When I first heard the Madrigali Guerrieri et Amorosi (Madrigals of War and Love) from Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) I felt an instant connection to the music and poetry. The first two stanzas from the madrigals of war are my favorite.

Altri Canti d'Amor, tenero Arciero,
I dolci vezzi e sospirati baci,
Narri gli sdegni e le bramate paci
Quand'unisce due alme un sol pensiero.

Di Marte io canto furibondo e fiero
I duri incontri e le battaglie audaci;
Strider le spade e bombeggiar le faci
Fo nel mio canto bellicoso e fiero.


The two poems below, both written by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), mean a great deal to me. The poet never entitled the first one; it is widely known simply as "Carrion Comfort." There is no doubt that interpreting "Carrion Comfort" is a subjective endeavor. Though much might be assumed, due to Hopkins' religious beliefs, there is still a very ellusive quality to the poem. I find that no other literature sustains me in times of distress more than "Carrion Comfort." As for "The Windhover," Hopkins dedicated this poem to "To Christ our Lord." I am not a religious person; however, this piece gives me great joy in seeing the appreciation for life that Hopkins gained from his faith.

(Carrion Comfort)

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me?
     scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid
     thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and
     clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would
     laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung
     me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one?
     That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my
     God!) my God.

[1885]


The Windhover

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
   dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in
     his riding
   Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
   As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl
     and gliding
   Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume here
   Buckle! and the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

   No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
   Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
[1877]