Favourite Poem of the Month

The Lady of Shallot

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Part I
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shallot.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shallot.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shallot?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shallot."

Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shallot.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shallot.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shallot.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shallot.

Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shallot.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shallot.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shallot.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web,
she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shallot.

Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shallot.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shallot.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shallot.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shallot.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shallot.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shallot."

Writing On Week Sixteen

The fear of making something happen, like standing on top of a ski slope. There is the momentum of the passion to create pushing you, and the pull of opportunity. The only trouble is that you don't know what is at the bottom of the slope. So, I have to write and trust, and send it out for someone to catch.

I haven't been sending out many poems lately. At times it feels like an endless cycle of rejection. I just haven't hit the right time. I'm not completely discouraged, I am simply focusing on the creating process and marketing what I already have published. I am selectively submitting poems a couple of times a year to different literary publications, but I'm not going broke on stamps and contest entry fees.

At the moment, I am working on my second poetry manuscript and concentrating on editing the first draft of my novel. I continue to envision success, and wonder what it could mean. As writers, we are the most fragile of egotists. The hard part is bringing it forward, and making the world listen. We want to set free our words, and yet hang on to our last edits for as long as we can. (This sentence was edited numerous times)

This week I started the ball rolling again... I put forward a volunteer commitment to organize a poetry reading at work. The incredible part ( or maybe not so incredible) is that I work in an environment where people would actually assemble and give up their regular lunch hour to listen to poetry. My co-workers are already encouraging me, asking about the details and making promises to attend.

I've decided to leave a few minutes open at the end of the reading for anyone who wants to read poetry, their own or a favourite poems, so that it is more accessible. This won't be a poetry cafe atmosphere where people are accustomed to celebrating creative thought, so I want to transform this work space and let the audience breathe and feel comfortable and engaged. This isn't just about me and my book.

Still, I am trying to bring my work forward and, at the same time, kick off a poetic vibe. The fact that I am the catalyst for this event thrills me, and causes some mild trepidation. I've been getting in the habit of putting myself forward, and pushing down the fear. I've made contact with an established poet, Russell Thorburn, offering to review his most recent book of poems titled, Father, Tell Me I Have Not Aged. My drive is active and my mind is filled with ideas, plots, phrases and poems. I'm letting my passion push me and not worrying so much about what lies at the bottom of the ski slope.

Morning Couplets

I survey my unfinished room, think of great sketches,
sculptures without limbs, a musical score hidden in a mislabeled box.

Five mornings out of seven days, a single pillow, a radio voice;
today the week ends, our life starts. Your birthday is May, and mine July.

I wake beside emptiness on this heavy-clouded day;
a still tap in the bath, a piano in the corner, a morning waits to be filled.

A few hours traveled in another place; I unpack
luggage from my eyes and remove night shoes.

A jigsaw with bent and missing pieces, a ribcage
of sunlight shows an unswept floor.

I try not to ponder too much on how the sun rises,
not the logistics, but the eternity of it.

A soft, bright breeze stirs the new, confirms the uncertain,
something lost in the evening, pushed up by the descended moon.

When our morning becomes the entire day, we leave the rotation
of earth to its work; his beard shimmers red and gold sparks in sleep and in love.

A stillness in sun-touched branches, I try to model this:
in another flurry of morning we train ourselves to sip tea, and he tells me “write”.

In this world there is a light, and in this light there is a door,
and in this door there is a crack, and in this crack there is a dream.