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Look at this one by F S Flint titled as Trees. If we could indeed categorize his Swan as Imagist, could we do the same to the TREES? I just can't feel much Imagism in the trees, and you, Mr. Dumb?

Trees
F S Flint

ELM trees
and the leaf the boy in me hated
long ago --
rough and sandy.

Poplars
and their leaves,
tender, smooth to the fingers,
and a secret in their smell
I have forgotten.

Oaks
and forest glades,
heart aching with wonder, fear:
their bitter mast.

Willows
and the scented beetle
we put in our handkerchiefs;
and the roots of one
that spread into a river:
nakedness, water and joy.

Hawthorn,
white and odorous with blossom,
framing the quiet fields,
and swaying flowers and grasses,
and the hum of bees.

Oh, these are the things that are with me now,
in the town;
and I am grateful
for this minute of my manhood.
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Replies, comments and Discussions:

  • 枫下沙龙 / 梦想天空 / I've been reading "The Fourth Imagist: Selected Poems of F.S. Flint", since that day I was stunned by his Swan. Yet, the more i read him, the more I got confused at the fine line between Imagist poems and non-imagist ones,
    • Look at this one by F S Flint titled as Trees. If we could indeed categorize his Swan as Imagist, could we do the same to the TREES? I just can't feel much Imagism in the trees, and you, Mr. Dumb?
      Trees
      F S Flint

      ELM trees
      and the leaf the boy in me hated
      long ago --
      rough and sandy.

      Poplars
      and their leaves,
      tender, smooth to the fingers,
      and a secret in their smell
      I have forgotten.

      Oaks
      and forest glades,
      heart aching with wonder, fear:
      their bitter mast.

      Willows
      and the scented beetle
      we put in our handkerchiefs;
      and the roots of one
      that spread into a river:
      nakedness, water and joy.

      Hawthorn,
      white and odorous with blossom,
      framing the quiet fields,
      and swaying flowers and grasses,
      and the hum of bees.

      Oh, these are the things that are with me now,
      in the town;
      and I am grateful
      for this minute of my manhood.
      • our sensitivity for poetry is kind of like our reaction to alcohol. the more we drink, +1
        and the more frequently we drink, the more sensitive we become to different flavors and subtleties of alcohol. I haven't read any poems for a long time until you brought up the works of Flint. and for that reason I don't believe I have enough sense, sensitivity and sensibility left to discern the subtle beauty of the gem.
        • Is it safe to say that I might be just in the opposite direction? The more I read Flint, the more I become insensitive to the subtlety of his work, so insensitive that I even have to cast a bit doubt upon his Imagist approach?
          • it is quite possible. However I still believe enough exposure is the very basic requirement for a connoisseur.
            • It's not even my remotest dream to be a connoisseur in Imagist poetry, though I do have a bit desire to be ITS acquaintant. What have you seen in the TREES?

              Do not even try to say something like " I saw you, saw him/her, saw me myself,  and saw everything." angry

              • I will have to write a rain check on my perception about the Trees. it is not a good idea to disgrace a poet with disingenuous comments derived from rusty sensitivity.
                • Be honest, I do not authentically perceive IT as Imagist. You can give me one word. Agree or disagree?
                  • I would say it is indeed imagist. and conventionally Flint is also considered one of the principals of the Imagist movement.
                    • Though genuinely fascinated by the fact that Imagism might be one of the most beautiful literary movements, still could we or should we perceive each and every one of his pieces as Imagist,
                      Just because Flint is CONVENTIONALLY identified as an Imagist poet?
                      • Flint is predominantly an Imagist, with or without conventional wisdom. For example, in his Trees the jumping from oaks to fear and then back to mast reminds one of Pound.
                        • Which one? In a Station of the Metro or something else?
                          • In a Station of Metro. the images and emotions in Flint's "oaks" bounce around just like flickering, simmering and shimmering lights carelessly projected onto shivering autumn water.
                            • Hey, for Flint, I am who I am now. ^_^ Are you lying to me or what? I don't think you need a rain check at all, cause you actually explored the TREES quite a bit. Do NOT underestimate our judgement. What story did Flint try to tell in the TREES?
                              • there is no story. to reach the extreme purity and intensity of our feelings and emotions the Imagist attempted to "concentrate" them by saying the least. In this sense,
                                poetry somehow is given the sensual characteristics of music? what is the story told in Vivaldi's Four Seasons? or, how many stories we can come up with while listening to it?
                                • Do you mean Imagists have no stories to tell, and the only accomplishments that they try to achieve in their works of art are NOTHING, and to them, NOTHING means anything and everything?
                                  • that is what I intended to agree. and that is how I would appreciate the works by the Imagists.
                                    • Does that mean you do not appreciate works telling things? Nothing means anything and everything, which is a lie, white or black, or an actual philosophical truth, and the truth only?
                                      • if we understand reading as interpretation. then our reading of a literary work can possibly transform into a process of "becoming". in this sense,
                                        we as the reader, together with the author, and the work itself, make the reading "becoming" the creation process of the "story".
                                        • So NOTHING actually does NOT mean nothing, yet ndeed means everything and anything that you as the reader could come up with. Shall we call this phenomenon superficial, philosophically superficial?
                                          • of course it can be labeled as superficial,
                                            and not only philosophically superficial, but also metaphysically superficial, on even ontologically superficial. Joking aside, "creative" reading is as important as "creative" writing, and personally, I think that should be the only reason we read anything. As what we Chinese like to say "尽信书不如不读书".
                                • Are you kidding that there is no story in Vivaldi's Four Seasons? I could have no any difficulty getting one, at least one, that is, Mr. Summer falls in love with Miss Spring, with Mr. Winter as well as Mrs. Fall as their wedding witnesses,
                                  glorious ones, aren't they?
                                  • is that your story, or Vivaldi's story? I remember another rolian once complained to me about being saddened in an autumn morning by Four Seasons. I ended up getting him listen to Mendelssohn's Violin concerto in order to cheer him up.
                                    • Is that "another Rolian" actually you, Mr.Dumb? That's not my story, and that's the story created and interpreted by Vivaldi though the eyes, nose, lips, perhaps even finger nails of the listener, which is ME. ^_^
                                      • no. that rolian is definitely not me. he obviously did not see the merry bridal in your story.
                                        • Bring the merriness to him, encourage him to revisit the Four Seasons, and eventually, a brand new world will be displayed right in front of him just like that. I promise you. ^_^
        • Also is it safe to say that your favour of Chen in Jin Yong's work might reflect upon your desire that you actually wanna be HIM, conscioiusly or subconsciously?
          • if we read not merely for the sake of reading, then it is natural for us to associate ourselves with the figures we like or love. After all, they directly or indirectly show us how life should be lived, or has been lived.
            • In terms of marrying FRIENDSHIP or LOVE, what do you think of the marriage between Michael and Kate, as well as that between him and the Sicilian beauty ?
              • I think I said before, Kate is so ideal for Michael's intelligence, yet too delicate for his ambition. the Sicilian beauty would be the soothing comfort of his soul, and that is the very reason she must die.
                • How about relating it to "It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages." ? Which one is good, and which one is bad? Kate's or the Sicilian Beauty's?
                  • neither, that is why he has to let both slip through his fingers.
                    • One is too delicate, yet the other is too soothingly comforting,so that Michael has no choice but to let both of them slip away? Hey, practically,if not theoretically speaking, Michael is indeed a man or not?
                      • Michael is doomed to be a homeless in the soul land. that's why both of the women he has loved must disappear, in a convenient manner.
                        • Do we have a MAN in Godfather? ^_^
                          • Michael is one. in every sense of the word.
                            • NOT his father?
                              • In my mind, he is one as well. I probably had spent two-thirds of my life before I finally realized how much wisdom is hidden beneath his simple sentence "an offer he can’t refuse. "
                                • "An offer he can’t refuse. " Sorry that I indeed have no much impression upon this one, and how much wisdom is embedded in it, anyway?
                                  • to remain as the winning party in life you need to understand a simple truth: you undermine other's ego not by shortchanging their expectation, but by lavishing them with what they have never dreamed of.