still another means of envisioning the ambience of the poem. I think highly of grids. Grids make space, and space causes provocation, i. Three numbered sections each with its own subject: Section 1 gives three examples: Each of the sections is amplified by emerging patterns of correspondences. The first section begins its correspondence of sound with the tenor saxophone music of Lester Young, who played with the Count Basie Band — In the second section Taggart cites Renoir and Matisse as two of three painters of women, and that citation helps to clarify a group of inherent and perhaps hiding references in the first section.

Another touch of Hogarth. The pink Cadillac is an icon of popular culture — the Eldorado Seville or the Fleetwood with its rear fins for example. But there is more to the correspondence of the color pink than popular culture. By applying thin washes of paint, one over another, and often allowing some of the colors in the bottom layers to appear through the top coat of pigment, Rothko achieves the effect of a hidden light source.

The pink needs blue. In the poem, blue sustains the emerging presence of Matisse and brings back the presence of Rothko. Mixing pink and blue produces purple. There are three figures: In the allegory of the painting and the colors of correspondence, the blue path leads into the forest and then to the perception of the purple female form as a sensual awareness of a numinous presence.

The poem then lists two more people he is not like. Examples appear without announcement:. Ripe quinces give off a strong fragrance, and the invitation in this poem is to expose what is in the air with the fragrance, what factors of perception and vision allow meaning to emerge from a complex of associations in an ambient environment. The poem stops without a formal conclusion, so the serial form projects the open forms of contemplation and the seemingly endless possibilities of perceiving and articulating new signs.

The articulation of a poetics of vision in the garden continues as a meditative rehearsal. He also reaffirms the bonds between poetry and song, as well as the necessity of the female muse figure and other versions of the nymph: Weaving together stories and information from multiple sources informs the poetics of There Are Birds. The poems take place in a field of ideas about art, spirituality, literary matters, philosophy, intellectual history, and other subjects as well. Taggart wove the ideas and images together to constitute an ambience or an environment, an odor, as it were, surrounding the poems.

The process thrusts forward, not backward, forward to ongoing meditations:. There are birds there is birdsong unmourning and unmournful in the white light Intertextual repetitions have appeared throughout the volume; together with the complex of external reference they sustained the poetics of meditation without a linear plot.

It is one process of thought to review the struggles of other nature boys, detectives, philosophers, spiritualists, but quite another process to set aside their achievements and their modes of representation to preserve the uniqueness of the single moment of vision. Other representations cloud the unveiling in estranged vocabularies and rhetorical systems. Without grasping and making an image of the spiritual presence, the effort is thrust back into enacting the process of thought and vision in language.

In part, this essay draws on materials presented in my two previous essays on John Taggart: Arthur Knode and Ignolf Dahl Cambridge: Harvard University Press, Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology , trans.


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Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak Baltimore: John Taggart, Remaining in Light: State University of New York Press, , New Directions, , Knopf, , Robert Quine — was an American guitarist who had a role in the punk rock movement, and who, like Taggart, graduated from Earlham College in Williams, Collected Poems, Vol 1: Taggart was much influenced by the poetry and poetics of Louis Zukofsky. He includes, for example, these essays in his collection Songs of Degrees: While the poem is built up in part by the repetition and variation of key ideas, figures, and images, this essay will follow the emergence of the principles of perception not by explicating through all the sections one after the other but by following the movement of themes such as the geography of the woodland garden, classification, Marianne Moore, botanists, detectives, the female figure and white.

References and inserted information have been identified as part of a means to explain the movements of the themes. See Marianne Moore, Selected Letters , ed. Knopf, ; Penguin, See The Fables of La Fontaine , trans. Marianne Moore New York: Roll right down to the XYZ of it. Help me solve the mystery of it,. Francis Picabia, Francis Picabia: Late Works — , ed.

John Bartram — , from Darby, Pennsylvania, was an early American botanist and horticulturalist. Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide,. Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,. While musing thus with contemplation fed,. O merry Bird said I that fears no snares,. The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,. Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,. And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,. The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,. As on the margin of Euphrates' flood. And dash the tender babes against the stones. FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets. Now while the earth's with beauteous verdure dyed,. Though my small income never can afford,. But though rich dainties never spread my board,.

These I can give, and if you'll here repair,. No stately beds my humble roofs adorn,. But now advancing to the opening sea,. But on the other side the cliffs arise,. I hear the melting flute's melodious sound,. There is no land where heaven her blessings pours. COME, my Susan, quit your chamber,.

See the sun is now descending,. Mark the lizard just before us,. From yon grove the woodcock rises,. Now the whip-poor-will beginning,. Pensive Echo from the mountain. There the honey-suckle blooming,. Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,. Here a trickling rill depending,. While I speak, the sun is vanish'd,. Rural toil is now suspended,. Queen of rest and meditation!

2. Robert Frost

He now fills thy urn with glory,. COME Grief, and sing a solemn dirge. This is the cheerless hour of night,. Though such the darkness of my soul,. Fallacious Pleasure's tinsel train. For bliss superior she was made;. Tho' Reason points at good supreme,. Surely I wish the blackest night. Now thy clemency discover,. By thy passion I conjure thee,. NILE's beauteous waves, and Tiber's swelling tide. Where rough Ontario's restless waters roar,. Through many a "blooming wild" and woodland green,. Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,. As sighs the labourer for the cooling shade,. I love not life, it is a burden grown;.

I'm forlorn, in bitterness of soul. Phillis Wheatley MAY be regarded as a literary curiosity. Doubtless she has proved long ago the truth of her own spirited couplet, Remember Christians, negroes, black as Cain,. WHO taught thee conflict with the powers of night,. LET Grecian bards, and Roman poets tell,. Not Caesar's name, nor Philip's bolder son,. I look with rapture at the distant dawn,. Then bless'd Religion in her purest forms,. LET deep dejection hide her pallid face,. The generous purpose of his zealous heart,. Complain no more of Death's extensive power,. Happy, thrice happy, that exalted mind,.

Then weep no more, my friend, but all resigned,. Accursed for ever be the hated day,. See how the black ship cleaves the main,. Did all the gods of Afric sleep. A chief of Gambia's golden shore,. Does not the voice of reason cry,. Has not his suffering offspring clung,. His wife by nameless wrongs subdued,. Strong in despair, he sought the plain,. First of his race, he led the band,.

When erst Messenia's sons oppress'd,. Did not the soul to heaven allied,. Do later deeds quick rapture raise,. If these exalt thy sacred zeal,. While the hard race of pallid hue,. Let sorrow bathe each blushing cheek,. Little Was a native of Rhode Island, and a daughter of the Hon. IT is thanksgiving morn —'t is cold and clear;. Of the deep learning in the schools of yore. The anthem swells; the heart's high thanks are given:. Much more he spake, with growing ardour fired;.

Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn,. The hospitable doors are open thrown;. And there the grandam sits, in placid ease,. And there the manly farmers scan the news;. Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast,. Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust. Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train,. But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known. Yet now the sibyl wears her mildest mood;. Thy doting faith, fond maid, might envied be,. New England's daughters need not envy those. He thinks not so, that young enamour'd boy,. Gay bands, move on, your draught of pleasure quaff;.

While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years,. On the white wings of peace their days have flown,. But now, farewell to thee, thanksgiving day! BLEST were those days! Can these dull ages boast. And loveliest of her line. The tear of joy,. A child of passion: Yet, not perverted, would my words imply.

But the collective attributes that fill,. Yet anger or revenge, envy or hate,. Or if, perchance, though form'd most just and pure. If, haply such the fair Judean finds,. And such, even now, in earliest youth are seen;. And yet, despite of all, the starting tear,. Required it at their need, she could have stood,. And this at intervals in language bright.

Then, as young christian bard had sung, they seem'd. While o'er her graceful shoulder's milky swell,. Enwoven with their boughs, a fragrant bower. And, though the sun had gained his utmost height,. Sweet flower, thou'rt lovelier even than the rose:. Art like those brilliant things we never taste. Here, too, the lily raised its snow-white head;. Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,. WOE to thee, wild ambition! Through the celestial domes thy clarion peal'd;. Darting through all her veins the subtle fire,.

The thousand wild desires, that still torment. As spirits feel —yet not for man we mourn,. Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept;. Yet what the price? With stings that never cease. WHAT bliss for her who lives her little day,. To every blast she bends in beauty meek;—. Who only sorrows when she sees him pain'd,. What bliss for her, ev'n in this world of woe,.

This I had hoped; but hope too dear, too great,. THEN, lowly bending, with seraphic grace,. While he, "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind. Its fitful song the mingling murmur meeting. While gemmy diadem thrown down beside,. One careless arm around the boy was flung,. Quick to perceive, in him no freedom rude. AND thus, at length his plaintive lip express'd. The heavenly angel watched his subject's star. The nether earth looks beauteous as a gem;. The nightingale among his roses sleeps;. Proud prickly cerea, now thy blossom 'scapes. A silent stream winds darkly through the shade,.

Of marble fairly carved; and by its side. Is there a heart that ever loved in vain,. Still the fair Gnome's light hand the chime prolongs;. How my least word lent colour to thy cheek! We parted; years are past, and thou art dead;. Torn from thy sight, to save a life of gloom,. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun! The infant strains his little arms, to catch. Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit;.

Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee;. How many lips have sung thy praise, how long! Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth. Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night,. SWEET is the evening twilight; but, alas! And look like heaven dissolved. The bard has sung, God never form'd a soul. But thousand evil things there are that hate. And, as the dove to far Palmyra flying.

So —many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,. DAY, in melting purple dying,. Thou to whom I love to hearken,. Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;. Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,. He said; all o'er to radiant beauty warming,. Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath,. The Indian, leaning on his bow,. The native dove of that warm isle. Than I, a stranger, first beheld.

Soft be thy sleep, as mists that rest. And yet, for thee, why breathe a prayer? And treasured shall thine image be. To meet a friendship such as mine,. Looks are its food, its nectar sighs,. Though Friendship be its earthly name,. Him let it view not, or it dies. A charm o'er every object plays —. That, wrung by grief to see it part,. I love thy bowers,. They praised my forehead's stainless white;.

Well pleased, the kind return I gave,. Why will my heart so wildly beat? I fear my native snows; —. The orange-tree has fruit and flowers;. When the white coffee-blossoms swell,. Drive gently on, dark muleteer,. Escapes for those I love so well,. On, on, my bark! OH, moon of flowers! Oh, moon of flowers! I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot.

Thee light, and man salvation. How beautiful it stands,. For there, as many a year. Or where the o'er-arching grove. Yon old forsaken nests. And where alternate springs. Fain would I know what forms. Heaven bless you, too, my plants,. Thou, too, of changeful mood,. To each perennial flower,. Praise to our Father-God,. FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe. Earth fears to lift. HAS it come, the time to fade? Hydrangia, on her telegraph. The vine that o'er my casement climb'd. Put on thy mourning, said my soul,. The lily, as a timid bride,.

The ripen'd rose, where are they now? WHERE art thou, bird of song? Lamb, where dost thou rest? Seek thy Saviour's flock,. RISE from the dells where ye first were born,. There was a dell. Yet I strangely thought. SAW ye the farmer at his plough,. Come, see him at his harvest-home,. The dog partakes his master's joy,. The Harvest-Giver is their friend,. IT stood among the chestnuts, its white spire. Heaven bless thee, Lonely Church,. Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed,.

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought,. WHO asks if I remember thee? Did Israel's exiled sons, when far from Zion's hill away,.

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The simple cap that deck'd thy brow is still to Memory dear,. Gleams forth, with all its letter'd lines, still fresh with hues of thought. The flowers, the dear, familiar flowers, that in thy garden grew,. I feel thy love within my breast, it nerves me strong and high,. THOU wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep,. With what a smile of gladness meek. The artist's pencil shall it guide? Through music's labyrinthine maze,. Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome. Well skilled, the pulse of sickness press?

Say, shall it find the cherished grasp. Grant it to dry the tear of woe,. Write wisdom on the wing of time,. Discharge a just, an useful part. THE Lord is on his holy throne,. Your sorrows to his eye are known,. Doth Death thy bosom's cell invade? Press not thy purpose on thy God,. True prayer is not the noisy sound. Go to thy rest, my child! Before thy heart might learn. Because thy smile was fair,. FROM a bright hearth-stone of our land,. That beam is gather'd back again. Yet better 't were to pass away,. Lost —where the thoughtless throng. But when the sea and land.

THE past she ruleth. When o'er the future many a shade. Make friends of potent Memory,. Make friends of potent Memory. It was the quietest of nooks; —. When memory's harp had ceased to ring,. In summer, when the fields were green,. There, with one friend, delightful flew. It was the homestead of my mind;. And there with mingled joy and pain,. There, when my heart was sick with grief,. OF all his starry honours shorn,.


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  4. Blue-eyed she comes with tresses spread,. The tall corn briskly stirs its sheaves;. The flowers, that lay all night in tears,. With beads the trembling grass is dress'd, —. The lake obeys the zephyr's will,. With busy sounds the valley rings;. The gentle kine forsake the shed,. Scattering the night-clouds as in scorning,. SLEEP on, sleep on! And canst thou lift. Say, is it Passion's breathing vow? Enjoy the fleeting hour, —forget. Love's roses droop ere morn hath fled;. Each day, each hour, love's nearest ties. The friend so closely link'd to thee,.

    The most impassion'd love that warms. Thy children —o'er their opening minds. Those laughing boys that round. Though warmly smile beam back to smile,. Then bind not earthly ties too close,. Bird of nervous wing and bright,. Is the purple sea-weed rarer. Shady grove and sunny slope,.

    Where no winds too rudely swell,. There, the mock-bird sings of love;. Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight: He obeyeth God's behest:. If to struggle with the storm. IT was the Sabbath eve —we went,. In darker grandeur, as the day. The cooling dews their balm distill'd;. The green-wood waved its shade hard by,. Her beauty 't was a joy to note,. All motionless, with head inclined,. Once more the magic sounds we tried —. We know not, and we ne'er may know,. THE flowers, the many flowers. They, to the summer air. The breeze, the gentle breeze. The brook, the limpid brook.

    The hours, the youthful hours,. Young life, young turbulent life,. THE shades of eve are gathering slowly round,. Calls through the deep'ning twilight — Whippoorwill. Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze;. No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall;. Again, and yet again, comes Whippoorwill. I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill. Thoughts of my distant home upon me press,. Touch'd with that plaintive burthen — Whippoorwill. Sing to the village lass, whose happy home. Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill.

    Ah, they cannot hear. Another name my lips would breathe; —but then. Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill! THERE sits a woman on the brow. She heeds not how the mad waves leap. As morning twilight faintly gleams,. Far other once was Rosalie;. O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling. A sailor's bride 't was hers to be: But long, where all is wreck'd beside,.

    Nine years —though all had given him o'er,. On that high rock, abrupt and bare,. And every far-off sail she sees,. The sea-bird answers to her cry;. It cannot go; —with that to part,. When falling dews the clover steep,. Down the rude track her feet have worn, —. But when the gray morn tints the sky,. Again she goes, untired, to sit. Hidden, and deep, and never dry,. All else may fail that soothes the heart,. MY piazza, my piazza! I envy not the gorgeousness that decks the crowded room,. My fresh and cool piazza! I seek the healthy breeze.

    My bright and gay piazza! I love thee in the hour,. My cool and fresh piazza! I love thee when the sun. I prize thy quiet talk,. My piazza, my piazza! My loved and lone piazza! I feel as if a spirit's wing came near and brush'd my heart,. THE gay saloon was thronged with grace and beauty,. When nature's beauties bless thy sight,.

    When the far-clustering stars unroll. When music with her unsought lay. But should misfortune hovering nigh. Should poverty with withering hand. When youth and youthful pleasures fly,. And when unerring death, at last,. And when thy spirit soars above,. MY garden, fresh and beautiful! My garden— fair and brilliant! My quiet little garden! My friendly little garden! WHY should old age escape unnoticed here,.

    You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud,. BIRD of the south! While stranger-throngs roll by, thy song is lending.

    Category:Writers from Rhode Island

    And I will sing, though dear ones, loved and loving,. And with heart-music shall my feeble aiding. As, in lonely thought, I ponder'd. Soon vast mountains rose before me,. Then the clouds of ancient fable. Sisyphus, for ever toiling,. Rugged strength and radiant beauty —. While our faith in good grows stronger,. As the rivers, farthest flowing,. WE all are children in our strife to seize.

    Or, like the boy, whose eager hand is raised. And yet the child will have enjoyment true,. And ever those who would enjoyment gain,. THERE knelt beneath the tulip tree. In vain the flowers may woo around, —. And on her heart, that gentle maid. Of old the sacred mistletoe. But still the olive-leaf imparts,. As on each rock, where plants can cling,. THE night was dark and fearful,. Within that dwelling lonely,.

    A hundred lights are glancing. The morning sun is shining —. I SING to him! I dream he hears. Love gives to nature's voice a tone. I breathe the dear and cherish'd name,. O, these are all before me, when. THE birds their love-notes warble. An only child was Alice,. Beneath such tender training,. The gift that made her charming. And when in merry laughter. And so she came, like sunbeams. Shadow'd beneath those awful piles of stone,. Slowly, like youthful Titan gathering strength. But now it deepens, struggles, rushes on;. It reigns alone —and Earth the sceptre feels: Old Nile would ne'er bedew.

    And thus the Peoples, from the many Lands,. How wise —how wonderful the works of God! And ye, whose way is on this warrior wave,. And evermore the Deep has worshipp'd God;. OUT on the wisdom frozen. Then welcome little swallow,. There's not a plant that springeth,. Thus holy Wisdom teaches. The pilgrim swallow cometh. YE may place the trusty guard,. Ye may bar him from the air,. Ye may deck the lofty hall. Ye may twine the living flowers.

    ONE came with light and laughing air,. Like summer's sky, with stars bedight,. Another came —o'er her sweet face. Around her brow, as snow-drop fair,. And Jesus said, Which was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? Then said Jesus unto him, Go and do thou likewise. CAN China be our neighbour,. And bow'd in tribulation,. As gentle dews, distilling,. As early flowers, upspringing,. WHEN Orpheus struck his burning lyre,. The sword may sever slavery's chain,.

    And thus the power of Music's breath. Each Prophet-Bard of ancient days. A mystery this —but who can see. And every Temple Art has rear'd. Maria James WAS born in Wales, about the year , and accompanied her parents to this country when she was seven years old. THE hues of parting day. Now memory wakes the grief,. LET us chaunt the solemn lay,. Eastern sages, journeying far,. Shepherds on Judea's plain,. Babe of Beth'lem, lowly laid! Where the western wilds have lain,. Ethiopia's vail is riven;. THE scene is fresh before us,.

    The veil in sunder rending,. Should mortal dare in numbers,. Then tell the wond'rous story. These lines were suggested by the writer's calling to see a very aged and venerable lady, widow of the late Benjamin Moore, whom she found sitting for her picture. New York, June 4th, How beautiful is sleep! Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers!

    E'en in sleep, his sports pursuing,. How blessed was that sleep. Why did ye the master waken? Then Israel sang this song, Spring up, O well: FROM the parch'd bosom of the desert bursting,. Flow on rejoicing, through the deep wilds wending,. Still on thy waters may the sunbeams quiver,. Thus spake the Hebrews, in the desert singing,. LED by his God, on Pisgah's height. Behind him lay the desert ground. With joy the aged Moses smiled. Alone he bade the world farewell,. ALL hail to thee! All hail to thee! No more the helpless babe who slept.

    No thorny crown is round thy brow,. Thy blood-bought flock all safely rest. Gray Is a native of the north of Ireland, but came in early youth to this country. We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soiled and week-day clothes;. I remember, I remember, the parlour where we met;. I remember, I remember, how hush'd and mute we were,. I remember, I remember, as 't were but yesterday,.

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    I remember, I remember, the morning sermon done,. And whisper'd 'neath its spreading boughs, perchance some tale of love. I remember, I remember, how to the church-yard lone. I've wander'd forth, and thought if hearts were pure like this sweet stream,. I remember, I remember, the second sermon o'er,. Away back in those days of yore, perhaps the fault was mine,. Written for the bi-centennial celebration of the theological standards by the illustrious Westminster assembly of divines.

    Two hundred years, two hundred years, our bark o'er billowy seas,. Her chart was God's unerring word, by which her course to steer,. The wind that fill'd her swelling sheet from many a point has blown,. When first our gallant ship was launch'd, although her hands were few,. True, some have left this noble craft, to sail the seas alone,. For onward rides our gallant bark, with all her canvass set,.

    Her flag shall float where'er the breeze of freedom's breath shall blow,. On Scotia's coast, in days of yore, she lay almost a wreck,. Yet onward still our vessel press'd, and weather'd out the gale;. And see her now on beam-ends cast, beneath a north-west storm,. True to that guiding star which led to Israel's cradled hope,. Not unto us, not unto us, be praise or glory given,. Then onward speed thee, brave old bark, speed onward in thy pride,. MORN is the time to wake,.