Day 14: June 19, 2014

The day started out with me taking a walk around London and through some parks people watching until I got back to the British Museum. I read a chapter of my book on the steps, before going inside to work on some homework. We're suppose to look at this urn that John Keats supposedly based one of his poems off of. It's called the Townley Urn. We were suppose to study the urn and read the poem and write about it. I could not find the urn, but  we were told that it was ok. We could choose another urn to serve our purpose. I found this urn in the British Museum:

 

 

 

The poem that we read was:

 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN

By John Keats

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
      Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
      A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
      Of deities or mortals, or of both,
            In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
      What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
            What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
      Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
      Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
      Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
            Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
      She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
            Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
      Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
      Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
      Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
            Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
      That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
            A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
      To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
      And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
      Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
            Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
      Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
            Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
      Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
      Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
      When old age shall this generation waste,
            Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
      "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
            Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.


The poem is John Keats' interpretation of the story that is depicted on the urn. Keats's poem is also comment on the art of the urn and how the picture can be whatever to viewer sees it to be. It can be a million stories depending on the viewer. This is what makes it so great, because it's pleasing to the individual in different ways and for different reasons. The picture never changes, the scene is frozen in time, but the story is up for interpretation. This is one way that art can find truth, beauty, and true humanity.

After leaving the museum, I went to class where we discussed a short story and a few poems. My favorite poem that we read was:

	My Last Duchess - a poem by Robert Browning
		My Last Duchess  Robert Browning That's my last duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps "Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint "Must never hope to reproduce the faint "Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked Somehow I know not how as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech which I have not to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this "Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, "Or there exceed the mark" and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse, E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

This poem is really more of a warning than anything. The speaker has significant insecurity issues and it is made unclear weather his wife was unfaithful, or if she was a friendly person. The speaker obviously was very jealous, and had issues with not being able to control her. That is why he has her portrait in his private home and behind a curtain that only he controls. He now gets to pick who she smiles upon.

 

After class I continued to walk around London through several parks and down the streets just watching and experiencing the rush of London. It was great to just get lost somewhere and find small shops or hidden places. Everything is only a five minute walk away. It is really something there. Especially all of the markets. After my walk I went back to Nido for a nap. That concludes my day.