Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog:
November, by Wilson MacDonald

This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
  Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
  Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear
[...]

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/11/november-wilson-macdonald.html

#pennyspoems

George J. Dance wrote:

> Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog:
> November, by Wilson MacDonald

> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear
> [...]

> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/11/november-wilson-macdonald.html

> #pennyspoems

Commentary (for those who need it)

In a 1933 talk on "Canadian Poetry in its Relation to The Poetry of England and America", Charles G.D. Roberts singled out MacDonald as one of 3 postwar poets representative of modern trends. Roberts said of him: "Wilson MacDonald is purely a lyricist, with a very wide range of form and theme. His best work is forged in the white heat of emotion and is always definitely stamped with his own personality. It is primarily subjective. In his shorter, personal lyrics, such as 'Exit,' he achieves at times an unforgettable poignancy. In his passionately humanitarian poems he is modern in spirit, but in form he is distinctly classical."[6] (Italics in original.)

The Encyclopedia of Literature praised technical aspects of MacDonald's poetry: "The poems are invariably well balanced because of his musical interest; parts of stanzas are repeated for emphasis and direction - as major melodies in music would be - with other lines juxtaposed to heighten the emotional effect."[4]

Fetherling was frankly dismissive: "It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions."[3]

Some of MacDonald's poetry certainly does not hold up: for example, the books Caw-Caw Ballads and Paul Marchand, and other poems, which employ dialect verse - here the French-Canadian habitant dialect of English popularized by William Henry Drummond - would be more entertaining if heard performed rather than read, and even then more embarrassing than entertaining.

Other pieces of MacDonald's work stand the test of time. The title poem of his collection Out of the Wilderness sounds like something by Walt Whitman: "I, a vagabond, gypsy, lover forever of freedom, / Come, / Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization - / Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild careless acres,/ To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men."

Roberts said of that poem that MacDonald "has been so bold as to experiment frankly with Whitman's peculiar form and content, and he has justified the experiment. He has succeeded at times in breathing into that harsh form a beauty of words and cadences which Whitman never achieved."[6]

from Penny's Poetry Pages, the free poetry encyclopedia:
https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Wilson_MacDonald#Writing

George J. Dance wrote:

>

>> Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog:
>> November, by Wilson MacDonald

>> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
>>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
>> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
>>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear
>> [...]

>> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/11/november-wilson-macdonald.html

>> #pennyspoems

> Commentary (for those who need it)

> In a 1933 talk on "Canadian Poetry in its Relation to The Poetry of England and America", Charles G.D. Roberts singled out MacDonald as one of 3 postwar poets representative of modern trends. Roberts said of him: "Wilson MacDonald is purely a lyricist, with a very wide range of form and theme. His best work is forged in the white heat of emotion and is always definitely stamped with his own personality. It is primarily subjective. In his shorter, personal lyrics, such as 'Exit,' he achieves at times an unforgettable poignancy. In his passionately humanitarian poems he is modern in spirit, but in form he is distinctly classical."[6] (Italics in original.)

> The Encyclopedia of Literature praised technical aspects of MacDonald's poetry: "The poems are invariably well balanced because of his musical interest; parts of stanzas are repeated for emphasis and direction - as major melodies in music would be - with other lines juxtaposed to heighten the emotional effect."[4]

> Fetherling was frankly dismissive: "It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions."[3]

> Some of MacDonald's poetry certainly does not hold up: for example, the books Caw-Caw Ballads and Paul Marchand, and other poems, which employ dialect verse - here the French-Canadian habitant dialect of English popularized by William Henry Drummond - would be more entertaining if heard performed rather than read, and even then more embarrassing than entertaining.

> Other pieces of MacDonald's work stand the test of time. The title poem of his collection Out of the Wilderness sounds like something by Walt Whitman: "I, a vagabond, gypsy, lover forever of freedom, / Come, / Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization - / Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild careless acres,/ To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men."

> Roberts said of that poem that MacDonald "has been so bold as to experiment frankly with Whitman's peculiar form and content, and he has justified the experiment. He has succeeded at times in breathing into that harsh form a beauty of words and cadences which Whitman never achieved."[6]

> from Penny's Poetry Pages, the free poetry encyclopedia:
> https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Wilson_MacDonald#Writing

Good read G.D.

On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 12:30:34 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
>
> In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> ----------
>
> November
> by Wilson MacDonald
>
> Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
>   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
>   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
>   And, lest that migrant choir
> Should wing away all music from the land,
>   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> And that cold passion of her choric sand
>   Shall to my muse belong.
>
> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
>   And where even now I hear
> The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
>   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
>   A strange delight I feel.
>
> I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
>   The imp of April and the child of May,
> The modest maid of June with her soft answer
>   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
>   And now, this autumn day,
> When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
>   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
>   Plods by me in a dream.
>
> Let others pour their opulence of roses
>   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
>   In grateful love about my simple flower.
>   While comrade singers shower
> With wonderment of word and garish phrase
>   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> I rest content to twine mine austere bays
>   About November’s brow.
>
> Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
>   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
>   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
>   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
>   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
>   Of spring’s new chorus here.
>
> Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
>   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
>   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
>   The year hath tossed her dice
> And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
>   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
>   A wounded pheasant dies.
>
> And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
>   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
>   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
>   The quail, to hardship bred,
> Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
>   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
>   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
>
> This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
>   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
>   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
>   And the last warmth benumbs.
> I know the road she walks to greet her lord
>   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
>   Of dead leaves in distress?
>
> O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
>   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
>   When all the world is hungry for a song,
>   And nights are strange and long,
> That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
>   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> For God Himself hath set my song apart
>   To praise His worlds unsung.
> ----------
>
> Some critical views:
>
> “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
>
> “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald

G.D. it seems your biggest fan Nancy G. is still hanging on your every blog post.. ha ha.

On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 11:45:52 AM UTC-5, George J. wrote:
> Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog:
> November, by Wilson MacDonald
>
> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear
> [...]
>
> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/11/november-wilson-macdonald.html
>
> #pennyspoems

***

On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 2:55:17 PM UTC-5, General-Zod wrote:
> George J. Dance wrote:
>
> >
>
> >> Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog:
> >> November, by Wilson MacDonald
>
> >> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> >>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> >> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> >>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear
> >> [...]
>
> >> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2023/11/november-wilson-macdonald.html
>
> >> #pennyspoems
>
> > Commentary (for those who need it)
>
> > In a 1933 talk on "Canadian Poetry in its Relation to The Poetry of England and America" , Charles G.D. Roberts singled out MacDonald as one of 3 postwar poets representative of modern trends. Roberts said of him: "Wilson MacDonald is purely a lyricist, with a very wide range of form and theme. His best work is forged in the white heat of emotion and is always definitely stamped with his own personality. It is primarily subjective. In his shorter, personal lyrics, such as 'Exit,' he achieves at times an unforgettable poignancy. In his passionately humanitarian poems he is modern in spirit, but in form he is distinctly classical."[6] (Italics in original.)
>
> > The Encyclopedia of Literature praised technical aspects of MacDonald's poetry: "The poems are invariably well balanced because of his musical interest; parts of stanzas are repeated for emphasis and direction - as major melodies in music would be - with other lines juxtaposed to heighten the emotional effect."[4]
>
> > Fetherling was frankly dismissive: "It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions."[3]
>
> > Some of MacDonald's poetry certainly does not hold up: for example, the books Caw-Caw Ballads and Paul Marchand, and other poems, which employ dialect verse - here the French-Canadian habitant dialect of English popularized by William Henry Drummond - would be more entertaining if heard performed rather than read, and even then more embarrassing than entertaining.
>
> > Other pieces of MacDonald's work stand the test of time. The title poem of his collection Out of the Wilderness sounds like something by Walt Whitman: "I, a vagabond, gypsy, lover forever of freedom, / Come, / Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization - / Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild careless acres,/ To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men."
>
> > Roberts said of that poem that MacDonald "has been so bold as to experiment frankly with Whitman's peculiar form and content, and he has justified the experiment. He has succeeded at times in breathing into that harsh form a beauty of words and cadences which Whitman never achieved."[6]
>
> > from Penny's Poetry Pages, the free poetry encyclopedia:
> > https://pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Wilson_MacDonald#Writing
> Good read G.D.

Agreed.