November 17th, 2023 - Food for the Soul

Happy mid-November people! As the last blog post focused on an unforgettable exploration of Scotland's gastronomical hotspots, it is time to reflect on a different, albeit just as fabulous, type of nourishment: food for the soul. Also known as POETRY!

People love the Romantics. Understandably. But when you think of the Romantic poets, you think of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, Byron, etc. etc. etc. What not a lot of people realize is that these big names had sisters and nieces who were just as (if not more) skilled in poetic form, figurative language, and lexical manipulation. I am now shifting out of my Wilde phase, so I've been spending a lot of time in the poetry aisles of the good ole' biblioteca. Let's just say that going into a research spiral on these brilliant women poets has served as a wonderful way to procrastinate writing the sixteen-page final paper looming on the horizon. But alas, I digress.

Today I want to give you all just two poems to think about by Dorothy Wordsworth (William's sister) and Mary E. Coleridge (Samuel's great-grand-niece). I'm also going to be switching things up a little with this post. Instead of giving you my opinion on these poems or attempting to impart some sort of academic wisdom on the audience, I would way rather hear your thoughts (however informal or scattered) in the comments. Could be a one word response, could be a mini-paragraph. Whatever floats your boat. The important thing here is drawing attention to your experience with/emotional response to the text. Because that is what poetry is all about. It's subjective. It's personal. It's beautiful.

Mary E. Coleridge, "Eyes"

Eyes, what are they? Coloured glass,

Where reflections come and pass.

Open windows - by them sit

Beauty, Learning, Love, and Wit.

Searching cross-examiners ;

Comfort's holy ministers.

Starry silences of soul,

Music past the lips' control.

Fountains of unearthly light ;

Prisons of the infinite.

*this is one of my favorite poems of all time.

Dorothy Wordsworth, "Address to a Child During a Boisterous Winter Evening"

What way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o’er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; But how he will come, and whither he goes, There’s never a scholar in England knows. He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And ring a sharp ’larum; but, if you should look, There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow, Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, And softer than if it were covered with silk. Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; —Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space; Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves! As soon as ’tis daylight tomorrow, with me You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see That he has been there, and made a great rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about; Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig That looked up at the sky so proud and big All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show! Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down, like men in a battle: –But let him range round; he does us no harm, We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm; Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light. Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell. —Come, now we’ll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door —we’ll not let him in; May drive at the windows —we’ll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home wherever it be; Here’s a cozie warm house for Edward and me.