Link

1
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
2
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

In fact-at least for me-it's much better than most contemporary poetry, in the sense that it's much more readable, much better crafted, and often beautifully compressed in a dazzling haikulike way.

This sentence--number three in the essay--is as far as you need to go to understand you're reading the work of an insufferable and pompous ass.

*Most* contemporary poetry? Really? You've got a brush that big, Ron? Hey, maybe you should write your next column praising movie posters.

Actually, the guy asked for 2-line critiques of any poem, so no restrictions on using "To Autumn." But if you use something different, would be good to post a link to it.

Gay.

Like some untuned two-necked hurdy gurdy
"To Autumn" drones on and is twice too wordy

She Walks in Beauty Like the Night
Byron's poems give me the sight.

I love the man no longer here
holding his works ever dear.

Dionysus cringes.

I think that guy from town owns these woods.
Jeez, it's cold. Giddy-up!

Oh no it's fritter and waste... stupid me.

It stinks!

/and it's hotlinked

Take time to experience nature in its purest form.
Life will take a new meaning with observation. Penis.

It

Stinks

There once was a poem from Nantucket
For which I started to critique and then said FARK IT!

This twitter nonsense is hilarious.

Losers.

Stupid.

POETRY SUCKS!

/one slashie added for your pleasure
//because the article didn't give you any

And so the dumbing down of America continues.
Is that short haiku-like enough for you, moran?

Lusiphur: And so the dumbing down of America continues.
Is that short haiku-like enough for you, moran?

Oops, forgot an "and" in that second line.

Evokes the feeling of October. I want apple pie.

i couldn't even read half the article. more boring than actual poetry.

/zzzzzz

TL;
DR

I wanted to revisit a point of dispute I had with the great Helen Vendler, Harvard's poetry goddess (author of the incomparable study, The Odes of John Keats) over the sex of Autumn in the poem.

Who made it past that?

"Spring, Summer, and Autumn" ponders the chooser.
Spring? Summer? To Autumn, each a loser.

This is really, really, really lame.

I saw the best minds of my generation
Waste their time reading that farking article

"The Raven" by Poe is, like, way better.

Pocket Ninja: In fact-at least for me-it's much better than most contemporary poetry, in the sense that it's much more readable, much better crafted, and often beautifully compressed in a dazzling haikulike way.

This sentence--number three in the essay--is as far as you need to go to understand you're reading the work of an insufferable and pompous ass.

*Most* contemporary poetry? Really? You've got a brush that big, Ron? Hey, maybe you should write your next column praising movie posters.

Let me guess, you're a poet.

/100 point deduction for free verse.

Autumn is the season right before that other guy gets trapped in a snowstorm in the woods and chooses to eat his companion rather than go for help. I guess that made all the difference.

Foaming

Autumn is the season right before that other guy gets trapped in a snowstorm in the woods and chooses to eat his companion rather than go for help. I guess that made all the difference.


Well, it is the road less traveled by.

A frog jumps in a pond and makes a sound.

xtonyx: Gay.

Not there's anything wrong with that.

FTFY - no charge

Bald guy hears mermaids, can't decide to eat fruit.

Alaskan miner so cold cremation is a relief.

Pocket Ninja:
*Most* contemporary poetry? Really? You've got a brush that big, Ron? Hey, maybe you should write your next column praising movie posters.

95% of everything is crap. As a form, this is no better or worse than any other.

FTA:

"Only rarely do lay readers experience poems as a cross between an orgasm and a heart attack." -David Orr, the New York Times

Awesome.

Lines about pottery which gave George something to yell about in the tree.

Canterbury pilgrimage: hilarity ensues

Are you like a summer day?
The comparison is imperfect, but will do.

Go eat a grape, an apple or a nut,
and take a nap while birds and bugs chirrup.

Your flower had a worm, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge)

Grendel, mother, dragon

Firecrotch Cannibal
has deadly bacchanal.

Booo!...on the article.
Yeyyy!...on the Keats.

The blurb is like a music review, or like watching someone on a cooking show gush over his latest creation. Or reading about someone fantasizing about someone else. Or this (poppiness).

Achilles: attention whore

Mongolian architecture
spurs moody reflecture.

Milton farkin' justifies the ways of God to man.