Members Profile


Jon Fogerty Fethard / Ireland, Male, 69
This list shows most recent 10 activities.
Activities Date
No records of any activity found.

Latest 5 Poems of Jon Fogerty

    No record.

    Friends of Jon Fogerty

    No record.

    Jon Fogerty's last comments on poems and poets

    • POEM: A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day by John Donne (1/24/2010 4:27:00 PM)

      This is Donne in melancholy mood: deep, dark despair following the death of his wife, Anne. All of his great love poems were written for her. And here, in what is the very anti-thesis of all those love poems, he is addressing the loss of Anne- her death. It is a difficult poem but, in my opinion, one of Donne's great, great works- perhaps even greater than any of the love poems or the Holy Sonnets. Why do I say this? - because it addresses the deep, personal loss, the anguish, the pain, the sense of futility, helplessness and isolation that he feels when contemplating the finality of death, the final breaking up with the one he loved, a breaking up that cannot be reversed. The language is stark, uncompromising: 'I am every dead thing' he says. He contemplates the prospect of those who are discovering love for the first time and urges them to look at him now, facing the end of love 'study me then you who would lovers be' he writes. He is urging them to be prepared for what love will ultimately lead to: loss, pain, aloneness when the loved one is gone, the realisation that, at the end, he must 'prepare towards her' that without his beloved there is nothing, just the wait to join her in death.

    • POEM: The Oxen by Thomas Hardy (11/24/2009 2:02:00 PM)

      So much of what is written about Christmas is idealised, coloured by the myths and sentimental accretions of two thousand years of Christianity and commercialism. Yet here, in four short stanzas, Hardy cuts through all of the cant and, yes, bunkum, that we accept unquestioningly as part of the Christmas package, or experience.
      In the first stanza we witness the passing on of the Christmas myths from old to young: elders speaking to children of the oxen kneeling at Bethlehem.
      In stanza two the unquestioning acceptance by the young 'nor did it occur to one of us there/ to doubt they were kneeling then.'
      Then the ruefulness of stanza three, the realisation that maybe it was all a pleasant fiction.
      Then, in the final stanza, the reluctance to accept that what the 'elders' had told of the oxen was a 'fancy', simple self-deception.
      And finally, the way in which myth can overpower reality, the desire to cling on to the deceptions that were fed to one in childhood, a desire that would make one 'run through the gloom/ hoping it might be so.'
      Myths, and the self-deception born of myths, are difficult to cast aside.
      Once again Hardy has written a near perfect poem, certainly one of the most realistic and honest poems ever written about Christmas and the way in which myths are passed on from old to young and the difficulty in breaking free of their grip..

    • POEM: The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy (11/24/2009 11:56:00 AM)

      Was it one of the Metaphysical, or maybe Elizabethan, poets who wrote the immortal line 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' In other words, seize the moment and enjoy the happiness of the passing moments of your life. I think there is an element of this in Hardy's exquisite poem which is one of my all-time favourites.
      The final couplet 'Everything glowed with a gleam/Yet we were looking away! ' says it all. We do not recognize the happy moments of our lives when we are in the midst of them, we are constantly looking towards something else, unable to fully enjoy the present. In retrospect, as with the speaker in the first two stanzas, it is only when we encounter something which evokes memories of past happy monents that we begin to realise how happy we were then.
      But of course, those moments are lost, irretrievable - except in memory.
      This poem is a wonderful example of Hardy's greatness as a poet, and as a poet of everyday, simple things. There are three stanzas with only twelve lines yet how much Hardy evokes in them. The language is simple, uncomplicated. Yet Hardy manages to say so much more about being human in those short stanzas than the vast majority of modern and post-modern poets are capable of saying, many of whom write incomprehensibe poems and seem to be mainly interested in doing just that.

    Read all 4 comments »
    [Report Error]