tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post3570922360799260887..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: Ben Jonson: An Epitaph on S. P. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-77156494355185520292012-09-19T13:35:06.346-07:002012-09-19T13:35:06.346-07:00Indeed WB we do sense the tender side of the man h...Indeed WB we do sense the tender side of the man here, emerging quietly from the large shadow of the great bluff public figure.<br /><br />Steve, Yes, this poem always does recall "On My First Sonne" -- writ some thirteen years later on the death of Ben's son Benjamin Jonson ("Thou child of my right hand, and joy), aetat 7. <br /><br /> O, could I loose all father, now. For why<br /> Will man lament the state he should envie?<br /> To have so soon scap'd worlds and fleshes rage,<br /> And, if no other miserie, yet age?<br /> Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lye<br /> Ben. Johnson his best piece of poetrie.<br /> For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,<br /> As what he loves may never like too much.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-39023915461497933932012-09-19T12:55:10.884-07:002012-09-19T12:55:10.884-07:00Tom,
I will "weepe with [Ben]" for poor...Tom,<br /><br />I will "weepe with [Ben]" for poor Sall Pavy, poor little boy, "old before his time, his life . . . a performance" as David Riggs sweetly puts it -- a poem to go along with Jonson's epitaphs for his two too-soon departed children, one of whom is fortunate, the poem would have us believe, "To have so soone scap'd worlds, and fleshes rage,/ And, if no other miserie, yet age."<br /><br />9.18<br /><br />light coming into fog against invisible<br />top of ridge, towhee calling from field<br />in foreground, sound of wave in channel<br /><br /> no evidence to show whether,<br /> inscribed upper right<br /><br /> appearance, happens in that<br /> that, action in light<br /><br />clouds reflected in motionless channel,<br />pelican flapping across toward horizon<br />STEPHEN RATCLIFFEhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12339481653546188412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-89565668212365687692012-09-19T10:42:22.324-07:002012-09-19T10:42:22.324-07:00Death's selfe, struggling to set the mask asid...Death's selfe, struggling to set the mask aside from the living face, believing in the game the way children sometimes do. <br /><br />Jonson's tenderness keeps the thing mezzo-piano. No grandeur, only helpless and near-sighted fates.Mose23https://www.blogger.com/profile/01100756913131511440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-34266010899115032502012-09-19T10:12:51.112-07:002012-09-19T10:12:51.112-07:00It was a destination to which
I did not belong.
Th...It was a destination to which<br />I did not belong.<br />The Innovations, ultimately,<br />did not help me. Even with<br />somewhat skewed results, they were<br />set aside or beside themselves.<br />Quaint at first, out of hand<br />became a nuisance.<br /> It was a terrible time and a distant plot<br />I became increasingly a part of.<br /><br />They took poison--<br />not necessarily killing them,<br />it was all done as an invention<br />experienced as freedom.<br />It did not match their surroundings<br />but they were trying to change<br />their surroundings--<br />an impossible situation at its core.<br />Nothing matched up<br />even when scrambled or unscrambled.<br />Even put together sideways<br />the brutes their constructions<br />remained in charge of things by force.<br /><br />I remained "true to myself"<br />helped others when I could.<br />It was the end of the world<br />where death was never so in charge.<br />I ran for awhile but then <br />my mind did not help me to survive<br />another day. My mind decided <br />to choose a freedom that was static.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-50427085002768479432012-09-18T15:11:15.450-07:002012-09-18T15:11:15.450-07:00What is the point to the absurd
except to ponder i...What is the point to the absurd<br />except to ponder it<br />passing and bless <br />kiddie wranglers<br />with kind intent<br />in entertainment's cruel<br />requirements--<br /><br />The crowd was loud<br />and crying like babies<br />I knew my stuff<br />gave it<br />but then saw past<br />as they waited <br />for failure<br />for death<br />to shut them up.<br />I was already dead.<br />That was so funny<br />to me. It ended.<br />They would have more<br />where I came from<br />until sick <br />with the stench.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-44436252859842638832012-09-18T12:12:00.564-07:002012-09-18T12:12:00.564-07:00The pathos in the story of the "drafted"...The pathos in the story of the "drafted" child actors of the Queen's Company, or Children of the Chapel as they were called, gives pause for reflection. <br /><br />Remarkably, Nathaniel Giles, as the Queen's Choirmaster (a position he held from 1597 onward), possessed legal entitlement to conduct these forcible recruiting activities. Though technically the license to abduct children of the streets into the Queen's service only covered recruitment of the Chapel choristers, the high-handed Giles applied the license somewhat more liberally. <br /><br />In any case, Ben himself, whose common origins were never completely concealed beneath his learning (and his bravado), seems to have been much affected by this particular lad's death. <br /><br />The world of plays and players was a world in which he had served a difficult and sometimes dangerous apprenticeship of his own. His sympathy for the boys in the company -- Nathan Field was another -- was well known. The feeling here feels real and unforced. <br /><br /> This little storie <br /><br /> Death's selfe is sorry.<br /><br />The Fates have been made to bethink themselves. But it's too late now.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-73837695345910163762012-09-18T10:53:19.934-07:002012-09-18T10:53:19.934-07:00I see that brave slob, Peter, his catatonia, in a ...I see that brave slob, Peter, his catatonia, in a different light. He was already dead, his hair continuing to grow, his fingernails too long. To trim things and have them be neat is to stimulate life like in a tree or hedge. People are not hedges or trees but wow, did we enjoy swinging around in them once with our extra long arms, reaching, so beautiful up in the canopy. Yes, maybe we should have stayed up there forever, free. We wouldn't feel so homesick then, or would we endlessly long for the ocean?Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.com