Red
from Colors
By Me
12/4/2009
For hours, minutes I stood there.
I had hurried out, all alone,
Reluctantly waiting for them.
‘Evitably-in, they must show!
Sobering, it was. Immersed in shades
Of red, the carnivorous cast,
Numbing hue, stentorian tint.
Gone, it’s all gone, they are all gone.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Masquerade
The Masquerade
11/06/09
By Me
“‘Conceited, who are you supposed to be?’ you say.
Like everyone in the drunken night’s masquerade,
Man with a predictable countenance—hiding
Behind a behemoth frightened forceful façade.
The ‘chaic false facet of the domineering,
‘Ristocratic society of us!” I say.
“Not everyone in this minuscule masquerade
Is a sycophantic cold coward in ‘hiding’.
I must know what obscure and dubious façade
You refer to. One of art and knowledge domineering
The people, the gift of eternity, I say.
You are anti-Gatsbian,” I continued to say
“Its ironic that noble Gatsby was hiding.
Hiding from his ebbing world behind the façade,
Which proves how one can ‘come of the domineering
Society. The woeful one that caused say
Lores and loathed cranes to drown. And I will helm and say
Without this, we are wild without the masquerade.”
“Zelda did so well under the enforced façade!
The one in which Scott ended by domineering
Her mind. Those suppressive anti-wilde acts make it say
Fur for others. Why do you sublimely say
Not of the mighty mimicking drone masquerade,
But where would we be without those who broke hiding?”
“Do they truly breakout or enter a new domineering
Cult. Just a brief jump from what say
A Socratic versus a sophist. Not grey per-say
What happens after they join the new masquerade?
Simply put, the rules of what constitutes hiding
Are different. A new ‘powering sophist façade”—
“Your mechanical thoughts are troubling to say,
Reflective of who you are. My concluding say
In all this: what can constitute this masquerade?
All your friends with violent minds finding hope hiding.
Those wildely out of hiding reveal a façade
To seek justice from the unjust domineering!
I must be on my way, but to say masquerade
Miss Bennet, it torments me, and that hiding façade
Represents only your culture’s domineering say.”
11/06/09
By Me
“‘Conceited, who are you supposed to be?’ you say.
Like everyone in the drunken night’s masquerade,
Man with a predictable countenance—hiding
Behind a behemoth frightened forceful façade.
The ‘chaic false facet of the domineering,
‘Ristocratic society of us!” I say.
“Not everyone in this minuscule masquerade
Is a sycophantic cold coward in ‘hiding’.
I must know what obscure and dubious façade
You refer to. One of art and knowledge domineering
The people, the gift of eternity, I say.
You are anti-Gatsbian,” I continued to say
“Its ironic that noble Gatsby was hiding.
Hiding from his ebbing world behind the façade,
Which proves how one can ‘come of the domineering
Society. The woeful one that caused say
Lores and loathed cranes to drown. And I will helm and say
Without this, we are wild without the masquerade.”
“Zelda did so well under the enforced façade!
The one in which Scott ended by domineering
Her mind. Those suppressive anti-wilde acts make it say
Fur for others. Why do you sublimely say
Not of the mighty mimicking drone masquerade,
But where would we be without those who broke hiding?”
“Do they truly breakout or enter a new domineering
Cult. Just a brief jump from what say
A Socratic versus a sophist. Not grey per-say
What happens after they join the new masquerade?
Simply put, the rules of what constitutes hiding
Are different. A new ‘powering sophist façade”—
“Your mechanical thoughts are troubling to say,
Reflective of who you are. My concluding say
In all this: what can constitute this masquerade?
All your friends with violent minds finding hope hiding.
Those wildely out of hiding reveal a façade
To seek justice from the unjust domineering!
I must be on my way, but to say masquerade
Miss Bennet, it torments me, and that hiding façade
Represents only your culture’s domineering say.”
Poem of the Day: 586
586
By Emily Dickinson
My life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
In Corners--till a Day
The Owner passed--identified--
And carried Me away--
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods--
And now We hunt the Doe--
And every time I speak for Him--
The Mountains straight reply--
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow--
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through--
And when at Night--Our good Day done--
I guard My Master's Head--
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow--to have shared--
To foe of His--I'm deadly foe--
None stir the second time--
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye--
Or an emphatic Thumb--
Though I than He--may longer live
He longer must--than I--
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--
By Emily Dickinson
My life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
In Corners--till a Day
The Owner passed--identified--
And carried Me away--
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods--
And now We hunt the Doe--
And every time I speak for Him--
The Mountains straight reply--
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow--
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through--
And when at Night--Our good Day done--
I guard My Master's Head--
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow--to have shared--
To foe of His--I'm deadly foe--
None stir the second time--
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye--
Or an emphatic Thumb--
Though I than He--may longer live
He longer must--than I--
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--
Monday, October 26, 2009
Yellow
Yellow
from Colors
9/12/2009
By Me
Five months and the coffin will be nailed shut;
Everything known will be forgot;
My recurring resting place has been sought.
My time now has been cut,
And in these few days, I’ve been bought.
I’m haunted by pain of the yellow spot,
The lucent pain causing silent smut.
Unfortunately, I’ve been caught.
And as I silently sit all alone,
I feel the yellow meandering moan,
And the endless rapping of the drone.
I wonder, will I ever be home.
I am in repair,
And have been left bare.
from Colors
9/12/2009
By Me
Five months and the coffin will be nailed shut;
Everything known will be forgot;
My recurring resting place has been sought.
My time now has been cut,
And in these few days, I’ve been bought.
I’m haunted by pain of the yellow spot,
The lucent pain causing silent smut.
Unfortunately, I’ve been caught.
And as I silently sit all alone,
I feel the yellow meandering moan,
And the endless rapping of the drone.
I wonder, will I ever be home.
I am in repair,
And have been left bare.
The Professor’s City of Sunshine
The Professor’s City of Sunshine
from The Natural Chronicles
4/14/2009
By Me
The wind willingly creates the susurrus of the trees
In this obfuscatory day in the city of sunshine.
Unfortunately, the yielding yellow lamp leaves
The sky lightless. How have these shivering shallow deciduousness of thine
Come to this city of sunshine? The holy hole of white light and vapors
Of the life paint a labile sky, but it was not native nature that brought
This chimerical, grandiloquent pulchritude to the city of sunshine. Neighbors
And visitors beseech vicissitude after portending an outré destination. The thought
Of natural life meandered away from the destructive
Citizens. Have I, the denizen, become a citizen or am I just a resident,
An inhabitant of the city of sunshine who is obsessive
Of being called Natural. “But Professor” you say, No student!
Their Artifice has taken plenary manipulation causing this disease.
I will watch the mellow morning reverse etiolation of the trees.
from The Natural Chronicles
4/14/2009
By Me
The wind willingly creates the susurrus of the trees
In this obfuscatory day in the city of sunshine.
Unfortunately, the yielding yellow lamp leaves
The sky lightless. How have these shivering shallow deciduousness of thine
Come to this city of sunshine? The holy hole of white light and vapors
Of the life paint a labile sky, but it was not native nature that brought
This chimerical, grandiloquent pulchritude to the city of sunshine. Neighbors
And visitors beseech vicissitude after portending an outré destination. The thought
Of natural life meandered away from the destructive
Citizens. Have I, the denizen, become a citizen or am I just a resident,
An inhabitant of the city of sunshine who is obsessive
Of being called Natural. “But Professor” you say, No student!
Their Artifice has taken plenary manipulation causing this disease.
I will watch the mellow morning reverse etiolation of the trees.
Flawless Flower
Flawless Flower
from The Natural Chronicles
1/9/09
By Me
Stamen-less creation of style and stigma
Oh, do the strong winds blow you to your last four petals.
from The Natural Chronicles
1/9/09
By Me
Stamen-less creation of style and stigma
Oh, do the strong winds blow you to your last four petals.
The Journey of the Minute Hand
The Journey of the Minute Hand
By Me
4/13/2009
Twenty-two minutes later the clock struck eight.
Once the Minute hand was right of the Hour,
A gear went loose and caused the hand to fall.
The miniscule Minute was under command
Of the silent, secret, slithering Second
And controlled the ever honorable height
Of the Hour. This predicament quickly
Darkened the future of idle increments.
What became of the might-less Minute hand?
Instantaneously, the holy hand reverted back
To its indigenous form, an alloy of metals,
Heat, sweat, life and love. Gravity took its
Independent effect on the falling hand,
The Fall without the Hour and Second hand.
By Me
4/13/2009
Twenty-two minutes later the clock struck eight.
Once the Minute hand was right of the Hour,
A gear went loose and caused the hand to fall.
The miniscule Minute was under command
Of the silent, secret, slithering Second
And controlled the ever honorable height
Of the Hour. This predicament quickly
Darkened the future of idle increments.
What became of the might-less Minute hand?
Instantaneously, the holy hand reverted back
To its indigenous form, an alloy of metals,
Heat, sweat, life and love. Gravity took its
Independent effect on the falling hand,
The Fall without the Hour and Second hand.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
His Story
His Story
By Me
2009
Nameless he walks, staring
Into the light ray maze.
He mumbles lines of life,
“The cycle ne’er ends as she
Is reborn from the flames.
How does she rightfully
Return in this fond frigid
Night.” Long I ponder stare
And fear the blue-amber.
“Instinctively mapped, is
Her path, or is it not
Calculable. No! Or
Entropic; burns birth burns
Melancholic trees burn.
By Me
2009
Nameless he walks, staring
Into the light ray maze.
He mumbles lines of life,
“The cycle ne’er ends as she
Is reborn from the flames.
How does she rightfully
Return in this fond frigid
Night.” Long I ponder stare
And fear the blue-amber.
“Instinctively mapped, is
Her path, or is it not
Calculable. No! Or
Entropic; burns birth burns
Melancholic trees burn.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Brown
Brown
from Colors
6/20/2009
By Me
Lost in where the hazel iris meets the black hole of time.
Spinning, spiraling, solely and sourly out of sight,
Where it snows white and Frost’s bite travels down my spine,
But despite the cold weather that evening by the woods,
The seeds still germinate in the roughed soil into that angiosperm.
from Colors
6/20/2009
By Me
Lost in where the hazel iris meets the black hole of time.
Spinning, spiraling, solely and sourly out of sight,
Where it snows white and Frost’s bite travels down my spine,
But despite the cold weather that evening by the woods,
The seeds still germinate in the roughed soil into that angiosperm.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Blue
Blue
from Colors
5/27/2009
By Me
Straight out of an impressionist painting by Gauguin or Van Gogh,
From far, they paint a picture of boom and bloom and colors of life and above;
From close, they are drops of the sky’s single yet divided spectrum.
Their sight defies time and transfixes me in a surreal state of bliss and ignorance.
Who else do I speak of, but you my dear humble but timid blue.
from Colors
5/27/2009
By Me
Straight out of an impressionist painting by Gauguin or Van Gogh,
From far, they paint a picture of boom and bloom and colors of life and above;
From close, they are drops of the sky’s single yet divided spectrum.
Their sight defies time and transfixes me in a surreal state of bliss and ignorance.
Who else do I speak of, but you my dear humble but timid blue.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Annabelle Hathaway
Annabelle Hathaway
from XX
6/18/2009
By Me
Annabelle Hathaway
Is that girl I met one bright blue day.
She was a brunette that lived by the bay.
At the same time, noon, every day
Under the shining ray
She lustfully or lovingly lay
In the beach by the bay.
Like a vampire she stocked her prey
In the tender night not day.
With every guy Annabelle hath a way.
‘Till that one risqué
Summer, where she met that Spanish hombre
Who spoke of Italians like Dante.
Annabelle loved the Spaniard’s wordplay
As poetry was his forte.
She had met the Spaniard at an artist’s soiree
For a newly established painter’s birthday.
But as Sunday became Saturday
The Spaniard grew weary of her superficial horseplay
For Annabelle had a nice Spanish dolce
On her arm, and loved spreading gossip and hearsay
Of the adventures with the artist, but his mood turned to gray
Annabelle was not a muse and weighed
His heart and hand down in disarray.
And that my friend is the gay day
With that inevitable fray
Where Annabelle did not hath her way.
from XX
6/18/2009
By Me
Annabelle Hathaway
Is that girl I met one bright blue day.
She was a brunette that lived by the bay.
At the same time, noon, every day
Under the shining ray
She lustfully or lovingly lay
In the beach by the bay.
Like a vampire she stocked her prey
In the tender night not day.
With every guy Annabelle hath a way.
‘Till that one risqué
Summer, where she met that Spanish hombre
Who spoke of Italians like Dante.
Annabelle loved the Spaniard’s wordplay
As poetry was his forte.
She had met the Spaniard at an artist’s soiree
For a newly established painter’s birthday.
But as Sunday became Saturday
The Spaniard grew weary of her superficial horseplay
For Annabelle had a nice Spanish dolce
On her arm, and loved spreading gossip and hearsay
Of the adventures with the artist, but his mood turned to gray
Annabelle was not a muse and weighed
His heart and hand down in disarray.
And that my friend is the gay day
With that inevitable fray
Where Annabelle did not hath her way.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sevensevensevensevensevensevenseven
Sevensevensevensevensevensevenseven
7/13/2008
7/13/2008
By Me
Seven: Indulge in the mathematical
Algebraic equational manipulation
Of seven plus two and seven plus four
Where seven minus five redwoods fell
By seven minus four cranes
As seven seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Weeks and months bleed into years
The lucky number will meet its tragic end
But dare I say the number again
Seven
SHUT UP! Who said that?
Did you let that number run rampantly?
Hogwash, balderdash, I don’t believe you!
As I bite this sour stone I think
“Will I ever see that green day once more?”
Seven: Indulge in the mathematical
Algebraic equational manipulation
Of seven plus two and seven plus four
Where seven minus five redwoods fell
By seven minus four cranes
As seven seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Weeks and months bleed into years
The lucky number will meet its tragic end
But dare I say the number again
Seven
SHUT UP! Who said that?
Did you let that number run rampantly?
Hogwash, balderdash, I don’t believe you!
As I bite this sour stone I think
“Will I ever see that green day once more?”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Republic
The Republic
from Travels
8/17/2009
By Me
He lies dead on the floor after the senate
Has their way with the emperor. Shakespeare
Erroneously recounts the mere, ear
Line, tale. The self-empowering death threat
Was Taken at Lagos. Travels to present
Tense show only fractions of what was then here.
Their kingdom was not spared much like Lear’s.
This, a collection of dubious debt?
Hardly! It was an auto-annihilation,
The old left in fancy devastation.
History, art, culture does not fall alone
Disdainful pillaging sets a new tone;
One followed by the ruling religion,
Placed by Constantine in the rich less region.
from Travels
8/17/2009
By Me
He lies dead on the floor after the senate
Has their way with the emperor. Shakespeare
Erroneously recounts the mere, ear
Line, tale. The self-empowering death threat
Was Taken at Lagos. Travels to present
Tense show only fractions of what was then here.
Their kingdom was not spared much like Lear’s.
This, a collection of dubious debt?
Hardly! It was an auto-annihilation,
The old left in fancy devastation.
History, art, culture does not fall alone
Disdainful pillaging sets a new tone;
One followed by the ruling religion,
Placed by Constantine in the rich less region.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Poem of the Day: The Raven
The Raven continued
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Poem of the Day: The Raven
The Raven continued
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Poem of the Day: The Raven
The Raven continued
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Poem of the Day: The Raven
Since this poem is so long, it will be divided over the course of the week. Enjoy!
The Raven
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
The Raven
By Edgar Allan Poe
1845
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Song of the Day: Sober
Sober
from Undertow
By Tool
1993
There's a shadow just behind me. shrouding every step I take.
Making every promise empty. pointing every finger at me.
Waiting like a stalking butler, who upon the finger rests.
Murder now the path of must we, just because the son has come.
Jesus, wont you fucking whistle. something but the past and done.
Why cant we not be sober? I just want to start this over.
Why cant we drink forever? I just want to start this over.
I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you. trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave.
I will work to elevate you, just enough to bring you down.
Mother mary, wont you whisper. something but the past is done.
Why cant we not be sober? I just want to start this over.
Why cant we sleep forever? I just want to start this over.
I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you. trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave.
Trust me. trust me. trust me. trust me. trust me.
Why cant we not be sober. I just want to start things over.
Why cant we sleep forever. I just want to start this over.
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
Incredible song, with amazing lyrical and musical arrangement. Open interpretations ranging from obvious things like religion to the process of creating art make the song so heavy and rich the meaning. Other interpretations include life and psychology of C.G. Jung (his thoughts on psychological development fit with the theme of the song). I believe the video complements the song in one light, but in the end is only one interpretation. Thus, the video is not the end all, be all. Frequently, I have seen videos based on poems or music speak a new light, but sometimes clash with the idea of the original work. They make me wonder what was the point of creating a video to begin with. Anyway this is definitely one of Tool's best songs. Enjoy!
from Undertow
By Tool
1993
There's a shadow just behind me. shrouding every step I take.
Making every promise empty. pointing every finger at me.
Waiting like a stalking butler, who upon the finger rests.
Murder now the path of must we, just because the son has come.
Jesus, wont you fucking whistle. something but the past and done.
Why cant we not be sober? I just want to start this over.
Why cant we drink forever? I just want to start this over.
I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you. trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave.
I will work to elevate you, just enough to bring you down.
Mother mary, wont you whisper. something but the past is done.
Why cant we not be sober? I just want to start this over.
Why cant we sleep forever? I just want to start this over.
I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you. trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave.
Trust me. trust me. trust me. trust me. trust me.
Why cant we not be sober. I just want to start things over.
Why cant we sleep forever. I just want to start this over.
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
I want what I want...
Incredible song, with amazing lyrical and musical arrangement. Open interpretations ranging from obvious things like religion to the process of creating art make the song so heavy and rich the meaning. Other interpretations include life and psychology of C.G. Jung (his thoughts on psychological development fit with the theme of the song). I believe the video complements the song in one light, but in the end is only one interpretation. Thus, the video is not the end all, be all. Frequently, I have seen videos based on poems or music speak a new light, but sometimes clash with the idea of the original work. They make me wonder what was the point of creating a video to begin with. Anyway this is definitely one of Tool's best songs. Enjoy!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Function of the Artist and the Art
The Function of the Artist and the Art
5/7/2009
By Me
The Artist of Art and Art of the Artist are
Not one in the same. Art is just a brief moment
In time for the Artist that can either be far
Or near the Artist’s heart. What the Art said and meant
Could sediment differently on the Artist’s mind
As opposed to the literal. Neither can change
On their own, but with experiences intertwined
They may symbiotically evolve, arrange.
Questions are brought forth of who or what is one with
Out the other? Another capitalist zombie,
Or inanimate ‘motionless object of width,
Length and height. Some cynical critics cause tragedy
And rid happiness from the Artist and the Art.
May the toddler’s father and others follow true Art.
5/7/2009
By Me
The Artist of Art and Art of the Artist are
Not one in the same. Art is just a brief moment
In time for the Artist that can either be far
Or near the Artist’s heart. What the Art said and meant
Could sediment differently on the Artist’s mind
As opposed to the literal. Neither can change
On their own, but with experiences intertwined
They may symbiotically evolve, arrange.
Questions are brought forth of who or what is one with
Out the other? Another capitalist zombie,
Or inanimate ‘motionless object of width,
Length and height. Some cynical critics cause tragedy
And rid happiness from the Artist and the Art.
May the toddler’s father and others follow true Art.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Future
The Future
from Life in Haiku
5/4/2009
from Life in Haiku
5/4/2009
By Me
Proceeding winter,
The flowers begin to blossom;
The hea(r)t is felt by all.
Proceeding winter,
The flowers begin to blossom;
The hea(r)t is felt by all.
(This poem is supposed to be read once with the r and once without, there is no preference to order).
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Incidence of Infidelity
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Dusk and Summer
Dusk and Summer
from Life in Haiku
February 2009
By Me
Dusk has arrived
And Summer has come to
A bitter end, alone.
from Life in Haiku
February 2009
By Me
Dusk has arrived
And Summer has come to
A bitter end, alone.
Personification of Love
Personification of Love
from Paperless Poetry
4/26-28/2009
By Me
She and I walked to the bridge.
Oh, her brown skin was immaculately,
Gleaning in the sun. It was of all,
but the sight of her turned the season
To birth and bloom, but sure not blight.
I made her sing on the bridge while
I clenched her waist and rested my
Chin on her. She wistfully wept
While emanating her dying voice.
I clutched her slender ebony
Neck tighter as she serenaded
Her last lingering knightly note.
from Paperless Poetry
4/26-28/2009
By Me
She and I walked to the bridge.
Oh, her brown skin was immaculately,
Gleaning in the sun. It was of all,
but the sight of her turned the season
To birth and bloom, but sure not blight.
I made her sing on the bridge while
I clenched her waist and rested my
Chin on her. She wistfully wept
While emanating her dying voice.
I clutched her slender ebony
Neck tighter as she serenaded
Her last lingering knightly note.
Return from Hiatus
Sorry, but I have been out working hard for the past 2 weeks, and this coming week I will be out again. So, to keep you wanting for more, I will post two poems today and one next week. The week after next should be back to normal.
Nabil
Nabil
Friday, April 24, 2009
Shakespeare's Flower
Poetic Techniques: Knowing When to Stop
In poetry there are when a line is written one of two things may occur, the thought or sentence ends at the end of that same line or it carries on to the next line. End-Stopping is when a sentence ends in the same line. Enjambment is when a sentence carries on to the next line thus cutting the thought in that first line. When enjambment occurs the following line may end-stop or a middle-stop, which technically speaking is a caesura. By definition a caesura occurs when there is a break in the line that either stops the rhythm; this can be in the form of a ending sentence with a period. The following are examples of each:
Cuchulain Comforted
By W.B. Yeats
By W.B. Yeats
1939
A MAN that had six mortal wounds, a man
Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone. <-- End-Stop
Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone. <-- End-Stop
Then certain Shrouds that muttered head to head <-- Enjambment
Came and were gone. He leant upon a tree <-- Caesura and then Enjambment
As though to meditate on wounds and blood.
A Shroud that seemed to have authority
Among those bird-like things came, and let fall
A bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and thrce
Came creeping up because the man was still.
And thereupon that linen-carrier said:
'Your life can grow much sweeter if you will
'Obey our ancient rule and make a shroud;
Mainly because of what we only know
The rattle of those arms makes us afraid.
'We thread the needles' eyes, and all we do
All must together do.' That done, the man
Took up the nearest and began to sew.
'Now must we sing and sing the best we can,
But first you must be told our character:
Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain
'Or driven from home and left to dic in fear.'
They sang, but had nor human tunes nor words,
Though all was done in common as before;
They had changed their thtoats and had the throats of birds.
Note that if there are rhyming words at the end of each line, which just so happen to display enjambment, then the rhyme may not be evident. If one is try to write a rhyming poem end-stop are more effective in making the rhymes evident. Read more poetry and different poetic techniques and styles will become more and more evident.
Poem of the Day: Friday Double Dose of Harold Hart Crane
Voyages II
--And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;
Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers' hands.
And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,--
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,--
Hasten, while they are true,--sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal's wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
To Emily Dickinson
by Harold Hart Crane
1962
--And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;
Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers' hands.
And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,--
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,--
Hasten, while they are true,--sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal's wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
by Harold Hart Crane
You who desired so much--in vain to ask--
Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest--
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,
Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast;
--Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.
The harvest you descried and understand
Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind--
Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.
Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest--
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,
Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast;
--Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.
The harvest you descried and understand
Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind--
Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Poem of the Day: As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life
As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life
By Walt Whitman
1881
1
As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the
land of the globe.
Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow
those slender windrows,
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the
tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the
land of the globe.
Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow
those slender windrows,
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the
tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.
2
As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I
have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and
bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
object, and that no man ever can,
Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart
upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I
have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and
bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
object, and that no man ever can,
Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart
upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.
3
You oceans both, I close with you,
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing
not why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.
You friable shore with trails of debris,
You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
What is yours is mine my father.
I too Paumanok,
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
wash'd on your shores,
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.
I throw myself upon your breast my father,
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
I hold you so firm till you answer me something.
Kiss me my father,
Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring
I envy.
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing
not why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.
You friable shore with trails of debris,
You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
What is yours is mine my father.
I too Paumanok,
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
wash'd on your shores,
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.
I throw myself upon your breast my father,
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
I hold you so firm till you answer me something.
Kiss me my father,
Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring
I envy.
4
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)
Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you
or gather from you.
I mean tenderly by you and all,
I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we
lead, and following me and mine.
Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out
before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.
Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you
or gather from you.
I mean tenderly by you and all,
I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we
lead, and following me and mine.
Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out
before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Poem of the Day: Dover Beach
Dover Beach
By Matthew Arnold
1851, 1867
The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
By Matthew Arnold
1851, 1867
The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Poem of the Day: Daddy
Daddy
By Silvia Plath
1962, 1965
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one grey toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of *you*,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You---
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat, black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always *knew* it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
By Silvia Plath
1962, 1965
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one grey toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of *you*,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You---
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat, black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always *knew* it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Poem of the Day: How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
1845-1846, 1850
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Broken Solider
Broken Solider
from Paperless Poetry
8/13/2008
By Me
The dagger pierced his chest.
He burst in a scream,
Before his dark blood slowly flowed.
He un-dramatically dropped to the ground.
I expected some grand quality moments.
I was left disappointed.
He breathed deeply,
Grasped my hand as I crouched over and spoke his final word, “Why?”
from Paperless Poetry
8/13/2008
By Me
The dagger pierced his chest.
He burst in a scream,
Before his dark blood slowly flowed.
He un-dramatically dropped to the ground.
I expected some grand quality moments.
I was left disappointed.
He breathed deeply,
Grasped my hand as I crouched over and spoke his final word, “Why?”
Poem of the Day: Friday Double Dose of Emily Dickinson
429
By Emily Dickinson
1862
The Moon is distant from the Sea —
And yet, with Amber Hands —
She leads Him — docile as a Boy —
Along appointed Sands —
He never misses a Degree —
Obedient to Her Eye
He comes just so far — toward the Town —
Just so far — goes away —
Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand —
And mine — the distant Sea —
Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me —
249
By Emily Dickinson
1891
Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile — the Winds —
To a Heart in port —
Done with the Compass —
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden —
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor — Tonight —
In Thee!
By Emily Dickinson
1862
The Moon is distant from the Sea —
And yet, with Amber Hands —
She leads Him — docile as a Boy —
Along appointed Sands —
He never misses a Degree —
Obedient to Her Eye
He comes just so far — toward the Town —
Just so far — goes away —
Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand —
And mine — the distant Sea —
Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me —
249
By Emily Dickinson
1891
Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile — the Winds —
To a Heart in port —
Done with the Compass —
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden —
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor — Tonight —
In Thee!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Poem of the Day: The Road Not Taken
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
1915
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
By Robert Frost
1915
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Fears of a Student
Fears of a Student
Fall 2008
By Me
What is to become of me,
If the future does fall apart?
Will that be the road not gone?
Am I the grass hopper
In this tragedy of the ants?
Have four letters dominated
My life with meaninglessness?
Can it be, I have focused
Too much on what matters here?
Life defining numbers
Stopped flows of creativity
In the past, and still do so.
Was the road not worth it?
Fall 2008
By Me
What is to become of me,
If the future does fall apart?
Will that be the road not gone?
Am I the grass hopper
In this tragedy of the ants?
Have four letters dominated
My life with meaninglessness?
Can it be, I have focused
Too much on what matters here?
Life defining numbers
Stopped flows of creativity
In the past, and still do so.
Was the road not worth it?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Poem of the Day: Design
Design
By Robert Frost
1936
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
By Robert Frost
1936
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Poetic Form: The Petrarchan Sonnet
The sonnet is a form of poetry dating back to 12th-13th century Italy. One of the most popular and influential early sonnet writers was Francesco Petrarca, know in English as Petrarch. The Petrarchan Sonnet or Italian Sonnet has a characteristic split into two parts, the first eight lines form the octave and the last six lines for the sestet. The rhyme pattern of the octave is usually abbaabba, while that of the sestet varies from the following three: cdcdcd or cdedce or cddcdd. The following poems are examples of the Petrarchan Sonnet rhyme scheme.
Gli Occhi Di Ch' Io Parlai
By Petrarch
Translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson
(abbaabba cdcdc)
Those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose, A
The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile B
Could my own soul from its own self beguile, B
And in a separate world of dreams enclose, A
The hair's bright tresses, full of golden glows, A
And the soft lightning of the angelic smile B
That changed this earth to some celestial isle, B
Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows. A
And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn, C
Left dark without the light I loved in vain, D
Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn; C
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain, D
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn, C
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain. D
Soleasi Nel Mio Cor
By Petrarch
Translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson
(abbaabba cdedce)
She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine, A
A noble lady in a humble home, B
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come, B
'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine. A
The soul that all its blessings must resign, A
And love whose light no more on earth finds room, B
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom, B
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine; A
They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf C
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care, D
And naught remains to me save mournful breath. E
Assuredly but dust and shade we are, D
Assuredly desire is blind and brief, C
Assuredly its hope but ends in death. E
Why would Petrarch break up the sonnet into these two parts? Petrarch developed this sonnet type in order to have a problem or question in the octave and a solution in the sestet. The octave and sestet may be used for a number of other ways too, to display a point and then a counterpoint or to display two sides to the same story. Possibilities are with this form are vast. Some writers have used this form to have a coheisive story that progresses from one part to the next. The break can be used to show passage of time or distance. The break of the octave and sestet can signify a change in a character, for example a before and after posting of person. For more information just head to your local library or just google the ever popular Petrarchan Sonnet, which thousands of poets have writen, for example and one of my favorites Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Severed Selves
Sonnet XL
from The House of Life
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
1871, 1881
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
Gli Occhi Di Ch' Io Parlai
By Petrarch
Translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson
(abbaabba cdcdc)
Those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose, A
The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile B
Could my own soul from its own self beguile, B
And in a separate world of dreams enclose, A
The hair's bright tresses, full of golden glows, A
And the soft lightning of the angelic smile B
That changed this earth to some celestial isle, B
Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows. A
And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn, C
Left dark without the light I loved in vain, D
Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn; C
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain, D
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn, C
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain. D
Soleasi Nel Mio Cor
By Petrarch
Translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson
(abbaabba cdedce)
She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine, A
A noble lady in a humble home, B
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come, B
'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine. A
The soul that all its blessings must resign, A
And love whose light no more on earth finds room, B
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom, B
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine; A
They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf C
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care, D
And naught remains to me save mournful breath. E
Assuredly but dust and shade we are, D
Assuredly desire is blind and brief, C
Assuredly its hope but ends in death. E
Why would Petrarch break up the sonnet into these two parts? Petrarch developed this sonnet type in order to have a problem or question in the octave and a solution in the sestet. The octave and sestet may be used for a number of other ways too, to display a point and then a counterpoint or to display two sides to the same story. Possibilities are with this form are vast. Some writers have used this form to have a coheisive story that progresses from one part to the next. The break can be used to show passage of time or distance. The break of the octave and sestet can signify a change in a character, for example a before and after posting of person. For more information just head to your local library or just google the ever popular Petrarchan Sonnet, which thousands of poets have writen, for example and one of my favorites Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Severed Selves
Sonnet XL
from The House of Life
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
1871, 1881
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
Poem of the Day: The Idea of Order at Key West
The Idea of Order at Key West
By Steven Wallace
1934,1936
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
By Steven Wallace
1934,1936
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Welcome to A Poet's Sands of Time
Welcome to A Poet's Sands of Time. I will use this blog to have general discussions about literature and anything else related. I will touch upon the creative process involved in making any piece of art and interpretations behind the piece. This blog will include work by myself and other poetic legends. In addition, it represents a side project for my artist endeavors in poetry and other forms of literature. If any of you have any questions or ideas, just let me know!
"We read to know we are not alone" C.S. Lewis
"We read to know we are not alone" C.S. Lewis
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