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Entry tags:
poetry meme
Can I make decisions? Of course not.
Taking a leaf out of Lynette's book: two poems by others and two by myself. Why two? I've only really written two poems that I like. La. I've posted them in various places before.
This was the first poem I ever memorised *nods at Meg*. My love of light and shadow began early!
My Shadow - Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow -
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
---
I can't pretend Whitman means as much to me as he would if I were American, but this poem is just so joyous. It flashes apricot-gold onto cynicism and melts it. Sometimes I love that. It reminds me that we should never lose our sense of wonder at the universe.
Song at Sunset - Walt Whitman
Splendor of ended day floating and filling me,
Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past,
Inflating my throat, you divine average,
You earth and life till the last ray gleams I sing.
Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness,
Eyes of my soul seeing perfection,
Natural life of me faithfully praising things,
Corroborating forever the triumph of things.
Illustrious every one!
Illustrious what we name space, sphere of unnumber'd spirits,
Illustrious the mystery of motion in all beings, even the tiniest insect,
Illustrious the attribute of speech, the senses, the body,
Illustrious the passing light - illustrious the pale reflection on the new moon in the western sky,
Illustrious whatever I see or hear or touch, to the last.
Good in all,
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
In the annual return of the seasons,
In the hilarity of youth,
In the strength and flush of manhood,
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age,
In the superb vistas of death.
Wonderful to depart!
Wonderful to be here!
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood!
To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak - to walk - to seize something by the hand!
To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose color'd flesh!
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large!
To be this incredible God I am!
To have gone forth among other Gods, these men and women I love.
Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars, dart on and on!
How the water sports and sings! (surely it is alive!)
How the trees rise and stand up, with strong trunks, with branches and leaves!
(Surely there is something more in each of the trees, some living soul.)
O amazement of things - even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
O strain musical flowing through ages and continents, now reaching me and America!
I take your strong chords, intersperse them, and cheerfully pass them forward.
I too carol the sun, usher'd at noon, or as now, setting,
I too throb the brain and beauty of the earth and of all the growths of the earth,
I too have felt the resistless call of myself.
As I steam'd down the Mississippi,
As I wander'd over the prairies,
As I have lived, as I have look'd through my windows my eyes,
As I went forth in the morning, as I beheld the light breaking in the east,
As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, as again on the beach of the Western Sea,
As I roam'd the streets of inland Chicago, whatever streets I have roam'd,
Or cities or silent woods, or even amid the sighs of war,
Wherever I have been I have charged myself with contentment and triumph.
I sing to the last the equalities modern or old,
I sing the endless finalés of things,
I say Nature continues, glory continues,
I praise with electric voice,
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe,
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe.
O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration.
---
Sonnet! Complete with iambic pentameter. Yum.
a note of e
in bed i see the sharp planes of your face
so smooth and perfect-white so very clean
with sharp cheekbones that cut me in one place
so easily i see your image, glean
your thoughts and wonder how you are: almost
too easy, like a note of e which i
can sing at whim - not d not f those ghost
notes which i waver on too low too high
where were we? your face smooth as printed type
and just as legible as white on black
on red (unread) like apples (far too ripe)
instead of asking you to take me back
i start to sing - beginning in a key
of f, and ending on a note of e
---
And sestina! I love sestinas. This one has the correct pattern of line-endings but I decided against the iambic pentameter because the regular rhythm doesn't suit. Or maybe I'm lazy. It's optional in sestinas anyway.
It's kind of sort of a science fiction poem.
Dysphoria
Waiting under grey-high subtle skies, another step
another breath another backwards glance, for even
when there’s nothing left but facts, running over
in the brain? We still hold fast, hooked onto a line
that tugs on barbs deep in the lips and heart, one
anchor holding us to life and dusted empty earth.
We pray: Pater noster, as in heaven so on earth.
Parched words from the knee-joints, kneel and step
and kneel again, looking for an answer. Just one
inkling of a reason. Dry clouds running over even
dryer land, the horizon drags a single ragged line
across the crumbling ruins. The wind takes over.
Nothing for you here, says the refrain; over and over
until wind-song brushes soil up from the earth
and skeletons are laid bare. Lying in a morbid line,
biting beige and crackling bone, the only final step
before decomposition. Playing odds against the even,
living here dying here one by one by one by one.
A purse is dropped, someone scrambles, picks up one
tiny silver coin and turns it finger-wise, tumbling over
chapped knuckles gritted with salt and despair. Even
the youngest of us know the taste. Tears and dead earth.
No clocks ticking but a rhythm in the air to lift and step
and right and left and trudging in a weary soldier line.
Buzzing as the wind speeds up, just the wind, no! Line
still works. We hear a tinny voice, as tired as no one
should be. Boat’s a’comin’, folks. Hurry, quick step.
Grey skies, no birds to sing it’s almost almost over.
Pain that throbs through ragged feet up from the earth;
giving as it received. I think we can say we’re even.
Horizon breaks with silver sails and we take two even
breaths. Humanity’s leftovers form a grudging line
and hug their arms, grounded on a poisoned earth,
watching the sky, orphans widows every single one.
Flames on the frontier. Two engines turning ever over;
surprising, that from ground to metal is just one step.
Sailor’s evensong across the air, one note at a time,
and rough hands toss a line over the side. We wait,
we breathe. We think of our first step on greener earth.
Taking a leaf out of Lynette's book: two poems by others and two by myself. Why two? I've only really written two poems that I like. La. I've posted them in various places before.
This was the first poem I ever memorised *nods at Meg*. My love of light and shadow began early!
My Shadow - Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow -
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
---
I can't pretend Whitman means as much to me as he would if I were American, but this poem is just so joyous. It flashes apricot-gold onto cynicism and melts it. Sometimes I love that. It reminds me that we should never lose our sense of wonder at the universe.
Song at Sunset - Walt Whitman
Splendor of ended day floating and filling me,
Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past,
Inflating my throat, you divine average,
You earth and life till the last ray gleams I sing.
Open mouth of my soul uttering gladness,
Eyes of my soul seeing perfection,
Natural life of me faithfully praising things,
Corroborating forever the triumph of things.
Illustrious every one!
Illustrious what we name space, sphere of unnumber'd spirits,
Illustrious the mystery of motion in all beings, even the tiniest insect,
Illustrious the attribute of speech, the senses, the body,
Illustrious the passing light - illustrious the pale reflection on the new moon in the western sky,
Illustrious whatever I see or hear or touch, to the last.
Good in all,
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
In the annual return of the seasons,
In the hilarity of youth,
In the strength and flush of manhood,
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age,
In the superb vistas of death.
Wonderful to depart!
Wonderful to be here!
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood!
To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak - to walk - to seize something by the hand!
To prepare for sleep, for bed, to look on my rose color'd flesh!
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large!
To be this incredible God I am!
To have gone forth among other Gods, these men and women I love.
Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars, dart on and on!
How the water sports and sings! (surely it is alive!)
How the trees rise and stand up, with strong trunks, with branches and leaves!
(Surely there is something more in each of the trees, some living soul.)
O amazement of things - even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
O strain musical flowing through ages and continents, now reaching me and America!
I take your strong chords, intersperse them, and cheerfully pass them forward.
I too carol the sun, usher'd at noon, or as now, setting,
I too throb the brain and beauty of the earth and of all the growths of the earth,
I too have felt the resistless call of myself.
As I steam'd down the Mississippi,
As I wander'd over the prairies,
As I have lived, as I have look'd through my windows my eyes,
As I went forth in the morning, as I beheld the light breaking in the east,
As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, as again on the beach of the Western Sea,
As I roam'd the streets of inland Chicago, whatever streets I have roam'd,
Or cities or silent woods, or even amid the sighs of war,
Wherever I have been I have charged myself with contentment and triumph.
I sing to the last the equalities modern or old,
I sing the endless finalés of things,
I say Nature continues, glory continues,
I praise with electric voice,
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe,
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe.
O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration.
---
Sonnet! Complete with iambic pentameter. Yum.
a note of e
in bed i see the sharp planes of your face
so smooth and perfect-white so very clean
with sharp cheekbones that cut me in one place
so easily i see your image, glean
your thoughts and wonder how you are: almost
too easy, like a note of e which i
can sing at whim - not d not f those ghost
notes which i waver on too low too high
where were we? your face smooth as printed type
and just as legible as white on black
on red (unread) like apples (far too ripe)
instead of asking you to take me back
i start to sing - beginning in a key
of f, and ending on a note of e
---
And sestina! I love sestinas. This one has the correct pattern of line-endings but I decided against the iambic pentameter because the regular rhythm doesn't suit. Or maybe I'm lazy. It's optional in sestinas anyway.
It's kind of sort of a science fiction poem.
Dysphoria
Waiting under grey-high subtle skies, another step
another breath another backwards glance, for even
when there’s nothing left but facts, running over
in the brain? We still hold fast, hooked onto a line
that tugs on barbs deep in the lips and heart, one
anchor holding us to life and dusted empty earth.
We pray: Pater noster, as in heaven so on earth.
Parched words from the knee-joints, kneel and step
and kneel again, looking for an answer. Just one
inkling of a reason. Dry clouds running over even
dryer land, the horizon drags a single ragged line
across the crumbling ruins. The wind takes over.
Nothing for you here, says the refrain; over and over
until wind-song brushes soil up from the earth
and skeletons are laid bare. Lying in a morbid line,
biting beige and crackling bone, the only final step
before decomposition. Playing odds against the even,
living here dying here one by one by one by one.
A purse is dropped, someone scrambles, picks up one
tiny silver coin and turns it finger-wise, tumbling over
chapped knuckles gritted with salt and despair. Even
the youngest of us know the taste. Tears and dead earth.
No clocks ticking but a rhythm in the air to lift and step
and right and left and trudging in a weary soldier line.
Buzzing as the wind speeds up, just the wind, no! Line
still works. We hear a tinny voice, as tired as no one
should be. Boat’s a’comin’, folks. Hurry, quick step.
Grey skies, no birds to sing it’s almost almost over.
Pain that throbs through ragged feet up from the earth;
giving as it received. I think we can say we’re even.
Horizon breaks with silver sails and we take two even
breaths. Humanity’s leftovers form a grudging line
and hug their arms, grounded on a poisoned earth,
watching the sky, orphans widows every single one.
Flames on the frontier. Two engines turning ever over;
surprising, that from ground to metal is just one step.
Sailor’s evensong across the air, one note at a time,
and rough hands toss a line over the side. We wait,
we breathe. We think of our first step on greener earth.
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