It's dangerous to love you like I do;
There's such a risk we'll break our hearts together.
It's not that I expect such stormy weather,
But rather that it's possible we two
With such convulsions, loving as we woo,
Will snap the tie that serves us as our tether,
And like two birds of close but different feather,
Part from a shock and later live to rue.
I say this only as an advocate
Placed on the devil's party to assist
In arguing the counter to a saint;
I feel the claims against us are but faint,
So faint they might as well just not exist,
For we two are a lovely perfect fit.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Manipulation
I can't believe I'm here at all, but since
I am, I might as well do all I can
To flatter and cajole, sweet-talk, convince,
And otherwise press weaknesses in man
To do my bidding. I've no reason to
Be less than fully sly and subtle here
Because they do not share my point of view,
And if I don't win out, then I must fear
That I will be rammed under and subsumed
By their desires, intentions, meanings, words.
I do not wish to be so clearly doomed
And so I'll break their thoughts into potsherds
By close manipulation. Since I find
Me somehow here, I will impose my mind.
I am, I might as well do all I can
To flatter and cajole, sweet-talk, convince,
And otherwise press weaknesses in man
To do my bidding. I've no reason to
Be less than fully sly and subtle here
Because they do not share my point of view,
And if I don't win out, then I must fear
That I will be rammed under and subsumed
By their desires, intentions, meanings, words.
I do not wish to be so clearly doomed
And so I'll break their thoughts into potsherds
By close manipulation. Since I find
Me somehow here, I will impose my mind.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Effortlessly
I feel I'm doing far too little work
To reap the gains that fall into my lap;
I fear that I will wake up with a jerk
To find this all was just a pleasant nap,
And none of what I dreamt has come to pass.
Each seed I sow grows fertilely despite
The lack of water that I feed my grass;
The clothes I wear perpetually stay white
No matter what muck I may roll into;
The hopes and dreams I had, wild and strange,
Have all found an occasion to come true,
Across the depth and breadth of their great range.
So pinch me, but I hope to not wake up,
Lest waking should make empty my full cup.
To reap the gains that fall into my lap;
I fear that I will wake up with a jerk
To find this all was just a pleasant nap,
And none of what I dreamt has come to pass.
Each seed I sow grows fertilely despite
The lack of water that I feed my grass;
The clothes I wear perpetually stay white
No matter what muck I may roll into;
The hopes and dreams I had, wild and strange,
Have all found an occasion to come true,
Across the depth and breadth of their great range.
So pinch me, but I hope to not wake up,
Lest waking should make empty my full cup.
Inactive
The day that I am not a lazy ass
Will be a banner day. I don't expect
That it will be too soon; I recollect
Some others who, like me, chewed up the grass
And did not choose to move their bulky mass
While everyone about them was direct
And active: such, as I do, would infect
Their fellows, 'til all were in such a pass.
So I may cause infirmity in others
And make all men sleep lazily all day;
Those who already do so are my brothers,
And our great mother's in a family way,
For this attractive ease completely smothers
The industry of virtue. Let us play.
Will be a banner day. I don't expect
That it will be too soon; I recollect
Some others who, like me, chewed up the grass
And did not choose to move their bulky mass
While everyone about them was direct
And active: such, as I do, would infect
Their fellows, 'til all were in such a pass.
So I may cause infirmity in others
And make all men sleep lazily all day;
Those who already do so are my brothers,
And our great mother's in a family way,
For this attractive ease completely smothers
The industry of virtue. Let us play.
Edenic
Life is made up of several boundaries
And by the violation of the same.
The project of all living is to squeeze
The maximum enjoyment from this game.
Will doing as I ought this time present
A later opportunity for joy?
Or will blind following of rules prevent
A future pleasure, and only annoy?
Should I eat all I please, and touch the fruit
That was forbidden me, or only taste
The other trees, from which pleasant pursuit
I was not barred - which one would be the waste?
Each day is made of choices just like these:
Are you sure you should just do what you please?
And by the violation of the same.
The project of all living is to squeeze
The maximum enjoyment from this game.
Will doing as I ought this time present
A later opportunity for joy?
Or will blind following of rules prevent
A future pleasure, and only annoy?
Should I eat all I please, and touch the fruit
That was forbidden me, or only taste
The other trees, from which pleasant pursuit
I was not barred - which one would be the waste?
Each day is made of choices just like these:
Are you sure you should just do what you please?
Dystopic
The broken silence of an undead radio
Screams out across the barren wastes unbearably
While bathed within a sickly iridescent glow
Those who should listen seem to only ever see.
The senses go unutilized by anyone
That could repudiate or change the desperate place;
Even the sorrows that were once so well-begun
Are hopeless now. There is no end to this stopped race.
Nothing continues; nothing finishes, or fades
It simply is, but is not known to be itself.
Life's lemons are still rinded for no lemonades
Can be made here: they rot untouched up on the shelf.
All is made bleak, yet not completely made to scale
Even the failures sit unfinished in their fail.
Screams out across the barren wastes unbearably
While bathed within a sickly iridescent glow
Those who should listen seem to only ever see.
The senses go unutilized by anyone
That could repudiate or change the desperate place;
Even the sorrows that were once so well-begun
Are hopeless now. There is no end to this stopped race.
Nothing continues; nothing finishes, or fades
It simply is, but is not known to be itself.
Life's lemons are still rinded for no lemonades
Can be made here: they rot untouched up on the shelf.
All is made bleak, yet not completely made to scale
Even the failures sit unfinished in their fail.
Rich and Strange
I used to be a calm and quiet man
For whom no trouble could be justified,
Before whose eyes precise objections ran
To every project, who was mollified
By nothing but assurances that pain
Would be completely absent from his life,
Who did not even like to risk the rain,
Much less a greater danger or more strife,
A man whose very confidence in God
Relied on sunny weather and flat seas,
Who thought of inconveniences as odd
Detritus wafted toward him by the breeze.
But now because of you I find in me
An appetite for more uncertainty.
For whom no trouble could be justified,
Before whose eyes precise objections ran
To every project, who was mollified
By nothing but assurances that pain
Would be completely absent from his life,
Who did not even like to risk the rain,
Much less a greater danger or more strife,
A man whose very confidence in God
Relied on sunny weather and flat seas,
Who thought of inconveniences as odd
Detritus wafted toward him by the breeze.
But now because of you I find in me
An appetite for more uncertainty.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
On Verisimilitude in Poetry
A derivative consideration of several points I have made before is the question of how representative or true to life an art poetry should be. I consider this a slightly different issue than the very vexed question I have tussled with before of how much poetry should indulge in fiction or transparently represent some form of truth, because this issue is less one of veracity and more one of verisimilitude. In short, how believable should poetry be? How realistic, rather than how real? Should we paint word pictures of that which is, was, and yet may be, or jet off into the realm of the strictly counterfactual, in the sense of that which cannot be true? And as a subset of this question, or a related one, how much should poetry mirror life even as it necessarily distorts it to some degree through artistic license?
Obviously there is a space for the counterfactual, fictive, even fantastic in poetry. As with any other art form, it is in a sense ridiculous to claim to restrict what poetry can or cannot be used, or attempt to be used, to show, represent, or engage with. So this question is not simply whether poetry can be fictional, but occupies a part of that troublesome space which overlaps the questions "should it?" and "how should it engage with reality even after it has passed into fiction?"
I do not expect to find or relate a full answer here, but merely to attempt to move towards one. I believe that poetry ought to engage with the real and remain with the realistic as far as it can while still moving towards its artistic goal; that is, I believe that poetry draws serious force from its connection to the depiction of that which seems to be plausible, realistic, or otherwise connected to reality or truth, and that abandoning that connection should only be done with great care, under conditions of deliberate artistic contemplation, and subject to an awareness of how severing that connection affects the poem and its effects.
This does not mean no fiction, only a retention of the link back to an imaginatively plausible reality behind the fiction. The situation and expression should, as far as possible within artistic limits, be and remain within the limits of what can be translated by a receiving mind as part of a potential truth, whether or not they are so, since this will I believe produce superior - as in more powerful, more moving, more affective and effective - effects. Absurdism and surrealism do have an artistic place, of course, but I believe the points where such a place is warranted and located are few and must be carefully chosen. As a general rule, poetry should attempt to maintain the appearance of a possible link to reality, or to plausibility within a given set of circumstances.
It is this latter condition which for me incorporates fantasies like, to step outside of sonnets alone, John Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." This is implausible in a strict sense, but within the world conditions set up in the poem, merely weird, not surreal. It establishes a world, and is internally consistent within that world; what is more, one can see how people are still people in that world. The plausibility arises from the thought that in those - admittedly fantastic - circumstances, one could conceive of a normal actor acting in those ways. The setting is fantastic, but within it the action is not.
The issue of how exactly to walk this tightrope of imagined plausibility is one for another time, but the issue of whether to do so is the one I wished to raise here. I believe poetry is most often more empowered to affect the reader where plausibility within circumstances is maintained. Further, I believe that maintaining that link to plausible reality ought to be the default, with deviations from it justified by careful thought, rather than the other way around.
Obviously there is a space for the counterfactual, fictive, even fantastic in poetry. As with any other art form, it is in a sense ridiculous to claim to restrict what poetry can or cannot be used, or attempt to be used, to show, represent, or engage with. So this question is not simply whether poetry can be fictional, but occupies a part of that troublesome space which overlaps the questions "should it?" and "how should it engage with reality even after it has passed into fiction?"
I do not expect to find or relate a full answer here, but merely to attempt to move towards one. I believe that poetry ought to engage with the real and remain with the realistic as far as it can while still moving towards its artistic goal; that is, I believe that poetry draws serious force from its connection to the depiction of that which seems to be plausible, realistic, or otherwise connected to reality or truth, and that abandoning that connection should only be done with great care, under conditions of deliberate artistic contemplation, and subject to an awareness of how severing that connection affects the poem and its effects.
This does not mean no fiction, only a retention of the link back to an imaginatively plausible reality behind the fiction. The situation and expression should, as far as possible within artistic limits, be and remain within the limits of what can be translated by a receiving mind as part of a potential truth, whether or not they are so, since this will I believe produce superior - as in more powerful, more moving, more affective and effective - effects. Absurdism and surrealism do have an artistic place, of course, but I believe the points where such a place is warranted and located are few and must be carefully chosen. As a general rule, poetry should attempt to maintain the appearance of a possible link to reality, or to plausibility within a given set of circumstances.
It is this latter condition which for me incorporates fantasies like, to step outside of sonnets alone, John Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." This is implausible in a strict sense, but within the world conditions set up in the poem, merely weird, not surreal. It establishes a world, and is internally consistent within that world; what is more, one can see how people are still people in that world. The plausibility arises from the thought that in those - admittedly fantastic - circumstances, one could conceive of a normal actor acting in those ways. The setting is fantastic, but within it the action is not.
The issue of how exactly to walk this tightrope of imagined plausibility is one for another time, but the issue of whether to do so is the one I wished to raise here. I believe poetry is most often more empowered to affect the reader where plausibility within circumstances is maintained. Further, I believe that maintaining that link to plausible reality ought to be the default, with deviations from it justified by careful thought, rather than the other way around.
Hips
You always sway a little when you walk
Not just because you're often on your toes,
And not enough to make the gossips squawk
That you are drunk, or buzzed up on No-Doz,
But just a little, to each side and back,
To indicate your gender in your stride:
It's a reminder of what we men lack
In how you undulate from side to side.
It's almost hypnotizing to observe
The way you move without being aware
Of how with every step your hips will swerve;
And in a way, it almost isn't fair.
Your every movement has a grace and draw
That I can never see except with awe.
Not just because you're often on your toes,
And not enough to make the gossips squawk
That you are drunk, or buzzed up on No-Doz,
But just a little, to each side and back,
To indicate your gender in your stride:
It's a reminder of what we men lack
In how you undulate from side to side.
It's almost hypnotizing to observe
The way you move without being aware
Of how with every step your hips will swerve;
And in a way, it almost isn't fair.
Your every movement has a grace and draw
That I can never see except with awe.
Retirement
I could not care much less how you do things
As long as they do not affect me much.
An air of unimportance tightly clings
To all you do - it has you in its clutch.
Of course I used to care; who didn't then?
But now time wanders on and so do I.
I do not think that I will care again,
And honestly, you needn't ask me why.
We, all of us, have moved on past your prime,
And know we have, and therefore moved past you.
It isn't that you weren't of note one time,
But times will change - in fact, they always do.
So let it go, accept the life you lead:
To try to ask for more is merely greed.
As long as they do not affect me much.
An air of unimportance tightly clings
To all you do - it has you in its clutch.
Of course I used to care; who didn't then?
But now time wanders on and so do I.
I do not think that I will care again,
And honestly, you needn't ask me why.
We, all of us, have moved on past your prime,
And know we have, and therefore moved past you.
It isn't that you weren't of note one time,
But times will change - in fact, they always do.
So let it go, accept the life you lead:
To try to ask for more is merely greed.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Ayes Have It
How long must I continue to debate
My happiness, and how it came to be?
Must I obsess about how to create
More joy? Can I not let what presently
Makes me so happy be itself my bliss,
But must, perforce, mull over without end
The wonder of how my life came to this?
I fear this but continues a great trend
Of over-contemplation in my soul,
Which threatens in a way to overtake
That which it thinks about: my happy whole.
What a mistake that would now be to make!
But as I ponder it, I notice too
Each thought is happy, since they are of you.
My happiness, and how it came to be?
Must I obsess about how to create
More joy? Can I not let what presently
Makes me so happy be itself my bliss,
But must, perforce, mull over without end
The wonder of how my life came to this?
I fear this but continues a great trend
Of over-contemplation in my soul,
Which threatens in a way to overtake
That which it thinks about: my happy whole.
What a mistake that would now be to make!
But as I ponder it, I notice too
Each thought is happy, since they are of you.
Exit Nearest Your Seat
I should have gotten out of there before,
When no one else had realized the issue;
Then there was no one heading for the door,
And the resistance would have been like tissue.
Now someone's noticed that we ought to go,
And notified the others that they should.
Of course that's nothing that I didn't know,
But it was better when nobody could
Block my own exit; now I'm trapped in here
Uncertain if I'll find my way alright
Out of this place. I should be free and clear,
But that's my fault, for not fleeing on sight.
The fire will spread, and we will flee, unless
Someone has locked the doors on this whole mess.
When no one else had realized the issue;
Then there was no one heading for the door,
And the resistance would have been like tissue.
Now someone's noticed that we ought to go,
And notified the others that they should.
Of course that's nothing that I didn't know,
But it was better when nobody could
Block my own exit; now I'm trapped in here
Uncertain if I'll find my way alright
Out of this place. I should be free and clear,
But that's my fault, for not fleeing on sight.
The fire will spread, and we will flee, unless
Someone has locked the doors on this whole mess.
Enough Is Enough
Too much desire is a fearsome thing;
It makes a villainy of what was good,
And so makes mockery of valuing
For how is value to be understood
When it can change when it has been obtained?
Since every wish is valued when it comes,
And so desire of want is thereby unrestrained,
How shall we make account of these strange sums
By which to add more value will make less
What came before it, and to take away
Is to make what was great increase? I guess
There's only one thing left for me to say,
Which is, there's one way out of this odd bind:
Look not only at quantity, but kind.
It makes a villainy of what was good,
And so makes mockery of valuing
For how is value to be understood
When it can change when it has been obtained?
Since every wish is valued when it comes,
And so desire of want is thereby unrestrained,
How shall we make account of these strange sums
By which to add more value will make less
What came before it, and to take away
Is to make what was great increase? I guess
There's only one thing left for me to say,
Which is, there's one way out of this odd bind:
Look not only at quantity, but kind.
Sonnet Analysis: Barrett Browning I
A while ago, one of my friends said that this particular sonnet makes her vomit with how saccharine and overdone it is. As you could probably guess, this is not an opinion I share, given my choice to analyze it. I hope in this analysis to show why it should not be disdained, but rather is done a disservice by its iconic status, which causes people to underestimate it because of how famous its opening line has become. Without further ado, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnet 43 from "Sonnets from the Portuguese": "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."
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 everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
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.
Triumphs:
Look beyond the first line (which is actually a lovely line itself, but has probably become too cliche to stand on its own anymore). This sonnet sets up a question in the first line, and it answers that question beautifully. That first answer: "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" is gorgeous. The pacing of the lines - both of the line breaks and the feeling of near-end-stopping despite the enjambment - produces a tumble over of emotion from line to line as the reader looks for the answer. The initial line in this answer is simply wonderful: it expresses totality (the depth and breadth and height) while keeping the suspense built into the initial question by not answering the obvious "of what?" question. Barrett Browning here manages a tricky tightrope: having the set up only take one line, but not allowing the response to feel finished too early. By having that first answer spill over three lines, and with the pacing she establishes in it, she allows the poem to safely pass over the danger of turning into a mere couplet or quatrain. If she had jumped, say, to "I love thee freely, as men strive for Right," the poem would lose momentum; because she goes immediately into a long answer, and then further into another multi-line answer ("I love thee to the level of everyday's/Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight") she gives the poem the space to build that momentum up.
The turn is also highly effective: moving from general adverbial description (I love thee in this way or this much) to specific methodological description (I love thee using this passion), both of which answer the question "how" but in subtly different ways. The turn also builds towards the eventual finish of loving after death by allowing the move to "of all my life" which in turn moves towards death. So formally, the poem has a strong flow that has been very effectively managed.
Aesthetically, it also has strong appeal. There is a strong mix of end-stopping and enjambment throughout, as noted above. The diction is also extremely interesting: the mixture of abstractions (Right, Grace, Being, Praise) and then intensely personal moments (the breath/Smiles, tears of all my life) is effective in conveying the breadth of the affect being demonstrated, while the timely repetitions of "I love thee" anchor the poem. It is a powerful poem expressing its object of universal love.
Imperfections:
Most of the quibbles with this poem rely on two points: it is cliched, and it is saccharine. The cliched quality of the poem, however, is entirely a result of its success: "how do I love thee? Let me count the ways" was not a cliche when Barrett Browning wrote it, but rather has become one from this sonnet. As for the saccharine issue, it is a love sonnet, so there is always that risk. But personally, that overly sugary quality in poetry results primarily from chiming rhymes, too much end-stopping, and overly repetitive diction, particularly overly regular repetitive diction. All of these things are problems I may be guilty of in many of my poems, but are not things this poem is guilty of. Rather, I believe the issue with this poem is simply that it has been too successful: it has been imitated, quoted, and parodied so much that the fundamental beauty there is to some extent lost.
That does not mean it is a perfect poem. There are slant rhymes that although they make the poem less sugary and chimey, are also less pleasing: faith and breath is I think the worst. The three straight lines around the turn beginning "I love thee" are a little overdone. But overall, the poem is extremely powerful, and I think only undone by being, in a sense, too good of an expression of its object.
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 everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
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.
Triumphs:
Look beyond the first line (which is actually a lovely line itself, but has probably become too cliche to stand on its own anymore). This sonnet sets up a question in the first line, and it answers that question beautifully. That first answer: "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" is gorgeous. The pacing of the lines - both of the line breaks and the feeling of near-end-stopping despite the enjambment - produces a tumble over of emotion from line to line as the reader looks for the answer. The initial line in this answer is simply wonderful: it expresses totality (the depth and breadth and height) while keeping the suspense built into the initial question by not answering the obvious "of what?" question. Barrett Browning here manages a tricky tightrope: having the set up only take one line, but not allowing the response to feel finished too early. By having that first answer spill over three lines, and with the pacing she establishes in it, she allows the poem to safely pass over the danger of turning into a mere couplet or quatrain. If she had jumped, say, to "I love thee freely, as men strive for Right," the poem would lose momentum; because she goes immediately into a long answer, and then further into another multi-line answer ("I love thee to the level of everyday's/Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight") she gives the poem the space to build that momentum up.
The turn is also highly effective: moving from general adverbial description (I love thee in this way or this much) to specific methodological description (I love thee using this passion), both of which answer the question "how" but in subtly different ways. The turn also builds towards the eventual finish of loving after death by allowing the move to "of all my life" which in turn moves towards death. So formally, the poem has a strong flow that has been very effectively managed.
Aesthetically, it also has strong appeal. There is a strong mix of end-stopping and enjambment throughout, as noted above. The diction is also extremely interesting: the mixture of abstractions (Right, Grace, Being, Praise) and then intensely personal moments (the breath/Smiles, tears of all my life) is effective in conveying the breadth of the affect being demonstrated, while the timely repetitions of "I love thee" anchor the poem. It is a powerful poem expressing its object of universal love.
Imperfections:
Most of the quibbles with this poem rely on two points: it is cliched, and it is saccharine. The cliched quality of the poem, however, is entirely a result of its success: "how do I love thee? Let me count the ways" was not a cliche when Barrett Browning wrote it, but rather has become one from this sonnet. As for the saccharine issue, it is a love sonnet, so there is always that risk. But personally, that overly sugary quality in poetry results primarily from chiming rhymes, too much end-stopping, and overly repetitive diction, particularly overly regular repetitive diction. All of these things are problems I may be guilty of in many of my poems, but are not things this poem is guilty of. Rather, I believe the issue with this poem is simply that it has been too successful: it has been imitated, quoted, and parodied so much that the fundamental beauty there is to some extent lost.
That does not mean it is a perfect poem. There are slant rhymes that although they make the poem less sugary and chimey, are also less pleasing: faith and breath is I think the worst. The three straight lines around the turn beginning "I love thee" are a little overdone. But overall, the poem is extremely powerful, and I think only undone by being, in a sense, too good of an expression of its object.
Age
I've seen high monuments that spoke of years
Spent building in communal works of love;
I've passed great fortresses built out of fears
Which they became the shape and model of.
I've wandered calmly down deserted streets
Whose very narrowness told me a tale
Of old beginnings and how time accretes
Small changes into large by changing scale.
I've walked through palaces that only served
To gratify a modern tourist trade;
I've felt the ancient honors men preserved
And seen where their recipients were laid.
And all these things I notice linger less
Than poems and the wonders they profess.
Spent building in communal works of love;
I've passed great fortresses built out of fears
Which they became the shape and model of.
I've wandered calmly down deserted streets
Whose very narrowness told me a tale
Of old beginnings and how time accretes
Small changes into large by changing scale.
I've walked through palaces that only served
To gratify a modern tourist trade;
I've felt the ancient honors men preserved
And seen where their recipients were laid.
And all these things I notice linger less
Than poems and the wonders they profess.
Notice: Return
As I am now back online, this blog is now operational once more. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Refrain
What can there be that's left for me to say?
I've said so much - and all of it is true -
There seems to be no more for me to do
And trying more is pointless anyway.
You know already that the time of day
Is told for me by when I am with you,
That days and months are measured by you too,
And that without you everything is gray.
Can I then find more words, that tell you more
Than I have said already in your praise?
You know, I know, how dearly I adore
All that you are, and in how many ways.
This much perhaps is left: that I repeat
Over again how you make me complete.
I've said so much - and all of it is true -
There seems to be no more for me to do
And trying more is pointless anyway.
You know already that the time of day
Is told for me by when I am with you,
That days and months are measured by you too,
And that without you everything is gray.
Can I then find more words, that tell you more
Than I have said already in your praise?
You know, I know, how dearly I adore
All that you are, and in how many ways.
This much perhaps is left: that I repeat
Over again how you make me complete.
Notice: Hiatus
Since I will be without internet access, this blog will go quiet for the next week. I regret any inconvenience this may cause, although I doubt there will be any. Check back on Monday, March 28th for further updates.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Mouths
I cannot speak the words I want to say;
I cannot make the sounds, nor plumb their meaning.
I am a mute, and not just for today;
My soul and voice together need some cleaning.
Incapability can be of many kinds,
Not merely physical, nor just emotional;
And lack of speech is both, for my heart finds
A secret silence near-devotional.
I ponder you and so can form no speech;
My silence is the herald of my joy.
If it so happens that my tongue can't reach
The words, then that does nothing to annoy
The spirit that, unspeaking, finds its voice
In contemplation as a willful choice.
I cannot make the sounds, nor plumb their meaning.
I am a mute, and not just for today;
My soul and voice together need some cleaning.
Incapability can be of many kinds,
Not merely physical, nor just emotional;
And lack of speech is both, for my heart finds
A secret silence near-devotional.
I ponder you and so can form no speech;
My silence is the herald of my joy.
If it so happens that my tongue can't reach
The words, then that does nothing to annoy
The spirit that, unspeaking, finds its voice
In contemplation as a willful choice.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
A Fine Romance
I'm only comfortable when you're with me.
It isn't lust, although I have that too;
It's just, whenever I'm apart from you
I don't feel right or whole. I used to be
Contented when alone, usually,
And capable of knowing what to do
When we were separated. If I knew
Then how to live alone successfully,
Why can't I now? Because I've had the chance
Of being with you, so I know the cost,
What I missing when we're not together.
I'm tied to you by that, a loving tether;
Without that tie, I find that I am lost.
That's what I mean when I speak of romance.
It isn't lust, although I have that too;
It's just, whenever I'm apart from you
I don't feel right or whole. I used to be
Contented when alone, usually,
And capable of knowing what to do
When we were separated. If I knew
Then how to live alone successfully,
Why can't I now? Because I've had the chance
Of being with you, so I know the cost,
What I missing when we're not together.
I'm tied to you by that, a loving tether;
Without that tie, I find that I am lost.
That's what I mean when I speak of romance.
Flawed
I've written you a love song once before
Or twice, or more, but who is keeping track?
You know by now of course that I adore
Your everything, and feel an urgent lack
When we are parted, even for an hour.
But did you know, or have I made it plain,
That even when you look upset, or sour,
I still adore you? If you should complain,
My first reaction is to try to change
Whatever is imperfect, not to fight,
And though I realize you think it strange,
There's nothing I would not try to make right.
I love your flaws, and hope you tolerate
My faults as well, and let me expiate.
Or twice, or more, but who is keeping track?
You know by now of course that I adore
Your everything, and feel an urgent lack
When we are parted, even for an hour.
But did you know, or have I made it plain,
That even when you look upset, or sour,
I still adore you? If you should complain,
My first reaction is to try to change
Whatever is imperfect, not to fight,
And though I realize you think it strange,
There's nothing I would not try to make right.
I love your flaws, and hope you tolerate
My faults as well, and let me expiate.
Imposition
The best of what I write is merely dross;
The worst is utter trash, not to be read.
At times I seek a more attractive gloss,
But sometimes honest things must just be said.
And yet I do not choose the way I write;
I write because I must, not since I can.
I do not do it for my own delight,
But from compulsion, which but late began.
I might stop writing if there were a way
Without my words to make my thoughts stop whirling,
But since I cannot find one, I will play
With words until my thoughts are done unfurling.
So do not read, if you don't wish to see,
But I must write into eternity.
The worst is utter trash, not to be read.
At times I seek a more attractive gloss,
But sometimes honest things must just be said.
And yet I do not choose the way I write;
I write because I must, not since I can.
I do not do it for my own delight,
But from compulsion, which but late began.
I might stop writing if there were a way
Without my words to make my thoughts stop whirling,
But since I cannot find one, I will play
With words until my thoughts are done unfurling.
So do not read, if you don't wish to see,
But I must write into eternity.
No Title
There is but little I can do or say
To make the meaning of my heart appear;
I cannot take you back to yesterday
And bid you listen as I did, and hear
The music of your voice hide in your laugh,
The smile slide itself between your words,
And thrill as I did, too happy by half.
I cannot make you understand the birds,
Who sing the songs I'd warble if I could,
Nor take you to a mountaintop and show
How everything that you could see below
Was less than you to me. You know I would,
If all of this were possible. It's not.
I'm stuck with the expressions that I've got.
To make the meaning of my heart appear;
I cannot take you back to yesterday
And bid you listen as I did, and hear
The music of your voice hide in your laugh,
The smile slide itself between your words,
And thrill as I did, too happy by half.
I cannot make you understand the birds,
Who sing the songs I'd warble if I could,
Nor take you to a mountaintop and show
How everything that you could see below
Was less than you to me. You know I would,
If all of this were possible. It's not.
I'm stuck with the expressions that I've got.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Never Where You Look
The seedy underbelly of the city
Is not so beautiful, but quite attractive.
In fact, it makes me go all Walter Mitty
Because imagination's overactive.
I dream of sliding under subway cars
And dealing death to desperados there;
Or lurking in the shady, half-lit bars
Under the neon's flat aggressive glare.
But most of all I want discovery:
That feeling that you're trying something new;
The hope that it will end excitingly
And the off-chance that other dreams come true.
So come with me, someday, and hop the rails
To seek new worlds and capture Holy Grails.
Is not so beautiful, but quite attractive.
In fact, it makes me go all Walter Mitty
Because imagination's overactive.
I dream of sliding under subway cars
And dealing death to desperados there;
Or lurking in the shady, half-lit bars
Under the neon's flat aggressive glare.
But most of all I want discovery:
That feeling that you're trying something new;
The hope that it will end excitingly
And the off-chance that other dreams come true.
So come with me, someday, and hop the rails
To seek new worlds and capture Holy Grails.
Once More
I fear that I have nothing left to say;
You know it all, and better than I do.
I wouldn't have it any other way,
Since otherwise I would have lied to you.
I've told you things I do not tell myself,
Admitted thoughts I never realized,
Told you what's hidden on that upper shelf
Although it meant that you were unsurprised
When Christmas came around. I've said my mind,
In every detail, and you drank it in.
So what am I to say now I've resigned
My being to you? How shall I begin?
I think I'll start by telling you again
How much I love you. Let's get started then.
You know it all, and better than I do.
I wouldn't have it any other way,
Since otherwise I would have lied to you.
I've told you things I do not tell myself,
Admitted thoughts I never realized,
Told you what's hidden on that upper shelf
Although it meant that you were unsurprised
When Christmas came around. I've said my mind,
In every detail, and you drank it in.
So what am I to say now I've resigned
My being to you? How shall I begin?
I think I'll start by telling you again
How much I love you. Let's get started then.
Water Water Everywhere
The sonnets boil from my teeming brain
Condensing in a dew of poetry;
A cool day can devolve them into rain
That falls down on the page for all to see.
In hotter hours, they fly upward 'til
They form great cloudbanks in my higher mind,
Where they obscure the sunlight of my will,
Leaving my intentions undefined.
But on the balmy days when I am well,
Neither too warm nor yet too cold to write,
They irrigate the soil where they fell,
And, waking up after a dewy night,
I find a fertile growth within my heart
Ready to be tended by my art.
Condensing in a dew of poetry;
A cool day can devolve them into rain
That falls down on the page for all to see.
In hotter hours, they fly upward 'til
They form great cloudbanks in my higher mind,
Where they obscure the sunlight of my will,
Leaving my intentions undefined.
But on the balmy days when I am well,
Neither too warm nor yet too cold to write,
They irrigate the soil where they fell,
And, waking up after a dewy night,
I find a fertile growth within my heart
Ready to be tended by my art.
A Plagiarized Tune
I listened to a song one day in June
That told me I would love until September,
But underneath a solemn harvest moon,
Would lose my love, at least until December.
I turned the radio to other stations,
And did not think about the song again,
Until the months' unstoppable gyrations
Brought in September; and I wondered then
If it was true. But then I realized
I had not really loved from June and on.
And so I logically just surmised
The chance to live the melody was gone.
But it is June again, and I'm in love,
And wonder what the song was prescient of.
That told me I would love until September,
But underneath a solemn harvest moon,
Would lose my love, at least until December.
I turned the radio to other stations,
And did not think about the song again,
Until the months' unstoppable gyrations
Brought in September; and I wondered then
If it was true. But then I realized
I had not really loved from June and on.
And so I logically just surmised
The chance to live the melody was gone.
But it is June again, and I'm in love,
And wonder what the song was prescient of.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Owing
My hair was grey an hour or two ago;
My leg was limp, arthritis in my joints.
I had forgotten all I used to know.
But now a youthful sprightliness anoints
Where all before was pain, sadness, and woe.
I know that I have you to thank for this;
I would not be this way did you not sow
A youthful joy with every loving kiss;
Nor would I, as I find I do now, show
A vigor in my limbs before unknown
If you could not bring dead things to unslow
And quicken. Now in all of me is shown
A love that ages only in reverse;
For you have saved me from my own age's curse.
My leg was limp, arthritis in my joints.
I had forgotten all I used to know.
But now a youthful sprightliness anoints
Where all before was pain, sadness, and woe.
I know that I have you to thank for this;
I would not be this way did you not sow
A youthful joy with every loving kiss;
Nor would I, as I find I do now, show
A vigor in my limbs before unknown
If you could not bring dead things to unslow
And quicken. Now in all of me is shown
A love that ages only in reverse;
For you have saved me from my own age's curse.
Twilight
The city seems so dreary, full of sleep,
Almost indifferent to what goes by;
Inside there may be feelings that run deep,
Beneath the steel that reaches to the sky,
But in this light, and at this time of day,
The towers seem disinterested and dull;
The roads are bleak, though not deserted yet;
Even the echoing of the seagull
Is half a whisper, as if it would set
Aside its hunger, and accept its fate.
No sound is desperate; nothing travels fast,
And all the daily rush seems to abate
As if it were a matter for the past.
I felt this too, until you crossed the street;
Now all is lively, urgent, sweet.
Almost indifferent to what goes by;
Inside there may be feelings that run deep,
Beneath the steel that reaches to the sky,
But in this light, and at this time of day,
The towers seem disinterested and dull;
The roads are bleak, though not deserted yet;
Even the echoing of the seagull
Is half a whisper, as if it would set
Aside its hunger, and accept its fate.
No sound is desperate; nothing travels fast,
And all the daily rush seems to abate
As if it were a matter for the past.
I felt this too, until you crossed the street;
Now all is lively, urgent, sweet.
Busstop
Now, if that bus had been two minutes late,
And I not missed it, and we never met?
You can't deny our meeting must be fate,
For God rules everything and would not let
Coincidence occur did he not plan
Out of coincidence to make great things.
Therefore this must be destiny. How can
You claim it otherwise? For if fate brings
Two such as us together, it must be
Divinely hoped-for, as it was permitted.
And so our meeting here is fate, you see,
And we'll be judged on how it is acquitted.
No do not walk away! I am not mad!
Nor is the fate I planned for us that bad.
And I not missed it, and we never met?
You can't deny our meeting must be fate,
For God rules everything and would not let
Coincidence occur did he not plan
Out of coincidence to make great things.
Therefore this must be destiny. How can
You claim it otherwise? For if fate brings
Two such as us together, it must be
Divinely hoped-for, as it was permitted.
And so our meeting here is fate, you see,
And we'll be judged on how it is acquitted.
No do not walk away! I am not mad!
Nor is the fate I planned for us that bad.
Requital
I always could write sonnets to complain
When you weren't here; it always worked, before.
I'd write, and for a moment it would drain
The problems that I had. Of course, some more
Were always in the shadows, lurking there,
But for an instant they were not yet come,
And so the pain was gone, and life was clear;
The sonnets made it bearable, me numb.
But now the poems do not do their job;
I write them, but the pain remains the same.
There's something in my soul that seems to rob
Their former potency, and I must blame
Your love for that; for when it was just me
My sonnets felt no insufficiency.
When you weren't here; it always worked, before.
I'd write, and for a moment it would drain
The problems that I had. Of course, some more
Were always in the shadows, lurking there,
But for an instant they were not yet come,
And so the pain was gone, and life was clear;
The sonnets made it bearable, me numb.
But now the poems do not do their job;
I write them, but the pain remains the same.
There's something in my soul that seems to rob
Their former potency, and I must blame
Your love for that; for when it was just me
My sonnets felt no insufficiency.
Alone
There is no day when I'm apart from you;
Not that the sun does not shine in the sky,
Or tires squeal as cars go driving by,
Or clouds obscure the sunlight, and my view;
Not that the growing grass does not renew,
Or shops stay open so people can buy
Their wares, or that the million things that fly
Do not take wing; of course, I know they do.
But what's the point of it? The hours drag,
And yet they have no content I can feel;
It's all an empty blank, a vast time lag
Unusable, unnoticed, and unreal.
But when night falls, and you're at last with me,
Then time exists, and fills eternity.
Not that the sun does not shine in the sky,
Or tires squeal as cars go driving by,
Or clouds obscure the sunlight, and my view;
Not that the growing grass does not renew,
Or shops stay open so people can buy
Their wares, or that the million things that fly
Do not take wing; of course, I know they do.
But what's the point of it? The hours drag,
And yet they have no content I can feel;
It's all an empty blank, a vast time lag
Unusable, unnoticed, and unreal.
But when night falls, and you're at last with me,
Then time exists, and fills eternity.
Ballade
Oh, I've been through the fire, and been through the flood,
And I've wandered the hills that the rain washed away,
And I've stood on the plain that was covered in blood,
And I've cursed with despair at the bones of the day.
I've sailed several oceans and watched every shore,
And I've swabbed over sea-decks with rags, on my knees,
And I've swarmed over mountains to seek golden ore,
And I've begged for a moment of minimal breeze.
I've danced among fairies and drunk their dark wine,
And I've warbled their melodies lost past recall,
And I've slept on hard benches of oak, ash, and pine,
And I've died, now and then, and I've felt myself fall.
But I've never been happy, at least not this much
Though I've seen all the world, and its wonders, and such.
And I've wandered the hills that the rain washed away,
And I've stood on the plain that was covered in blood,
And I've cursed with despair at the bones of the day.
I've sailed several oceans and watched every shore,
And I've swabbed over sea-decks with rags, on my knees,
And I've swarmed over mountains to seek golden ore,
And I've begged for a moment of minimal breeze.
I've danced among fairies and drunk their dark wine,
And I've warbled their melodies lost past recall,
And I've slept on hard benches of oak, ash, and pine,
And I've died, now and then, and I've felt myself fall.
But I've never been happy, at least not this much
Though I've seen all the world, and its wonders, and such.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Good In Every Thing
There's something in the sky that sings to me
A tune I cannot trace, and yet I know.
It sings of summer and the sunlit glow
Of water washing beaches peacefully,
Of spring and new buds pushing up to see
A world just liberated from the snow,
Of autumn and the winter wheat we sow,
Of winter and the hidden greenery
That longs to show itself. But most of all
The clouds and blue between them sing a song
I recognize unspoken in my soul;
A melody that touches on another fall,
One I have longed for, whether right or wrong:
Of you, and how you make me finally whole.
A tune I cannot trace, and yet I know.
It sings of summer and the sunlit glow
Of water washing beaches peacefully,
Of spring and new buds pushing up to see
A world just liberated from the snow,
Of autumn and the winter wheat we sow,
Of winter and the hidden greenery
That longs to show itself. But most of all
The clouds and blue between them sing a song
I recognize unspoken in my soul;
A melody that touches on another fall,
One I have longed for, whether right or wrong:
Of you, and how you make me finally whole.
Dumpty
Imagine if I were a better man:
I could express more widely what I mean
Than I, at present fallen, ever can,
In ways that no one yet has ever seen,
For words are servants of the great and good,
And work their will in beauty far, far more
Than for us lesser beings. If I would
Sing praise to you sufficiently, therefore,
I would require your own goodness to
Permit the use of words so great and high;
For there is such divinity in you
That you could harness words the way that I
Could never do. So lend to me your worth
That I may praise your glory to the earth.
I could express more widely what I mean
Than I, at present fallen, ever can,
In ways that no one yet has ever seen,
For words are servants of the great and good,
And work their will in beauty far, far more
Than for us lesser beings. If I would
Sing praise to you sufficiently, therefore,
I would require your own goodness to
Permit the use of words so great and high;
For there is such divinity in you
That you could harness words the way that I
Could never do. So lend to me your worth
That I may praise your glory to the earth.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Pepto-Bismol
I didn't know how nervous I would get
Just thinking of you coming over here.
You shouldn't think that means that I'm upset;
I'm just so happy I will have you near.
And yet my stomach threatens to uprear,
Letting its contents out upon the floor;
I do not think of this as doubt or fear,
But rather the result when hopes outpour
And overwhelm the body. On that score,
I am most clearly guilty, for I know
My hopes leap in me and desire more
Than I can hold within. So when I go
Trembling to the door, it's just shows how
Much I am happy to let you in now.
Just thinking of you coming over here.
You shouldn't think that means that I'm upset;
I'm just so happy I will have you near.
And yet my stomach threatens to uprear,
Letting its contents out upon the floor;
I do not think of this as doubt or fear,
But rather the result when hopes outpour
And overwhelm the body. On that score,
I am most clearly guilty, for I know
My hopes leap in me and desire more
Than I can hold within. So when I go
Trembling to the door, it's just shows how
Much I am happy to let you in now.
Against
It's best to look at life and see the light,
Not stare into the shadows it supports.
Too great an emphasis on dark just courts
A sadness that can never be made right.
It may seem obvious, or somehow trite
To say we should, in our mental reports
Focus on brightness, and where it resorts,
But otherwise we but embrace the night
And leave the day, with all its joys, alone.
We should not let ourselves become mere shades
Haunting the world we ought to call our own
In silent and unseemly darkened glades,
But lift ourselves above the common groan
Loving the light until, at last, it fades.
Not stare into the shadows it supports.
Too great an emphasis on dark just courts
A sadness that can never be made right.
It may seem obvious, or somehow trite
To say we should, in our mental reports
Focus on brightness, and where it resorts,
But otherwise we but embrace the night
And leave the day, with all its joys, alone.
We should not let ourselves become mere shades
Haunting the world we ought to call our own
In silent and unseemly darkened glades,
But lift ourselves above the common groan
Loving the light until, at last, it fades.
Basilisk
i love the sly expression in your eyes,
The half-smirk turned to me as if to say
No matter how I hide it, you are wise
To what I'm up to. I can only pray
That you will look at me again that way,
And slip a smile in betweentimes too.
The way your glance, which, struggle as I may,
I cannot turn from, drags me back to you,
And makes me wish my fantasies were true
Is irresistible, as you can tell,
And so no matter what I say or do,
You know, always have known, will know full well
I'm yours when you but deign to look at me
Even if only accidentally.
The half-smirk turned to me as if to say
No matter how I hide it, you are wise
To what I'm up to. I can only pray
That you will look at me again that way,
And slip a smile in betweentimes too.
The way your glance, which, struggle as I may,
I cannot turn from, drags me back to you,
And makes me wish my fantasies were true
Is irresistible, as you can tell,
And so no matter what I say or do,
You know, always have known, will know full well
I'm yours when you but deign to look at me
Even if only accidentally.
Public Sphere
I cannot show in public how I feel,
Lest you, embarrassed, should pull back from me.
I try to seem correct, and yet I steal
Moments of improper liberty,
Which you admit with twinkling levity
And thereby do embolden so much more.
I do it quickly, so no one can see,
And then return to how I was before,
Thrilled to imagine a coming encore,
When you do not object. I love to try
These little essays of how I adore
And you react. I can't imagine why.
So furtively I kiss, and you respond
In such sweet ways I cannot but grow fond.
Lest you, embarrassed, should pull back from me.
I try to seem correct, and yet I steal
Moments of improper liberty,
Which you admit with twinkling levity
And thereby do embolden so much more.
I do it quickly, so no one can see,
And then return to how I was before,
Thrilled to imagine a coming encore,
When you do not object. I love to try
These little essays of how I adore
And you react. I can't imagine why.
So furtively I kiss, and you respond
In such sweet ways I cannot but grow fond.
Distance Run
I tire my day with laughter, not with tears,
And wear it out with smiles and happiness.
So do I hang upon the weary years
With joy impossible to not express.
The happy minutes lead to grinning hours,
While sixty gleeful seconds make up each;
And if it were within my mortal powers,
That is the dictate I would seek to teach:
That if you look, or wish, to thrill with joy
And let it wash upon you every day,
You must let every moment almost cloy
With positive good feeling, blithe and gay.
So do I, yet it does not cloy at all;
I do not, in such happiness, miss gall.
And wear it out with smiles and happiness.
So do I hang upon the weary years
With joy impossible to not express.
The happy minutes lead to grinning hours,
While sixty gleeful seconds make up each;
And if it were within my mortal powers,
That is the dictate I would seek to teach:
That if you look, or wish, to thrill with joy
And let it wash upon you every day,
You must let every moment almost cloy
With positive good feeling, blithe and gay.
So do I, yet it does not cloy at all;
I do not, in such happiness, miss gall.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Cuts
Decision is a form of deicide;
To make a choice, we must destroy our gods.
We cannot have free will, and so decide,
Unless each choice, by native virtue, prods
The place of faith and certainty in us.
I grant this point is hardly obvious,
And yet it cannot be but it is so.
To act within the world by conscious choice
Is to believe that we, as mankind, know
Enough to act on, and equals our voice
To some degree, with those to whom we pray.
The slow effect of many such decisions
Is to chip at them, day by living day,
Making a death by millions off incisions.
To make a choice, we must destroy our gods.
We cannot have free will, and so decide,
Unless each choice, by native virtue, prods
The place of faith and certainty in us.
I grant this point is hardly obvious,
And yet it cannot be but it is so.
To act within the world by conscious choice
Is to believe that we, as mankind, know
Enough to act on, and equals our voice
To some degree, with those to whom we pray.
The slow effect of many such decisions
Is to chip at them, day by living day,
Making a death by millions off incisions.
That Can Be Devised To It
Spending too long, as I have done, in teasing
Apart the petty meanings in dull words
Can turn upon itself and be displeasing
Hardening joy's milk into dense curds.
There are those who make of this poutine
And claim to love the accidental stuff;
But I, though teasing words is my routine,
Can't stomach this, and quickly have enough.
I love the grease that well-oiled words exude,
Fried in the pan of wit, and chopped with care,
But don't adore this fatty kind of food
Though my own efforts make sure it is there.
Therefore I will not eat my words with sauce
Though I produce it with each detailed gloss.
Apart the petty meanings in dull words
Can turn upon itself and be displeasing
Hardening joy's milk into dense curds.
There are those who make of this poutine
And claim to love the accidental stuff;
But I, though teasing words is my routine,
Can't stomach this, and quickly have enough.
I love the grease that well-oiled words exude,
Fried in the pan of wit, and chopped with care,
But don't adore this fatty kind of food
Though my own efforts make sure it is there.
Therefore I will not eat my words with sauce
Though I produce it with each detailed gloss.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Teeming Brain
I have had thoughts - I can't tell where they're from -
But I have had them, and I'll keep them too.
They interrupt the constant busy hum
That tells me where, and when, and what to do,
And lecture me - yet not didactically -
About the path I find my feet lie on;
They seem to see a possibility
That I suspected must have been far gone.
They claim that I could be more than I am
Which seems quite reasonable, but in a way
Whose chances I would call not worth a damn,
Were it my conscious mind that here held sway.
But since it isn't, I believe them all
And hearken to their so unlikely call.
But I have had them, and I'll keep them too.
They interrupt the constant busy hum
That tells me where, and when, and what to do,
And lecture me - yet not didactically -
About the path I find my feet lie on;
They seem to see a possibility
That I suspected must have been far gone.
They claim that I could be more than I am
Which seems quite reasonable, but in a way
Whose chances I would call not worth a damn,
Were it my conscious mind that here held sway.
But since it isn't, I believe them all
And hearken to their so unlikely call.
Veracity
If all the myths I ever heard were true,
And all the tall tales highly crammed with fact;
If dreams and visions showed an honest view,
And fiction in its detail were exact
To truth, if fantasy only described,
Despite itself, precisely what existed,
If all the tablets that were once enscribed
Had only valid points in what was listed,
If nursery rhymes were accurate, and plays
Showed nature in perfection when reflected,
If all the deeds that point towards Milliways
Were really done, and totally perfected,
If only truth from all this falsehood grew,
No part of it could ever exceed you.
And all the tall tales highly crammed with fact;
If dreams and visions showed an honest view,
And fiction in its detail were exact
To truth, if fantasy only described,
Despite itself, precisely what existed,
If all the tablets that were once enscribed
Had only valid points in what was listed,
If nursery rhymes were accurate, and plays
Showed nature in perfection when reflected,
If all the deeds that point towards Milliways
Were really done, and totally perfected,
If only truth from all this falsehood grew,
No part of it could ever exceed you.
Jet Lag
If all my faults lie on a six month lag
Should I be angry at my present self
For ills that bear a long pre-dated tag
And simply lingered longer on the shelf
Than they perhaps should have? Can I demand
Account of long past actions from the now?
And if I do, would I honestly stand
Such trial patiently; and if so, how?
For he that was myself is now long gone
And I that feel his pain am not the same.
He was intelligent to so move on
And leave to me the problems and the blame.
Yet I will leave, I'm certain, future me
An equal share of unfair calumny.
Should I be angry at my present self
For ills that bear a long pre-dated tag
And simply lingered longer on the shelf
Than they perhaps should have? Can I demand
Account of long past actions from the now?
And if I do, would I honestly stand
Such trial patiently; and if so, how?
For he that was myself is now long gone
And I that feel his pain am not the same.
He was intelligent to so move on
And leave to me the problems and the blame.
Yet I will leave, I'm certain, future me
An equal share of unfair calumny.
Vulcanism
Of course so much of what I write is shit
It hardly seems worth digging through the trash
To find the magma underneath the ash
And bare the fiery torrents of my wit.
Perhaps volcanic fires have been lit,
But 'til the shelf collapses with a crash,
The dirt above them hides them, while they splash
Unnoticed in a deep internal pit.
The trash heap is erected on the cone,
Hiding beneath anything of worth,
And letting the volcano remain dormant.
Yet from a certain very kind informant
I hear the weight of so much wasteful earth
Will soon ignite the mountain 'til it's blown.
It hardly seems worth digging through the trash
To find the magma underneath the ash
And bare the fiery torrents of my wit.
Perhaps volcanic fires have been lit,
But 'til the shelf collapses with a crash,
The dirt above them hides them, while they splash
Unnoticed in a deep internal pit.
The trash heap is erected on the cone,
Hiding beneath anything of worth,
And letting the volcano remain dormant.
Yet from a certain very kind informant
I hear the weight of so much wasteful earth
Will soon ignite the mountain 'til it's blown.
Not a Metaphor
The ice begins just where the sludge leaves off;
So that the two, completely indistinct,
Leave no space for the water, which could doff
Either intruder only with the other,
For they together are so closely linked
That save for touch they might as well be one.
The sludge so clings unto its icy brother
That ere one ends its sibling has begun.
So may we see in this too fecund pond
Forever further layers of decay,
Which seem to feel each other and respond
Waxing in ugliness each passing day.
Do not mistake the cover for a frond:
You cannot walk on it, nor make your way.
So that the two, completely indistinct,
Leave no space for the water, which could doff
Either intruder only with the other,
For they together are so closely linked
That save for touch they might as well be one.
The sludge so clings unto its icy brother
That ere one ends its sibling has begun.
So may we see in this too fecund pond
Forever further layers of decay,
Which seem to feel each other and respond
Waxing in ugliness each passing day.
Do not mistake the cover for a frond:
You cannot walk on it, nor make your way.
Marathon
I've never stopped; my legs are tiring
I see the finish line, yet it is far.
I fear that I'm closer to expiring
Yelling a Nike, but there are no Spar-
-tans near. Instead I scream into the wind
And waste my energy; but still feel better
Shouting than silent. Oh, I am splint-shinned
And can but stumble loudly. The pace-setter
Turns back to see me lame, but never halting.
I will continue, though my feet should fail,
Though angry air is currently assaulting
My heavy lungs, though all my parts should quail.
And at the finish, there's no victory
Just a completion that exhausted me.
I see the finish line, yet it is far.
I fear that I'm closer to expiring
Yelling a Nike, but there are no Spar-
-tans near. Instead I scream into the wind
And waste my energy; but still feel better
Shouting than silent. Oh, I am splint-shinned
And can but stumble loudly. The pace-setter
Turns back to see me lame, but never halting.
I will continue, though my feet should fail,
Though angry air is currently assaulting
My heavy lungs, though all my parts should quail.
And at the finish, there's no victory
Just a completion that exhausted me.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wintry Mix
The tiny tendrils of new-melting snow
Slip beyond the treetops' reach.
They utter such an incandescent glow
As streetlamps catch them, as if under each
Some novel fire burned; perhaps that's why
They melt before they even touch the ground
As votive offerings unto the sky
Presented by the clouds, in whom they're found.
But we below, the audience to this,
See not the purpose, but the pageant merely,
And though the purpose there we often miss,
We see the beauty in its process clearly.
So we believe it was all made for us,
And call it ignorantly glorious.
Slip beyond the treetops' reach.
They utter such an incandescent glow
As streetlamps catch them, as if under each
Some novel fire burned; perhaps that's why
They melt before they even touch the ground
As votive offerings unto the sky
Presented by the clouds, in whom they're found.
But we below, the audience to this,
See not the purpose, but the pageant merely,
And though the purpose there we often miss,
We see the beauty in its process clearly.
So we believe it was all made for us,
And call it ignorantly glorious.
Self-Fashioning
Not all the works that flow from poet's pens
Belong to them; not in a larger sense.
If looked at through a non-authorial lens
Such a belief would seem completely dense.
A thousand pressures lie upon a poet:
The tenor of the age, its cares, its strains;
Each one a seed, if he should choose to sow it
That will not quite preserve his soul's remains,
But rather social energy in glass,
Shining out freely to posterity.
A selfish poet is a total ass,
For he wastes time for all eternity.
So when you read my poems, think you read
Not what I wanted, but what culture said.
Belong to them; not in a larger sense.
If looked at through a non-authorial lens
Such a belief would seem completely dense.
A thousand pressures lie upon a poet:
The tenor of the age, its cares, its strains;
Each one a seed, if he should choose to sow it
That will not quite preserve his soul's remains,
But rather social energy in glass,
Shining out freely to posterity.
A selfish poet is a total ass,
For he wastes time for all eternity.
So when you read my poems, think you read
Not what I wanted, but what culture said.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Waves
I surf the surface of the sensual world
And wonder what the others see in it.
It seems to me so often they are whirled
About in random patterns that they fit
To false projections of a deeper truth,
While I slide lightly over realized chance.
Such frank admissions always seem uncouth,
As if they voided life of all romance,
Yet knowing as I know the fluctuations,
The variance and butterfly effects,
It is far better to make estimations
And then let fortune do what it selects
Than to believe in certainties unshown;
And so I surf; I fear I surf alone.
And wonder what the others see in it.
It seems to me so often they are whirled
About in random patterns that they fit
To false projections of a deeper truth,
While I slide lightly over realized chance.
Such frank admissions always seem uncouth,
As if they voided life of all romance,
Yet knowing as I know the fluctuations,
The variance and butterfly effects,
It is far better to make estimations
And then let fortune do what it selects
Than to believe in certainties unshown;
And so I surf; I fear I surf alone.
Whisper Will Be Dead
I hear a rumor of humanity
Echo slowly over distant hills;
An almost splash of almost life that spills
Out of a floating vast inhuman sea.
It carries unused possibility
Out of dead towns whose groaning textile mills
Sleep ever on in black/white frozen stills
Untouched for all dusty eternity,
And dumps it on my ears that cannot hear
Except in whispers, and who cannot leave
To search it out - must let it pass me by,
And cannot even shed a single tear
Nor take the opportunity to grieve
But only stand and listen - and ask why.
Echo slowly over distant hills;
An almost splash of almost life that spills
Out of a floating vast inhuman sea.
It carries unused possibility
Out of dead towns whose groaning textile mills
Sleep ever on in black/white frozen stills
Untouched for all dusty eternity,
And dumps it on my ears that cannot hear
Except in whispers, and who cannot leave
To search it out - must let it pass me by,
And cannot even shed a single tear
Nor take the opportunity to grieve
But only stand and listen - and ask why.
The Wars of the World
I was not there the day the towers fell;
I watched, as others did, on the TV.
I saw the airplanes rip the buildings' shell
And stared when there was nothing left to see.
I know I didn't think that it was real,
Nor am I certain still if I believe
That two such wonders of concrete and steel
Could vanish - yet despite that shock, I grieve
For full three thousand men and women there
And those who have not, and will not, be found;
Those who so desperately took to the air
And lie unburied, yet one with the ground;
A single grief is great enough to stun
What can we say about a general one?
I watched, as others did, on the TV.
I saw the airplanes rip the buildings' shell
And stared when there was nothing left to see.
I know I didn't think that it was real,
Nor am I certain still if I believe
That two such wonders of concrete and steel
Could vanish - yet despite that shock, I grieve
For full three thousand men and women there
And those who have not, and will not, be found;
Those who so desperately took to the air
And lie unburied, yet one with the ground;
A single grief is great enough to stun
What can we say about a general one?
16 Going On 40
It is a wondrous thing to be born old
Yet have the muscles of the very young;
To know and never have to have been told
Yet speak with spry and unashamed tongue
About whatever strikes your fancy; to
Be sure for double reasons - age is so
Because it rests assured of what it knew,
While youth is certain and needs not to know -
To say I will not - or I will - and be
So definite, without experience;
To look in life and simultaneously
See first impressions and remembrance.
Yet had I been born young, I'm sure I'd say
That youth alone was the supremest way.
Yet have the muscles of the very young;
To know and never have to have been told
Yet speak with spry and unashamed tongue
About whatever strikes your fancy; to
Be sure for double reasons - age is so
Because it rests assured of what it knew,
While youth is certain and needs not to know -
To say I will not - or I will - and be
So definite, without experience;
To look in life and simultaneously
See first impressions and remembrance.
Yet had I been born young, I'm sure I'd say
That youth alone was the supremest way.
To A Film
I'm not intimidated by your words
But by your actions? I'll admit I am.
I could have been as happy as a clam
If I could hear you as I hear the birds
And like them, never see you. But you're here
And I must deal with that, despite myself.
You will not stay up there, high on your shelf,
Where I prefer you, far beyond my care.
So here you are, and I must face my fear
And entertain the thought that you might be
More interesting than my activity
And therefore fearsome, for I must despair
Of being who I wish if you are more;
And seeing you, I know that I am poor.
But by your actions? I'll admit I am.
I could have been as happy as a clam
If I could hear you as I hear the birds
And like them, never see you. But you're here
And I must deal with that, despite myself.
You will not stay up there, high on your shelf,
Where I prefer you, far beyond my care.
So here you are, and I must face my fear
And entertain the thought that you might be
More interesting than my activity
And therefore fearsome, for I must despair
Of being who I wish if you are more;
And seeing you, I know that I am poor.
Sing Out, Louise
When people challenge expectation
Their voices fall and crack apart.
It's very difficult to start
And so that leads to hesitation.
The only path to restoration
Is just to harden up the heart;
Be sure you're wily and smart
And fear no mock or denigration.
Declaim your mind clearly out loud
Ignoring ignominy and shame;
If you would speak, why then act proud:
It will bring honor to your name.
For innovation is allowed;
The only fear is to be tame.
Their voices fall and crack apart.
It's very difficult to start
And so that leads to hesitation.
The only path to restoration
Is just to harden up the heart;
Be sure you're wily and smart
And fear no mock or denigration.
Declaim your mind clearly out loud
Ignoring ignominy and shame;
If you would speak, why then act proud:
It will bring honor to your name.
For innovation is allowed;
The only fear is to be tame.
Art Thou Not
Sound is impossible, and sense beyond
The pale. I cannot speak the way I feel.
To tell you Montague I am too fond
Seems somehow disconnected from the real,
And yet more true than I would be myself.
I have no words except for those I borrow,
Taking the books at random from the shelf
Only to put them back up there tomorrow
Possibly unread. To tell you more
Could swell your head, so maybe I'll shut up.
But I have tried so many times before
And cannot leave the drink inside the cup.
I'll talk, but lose the meaning in the words,
Until I'm chirping like the evening birds.
The pale. I cannot speak the way I feel.
To tell you Montague I am too fond
Seems somehow disconnected from the real,
And yet more true than I would be myself.
I have no words except for those I borrow,
Taking the books at random from the shelf
Only to put them back up there tomorrow
Possibly unread. To tell you more
Could swell your head, so maybe I'll shut up.
But I have tried so many times before
And cannot leave the drink inside the cup.
I'll talk, but lose the meaning in the words,
Until I'm chirping like the evening birds.
Re-membering
It always seems to have been yesterday
And yet I know it must be years ago.
Still with each recollection I will stray
Back to that night - the only one I know.
I see again the liquid crystal glow
That bathed you, and my heart contracts again;
I pour my soul out on the melting snow
And watch it wash away, as it did then.
And, feeling it, I cannot wonder when
It happened; it has always just occurred.
No matter if a night, a year, or ten,
Its presence in each moment is assured.
It's dangerous to hold it close, and yet
I cannot find it in me to forget.
And yet I know it must be years ago.
Still with each recollection I will stray
Back to that night - the only one I know.
I see again the liquid crystal glow
That bathed you, and my heart contracts again;
I pour my soul out on the melting snow
And watch it wash away, as it did then.
And, feeling it, I cannot wonder when
It happened; it has always just occurred.
No matter if a night, a year, or ten,
Its presence in each moment is assured.
It's dangerous to hold it close, and yet
I cannot find it in me to forget.
Orfeo
On the last step, my joy was uncontained;
My love with me returned, and all was well,
Saved at the last, and borne straight out of hell
From which all joy or happiness is strained
Save that small share its monarch has maintained
For his own use. I could not wait to tell
How I had hustled them and run pell-mell
Upwards from those lands where darkness reigned.
And so I turned to sing a song to her,
Her for whose sake I went, for whom returned,
Without whom I am nothing, nor desire
To be more. But oh, I wish I were
Far less, for with that motion brief I learned
It was too early: she turned back to fire.
My love with me returned, and all was well,
Saved at the last, and borne straight out of hell
From which all joy or happiness is strained
Save that small share its monarch has maintained
For his own use. I could not wait to tell
How I had hustled them and run pell-mell
Upwards from those lands where darkness reigned.
And so I turned to sing a song to her,
Her for whose sake I went, for whom returned,
Without whom I am nothing, nor desire
To be more. But oh, I wish I were
Far less, for with that motion brief I learned
It was too early: she turned back to fire.
Incandescence
Purple the ground with drops of wine
Spilled from unconcerned glasses
Garland yourself with columbine
'Til the euphoric moment passes
Then be calm and clean and neat
Tidying up the festival
Carefully folding up the sheet
That was a toga - then rival
Some Mary Poppins in your magic
And reverse again the charm
Too much solemnity is tragic
Pray you avoid it - it does harm.
So be witty, happy bright
Over and over through the night.
Spilled from unconcerned glasses
Garland yourself with columbine
'Til the euphoric moment passes
Then be calm and clean and neat
Tidying up the festival
Carefully folding up the sheet
That was a toga - then rival
Some Mary Poppins in your magic
And reverse again the charm
Too much solemnity is tragic
Pray you avoid it - it does harm.
So be witty, happy bright
Over and over through the night.
Thou Shalt Not Read
If personality
From poems was assigned
No one would notice me
Or if they did, they'd find
A different face each day
An altered voice and cares
Blown every which way
By circumstantial airs
So Protean would I
In this position be
I'd give myself the lie
Instantaneously
So read not what I write
For any great insight.
From poems was assigned
No one would notice me
Or if they did, they'd find
A different face each day
An altered voice and cares
Blown every which way
By circumstantial airs
So Protean would I
In this position be
I'd give myself the lie
Instantaneously
So read not what I write
For any great insight.
Layer Cake
I have so few, such very minor, cares
That those I have can catch me unawares
And quite disturb the day. Yet even those
Are never mine, but only yours and his.
Still they contrive to keep me on my toes
Prepared for a perpetual pop quiz.
Yet I am not discomforted at all;
My own small problems lighten as they fall
And bubble off to nothing. I can't be
Unhappy as myself, nor do I borrow
Too many cares - yet I seek hopefully
To be considerate of others' sorrow.
So on my own, I never can complain,
And therefore look to bear another's strain.
That those I have can catch me unawares
And quite disturb the day. Yet even those
Are never mine, but only yours and his.
Still they contrive to keep me on my toes
Prepared for a perpetual pop quiz.
Yet I am not discomforted at all;
My own small problems lighten as they fall
And bubble off to nothing. I can't be
Unhappy as myself, nor do I borrow
Too many cares - yet I seek hopefully
To be considerate of others' sorrow.
So on my own, I never can complain,
And therefore look to bear another's strain.
Close Watch
The nervous tics, the gesture, and the jitters,
The pacing back and forth and forth and back,
The soft self-chuckles, while your tension fritters
Minutes away in nervousness, the slack
Hand at the wheel of self-control all point
To some distemper slightly out of joint.
What is the matter? Please do not believe
Because I list my clinical concerns
That your misfortune does not make me grieve,
For it is love that, melancholy, learns
The every deviation from the norm
In watchful care of that it loves. I see
These perturbations from your standard form;
What troubles you? I beg you to tell me.
The pacing back and forth and forth and back,
The soft self-chuckles, while your tension fritters
Minutes away in nervousness, the slack
Hand at the wheel of self-control all point
To some distemper slightly out of joint.
What is the matter? Please do not believe
Because I list my clinical concerns
That your misfortune does not make me grieve,
For it is love that, melancholy, learns
The every deviation from the norm
In watchful care of that it loves. I see
These perturbations from your standard form;
What troubles you? I beg you to tell me.
Median
I walk down these eclectic city streets;
It somehow strains credulity in me
To think that every person that one meets
Is just as human as they ought to be.
Are there no demons, and no monsters, here,
No aliens born to another sun?
Is everyone quite normal - which, I fear,
Means strange enough to almost everyone -
And no one average, in that special way
That no one human is? Is no one sane
(For that is certainly a giveaway
Of inhumanity, at least in brain)?
I know the theory is they all are so,
But I just doubt it. Why, I do not know.
It somehow strains credulity in me
To think that every person that one meets
Is just as human as they ought to be.
Are there no demons, and no monsters, here,
No aliens born to another sun?
Is everyone quite normal - which, I fear,
Means strange enough to almost everyone -
And no one average, in that special way
That no one human is? Is no one sane
(For that is certainly a giveaway
Of inhumanity, at least in brain)?
I know the theory is they all are so,
But I just doubt it. Why, I do not know.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Thoughts Which Swifter Glide
How dull and slow text messages can be!
And Gchat, why hast thou thy slight delay?
An email sits for all eternity
Inside an inbox unchecked for a day.
A phone is but a cruel piece of deception
Which promises what it cannot achieve:
An instant contact: sever the reception
And it becomes more leaky than a sieve.
Love's heralds are more swift than once they were
But still not swift enough to carry love;
For lightspeed is too slow, and may incur
Dilation in its passage from above.
So think my love, and let it come to me
By instant passage through our sympathy.
And Gchat, why hast thou thy slight delay?
An email sits for all eternity
Inside an inbox unchecked for a day.
A phone is but a cruel piece of deception
Which promises what it cannot achieve:
An instant contact: sever the reception
And it becomes more leaky than a sieve.
Love's heralds are more swift than once they were
But still not swift enough to carry love;
For lightspeed is too slow, and may incur
Dilation in its passage from above.
So think my love, and let it come to me
By instant passage through our sympathy.
Response Poem
I read archival copies of your love,
Deciphering the hands in which it's written,
In hopes of finding explanations of
The way you hoped, and how you have been smitten.
I cut the signatures as yet unbroken,
And scanned what you had printed in your name;
I searched your marginalia for a token
Of wildness before you became tame.
And I can tell you nothing that I found
Because the words were empty in my eyes;
The papers were indifferently bound
By other hands, who did not recognize
The author of the work, and so mistook
And set you down in error in each book.
Deciphering the hands in which it's written,
In hopes of finding explanations of
The way you hoped, and how you have been smitten.
I cut the signatures as yet unbroken,
And scanned what you had printed in your name;
I searched your marginalia for a token
Of wildness before you became tame.
And I can tell you nothing that I found
Because the words were empty in my eyes;
The papers were indifferently bound
By other hands, who did not recognize
The author of the work, and so mistook
And set you down in error in each book.
Master Shallow
The knell has rung a dozen times
And yet it will ring out once more
I do not understand its chimes
I stand and listen at my door.
Again, again, it will encore
It shakes me to my very heart
I fear its meaning yet adore
Its carillon in every part.
Why will its ringing not impart
Its meaning to my listening ear?
Why do the ringers stop and start
At other chimes I cannot hear?
And though the meaning isn't clear
I fear there's reason in my fear.
And yet it will ring out once more
I do not understand its chimes
I stand and listen at my door.
Again, again, it will encore
It shakes me to my very heart
I fear its meaning yet adore
Its carillon in every part.
Why will its ringing not impart
Its meaning to my listening ear?
Why do the ringers stop and start
At other chimes I cannot hear?
And though the meaning isn't clear
I fear there's reason in my fear.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Icarus
There is no danger in it; none at all.
The feeling is ecstatic, high up there
Breathing the almost incandescent air;
Compared to that, all other pleasures pall.
Listen to the breezes, hear them call
And ask you to soar with them everywhere!
The only limit will be what you dare;
There is a heaven even in the fall.
For danger might imply a tragedy,
And even as I tumble from the sky
I cannot help but laugh. Why should it be
A terror to descend? For me, to fly
Was better than a life, and though the sea
Should cover me, I'll smile as I die.
The feeling is ecstatic, high up there
Breathing the almost incandescent air;
Compared to that, all other pleasures pall.
Listen to the breezes, hear them call
And ask you to soar with them everywhere!
The only limit will be what you dare;
There is a heaven even in the fall.
For danger might imply a tragedy,
And even as I tumble from the sky
I cannot help but laugh. Why should it be
A terror to descend? For me, to fly
Was better than a life, and though the sea
Should cover me, I'll smile as I die.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
When I Have Fears
When I have fears that I am not John Keats
And that my fingers type my teeming brain
Sufficiently, so that the ready grain
Falls ere the scythe its frail stalk ever meets;
When I am worried that my mind retreats
Before its task, and that it will refrain
From higher work, or break beneath the strain
Of trying to achieve such mighty feats,
I think again of being twenty-five,
Having such glory in the past, and yet
No future; and I wonder how it changed
His poetry. I know I am alive,
And grateful for the fact; yet still I let
Fall tears for him. How wide his genius ranged!
And that my fingers type my teeming brain
Sufficiently, so that the ready grain
Falls ere the scythe its frail stalk ever meets;
When I am worried that my mind retreats
Before its task, and that it will refrain
From higher work, or break beneath the strain
Of trying to achieve such mighty feats,
I think again of being twenty-five,
Having such glory in the past, and yet
No future; and I wonder how it changed
His poetry. I know I am alive,
And grateful for the fact; yet still I let
Fall tears for him. How wide his genius ranged!
Thanatos
New thoughts hum busily within my brain
And make a claim upon my liberty.
Each one insists that it alone can be
My true belief, and thereby seeks to gain
A solitary kingdom. Each would drain
Away the others imperceptibly
So that it might be king alone of me
Without my notice: for as I am sane
(A necessary imprecation) I
Will never let the business go past
Without attention spent on each of them;
Therefore they silently try to condemn
Each other and present me at the last
With just themselves: and in that hope they die.
And make a claim upon my liberty.
Each one insists that it alone can be
My true belief, and thereby seeks to gain
A solitary kingdom. Each would drain
Away the others imperceptibly
So that it might be king alone of me
Without my notice: for as I am sane
(A necessary imprecation) I
Will never let the business go past
Without attention spent on each of them;
Therefore they silently try to condemn
Each other and present me at the last
With just themselves: and in that hope they die.
Joy Day Unalloyed
Unmiserable I am, or claim to be,
And therefore have a duty to show joy.
For in the world there's too much misery,
Too great a store of sorrow and annoy,
For those of us who, happy in our lot,
Have no complaints of depth or of import,
To borrow troubles that we possess not
As if to make another's woe our sport.
We must be merry for we have the cause
And revel, so our joy may be expressed;
'Tis not for us to note too many flaws,
Or feign to be, as others are, depressed.
So if you share my fullness of delight,
Sing out and say so: it is only right.
And therefore have a duty to show joy.
For in the world there's too much misery,
Too great a store of sorrow and annoy,
For those of us who, happy in our lot,
Have no complaints of depth or of import,
To borrow troubles that we possess not
As if to make another's woe our sport.
We must be merry for we have the cause
And revel, so our joy may be expressed;
'Tis not for us to note too many flaws,
Or feign to be, as others are, depressed.
So if you share my fullness of delight,
Sing out and say so: it is only right.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Growing Pains
I wish I knew you better than I do
That in your thoughts there was no mystery
Defiant in impenetrability,
Persistently concealed out of my view.
I think some things but don't know if they're true
And wonder almost inconsolably.
From this arises an internally
Consistent hope to seize the heart of you.
But if I did, what fun would there be left?
What joy in things already understood?
Would I not be eternally bereft
Of any awe, and therefore all that's good?
That too is heresy; once you are known
Love will sprout from the seeds knowledge has sown.
That in your thoughts there was no mystery
Defiant in impenetrability,
Persistently concealed out of my view.
I think some things but don't know if they're true
And wonder almost inconsolably.
From this arises an internally
Consistent hope to seize the heart of you.
But if I did, what fun would there be left?
What joy in things already understood?
Would I not be eternally bereft
Of any awe, and therefore all that's good?
That too is heresy; once you are known
Love will sprout from the seeds knowledge has sown.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Masquerade
I could not bear it if I were myself
All of the time. Escape is necessary.
To put my psyche back onto the shelf
And let my manners and expressions vary
Is pure sweet medicine to me. I know
A thousand persons I would like to be
And how their bodies tick, and what they show
To others; I have put on masks to see
How I could alter - and with them have changed
Differing desperately from what I am.
And as their problems and emotions ranged
Across my blank, to implement the sham
I saw myself in them, and felt the yearn
Once I had been another, to return.
All of the time. Escape is necessary.
To put my psyche back onto the shelf
And let my manners and expressions vary
Is pure sweet medicine to me. I know
A thousand persons I would like to be
And how their bodies tick, and what they show
To others; I have put on masks to see
How I could alter - and with them have changed
Differing desperately from what I am.
And as their problems and emotions ranged
Across my blank, to implement the sham
I saw myself in them, and felt the yearn
Once I had been another, to return.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Second Life
I burn a bit wherever I
Touch down, and so I fly instead
Flitting through the braeburn sky
Above where thunderclouds are fed,
Swooping across the mounting head
Of some volcano, sliding through
The gaps between where rain is shed
And where it washes off the dew.
I float sometimes an inch or two
Above the poppies as they blow
Or whistle down an avenue
Ignoring streetsigns while I go.
But when I land, to rest and fuel
I wilt, because the land is cruel.
Touch down, and so I fly instead
Flitting through the braeburn sky
Above where thunderclouds are fed,
Swooping across the mounting head
Of some volcano, sliding through
The gaps between where rain is shed
And where it washes off the dew.
I float sometimes an inch or two
Above the poppies as they blow
Or whistle down an avenue
Ignoring streetsigns while I go.
But when I land, to rest and fuel
I wilt, because the land is cruel.
Dreams
So little left to say, much less to do;
It leaves me empty and unsatisfied
As if the better part of me had died
And left the rest alone, to grow anew
Those instincts which, in time, contribute to
A higher moral calling. In my pride
I made myself this way, purged the inside
Of all that mattered, while my ennui grew.
What shall a bored husk say of life, or make?
Should I despair, or is that too much work?
Have I the strength to act at all, or not?
I wake up with an introspective jerk
And give my head a cobweb-clearing shake
Recalling all the good things I have got.
It leaves me empty and unsatisfied
As if the better part of me had died
And left the rest alone, to grow anew
Those instincts which, in time, contribute to
A higher moral calling. In my pride
I made myself this way, purged the inside
Of all that mattered, while my ennui grew.
What shall a bored husk say of life, or make?
Should I despair, or is that too much work?
Have I the strength to act at all, or not?
I wake up with an introspective jerk
And give my head a cobweb-clearing shake
Recalling all the good things I have got.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Out On Thee
I am not what I seem, and never was;
When I appeared to you brightest and best
It was some sort of microcosmic test
To teach you what a real good person does.
It was not me, not even then, because
There is no good - nor evil - in my breast.
No, I am nothing wholly, and the rest
Will contradict the part. I simply buzz
By everything, not touching down at all,
Avoiding being, so I only seem.
I am no more than my own waking dream
Made of facades that only stand to fall.
And what is hidden in there? I can't tell.
I've never looked behind them when they fell.
When I appeared to you brightest and best
It was some sort of microcosmic test
To teach you what a real good person does.
It was not me, not even then, because
There is no good - nor evil - in my breast.
No, I am nothing wholly, and the rest
Will contradict the part. I simply buzz
By everything, not touching down at all,
Avoiding being, so I only seem.
I am no more than my own waking dream
Made of facades that only stand to fall.
And what is hidden in there? I can't tell.
I've never looked behind them when they fell.
False Dawn
Winter is a goddamn hypocrite.
Under the name of spring, and its appearance,
He baits his hook, and once the prey has bit,
He shows himself, too late to make a clearance.
Do not believe the smiling sky above,
For it has no connection to the weather;
'Tis but the sign and merest semblance of
A hotter day, but sun and warmth together
Have many months before they will conjoin.
Do not be fooled; be sharp and be alert
For winter-spring will pass you such false coin
And if you are not careful, you'll be hurt.
Watch other signs; the snowmelt, or the grass
To see if spring has truly come to pass.
Under the name of spring, and its appearance,
He baits his hook, and once the prey has bit,
He shows himself, too late to make a clearance.
Do not believe the smiling sky above,
For it has no connection to the weather;
'Tis but the sign and merest semblance of
A hotter day, but sun and warmth together
Have many months before they will conjoin.
Do not be fooled; be sharp and be alert
For winter-spring will pass you such false coin
And if you are not careful, you'll be hurt.
Watch other signs; the snowmelt, or the grass
To see if spring has truly come to pass.
Status
I fear that I, by bruising my coccyx,
Have found a way to magnify my pain.
And if I could, believe me, I'd refrain
From injuring that place. I'd rather mix
A drink from Lethe and the muddy Styx
And drain it down, than distressingly sprain
The part of me that follows in my train
To which my torso and my legs affix.
Yet since I have, I must persever so
And hope that it will not recur again.
Each time I sit, I cringe; but do not pity me.
That pain is temporary, I well know,
And when it heals - and yes, it is a when -
I smile to think how happy I shall be.
Have found a way to magnify my pain.
And if I could, believe me, I'd refrain
From injuring that place. I'd rather mix
A drink from Lethe and the muddy Styx
And drain it down, than distressingly sprain
The part of me that follows in my train
To which my torso and my legs affix.
Yet since I have, I must persever so
And hope that it will not recur again.
Each time I sit, I cringe; but do not pity me.
That pain is temporary, I well know,
And when it heals - and yes, it is a when -
I smile to think how happy I shall be.
Bacon
Deriving perfect knowledge from the air
Is merely metaphysical, and easy;
The plain solutions that you will find there
Are general, and far too often cheesy.
To pluck my definitions from the sky
Seems strange to me, and yet I cannot claim
A preference for other ways I try,
For in them all I always find the same
Objections: they care nothing for the great
Unknowables that still have to be known;
They think the mind can bloom and satiate
Within the garden that the hand has grown.
To find some combination is my goal
To serve the physical, but soothe the soul.
Is merely metaphysical, and easy;
The plain solutions that you will find there
Are general, and far too often cheesy.
To pluck my definitions from the sky
Seems strange to me, and yet I cannot claim
A preference for other ways I try,
For in them all I always find the same
Objections: they care nothing for the great
Unknowables that still have to be known;
They think the mind can bloom and satiate
Within the garden that the hand has grown.
To find some combination is my goal
To serve the physical, but soothe the soul.
Demasiado
I don't know how to be professional,
To keep my feelings out of what I do.
I make my life one vast confessional
So that the mass emotion that I spew
Takes over everything I otherwise
Might constitute my reputation on.
I give expression to my inmost cries
In places where such words have never gone.
So everyone I meet knows my whole mind,
And often wishes it remained unknown,
While those who see me wish that they were blind
To not observe my feelings, overgrown.
I cannot find a way to keep in touch
With who I am, and yet not share too much.
To keep my feelings out of what I do.
I make my life one vast confessional
So that the mass emotion that I spew
Takes over everything I otherwise
Might constitute my reputation on.
I give expression to my inmost cries
In places where such words have never gone.
So everyone I meet knows my whole mind,
And often wishes it remained unknown,
While those who see me wish that they were blind
To not observe my feelings, overgrown.
I cannot find a way to keep in touch
With who I am, and yet not share too much.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Churchyard Sign
There is no comforter in Zion, Lord,
In Judah no release from Jacob's pain,
Caught on the hip, and for forever stored
To make him limp, no fluid that can drain
Though tears be spilt in gallons, to repair
The wound, no power given to the name
To ease the walk, which must tread everywhere,
And be forever pressuring the same
Old soreness. No, there is no easy way,
And never was or will be - every stride
Tells of the pain of Israel, to say
That through no point of arrogance or pride
He struggled with the Lord until the day
And won the pain that cannot be denied.
In Judah no release from Jacob's pain,
Caught on the hip, and for forever stored
To make him limp, no fluid that can drain
Though tears be spilt in gallons, to repair
The wound, no power given to the name
To ease the walk, which must tread everywhere,
And be forever pressuring the same
Old soreness. No, there is no easy way,
And never was or will be - every stride
Tells of the pain of Israel, to say
That through no point of arrogance or pride
He struggled with the Lord until the day
And won the pain that cannot be denied.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)