Landscape

There may not be the space to see
Beyond the street on which I stand;
The high-thrown wall envelope me
And block my view at every hand.
My vision then cannot embrace
The distant vista far or wide
I see a cramped and confined space
In which a million visions hide.
There crawls an insect, in whose eyes
The street around me is a plain;
And there above a seagull flies
Until returning to the main
While I look out and up, around
At everything except the ground.

Search

Somewhere around here,  once, I had a wife;
And somewhere else, I think I might recall,
The remnants of a not too awful life:
Perhaps a dog, a house, a job and all.
If I remember rightly (and I might)
I kind of liked it. But then again, who knows?
My memory is comfortable and bright
But as I ponder, my confusion grows.
If she--and they--should be here, where are they?
And if I am the man I think I've been
Why am I stuck as I am this way?
I do not know quite where I should begin.
I look for her, and still I do not see;
Yet I will hope, and think in terms of we.

Trees And Wood

God is not alone in ornate halls,
Nor worshipped best in silk and cloth-of-gold;
We find God sometimes hidden in the walls
Of subway tracks, through use grown cracked and old
Or in the grass that somehow breaks to light
Out of the concrete sidewalk when it cracks
A sudden unexpected well-known sight
Whose wonder from its common presence lacks
The splendor of a dias set in jewels,
But shows the strength of life, and thus of God.
Oh, I am sure I am one of the fools
Who see the splendor and think it not odd
To worship in the beauty that's manmade
Though I should find it finer in the shade.

Privileged

Imagine, if you will, the world is fair.
Dice come up even, cards are shuffled well,
And chance is always equal everywhere.
For some of us, this world would be a hell
Because we are so used to other ways.
If every card you've drawn has been a king
You'd curse a hand of deuces or of treys.
It's natural. It touches everything.
The larger problems start when we assert
That others' decks have dealt as ours have done
And they have simply chosen to invert
Their fortunes: when we think that everyone
Has had the same as we have. They have not;
Nor is it always fair what we have got.

Maga

The greatest gift of God is that of peace.
Not when all others lie upon the floor
Objections brought to violent surcease
Nor when exhausted they can do no more
And glumly lie, and say that all is well,
Or cannot speak at all. In peace the goal
Is not mere quiet, or the greatest quell
But combination in a greater whole.
If we can work together all as one
And be more perfect and more unified;
If we acknowledge peace is never done
A constant process always being tried
Then we can recognize it as it lies
Between us, and permit its gifts to rise.

Etz Chayim

Why am I not surprised?
No, not surprised a bit.
Though hurt and horrified
With grief unminimized
And all things taste like shit,
Still I would say I lied
Were I to claim I read
The news surprised. A fear
I always knew was near
Lurked in my mind instead
And whispered as they bled
"They do not want you here."
I wish it were not clear
Some people want me dead.

Sonnet Analysis: John Milton

Today, I take a look at John Milton's famous sonnet on his blindness, "When I Consider How My Light Is Spent."

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest he returning chide; 

“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” 

I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need 

Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed 

And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: 

They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Triumphs:

If there is one reason I love this sonnet, it's the way John Milton, who was a prodigy, a busybody, and the very definition of a tryhard, manages to cast himself as a patient sufferer who only "stand[s] and wait[s]." I do not in any way mean to make light of Milton's actual blindness, which does seem to have been a trial to him, but the pose of martyrdom is truly an artistic tour-de-force. How does he do it? Well, first of all, he never actually says that he is standing, waiting, or anything of the sort. He's not even, necessarily, patient! The entire sestet is ventriloquized through the character of patience, speaking to him, while Milton's response is implied it is very much not explicit. In fact, the famous last sentence is, if anything, a distancing effect: it is not "you" or "I" who "also serve who only stand and wait" but "They"--as if even in the climactic moment of the poem Milton could not bring himself to actually commit to being the stationary one. At the same time, giving that much of the poem over to patience still gives the impression of the author being patient, and listening to patience, even as he fails to respond to what it has to say.

There is also a great play on the word "spent" at the end of line 1. It's only when we start out on the enjambed line 2 ("Ere half my days") that we can tell "spent" means "used up" and not simply "used." "My light is spent" could, after all, refer to how one passes the day--how the light, the "day-labour" that the speaker refers to later, is "spent" day by day. It only comes to certainly mean "I have no access to light," which is not actually an instinctive meaning for the words, once we understand both the biography of the author (always a dangerous source in a genre that is inherently imaginative) and once we try to parse "spent/Ere half my days," which definitely calls for spent as "used up." And yet the other sense of spent keeps raising its head--the sestet is, after all, about ways to spend time. They also serve who spend their light standing and waiting.

The religious references in the poem are also a great effect. The intertwining of the parable of the talents with the issue of Milton's talents in the modern sense is very well done, and of course resonates with the third sense of spent, "exchanged like money," which is an active concern within the parable. And then we get a typical Miltonic attempt to square the circle of God's might and human obligation: God doesn't actually need any of what we do; doing what God has assigned us, what his "mild yoke" has led us to, is the best service, and straining against that yoke is the only real sin. In this, especially in "His State/Is Kingly" we get the sense, recognizable from Paradise Lost if nowhere else, that for Milton the key fact of God is precisely that He (and Milton's God is definitely He) is inherently above the questions that seem so vital to humanity. 

Imperfections:

This poem, as with many Petrarchan sonnets, gets a little too cutesy at the volta, the turn between octave and sestet. In doing so, it makes a characteristic Miltonic change to normal English word order, shoving the actual action of the sentence as far back as possible and inserting what looks like a Latinate ablative absolute along the way: ""Does God exact day-labour, light denied?"/I fondly ask." "Light denied" here is really bent over backwards for the rhyme, and another delay of the verb comes in the next sentence to allow "prevent" as the final rhyme in the octave. But the most notable point is that "fondly ask" is actually the verb of the sentence that takes the entire first seven lines! This is very Milton, but it's also pretty annoying when you try to actually figure out what he's saying. When he considers his blindness and his talent being "Lodged with [him] useless," then he asks (fondly) about whether God exacts day-labour. It's a gorgeous poem, which makes it easy to miss this, but it's a terrible sentence. Which is, in a lot of ways, what Milton is all about.

Daydreams

I can imagine life another way;
It isn't hard to think it differently.
At every turn, on every single day,
A change is possible. Who would I be
If I had grasped this opportunity,
Turned left instead of right at that stop sign,
Walked instead of run? I cannot see,
Inscribed in these the ultimate design,
If there is one, to which these things align
And so I wonder. But I am quite sure
That though, perhaps, it all would have been fine
If it was different, I must still prefer
The way that in reality it went
Since I am, overall, beyond content.

Kol Nidrei

May all our vows no more be vows
(Though not, of course, the ones to you:
We mean the things we said we'd do
Inside: the little "let me nows,"
The "I'll be goods", the "yes, and hows,"
All those things we've struggled to
Achieve). Let them be blanked anew
And let our failures not arouse
Divine displeasure. Let us be
In the sight of God at least
Guiltless for our frailty
Where it has not touched man or beast
But only hurt ourselves: for these
God, forgive us, if you please.

Battle Hymn

The union only makes us strong;
Apart we cannot but be weak
For Capital will always seek
To string it's Labor force along.
It does not care for Right or Wrong
Or the destruction it will wreak;
It craves the Infinite Work Week
With workers paid the merest song.
The union lets us claim our rights,
Our power, our humanity;
To eat, to drink, to sleep out nights;
To keep our health and sanity.
So join the union, and embrace
The power of the human race.

Labor Day

The fact that we can rest today
We owe to those who came before;
They waged a thankless,  brutal war
And struck, forgoing work and pay
To change the world and have their say,
Demanding to be treated more
Like people. They kicked down the door
Enduring hardship on the way
So we as well as they could be
Our better selves: free to pursue
Something beyond the drudge of sweat;
To meet the world with dignity
Doing the things we want to do.
We celebrate; but don't forget.

Second River

Without you I slide back into my youth
Acting like the boy I used to be.
To some this might seem pleasant--and in truth,
I have but little shame of younger me.
I have no deep-born angst of older days
That traumatizes when I visit it,
Nor any huge distaste for my past ways:
The shirts I used to wear still even fit,
And I was happy being me. And yet.
And yet I long to be right back with you
To leave my past life where the sun has set
And live the life that we have wrought anew.
I do not miss the boy I was before:
I liked myself, but I like us much more.

Shapes

I miss you not like oxygen or water
(I will not die if you're removed from me)
But like an otter needs another otter
Floating hand in hand across the sea;
Like riverbends need banks to keep their course
Shaping each other over centuries;
Like Scottish oaks bent by an unseen force
Along a cliff swept by a constant breeze.
I miss you in a dark eternal way
That lingers underneath the skin, and itches;
Like stages miss the presence of a play
Or cut quilt cloth the immanence of stitches:
I don't know how to do this without you.
It's fortunate I'm not required to.

Slow

I cannot process what I cannot think
I cannot think what I cannot believe
The world around me seems upon the brink
Yet I must focus inward still, and grieve.
The emptiness inside me leaves no room
For all the outward griefs that press me in
My inner struggle with my private gloom
Leaves me nowhere to possibly begin
To think about the rest. Within my heart
There is sufficient chaos to contain
I can't ignore the world, but for my part
I must address this first, more local pain.
To heal is slow; no virtue lies in speed
But in the meeting of each moment's need.

Flight

Imagine if you will a vast expanse
(And if you won't, well we can just stop here)
Through which the wind upon an endless dance
Whips back and forth (you do not need to fear:
Imagination will not make it so).
Imagine further, birds within the breeze
Who waft upon it circlingly slow.
Would you prefer to fly with them (now, please
Just bear with me) or walk along the plain
Watching them high above? I think that I
(And you are free to treat this with disdain)
For all that I would love, in dreams, to fly
Would rather watch (Agree or disagree?)
Admiring them floating over me.

Through

At times like these the words refuse to come.
I find I cannot write; I cannot think.
My mind is full of an insistent hum
That drowns me out. I think I need a drink.
But drinking wouldn't help me through it all;
It would just drown out pain with other pain.
I need to do more now than simply stall;
I have to find an outlet for this strain.
Lying awake will bring to me no rest
Wracking my brain will only lead to sorrow
I have no strength to do what I do best
But I can hope that I will have tomorrow:
Although I'm hardly sure what I should do
I'm certain that the only out is through.

Whiz

Do not imagine how it ought to be
Except to help you manage how it is.
That's not to say don't wish, don't hope, don't see
The better world: the cheese to our cheese whiz.
But to insist the cheese whiz you possess
Is edible, and still a tasty treat.
It will not help to whinily obsess
Upon the cheese you wish you had to eat.
Plan shopping better in the future? Sure!
Feel free to keep your fridge stocked up with cheese
But while you do that, do not then demure
From letting what you have right now still please.
The aging cheddar of a brighter day
Should not destroy the pleasure of cheese spray.

Union

We cannot grow our worlds in petri dishes
Each individual and set apart.
No more can we determine them by wishes
As needs no telling to a broken heart.
We live together in a common space
A culture we both constitute and share
(Although it would be false upon the face
To claim we all are thus made equal there).
Within this common world, make common cause
For only we together can make change:
Our social rules are not eternal laws
And though mere wishes may not rearrange
Our world, collective common action can
And has, since first this common world began.

Relative Rights

If you want to be a cop

You have to be the bigger man

(Even at a traffic stop).

You take risks so others can

Enjoy their life and liberty;

Which means you do not get to claim

Your own safety's supremacy

Above the public's. Oh, for shame!

To say your fear lets you deprive

Another's rights, or shoot to kill

When you have promised all to strive

For their protection, come what will.

Your honor comes precisely from

Defending them and their freedom.

Calvin and Hobbesism

My dog, I fear, is not of the elect.
Not that she lacks good works (although she does)
For those who value them are not correct
False as the famed Iscariot once was
But rather for her failure (evermore)
To show contrition. A remorseful heart,
Aware of sin, and with that sin selfsore,
Not fearful of the danger or the smart,
But truly inward full of vital grace
Would be sufficient, but it is not there.
She has no sorrow in her inward place
And only cringes from a sudden scare.
Therefore, although a wonderful playmate
I know my dog to be a reprobate.

Forecast

Grey clouds circle, or they seem to do,
Which should depress me, but it's February
And grey clouds won't do more than rain on you
While circling, for all it might seem scary,
Means somewhere up there must be some blue sky.
The sun may not be visible, but so?
Unless the physics I was taught's a lie,
I can trust it will persist to glow
Without my checking in. The day is dim,
And will, I must expect, be damp as well,
But dark and wet alone won't make it grim.
Only I do that. And I can tell
This has the makings of a better day
For all the clouds above are dressed in grey.

Esteem

I can't imagine what my life would be
Without her in it. What would it entail?
I'm sure in some way I would still be me,
But like a me that's been reduced for sale,
Musty and unused. All of the fire
That burns inside would choke on its own flame
Banking itself til every last desire
Was burnt away. The residue? A name,
A body,  and some habits. But the whole
The me I am or like to think I am,
The present part of my eternal soul
Would be a lesser being,  or a sham.
So since my self-esteem commands, I say
I'm glad she's here, so I am here today.

Privilege

"The light
That shines
Is bright"
He whines
While those
Less lit
Suppose
That it
Must be
A ball
To see
At all:
"Please dim"
For him.

Applause

I learned some ways to tell someone "well done"--
A "brava" here; perhaps a well-placed clap,
A gracious smile, or judicious snap,
If silence was required; or if one
Wished to bro it up, a finger-gun,
A chest-bump, or a hug and triple-slap.
I now believe those methods were a trap,
Designed to steal the spotlight and the sun.
The best acknowledgement I am now convinced
Is deep attention that does not distract
And simple plain expression of the same.
This shows, not tells, the feelings thus evinced,
Subsuming declaration in the act
And giving it reality, not name.