Twas dusk, I remember, on that early December
When the world turned to ash, and left naught but an ember
The sky burned in crimson
And our eyes turned to light
Away from the poison
Away from the night
How humorous and sad this fate
That only at the end abate
The countless storms of mankind’s greed
Of daggers, shields, and of spears
All of which make mankind bleed
Until a silence fills its ears
But beautiful indeed the end
Where thy enemy is thy friend
In a language without restriction
Spoken with audacity
In some sweet, seraphic diction
Where the tongue is wandering free.
My eyes have witnessed such a day
For though my friends did sit and pray
I walked across the end of life
And saw it at its peak
And though you’d think there would be strife
No strife did mankind seek.
With gas-tank full of eager oil
I freed myself from fear’s great toil
I felt the key within my hand
The engine roared and sang with mirth
I felt my spirit’s swift demand
And embraced my quick rebirth
The windows rolled into their sheath
The wind, so pleasant, seemed to wreathe
About my happy, careless nature
An endless, hallow breeze.
And so I left my nomenclature
Beside my old disease.
A splendid name did I then don
A name of dauntlessness and brawn
It was the name of everything
Spelled only by a smile
A name that only angels sing
That no one could defile.
I carried my omniscient name
Without the slightest bit of shame
And drove without a shackle bound
Stopping for a passerby
Who sat, quite haggard on the ground
And asked him how he’d like to die.
To this said question, he returned
A message which my fate had earned:
“The world, it seems, is coming down
And we’ll go with the end
But if in fire we’re to drown
I’d rather with a friend.”
He must’ve known my name it seemed
For then his smile, restless, beamed
Akin to mine, for mine had flared
And so he joined me on my travel
And so the final day was shared
As we watched the world unravel.
Twas dusk, I remember, on that early December
When the world turned to ash and left naught but an ember
I found a man quite foreign to me
Another day he’d not be friend
But I befriended fearlessly
Because it was the end.
And I said to my final friend:
"How beautiful indeed the end."
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Journal Response #5
Identify and discuss Dr.Seuss' poetic style after perusing a few of his works:
Dr.Seuss' wonderfully inane children's books--arguably for adults as well--are renowned classics of modern day literature and linger in the mind of many as the first bits of poetry that their eyes stumbled upon in youth. But despite their mirthful visage, some poets and critics anathematize Dr.Seuss books as corruptive literature that plagues the mind of a child with erroneous communication skills. This is arguable at best, but if a reader is the logical and particularly pedantic type, they are likely to share in the anger of the critics. Why? For one reason, many Dr.Seuss Books employ improper sentence formations like some of the stanzas in "Fox in Sox,":
Here is lots of
new blue goo now.
Gooey. Gooey.
Blue goo. New goo.
Gluey. Gluey.
But perhaps what is more aggravating to the more academically meticulous readers is the aberrant meters that flow off the tongue with great uniqueness but are wont to vex the mind with confusion. This is considerably noticeable in the famed book "Horton Hears a Who!" in which a curious white elephant strives to rescue a civilization thriving on a bit of dust from imminent annihilation. To use an example from the book:
u / u u / u u / / / u /
1 So Horton stopped splashing. He looked toward the sound.
u / u u / u u / u u /
2 "That's funny," thought Horton. "There's no one around."
u u / u u / u u / u u /
3 Then he heard it again! Just a very faint yelp
u u / u u / u u / u u /
4 As if some tiny person were calling for help
u / u u / u u u / u u
5 "I'll help you," said Horton. "But who are you? Where?"
u / u u / u u / u u /
6 He looked and he looked. He could see nothing there
u u / u u / u u / u u /
7 But a small speck of dust blowing past through the air.
This stanza, written on page 6 of the book, seems thoroughly confusing and improper at first, and by general poetic code it is. However, the meter of Anapests seem prevalent throughout the stanza, albeit there are many catalectic deviations. And thus one would deem the stanza Catalectic Anapestic Tetrameter... or at least one would do so simply if it were not for the incredibly motley first line. The first line is not only composed of six stresses, making it hexameter, but it is also catalectic and boasts the random intervention of a spondee toward the end. This is rather confusing, and the name allotted to such a line in a poem is unknown. Perhaps Dr.Seuss rendered the poem Catalectic Anapestic Tetrameter because it can be abbreviated as C.A.T. but the first line is solely inane.
Aside from aberrant meter, Dr.Seuss employs a great many of the other devices in poetry fantastically. His rhyme scheme is rudimentary yet impeccably consistent and his use of white space correlates with the depiction of a story. To exhibit both, but more so the latter, here is an stanza excerpted from "Horton Hears a Who!":
1 And at 6:56 the next morning he did it. A
2 It sure was a terrible place that he hid it. A
3 He let that small clover drop somewhere inside B
4 Of a great patch of clovers a hundred miles wide! B
5 "Find THAT!" sneered the bird. "But I think you will fail." C
6 And he left D
7 With a flip E
8 Of his black-bottomed tail. C
In lines 6 & 7, the purposeful use of white space is distinguishable from the rest of the text. Whether Dr. Seuss did this to emphasize the actions of the bird separately, or whether it was merely done out of some inexplicable aesthetic favor I shall not arbitrate. Nonetheless it is there.
Personally, I find the myriad of books that Dr.Seuss has produced to be vastly enjoyable. And being a full-blooded advocate for imaginative inanity, it's no wonder.
Dr.Seuss' wonderfully inane children's books--arguably for adults as well--are renowned classics of modern day literature and linger in the mind of many as the first bits of poetry that their eyes stumbled upon in youth. But despite their mirthful visage, some poets and critics anathematize Dr.Seuss books as corruptive literature that plagues the mind of a child with erroneous communication skills. This is arguable at best, but if a reader is the logical and particularly pedantic type, they are likely to share in the anger of the critics. Why? For one reason, many Dr.Seuss Books employ improper sentence formations like some of the stanzas in "Fox in Sox,":
Here is lots of
new blue goo now.
Gooey. Gooey.
Blue goo. New goo.
Gluey. Gluey.
But perhaps what is more aggravating to the more academically meticulous readers is the aberrant meters that flow off the tongue with great uniqueness but are wont to vex the mind with confusion. This is considerably noticeable in the famed book "Horton Hears a Who!" in which a curious white elephant strives to rescue a civilization thriving on a bit of dust from imminent annihilation. To use an example from the book:
u / u u / u u / / / u /
1 So Horton stopped splashing. He looked toward the sound.
u / u u / u u / u u /
2 "That's funny," thought Horton. "There's no one around."
u u / u u / u u / u u /
3 Then he heard it again! Just a very faint yelp
u u / u u / u u / u u /
4 As if some tiny person were calling for help
u / u u / u u u / u u
5 "I'll help you," said Horton. "But who are you? Where?"
u / u u / u u / u u /
6 He looked and he looked. He could see nothing there
u u / u u / u u / u u /
7 But a small speck of dust blowing past through the air.
This stanza, written on page 6 of the book, seems thoroughly confusing and improper at first, and by general poetic code it is. However, the meter of Anapests seem prevalent throughout the stanza, albeit there are many catalectic deviations. And thus one would deem the stanza Catalectic Anapestic Tetrameter... or at least one would do so simply if it were not for the incredibly motley first line. The first line is not only composed of six stresses, making it hexameter, but it is also catalectic and boasts the random intervention of a spondee toward the end. This is rather confusing, and the name allotted to such a line in a poem is unknown. Perhaps Dr.Seuss rendered the poem Catalectic Anapestic Tetrameter because it can be abbreviated as C.A.T. but the first line is solely inane.
Aside from aberrant meter, Dr.Seuss employs a great many of the other devices in poetry fantastically. His rhyme scheme is rudimentary yet impeccably consistent and his use of white space correlates with the depiction of a story. To exhibit both, but more so the latter, here is an stanza excerpted from "Horton Hears a Who!":
1 And at 6:56 the next morning he did it. A
2 It sure was a terrible place that he hid it. A
3 He let that small clover drop somewhere inside B
4 Of a great patch of clovers a hundred miles wide! B
5 "Find THAT!" sneered the bird. "But I think you will fail." C
6 And he left D
7 With a flip E
8 Of his black-bottomed tail. C
In lines 6 & 7, the purposeful use of white space is distinguishable from the rest of the text. Whether Dr. Seuss did this to emphasize the actions of the bird separately, or whether it was merely done out of some inexplicable aesthetic favor I shall not arbitrate. Nonetheless it is there.
Personally, I find the myriad of books that Dr.Seuss has produced to be vastly enjoyable. And being a full-blooded advocate for imaginative inanity, it's no wonder.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Haiku Trio on Nature
Life upon the grave
Growing over even death
Harken to its call
Vestiges remain
Yet even they grow scarce
Soon we'll know but dreams
Primordial world
Speaks with clever tongues
Listeners are we
Growing over even death
Harken to its call
Vestiges remain
Yet even they grow scarce
Soon we'll know but dreams
Primordial world
Speaks with clever tongues
Listeners are we
Monday, May 10, 2010
Death
And in the darkness lingered death
With foul, fetid, claiming breath
It wrapped around me like a pall
And nothing more do I recall
Not joys of life
Nor pangs of strife
Before that final fated fall.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Journal Response #4
Choose a poet and a poem of his or hers to explicate:
1. Name and Credentials: I chose the famed Edgar Allan Poe, not merely because of his incredible popularity but because of what I consider to be an unparalleled prowess with poetry which he flourishes in nearly all of his poems. He was abhorred by his peers whilst he was alive for inexplicable reasons, although some speculate it was jealousy. But I, alongside countless others, now revere him and his many works.
2. Poem
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
3. Meaning; why you chose it: In all cases of explication, meaning is arbitrary. I am bold enough to claim that I believe the the poem describes an event which Poe perceived literally; I say this because of Poe's notorious feelings of solemnity and seriousness in the most fantastical of depictions, such as The Raven. From what history can tell of Edgar Allan Poe, he was a very enigmatic and bizarre person whose life was twisted by many misfortunes. In the work entitled "Alone," Poe seems to speak about his deviant nature and its childhood-based source. In the first line he claims that he had "not seen what others saw," and in lines 13-22 he continues on to elaborate on what his divergent view of the world was comprised of. From fountains to the sun to the clouds in the sky, Poe seems to say that he beheld demons in everything he saw and thus his vision of the realm around him differed from everyone he met or knew. For this reason he was alone, figuratively speaking. That which he loved others could not understand or envisage, and so he loved alone--line 8 voices this.
4. What do you like/dislike about this poem? Why?: It is difficult for me to dislike much of Poe's work. He always manages to keep a saccharine flow in his poems, often implements a wonderfully adept rhyme scheme, and seldom fails to enthrall my imagination with his depictions, be they figurative or literal. Alone sets the classical melancholy mood of Poe's writing and abides by all that I revere him for. Rest well you wonderful mad-man.
1. Name and Credentials: I chose the famed Edgar Allan Poe, not merely because of his incredible popularity but because of what I consider to be an unparalleled prowess with poetry which he flourishes in nearly all of his poems. He was abhorred by his peers whilst he was alive for inexplicable reasons, although some speculate it was jealousy. But I, alongside countless others, now revere him and his many works.
2. Poem
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
3. Meaning; why you chose it: In all cases of explication, meaning is arbitrary. I am bold enough to claim that I believe the the poem describes an event which Poe perceived literally; I say this because of Poe's notorious feelings of solemnity and seriousness in the most fantastical of depictions, such as The Raven. From what history can tell of Edgar Allan Poe, he was a very enigmatic and bizarre person whose life was twisted by many misfortunes. In the work entitled "Alone," Poe seems to speak about his deviant nature and its childhood-based source. In the first line he claims that he had "not seen what others saw," and in lines 13-22 he continues on to elaborate on what his divergent view of the world was comprised of. From fountains to the sun to the clouds in the sky, Poe seems to say that he beheld demons in everything he saw and thus his vision of the realm around him differed from everyone he met or knew. For this reason he was alone, figuratively speaking. That which he loved others could not understand or envisage, and so he loved alone--line 8 voices this.
4. What do you like/dislike about this poem? Why?: It is difficult for me to dislike much of Poe's work. He always manages to keep a saccharine flow in his poems, often implements a wonderfully adept rhyme scheme, and seldom fails to enthrall my imagination with his depictions, be they figurative or literal. Alone sets the classical melancholy mood of Poe's writing and abides by all that I revere him for. Rest well you wonderful mad-man.
Journal Response #3
Explain how [the following poems] represent one or more of the ways that the sonnet evolved.
The Canzoniere (translation irrelevant)
Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono A
di quei sospiri ond'io nudriva 'l core B
in sul mio primo giovenile errore B
quand'era in parte altr'uom da quel ch'i' sono, A
del vario stile in ch'io piango et ragiono A
fra le vane speranze e 'l van dolore, B
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore, B
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono. A
Ma ben veggio or sí come al popol tutto A
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente B
di me mesdesmo meco mi vergogno; A
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 'l frutto, A
e 'l pentersi, e 'l conoscer chiaramente B
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno. A
Romeo and Juliet
Let me not to the marriage of true minds A
Admit impediments, love is not love B
Which alters when it alteration finds, A
Or bends with the remover to remove. B
O no, it is an ever fixéd mark C
That looks on tempests and is never shaken D
It is the star to every wand'ring bark, C
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken. D
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks E
Within his bending sickle's compass come, F
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, E
But bears it out even to the edge of doom: F
If this be error and upon me proved, G
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. G
The evolution of the sonnet is nothing directly biological, nor logical in most senses for that matter, but rather it is predominantly fortuitous.
Thomas Wyatt--an ancestor of mine--is said to have given birth to the English sonnet, which was forged, of course, from his amorous feelings for a woman he couldn't have (the English king's queen). But he wasn't the vanguard of sonnets in their entirety. It is a renowned Italian 'sonneteer' by the name of Francesco Petrarch who claims that title.
The Petrarchan Sonnet is perhaps the most recognized form of sonnet beside the Shakespearean Sonnet form. The first poem displayed, taken from The Canzoniere, was written by Petrarch and contains the distinguishable strict rhyme scheme of ABBA, which is Petrachan Sonnet form at its finest.
The Shakespearean Sonnet, the most famed of all English sonnet forms, was written most commonly by William Shakespeare--although other poets and playwrites conjured up similar sonnets alongside or before Shakespeare's--in the 16th century, and consists of the rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. The final two lines of Shakespeare's sonnets served as his signature, for they always contained identical rhyme schemes and were set apart from the main body of the poem in some fashion.
The divergence in the two most acclaimed sonnet form types is distinct, but both are incredibly rife with romanticism. Seldom do sonnets not pertain to love or death, and those that do not are often frowned upon.
The Canzoniere (translation irrelevant)
Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono A
di quei sospiri ond'io nudriva 'l core B
in sul mio primo giovenile errore B
quand'era in parte altr'uom da quel ch'i' sono, A
del vario stile in ch'io piango et ragiono A
fra le vane speranze e 'l van dolore, B
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore, B
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono. A
Ma ben veggio or sí come al popol tutto A
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente B
di me mesdesmo meco mi vergogno; A
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 'l frutto, A
e 'l pentersi, e 'l conoscer chiaramente B
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno. A
Romeo and Juliet
Let me not to the marriage of true minds A
Admit impediments, love is not love B
Which alters when it alteration finds, A
Or bends with the remover to remove. B
O no, it is an ever fixéd mark C
That looks on tempests and is never shaken D
It is the star to every wand'ring bark, C
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken. D
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks E
Within his bending sickle's compass come, F
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, E
But bears it out even to the edge of doom: F
If this be error and upon me proved, G
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. G
The evolution of the sonnet is nothing directly biological, nor logical in most senses for that matter, but rather it is predominantly fortuitous.
Thomas Wyatt--an ancestor of mine--is said to have given birth to the English sonnet, which was forged, of course, from his amorous feelings for a woman he couldn't have (the English king's queen). But he wasn't the vanguard of sonnets in their entirety. It is a renowned Italian 'sonneteer' by the name of Francesco Petrarch who claims that title.
The Petrarchan Sonnet is perhaps the most recognized form of sonnet beside the Shakespearean Sonnet form. The first poem displayed, taken from The Canzoniere, was written by Petrarch and contains the distinguishable strict rhyme scheme of ABBA, which is Petrachan Sonnet form at its finest.
The Shakespearean Sonnet, the most famed of all English sonnet forms, was written most commonly by William Shakespeare--although other poets and playwrites conjured up similar sonnets alongside or before Shakespeare's--in the 16th century, and consists of the rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. The final two lines of Shakespeare's sonnets served as his signature, for they always contained identical rhyme schemes and were set apart from the main body of the poem in some fashion.
The divergence in the two most acclaimed sonnet form types is distinct, but both are incredibly rife with romanticism. Seldom do sonnets not pertain to love or death, and those that do not are often frowned upon.
Journal Response #2
How does form (structure, rhythm, meter, line breaks) affect meaning in poetry? Provide specific examples and explain your reasoning.
This question is a curious one. Due to its curious nature I am unable to answer the question firstly, for I must explain my intrigue beforehand. The question asked implies that there is, in fact, a correlation between meaning and form. Albeit an axiom in some cases--E. E. Cummings' notorious form (notorious is used purposefully)--in the just of cases I don't believe form affects the sentiment that the poet is attempting to convey. With that being said, I do believe that how a poem is formed can have a significant effect on how a reader views the poem. For instance, E. E. Cummings' poem topics could be poignant and enthralling, but I still abhor the poems and wish to put them to flame every time my eyes unfortunately stumble upon one of them because their form is akin to this:
I love ca
ts becau
se they h
ave 4leg
s and st(a
re) at me
with eye
s
If you've stopped reading I hardly blame you, but bear with me a moment longer and I'll answer the question. Now I would find the question a great deal more logical if the word 'meaning' contained within the question was to be replaced with the word 'flow.' Thus the new question would read: "How does form (structure, rhythm, meter, line breaks) affect flow in poetry?"
A marvelous question, I'll answer it briskly. The human eyes are fickle things and are quick to judge something based on its appearance. A sentence that ends abruptly can be disconcerting but often leads one to search for the finishing part of the sentence. In a poem it is commonplace to find something of this sort:
/ u / u /
In the shadow hid A
u / u / u /
An unassuming squid. A
Although the sentence begins at the first line, it finishes with a period at the end of the second line. This does several things for a reader. It makes one sentence seem like two so as to augment the length of the poem by adding an implied pause and to set a less demanding standard for meter. Instead of hexameter--brought about if it was all one line--there is trimeter. The rhyme scheme, which is AA, is done in favor of sweetness of flow which can generally aid the reading of the poem depending on who reads it. Without the rhyme scheme:
In the shadow hides
An unassuming squid
This poem is identical in every facet to the previous one with the exception of the fourth word in the first line 'hides' which breaks the original rhyme scheme; some prefer the former, some the latter (former personally) Thus form has proved a fazing factor in the poem's flow.
*Note: As I was reading over what I had written I must concede to one fact... the tense of the poem is changed based on wording within the form; this can affect meaning.*
This question is a curious one. Due to its curious nature I am unable to answer the question firstly, for I must explain my intrigue beforehand. The question asked implies that there is, in fact, a correlation between meaning and form. Albeit an axiom in some cases--E. E. Cummings' notorious form (notorious is used purposefully)--in the just of cases I don't believe form affects the sentiment that the poet is attempting to convey. With that being said, I do believe that how a poem is formed can have a significant effect on how a reader views the poem. For instance, E. E. Cummings' poem topics could be poignant and enthralling, but I still abhor the poems and wish to put them to flame every time my eyes unfortunately stumble upon one of them because their form is akin to this:
I love ca
ts becau
se they h
ave 4leg
s and st(a
re) at me
with eye
s
If you've stopped reading I hardly blame you, but bear with me a moment longer and I'll answer the question. Now I would find the question a great deal more logical if the word 'meaning' contained within the question was to be replaced with the word 'flow.' Thus the new question would read: "How does form (structure, rhythm, meter, line breaks) affect flow in poetry?"
A marvelous question, I'll answer it briskly. The human eyes are fickle things and are quick to judge something based on its appearance. A sentence that ends abruptly can be disconcerting but often leads one to search for the finishing part of the sentence. In a poem it is commonplace to find something of this sort:
/ u / u /
In the shadow hid A
u / u / u /
An unassuming squid. A
Although the sentence begins at the first line, it finishes with a period at the end of the second line. This does several things for a reader. It makes one sentence seem like two so as to augment the length of the poem by adding an implied pause and to set a less demanding standard for meter. Instead of hexameter--brought about if it was all one line--there is trimeter. The rhyme scheme, which is AA, is done in favor of sweetness of flow which can generally aid the reading of the poem depending on who reads it. Without the rhyme scheme:
In the shadow hides
An unassuming squid
This poem is identical in every facet to the previous one with the exception of the fourth word in the first line 'hides' which breaks the original rhyme scheme; some prefer the former, some the latter (former personally) Thus form has proved a fazing factor in the poem's flow.
*Note: As I was reading over what I had written I must concede to one fact... the tense of the poem is changed based on wording within the form; this can affect meaning.*
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Go Forth My Noble King
Rise and go my noble king
Hasten to where angels sing
Upon the pallid eagle's wing
Beyond the doleful chapel's ring
Rise and go my noble king
Your next adventure lies in wait
A crusade for joy in place of hate
The storm of life doth now abate
So follow now your final fate
And to distant bliss now steal
Rise and go my noble king
Fly to fields so surreal
To eternal hills of teal
Where all mortal wounds will heal
Left behind just like the keel
That has been stranded on the shore
Rise and go my noble king
Forget thee now the clash of war
The bloodied clothing steel tore
The fallen soldiers on the floor
The everlasting strife of yore
The battle's unrelenting toll
Rise and go my noble king
Shut thy eyes tight and free thy soul
Break from this dirty, mundane hole
Take leave at last from your patrol
Fret not the flag upon the pole
For I shall raise our shining crest.
Rise and go my noble king
And I shall follow you to rest.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sleep Eternal
Sleep eternal, sleep so sweet
Slumber in which dreams I'll meet.
Do not fret, mind not my passing
Chaos somewhere is amassing
Daily strife that fated be.
When fire sets across the earth
Poured out from the corrupted hearth
I will be long since gone from danger
Like newborn docile in a manager.
Long since sleeping, long since free
Sweet sleep for all eternity.
Slumber in which dreams I'll meet.
Do not fret, mind not my passing
Chaos somewhere is amassing
Daily strife that fated be.
When fire sets across the earth
Poured out from the corrupted hearth
I will be long since gone from danger
Like newborn docile in a manager.
Long since sleeping, long since free
Sweet sleep for all eternity.
As the Ages Pass
Copse of forest, bright with life
Labyrinth of verdancy
With fallen leafs the floor is rife
Birds and beasts abounding free.
Enter Man
Fallen founts of wood spit smoke
Wild does the forest burn
Axes torches writing choke
And bereave the final fern.
Enter Children
Concrete castle mars the skies
Classrooms bustle busily
Silenced are the students' cries
Of life's remaining mystery.
Enter Strife
Broken metal, shattered glass
Order falls with empty clips
Soldiers run through lead morass
Destruction at their heels nips.
Exit Man
Quiet corpse of stone and steel
There the wind resides alone
Time will work to mend and heal
Till the forest's fully grown
Enter Nature
Copse of forest bright with life
Labyrinth of verdancy
With fallen leafs the floor is rife
Birds and beasts abounding free.
Labyrinth of verdancy
With fallen leafs the floor is rife
Birds and beasts abounding free.
Enter Man
Fallen founts of wood spit smoke
Wild does the forest burn
Axes torches writing choke
And bereave the final fern.
Enter Children
Concrete castle mars the skies
Classrooms bustle busily
Silenced are the students' cries
Of life's remaining mystery.
Enter Strife
Broken metal, shattered glass
Order falls with empty clips
Soldiers run through lead morass
Destruction at their heels nips.
Exit Man
Quiet corpse of stone and steel
There the wind resides alone
Time will work to mend and heal
Till the forest's fully grown
Enter Nature
Copse of forest bright with life
Labyrinth of verdancy
With fallen leafs the floor is rife
Birds and beasts abounding free.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Final Repose
Amongst the languor of the spring
Where wind-blessed birds mirthfully sing
Beside the gentle, curving steam
Sits I within a living dream.
There, immersed in laughter play
The creatures of the forest's fray
Cavorting in the fading day
Reluctant to be on their way.
I scarcely blame their attitude
The mundane world without seems crude
Whilst beauty lay before me nude
Leaving would be quickly rued.
Upon this great, enchanting glade
Across whose meadows wind doth wade
The flowers dance within the shade
Shed down by leaves of purest jade
If bliss be food for eye and ear
Then who would tempt starvation here
Where every moment begs a tear
With lavish feasts lain out just near.
I too, cannot quite leave this place
This realm of stolid, ancient grace
Where heaven doth unearth its face
From flowers made of scented lace.
The wind doth grant me with a kiss
It sends my worry all amiss
And whisper I to the water's gleam
"Keep me bound to this living dream."
Where wind-blessed birds mirthfully sing
Beside the gentle, curving steam
Sits I within a living dream.
There, immersed in laughter play
The creatures of the forest's fray
Cavorting in the fading day
Reluctant to be on their way.
I scarcely blame their attitude
The mundane world without seems crude
Whilst beauty lay before me nude
Leaving would be quickly rued.
Upon this great, enchanting glade
Across whose meadows wind doth wade
The flowers dance within the shade
Shed down by leaves of purest jade
If bliss be food for eye and ear
Then who would tempt starvation here
Where every moment begs a tear
With lavish feasts lain out just near.
I too, cannot quite leave this place
This realm of stolid, ancient grace
Where heaven doth unearth its face
From flowers made of scented lace.
The wind doth grant me with a kiss
It sends my worry all amiss
And whisper I to the water's gleam
"Keep me bound to this living dream."
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Dreamers
It seems a dreamer cannot see
The harsh and cold reality
That keeps their dreams from running free
That hinders, binds, and shackles thee.
Although, perhaps, it would be best
To not put their dreams to any test
To lay reality to rest
To liberate the heart from chest
To see what only dreamers see.
The harsh and cold reality
That keeps their dreams from running free
That hinders, binds, and shackles thee.
Although, perhaps, it would be best
To not put their dreams to any test
To lay reality to rest
To liberate the heart from chest
To see what only dreamers see.
O' Soldier Strong
Where have you gone o' soldier strong?
Did you chase after battle's song?
Did you head out to mend the wrong?
How long shall you be gone? How long?
A grievance born, a broken trance
Passed gates of death the living prance
Forgotten families forced to dance
Across the woe created hence.
Upon the casket sleeps the pall
Honoring your triumphant fall
A triumph not to me at all
Not worth the tears the mourners bawl.
The gales of joy that once had blown
A laughter now no longer known
No memories to soon be grown
For you have left them all alone
Because you wished to mend the wrong.
Where have you gone o' soldier strong?
How long shall you be gone? How long?
Did you chase after battle's song?
Did you head out to mend the wrong?
How long shall you be gone? How long?
A grievance born, a broken trance
Passed gates of death the living prance
Forgotten families forced to dance
Across the woe created hence.
Upon the casket sleeps the pall
Honoring your triumphant fall
A triumph not to me at all
Not worth the tears the mourners bawl.
The gales of joy that once had blown
A laughter now no longer known
No memories to soon be grown
For you have left them all alone
Because you wished to mend the wrong.
Where have you gone o' soldier strong?
How long shall you be gone? How long?
A Rose
I abandoned my bonds
I abandoned my chains
I abandoned my prison
I abandoned the reins
I let the carriage run awry
Down what path it chose
The road was rough
The wood, it roared
The wheels groaned
But I ignored
I let the carriage run awry
For I had found a rose
Her thorns relented
Her petals glistened
She whispered mirth
And so I listened
I let the carriage run awry
Forgetting all my woes
Time fell to fading
Time lost to bliss
A breathing dream
Within a kiss
I let the carriage run awry
For I had found a rose.
I abandoned my chains
I abandoned my prison
I abandoned the reins
I let the carriage run awry
Down what path it chose
The road was rough
The wood, it roared
The wheels groaned
But I ignored
I let the carriage run awry
For I had found a rose
Her thorns relented
Her petals glistened
She whispered mirth
And so I listened
I let the carriage run awry
Forgetting all my woes
Time fell to fading
Time lost to bliss
A breathing dream
Within a kiss
I let the carriage run awry
For I had found a rose.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Piece of Death
An ancient fallen corpse,
A time-worn tower of life
Now so rife with death.
The wind had once sung gently
to the soaring giant when it stood.
And in turn the giant danced.
Idle for eternity until
the grove beneath bode welcome.
Forgotten by passing birds.
The fount of life stood cold
where once the redwood grew.
It seemed forlorn and broken.
With diligence I did approach
as not to hinder newborn growth,
and looked upon the ruin.
New life aspired atop the body,
yet nonetheless it was bereaved.
Naught but an empty husk.
From the shattered base
I drew a relic like a sword
from within a tattered sheath.
I lingered for a moment,
free from bonds of woe,
and pocketed the fragment.
And so am I so honored
and so humbled by this
slab of time, taken from
the past.
Medusa
Solid scathing gaze
That pierces like a poniard.
Feel the angry cold
That riots in your chest.
River of your thoughts
A sudden stagnant mess.
All-enveloping abyss
Called forth from deepest dark.
Eyes like dreary clouds
Relent not for a moment.
Soft and smoothest flesh
Now rigid like a stone.
Mysterious Orb
Broken branches, decorations, on the forest floor.
The golden light, like warmest blanket,
Burning here since times of yore.
Brave contender, so eternal, fighting back the dark.
Such sweet cadence pouring outward,
Forcing ears to carefully hark.
Beckoning it begs me move- much closer to its side.
I abide, my heart a-flutter,
Bliss, I know, within does hide.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Gallivant
A joyous life with another
is a rarity at best.
We cajole and flirt forever
but how much of it in jest?
Truthfully we are not true
and so we play a game.
Hoping that with bow and arrow
we shoot with cupid's aim.
The Crusader
They marched in echelons of boldness
With sharpened tongues and bloodied blades,
Resolve burned in their frigid gazes;
Grinning in the shadow of their leader.
They bordered him like loyal wolves,
each so debonair and dauntless.
Their opposition cowered quietly;
The lesser coyotes of the land.
Each with scepter, still they followed
The one they could not parallel.
He was the icon of their aspirations;
A paragon of their pride.
He was the highest executioner,
And yet kept the cleanest blade.
His visage was impeccable
Beneath it something brooded.
The sunlight hid behind drawn curtains,
the darkness overwhelmed them all.
Trustingly they sat and smiled,
Unexpectedly they'd fall.
He took his seat upon his throne
And silence hastened forth.
He had become a deity.
His audience too often sinned.
Revolution stalked the table like a specter.
The incorrigible had spent their turn.
He spoke but once before it ended.
The old world he would burn.
Monday, April 12, 2010
POETRY
Poetry is the music of literature; every word a note, every form an octave. It plays upon the heartstrings of world and beckons minds to harken to its many messages. Each message is a valiant truth, aspiring to explain the endless, beautiful confusion that both besets and blesses the realm of humanity. Feel free to feel curious and explore the messages composed. Dissect and mutilate them until they are but tattered scraps; they will endure. For each poem is a passage from eternity, and is itself eternal.
Across the breadth of time human-kind has tried its hand at explanation, however vain or futile it may be. With steady hands, before our tongues were deft, we scraped stone and brushed paint, eager to share our observations of the majestic and mundane alike. We reached out to the celestial and the ethereal that encompassed and composed us, but without the equipment of language we could only reach so far. It is at the inception point of language that we perfected our ability to convey and construe; that our ideas found fruition. Thus was our reach extended. The truthfulness or falsity of what we reach is arguable by those with enough audacity to protect their beliefs, but the reach itself cannot be controverted. And it is when we write poetry that we reach the furthest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
