What Is Your Favorite "Manly" Poem?
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Sorry, just never heard the words "manly" and "poem" used next to each other in a sentence...not where I'm from anyway, might get you hurt if you did.
What comes to mind is Shakespeare's description of Cleopatra:
Mr Flood's Party, by Edwin Arlington Robinson, about an old guy who now lives on the outskirts of town, reflecting on the changes over time.
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
As a former lumberjack, I can tell you I slept like a log!
There should be a sticky with all the past "manliness" threads. Some were quite entertaining as I recall.
I've always been partial to John Masefield's Sea Fever:
I had never read this one before. Excellent and thought provoking.
Downsouth, I'm from up north (Brooklyn, NY exactly), and yeah, you'd pretty much get jumped there too for such blasphemy.
I understand and I meant no offense; guess some of us just aren't as cultured (or I think young 'uns today call it woke) as others are.
My favorites are Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling and Edgar Allen Poe, but Services’ “The Smoking Frog” seems appropriate. (Some selected stanzas- not the complete poem.)
Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o’er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They’d jammed within its throttle,...
...It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted;
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted...
...Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire...
...Life’s like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale, then after
Death turns our bellies to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.
Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o’er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They’d jammed within its throttle,...
...It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted;
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted...
...Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire...
...Life’s like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale, then after
Death turns our bellies to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.
Its a tie for me, " My Friends" vs "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" by Service.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered Heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered Heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Celts among ye might find they have a particular fondness for Services’ “The Ballad of How MacPherson Held the Floor”!
I'm mostly a prose guy, but Poe is the exception. Even his prose is "poetry"
Being from Baltimore, just like he, I have an affinity for his work. (well, he finished in Baltimore)
His utter darkness wrapped in a command of our language to which few aspire.
And, for you sports fans, he is the reason Baltimore's team is called the Ravens.
Nevermore!
I once stumbled across a German 18th century poem which went by the title „Ode To My Tobacco Pipe“. Man, that was a manly read.
On a classical note, I consider Lord Al Tennyson's Ulysses to be a manly poem. It is a very oft quoted poem. It's great for old codgers like myself wishing to do more. Here's one of my favorite parts...
… Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
… Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
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William Blake! His poem, The Clod and the Pebble hangs in my office. I show it to some of my employees and ask, "Which would you rather be?" Fortunately, they know the right answer. ?
I never read this before, but I will now. Thanks.