Friday, April 30, 2010

Some say the world will end in fire

I reserved my right earlier on to use Robert Frost again, and so, I will close out the month of April with him.

Fire and Ice
by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

A smidge of Shakespeare (for 4/29)

A little Shakespeare mayhaps?

Sonnet 104
by William Shakespeare

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:
......For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred; thou age unbred: all of you who haven't been born yet
.....Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Life's Scars

I love poems that are as true today as they were when they were writte 100 years ago. Here an example.

Life's Scars
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

They say the world is round, and yet
I often think it square,
So many little hurts we get
From corners here and there.
But one great truth in life I've found,
While journeying to the West-
The only folks who really wound
Are those we love the best.

The man you thoroughly despise
Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true;
Annoyance in your heart will rise
At things mere strangers do;
But those are only passing ills;
This rule all lives will prove;
The rankling wound which aches and thrills
Is dealt by hands we love.

The choicest garb, the sweetest grace,
Are oft to strangers shown;
The careless mien, the frowning face,
Are given to our own.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.

Love does not grow on every tree,
Nor true hearts yearly bloom.
Alas for those who only see
This cut across a tomb!
But, soon or late, the fact grows plain
To all through sorrow's test:
The only folks who give us pain
Are those we love the best.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

The Charge of the Light Brigade

So I'm a history major, and have spent the past 4 days engulfed in history preparing for my midterm this evening. Thus I think it's only right to post up a historical poem, even though it's not even a US history poem, it's about the Crimean War but whatevs. It's still nice and noble.

The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Fog

Looking out my window, I'd have to say the fog's come in on a jungle cat's feet.

Fog
by Carl Sandburg

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Children learn what they live

I truly believe in this idea. (See: Daughters by John Mayer -- comes to mind since I'm listening to him right now.)

Children Learn What they Live
by Dorothy Law Nolte

If children live with hostility,
they learn to fight.

If children live with ridicule,
they learn to be shy.

If children live with tolerance,
they learn to be patient.

If children live with encouragement,
they learn confidence.

If children live with praise,
they learn to appreciate.

If children live with fairness,
they learn justice.

If children live with security,
they learn faith.

If children live with approval,
they learn to like themselves.

If children live with acceptance, and friendship,
they learn to find love in the world.

For 4/24 The Walrus and the Carpenter

This is an excerpt from the poem The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Caroll in his novel Alice in Wonderland. Although I read the book and have watched the movies, I will forever associate this poem with the movie Harriet the Spy. Before Harriet (Michelle Trachtenberg I believe) goes to bed her mentor/caretaker/friend (Rosie O'Donnell) recites this poem with her if memory serves.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

For 4/23, to my sister Sarah

This is for Friday since I was at my sister's that night and didn't get a chance to do this. For Sarah, I love and appreciate you dearly in case I don't tell you enough :).

The Sisters
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Look how the same possibilities
unfold in their opposite demeanors,
as though one saw different ages
passing through two identical rooms.

Each thinks that she props up the other,
while resting wearily on her support;
and they can't make use of one another,
for they cause blood to rest on blood,

when as in the former times they softly touch
and try, along the tree-lined walks,
to feel themselves conducted and to lead;
ah, the ways they go are not the same.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Because Oscar Wilde is silly

Oh Oscar Wilde, you slay me.

The Harlot's House
by Oscar Wilde

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she - she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Remember that it could be otherwise

For better or worse, your current state could be otherwise. Embrace it for what it is, miserable or content, or as for me somewhere in the ether between.

Otherwise
by Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

In the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul

This poem from Max Ehrmann is even more beautiful than I remembered it. I think I have more to bring to it now, and so I appreciate it more. It just gives me chills with its beauty and truth.


Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann


Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Boulder, Colorado 12/09

Monday, April 19, 2010

Everyone is just waiting

This is how I feel right now. Like I'm in this waiting place, waiting for life to start happening in a more meaningful way. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite Dr. Seuss books Oh! The Places You'll Go!

From Oh! The Places You'll Go!
by Dr. Seuss

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come,
or a plane to go or the mail to come,
or the rain to go or the phone to ring,
or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls,
or a pair of pants or a wig with curls,
or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

For 4/18 When you come to a place where the sidewalk ends...

Shel Silverstein poetry defined my childhood. I have most of his poetry books for kids and of course his classic storybook The Giving Tree. His poetry mixed silliness with art and often times wisdom. His love of children and inspiring creativity in them is sorely missed. RIP Shel.

Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda
by Shel Silverstein

All The Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin' In The Sun,
Talkin' 'Bout The Things
They Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda Done...
But All Those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All Ran Away And Hid
From One Little Did.

So, so behind...for 4/17

In my defense I worked all day then went home where there was a power outage that went from 9pm to 7am Sunday morning. That's not why I didn't post though, just lazy lol. Since it's April...

April Rain Song
by Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

Friday, April 16, 2010

May you know its beauty all the days of your life

I don't know if a blessing really counts as a poem, but I'm going to make it count. I have this posted on the door of my room. I need it right about now.

May the sun bring you new energy by day,
may the moon softly restore you by night,
may the rain wash away your worries,
may the breeze blow new strength into your being,
may you walk gently through the world and know
its beauty all the days of your life.

-Apache blessing

(Stonesteps Beach, Encinitas, CA)

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Girl, me too.

As I've been relearning as of yet, there's this special connection between girlfriends that's of vital importance to survival. If you don't have friends you know will have your back no matter what, what's the point? Girls, be unafraid to be badasses. And now, for this beautiful poem from Sandra Cisneros's Loose Women.

Las Girlfriends
by Sandra Cisneros

Tip the barmaid in tight jeans
She's my friend
Been to hell and back again
I've been there too.

Girlfriend, I believe in Gandhi.
But some nights nothing says it
quite precise like a Lone Star
cracked on someone's head.

Last week in this same bar,
kicked a cowboy in the butt
who made a grab for Terry's ass.
How do I explain, it was all
of Texas I was kicking,
and all our asses on the line.

At Tacoland, Cat flamencoing crazy
circles round the pool
player with the furry tongue.
A warpath of sorts for every
wrong ever wronged us.

And Terry here has her own history
A bar down the street she can't
go in, and one downtown. Me,
a French cafe in Austin
where they don't say--entrez-vous.

Little Rose of San Antone
is the queen bee of kick-nalga.*
When you go out with her,
don't wear your good clothes.

But the best story is la Barbara
who runs for the biggest kitchen knife
in the house every bad-ass domestic quarrel.
Points it toward her own heart
like some Aztec priestess gone loca.

!ME MATO!**

I tell you, nights like these,
something bubbles from
the tips of our pointy boots
to the top of our coyote yowl.

Y'all wicked mean, a voice at the bar
claims. Naw, not mean. Shit!
Been to hell and back again.
Girl, me too.

* nalga = butt(cheeks)
** me mato = I kill myself

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I am the master of my fate

This is a classic poem. It was lately used as the title of the movie Invictus as it is reportedly the poem that kept Nelson Mandela strong whilst he was imprisoned in South Africa. I first heard it in, and thus associate it with, the film The Dead Poets Society. The second half of each stanza is bolded because those are the parts I like best.

Invictus
by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

My butt is big...






Nike ran a series of ads to this effect a few years back as they jumped on the "real women" advertising train that Dove arguably started. I came to the realization as I was at the gym today that this one is true for me. Thought I'd share.

For 4/12 Damn forgot again...The voice you hear when you read silently is not silent, it is speaking

The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently...

is not silent, it is a speaking –
out-loud voice in your head: it is spoken,
a voice is saying it
as you read. It’s the writer’s words,
of course, in a literary sense
his or her “voice” but the sound
of that voice is the sound of your voice.
Not the sound your friends know
or the sound of a tape played back
but your voice
caught in the dark cathedral
of your skull, your voice heard
by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts
and what you know by feeling,
having felt. It is your voicesaying, for example, the word “barn”
that the writer wrote
but the “barn” you say
is a barn you know or knew. The voice
in your head, speaking as you read,
never says anything neutrally – some people
hated the barn they knew,
some people love the barn they know
so you hear the word loaded
and a sensory constellation
is lit: horse-gnawed stalls,
hayloft, black heat tape wrapping
a water pipe, a slippery
spilled chirr of oats from a split sack,
the bony, filthy haunches of cows…
And “barn” is only a noun- no verb
or subject has entered into the sentence yet!
the voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you.

by Thomas Lux

I did a lot of reading yesterday and today so this fits well.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Aguas...inpenetrables

Mar por la tarde
por Octavio Paz

Altos muros del agua, torres altas,
aguas de pronto negras contra nada,
impenetrables, verdes, grises aguas,
aguas de pronto blancas, deslumbradas.
Aguas como el principio de las aguas,
como el principio mismo antes del agua,
las aguas inundadas por el agua,
aniquilando lo que finge el agua.

El resonante tigre de las aguas,
las uñas resonantes de cien tigres,
las cien manos del agua, los cien tigres
con una sola mano contra nada.

Desnudo mar, sediento mar de mares,
hondo de estrellas si de espumas alto,
prófugo blanco de prisión marina
que en estelares límites revienta,

¿qué memorias, qué rocas, yelos, islas,
informe confusión de aguas y nada,
qué mares, encendidos prisioneros,
dentro de ti, bajo tu pecho, cantan?

¿Qué violencias recónditas, qué labios,
conmueven a tu piel de verdes llamas?,
¿qué desoladas aguas, costas solas,
qué mares invisibles, mar, alías?,

¿dónde principias, mar, dónde te viertes?,
¿dónde principias, tiempo, vida mía,
ejército de humo y de mentira,
adónde vas, latido, carne, sueño?

¿Dónde te viertes, avidez de nada?
No soy la piedra que se precipita,
soy su caída, y más, soy el abismo,
el círculo de sombra en que se ahonda.

Tiempo que se congela, mar y témpano,
vampiro de la luna ?o se despeña:
madre furiosa, inmensa res hendida,
mar que te comes vivas las entrañas.

for 4/11 man I keep getting behind...

This is a pretty poem, aside from its perpetuating of the goodness of "April showers bring May flowers," I prefer eternal sunshine.

Life
by Charlotte Bronte

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

Friday, April 9, 2010

A bit of nostalgia...

I used to hate poetry, daresay like every other adolescent. And so in my 8th grade honors English class when Mrs. Dann made us "analyze" it, I was far from thrilled. Funny how things change. For some reason this poem sticks in my mind, one of two I remember from Mrs. Dann's class. Rest in peace Mrs. Dann, thanks for forcing poetry upon us, even if we didn't appreciate it until later.

The Village Blacksmith
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

 Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

In Bed with a Book

In Bed With a Book
by Mona Van Duyn

In police procedurals they are dying all over town,
the life ripped out of them, by gun, bumper, knife,
hammer, dope, etcetera, and no clues at all.
All through the book the calls come in: body found
in bed, car, street, lake, park, garage, library,
and someone goes out to look and write it down.
Death begins life's whole routine to-do
in these stories of our fellow citizens.

Nobody saw it happen, or everyone saw,
but can't remember the car. What difference does it make
when the child will never fall in love, the girl will never
have a child, the man will never see a grandchild, the old maid
will never have another cup of hot cocoa at bedtime?
Like life, the dead are dead, their consciousness,
as dear to them as mine to me, snuffed out.
What has mind to do with this, when the earth is bereaved?

I lie, with my dear ones, holding a fictive umbrella,
while around us falls the real and acid rain.
The handle grows heavier and heavier in my hand.
Unlike life, tomorrow night under the bedlamp
by a quick link of thought someone will find out why,
and the policemen and their wives and I will feel better.
But all that's toward the end of the book. Meantime, tonight,
without a clue I enter sleep's little rehearsal.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

But I have promises to keep...

This poem definitely fits well for my life. I'm in this constant rush to get things done and in the moments of silence and calm I stop and take it in, and then go back on my way bouncing between work and class and other obligations. I hesitate to pull out a Robert Frost so early because I do love his poetry, but I'm going to do it anyway, I reserve the right to use him again later in the month haha.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

For 4/6/10 When the evening is spread out against the sky

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 
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?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

For 4/5/2010 Isolation

I've been remiss and have missed two days 4/5/2010 and 4/6/2010 I've been annoyingly busy so here are two posts to make up for it...

I'm not a fan of haikus, but like I said I'm going to put even poetry I don't terribly like up. So here is a haiku.

Isolation: A Haiku
by Jim Milks

Empty wind swept streets
Sand is dancing in the air
Man's isolation

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Even if you weren't my father

Even If You Weren't My Father
Camillio Sbarbaro

Father, even if you weren't my father,
were you an utter stranger,
for your own self I'd love you.
Remembering how you saw, one winter morning,
the first violet on the wall across the way,
and with what joy you shared the revelation;
then, hoisting the ladder to your shoulder,
out you went and propped it to the wall.
We, your children, stood watching the window.

And I remember how, another time,
you chased my little sister through the house
(pigheadedly, she'd done I know not what).
But when she, run to earth, shrieked out in fear,
your heart misgave you,
for you saw yourself hunt down your helpless child.
Relenting then, you took her in your arms
in all her terror: caressing her, enclosed in your
embrace as in some shelter from the brute
who'd been, one moment since, yourself.

Father, even were you not my father,
were you some utter stranger,
for your innocence, your artless tender heart,
I would love you above all other men
so love you.

Hold it up to a light like a color slide

This would've been a perfect poem to start the month off with, however I didn't happen across it until today when I was at home and found a folder full of poems I'd collected over the years. This one I got from my senior AP Lit class with Mrs. Debra Gala.

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with a rope
and torture a confession out of it.

they begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

My mama's generation

A mother always hopes that her child will surpass her in her pursuits in life.

Women
by Alice Walker

They were women then
My mama's generation
Husky of voice -- Stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged Generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Baba says cool for thought

Baba Says Cool for Thought

They thought it was cool to burn crosses in your front lawn as they hung you from trees in
Your backyard.
They thought it was cool to leave you thirsty and strand katrina.
He thought it was cool to carry a gun in his classroom and open fire, virginia tech columbine,
Stop the violence.
They thought it was cool to tear down the projects and put up million dollar condos,
Gentrification.
They think it's cool to stand on the block hiding products in their socks making quick dime bag
Dollars.
They think its cool to to ride down on you in blue and white unmarked cars, busti'n you upside
Yo head.
Freeze....cause the problem is we think it's cool too.
Check your ingredients, before you overdose, on the cool.

Friday, April 2, 2010

To feel exposed to the madness of the vast eternal sky

Before I put a poem for the today let me tell you the bizarre story of how I found this one. So I was taking a standardized test, it was either whatever the state mandated tests are now called (previously Star9 and Cat6 among various other names) or the CAHSEE (mandatory test for high school sophomores in the state of California). I hated those tests, not for their difficulty because to be honest calling them "difficult" would be an extreme overstatement, but for the time they took up and the coldness of the rooms (the rooms were always colder, I'm not sure why). ANYWAY, while I was taking one of these tests sophomore year I came upon this poem (which was followed by analysis questions) and I liked it, a lot. And so I wrote down a few lines of it on my eraser so I could find it once I escaped the testing environment. Anyway, so here it is.


Identity
by Julio Noboa Polanco

Let them be flowers
always watered, fed, grounded, admired,
but harnessed to a pot of dirt.
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed,
clinging on cliffs, like an eagle
wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks
To have broken through the surface of stone
to live, to feel exposed to the madness
of the vast eternal sky.
To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea
carrying my soul, my seed beyond the mountains of time
or into the abyss of the bizarre.
I'd rather be unseen, and if,
then shunned by everyone
than to be a pleasant-smelling flower
growing in clusters in the fertile valley
where they're praised, handled, and plucked
by greedy human hands.
I'd rather smell of musty green stench
than of sweet, fragrant lilac.
If I could stand alone, strong and free
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

April - National Poetry Month 2010

I wasn't sure what to do for April. I had no real pre-conceived and established norms to fall back on, until I heard from Matthew Harris that it's National Poetry Month. This is exciting for me b/c I'm sort of a poetry nerd. Most of the poems I like are more modern, but I will throw in a few oldies and goodies, and maybe even some Emily Dickenson and the like (meaning poets of whom I'm not a big fan). So, in the spirit of embracing all poetry, I'm going to kick this off with some e.e. cummings who is generally a poet I don't particularly like, but here is a poem of his that I love:

cummings is known for his break with poetic and grammatical conventions, choosing to extend it even to his own name which he did not capitalize. His free-form poetry, though frustrating to some (including me), really stripped away a lot of conventions and form poets often followed. Grammatical irregularities are his doing, not mine.

i carry your heart with me - ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)