On Beauty

I shall be as drab as a peahen.
My hair shall be as tangled ivy,
My teeth stained to ivory.
My legs and darkened places will bear the prickles of a cactus--both warning and challenge.
My flesh shall roll as the hills and meadows; bear those same scars.
My wardrobe a coat of many colours, clashing and threadbare.
And I will be beautiful, for I will be myself.

A complex relationship with language

. . .or a language complex. . .

Reading kills meaning
as writing slays word.s
Language a slag heap
of bloodied nouns,
broken adjectives,
twitching verbs.

There is a certain type of former English major who suffers a form of literary ptsd. I am one of them. Pursuing my degree ruined me for pleasure reading (simple pleasure reading, anyway--now I always always must analyze what  is being read on a more complex level). Likewise, my ability to string a sentence together in a way that seems clever without sounding trite has been torn from me, and I bumblefuck my meaning across, bleating like a tongueless antelope. (See?)

It's like there are two extremes of interaction with language, and only a certain personality type is able to walk the knife's edge between the two and experience true literary contentment. On the one side, we have an extreme where things like reading and writing seem so dull, onerous, and unnecessary, that individuals would rather lick sandpaper than read a line of Shakespeare. Let us call this extreme that of literary ignorance. People in this category much prefer swifter forms of communication like texting. At the other extreme, we have individuals who find themselves so trapped in a neverending Hell of literary analysis they would rather stab out their own eyes with forks than read another line of Shakespeare. Let us call this extreme that of literary over-saturation. This would be the category I fall into, I think.

Could the ever narrowing gap of literary contentment between these two extremes be part of why language itself seems to be going the way of the dodo? Are we all so impatient with language, or so worn out on it, that we would rather grunt and stab at small screens with our thumbs than communicate openly with our tongues?

I don't have an answer. Ask me again when I'm not running a fever.

Sonnet CXXIV

Here is a sonnet by Petrarch, as translated by Macgregor:
HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS

That ever-painful, ever-honour'd day
So left her living image on my heart
Beyond or lover's wit or poet's art,
That oft to it will doting memory stray.
A gentle pity softening her bright mien,
Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard,
Doubt in the gazer's bosom almost stirr'd
Goddess or mortal, which made heaven serene.
Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,
Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne,
Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim;
Each loving lip—whence, utterance sweet and low
Her pent grief found—a rose which rare pearls line,
Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame.

The way in which the girl is described in this reminded me of something . . .

Post-

Push.

Breathe
                Breathe
Breathe

Push.

I am the sand, and the sieve.
I strain myself through myself.

Breathe.

Push
         Push
Push

Breathe
       
Distilled to vapours;
caught on a breeze.

Stop.

Intricate implosion
my mental corrosion
S.O.S.

Stop.

Just thought I'd drop

a line

Stop.

Yeah, I'm fine.
Except when I'm not.
Except I forgot
what part of me's mine.

Time.
Runs me out, runs me over.
Confusions, contusions.
Whirls round,
and I'm down
for the count
and I'm out.
Time.

Stop.

Just thought I'd drop

a line.

Nursery Rhyme

I am a doll at tearoom table
Smile, nod, as I am able
Your words choke at me rich and sable
until I can not breathe.
Force fed another fable,
my limbs too stiff to leave.

Words cling to parchment tongue
cleave to throat, freeze in lung
The organ seeks a lunellum
to scrape the vellum clean.
In blank-space new words will come
and I'll say what I mean.

I mean to say--
I mean to do--
my teacup's empty,
so are you.
We sit frozen in tableau
for yet another day;
it is the playroom way.

Unexpected embroidery

This is a book we got in recently at Special Collections. Pretty interesting stuff, showcasing guerrilla styled stitch-art that challenges the traditions of textile crafts, and brings new, unexpected life to the ordinary.  I didn't get a chance to read the whole thing, but from what I saw, it looked pretty cool. So allow me to share with you some examples of unexpected embroidery, in which the ordinary is made extraordinary:

        \
 

But this isn't a post about embroidery, this is a post about poetry. It is a post about how poetry is its own kind of embroidery--and the more unexpected, the better it is (imo, anyway). To borrow a notion from H.G. Widdowson, most poetry is, at its heart, about some very general, very basic theme. Like "love hurts" or "flowers are pretty". What makes the words worth reading at all, much like what makes the piece of bread above worth looking at, is the embroidery.

Take a rather dull, straightforward theme like "my life sucks and is meaningless". We've all felt this, but phrasing it in this way doesn't even come close to describing it, and is certainly not entertaining. Put this sentiment in a poet's hands, however, and we get:

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60
  And how should I presume?

(Prufrock, ladies and gentlemen)

Captures the essence of the rather simple dull sentiment much better, doesn't it?

So whether you're doing it with a needle and thread, or with words, I sort of feel like embroidery is at the heart of creation, and the more unexpected the embroidery is--sometimes the more unlike embroidery it becomes--the more interesting the creation can be.

Sandcastles

Building sleep-
sandcastles in
waves of heat;
flame licked  to
walls of glass.
Sunlight towers,
hard beacons
rise unsmiling
sentinels to
Mayhem,
my prison camp.

I want to sleep
but the gas mask
is poor cushion for
a parched mind and
awareness bleeds
my eyes out in
dry intervals.

I want to sleep
but the jagged fragments
of a thousand collapsed
cities dig at my mind
as long memories
forgotten.

Living in sleep-
sandcastles this world
blurs
into
the next
(the last)
and I dream
aware.

Maud: A Monodrama

Just found this today and while I'm not usually a huge fan of Tennyson, I really like it. Good poetry should inspire the senses. Humor me, and read this. . . think of what it makes you see, hear, touch, smell, and feel. 

Maud; A Monodrama (from Part I)

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

   Come into the garden, Maud,

      For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

      I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

      And the musk of the rose is blown.

   For a breeze of morning moves,

      And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

      In a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

      To faint in his light, and to die.

   All night have the roses heard

      The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd

      To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

      And a hush with the setting moon.

   I said to the lily, "There is but one

      With whom she has heart to be gay.

When will the dancers leave her alone?

      She is weary of dance and play."

Now half to the setting moon are gone,

      And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone

      The last wheel echoes away.

   I said to the rose, "The brief night goes

      In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,

      For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,

      "For ever and ever, mine."

   And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

      As the music clash'd in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

      For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

      Our wood, that is dearer than all;

   From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

      That whenever a March-wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

      In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet

      And the valleys of Paradise.

   The slender acacia would not shake

      One long milk-bloom on the tree;

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake

      As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;

But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

      Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,

      They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

   Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

      Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

      Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

      To the flowers, and be their sun.

   There has fallen a splendid tear

      From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

      She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"

      And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

      And the lily whispers, "I wait."

   She is coming, my own, my sweet;

      Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat,

      Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

      Had I lain for a century dead,

Would start and tremble under her feet,

      And blossom in purple and red.

For me, here are the senses inspired:

Sight:

  

                                  

Smell: The smell of dew on grass in the morning, fresh and clear.

Sound: Crickets, the occasional chirp of a bird. Like a chickadee --dunno why that has to be the bird.

Touch: A cool breeze on my cheeks, wet dew soaking into my feet.

Taste: A taste of wine from last nights revelry, sweet but sour.

Feeling: Bittersweet melancholy (but isn't that the norm with Tennyson?)

Urban Desert

Empty three-piece-suits drift

down by the water,

over the bridge,

filling sidewalks,

draped loosely over cafe chairs,

hanging from rails

in subway cars.

They gather and swirl,

motes of dust in an urban desert

yearning for the next sandstorm.

Pacing parched streets,

coat sleeves bleaching 

under the beating sun

the suits wait.

When the storm doesn't come,

they limp home

to darkened windows. 

Swift Sands

Swift sands passing through

the hourglass.

Groping at each grain,

I move like a ghost

through the valley

of the dead.

A dead body cannot relocate

A dead mouth cannot scream.

Dead hands cannot grasp,

cannot pick up the world

and transcribe their meaning upon it.

I fade into transparency, 

the sand falls through my fingers.

I move like a ghost

through the valley

of the dead. 

Prague!

 Excerpts from Jaroslav Seifert's "a Wreath of Sonnets"

And were she soaked with blood - no braver -
as when the steel belts crushed the palm
of Old Town Square and brought great harm
to Tyne Church Lanes, thus to enslave her,

And cannon from the Letná, roaring,
cut down the branches in their pride;
the ancient tow'r they'd helped to hide,
when May its bloom of smoke was pouring.

She signed her forehead with the mark,
symbol of hope for those still living,
the mark a cross of ash, so dark.

Yet there's the river, lock of hair
around her neck it glistens, fair:
I won't be one of those who're leaving.

If the old owl our Death were calling
and we were looking for the stairs
to church, in darkness, with the flares
of feeble oil lamps, feeling, crawling.

And then, when thus compelled, now humble,
to cry to silent heavens, here
much nearer to cold stone and bier
and His nailed feet, oh how we'd mumble:

may She who smiles on maidens' graces
and shades them with her mighty wing,
when here in May lights up their faces,

persuade the One we irritated.
We'd be like chaff, annihilated,
if God His wrath on us did bring.

It was for you I wished to sing
when in the night the wind was romping,
for the last time and without prompting,
so dark, you couldn't see a thing.

And in her name I do confide,
just like a child for I am human.
I've always loved her like a woman,
and in her gowns I've wished to hide.

That capricious, elsuive bard
playing the lunar lute; and graver
the one who stands there like a guard,

the horologe is in her hand,
Time hurries on and will not stand.
Prague! That's a sip of wine with flavour

Prague ! That's a sip of wine with flavour,
and were she levelled with the ground
and my own home could not be found,
and were she soaked with blood, no braver,

I won't be one of those who're leaving,
I shall be waiting with the dead,
from spring to winter, without dread
till the locked gates at last will swing in.

If the old owl our Death were calling,
if God His wrath on us did bring,
a single tear from Her eye falling

would break the curse above the spires.
Of all my hopes and heart's desires
it was for you I wished to sing

poem inspired me to make weird art

Another attempt at things that rhyme

Once I was your story man
your truth and purpose giver.
Once I was the doryman
upon your Pearl River.

But you've set your silken sails
and left me in your wake:
you saw your ilk in tales,
and now their path you take

If I could have the time again,
when at your side I lay,
no such tales would I spin
and by my side you'd stay.

You think you're cured of me,
my dear.
My dear,
 you think that you are free.

But I will tell you this:
Your cancer isn't in remission;
It dances in these story mists.
It dances, twirls, and twists.
And it charges you admission.

Dulce et Decorum Est

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918

This poem, largely dubbed the most well known poem of the first world war, is probably my favorite war poem of all time. It brings the horrors of war (here, mustard gas) to vivid reality. It is honest, it is brutal. The language is jagged and catches the readers attention, dragging them into the soldier's hellish world. So, I guess you could say my liking for this poem is twofold: first, from an English major's perspective, it is brilliantly done in use of sound and word choice. But, more importantly, I like it for my own political beliefs, which is just that war is generally a terrible thing, and anything that can open our eyes to this fact without sensationalizing or glorifying warfare is valuable.