muccamukk | Entries tagged with poetry

My Triumph lasted till the Drums
Had left the Dead alone
And then I dropped my Victory
And chastened stole along
To where the finished Faces
Conclusion turned on me
And then I hated Glory
And wished myself were They.

What is to be is best descried
When it has also been --
Could Prospect taste of Retrospect
The tyrannies of Men
Were Tenderer -- diviner
The Transitive toward.
A Bayonet's contrition
Is nothing to the Dead.

— Emily Dickinson

*Brought to you by Depressing American Civil War Book #347

at Carmanah Point Lightstation, Nuu-chah-nulth Territories, Canada

Watched The Conspirator which had an uneven script and acting from James McBlue-eyes, but had a breathtaking turn by Robin Wright that made up for it all. I would rec it, I think.

Also watched the second episode of Copper, which may be summarised by ( this image slightly NSFW ) I paused the episode there to go do something, then realised it was kind of perfect and capped it for your enjoyment. That said, it may be getting slightly better? The main plot involving at least two of the sex worker characters seems to be over, as to do the constant rape threats. The two wife characters are getting (a little) more characterisation, and there was some really amazing h/c in the middle there. So, idk. I'll give it another one?

Just read Whitman's "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed." I had not really read him before, but have been enjoying him these past few days. It's funny knowing Ginsberg (or at least Howl) first, and then going back to the Leaves of Grass stuff. Anyway, great poem. I was especially struck by the following two sections

6
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,
With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane
and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you O death.)

Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

feeling tired
at Carmanah Point Lightstation, Nuu-chah-nulth Territories, Canada

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

—William Shakespeare

Ich Iebe grad, da das Jahrhundert geht

I'm living just as the century ends.

A great leaf, that God and you and I
have covered with writing
turns now, overhead, in strange hands.
We feel the sweep of it like a wind.

We see the brightness of a new page
where everything yet can happen.

Unmoved by us, the fates take its measure
and look at one another, saying nothing.

--Ranier Maria Rilke, 1899
(translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

at Carmanah Point Lightstation, Nuu-chah-nulth Territories, Canada

Haven't posted this one in over a year. I do know more than the one poem, I assure you. I just really like this one.

On Loneliness
by Anne Szumigalski

The question is always the same:
Did you decide to leave me,
Or did I decide to remain here alone?

And what is alone? A white sky,
An empty will, a forest without leaves?

A house with one chair, one cup
One bent knife, a narrow bed,
One coat on one peg.

From the first day I knew I must begin
To talk to myself, for fear of forgetting

The sound, the use of words.
For fear that for me they would become

Mere bird-scratches on paper,
Botanist's Latin on a page of notes.

When a word describes, tell me does it become
The thing described? Is distance itself

The sound of the word -- distance, distance?

Wherever you are, why don't you
Turn and Look back across that distance,

And see the ocean stretching, and the land,
Mountainous and flat,

And see the forest
Where we were together.

Tell me, what is a forest
But so many single trees

Each clattering its bony branches in the wind,
Each standing among its fallen companions.

feeling calm
at Cape Beale Lightstation, Nuu-chah-nulth Territories, Canada

Black Beans

Times are lean,
Pretty Baby,
the beans are burnt
to the bottom
of the battered pot.
Let's make fierce love
on the overstuffed,
hand-me-down sofa.
We can burn it up, too.
Our hungers
will evaporate like -- money.
I smell your lust,
not the pot burnt black
with tonight's meager meal.
So we can't buy flowers
for our table.
Our kisses are petals,
our tongues caress the bloom.
Who dares to tell us
we are poor and powerless?
We keep treasure
any king would count as dear.
Come on, Pretty Baby.
Our souls can't be crushed
like cats crossing the street too soon.
Let the beans burn all night long.
Our chipped water glasses are filled
with wine from our loving.
And the burnt black beans --
caviare.

-- Essex Hemphill

feeling calm
at Saanich, BC, Canada
listening to A.R.Rahman - "Shano Shano"

and I'm still sort of dazed about that.

feeling blank

There's been some discussion of Orientalism, Steampunk, Victorian culture and a ridiculous portmanteau of the above. Interesting reading all, of it, but if you read nothing else, check out

deepad's wonderful poem Pity the Orientalist.

I'm sensing sarcasm, Captain.

feeling impressed

When you see this, post a poem to your own journal.

My hands
Are not my mother's hands,
Bright red from bleach,
An blinding rage.
My hands will dare
To reach for love.
No more to
Cower in the shallow grave my
Mother's hands did dig for me.
There'll be no name
Carved into a thin white stake;
Instead, an upright
Forceful fist
Shoved wrist first in the ground
Where I lie and need not
Make a sound.
And every woman
Who comes near
Will peer into her own
Bludgeoned soul
And kiss the fist
That dares demand:
To love a woman
...Leave her whole.

-- Ferron

feeling determined
at Saanich, BC, Canada

Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting —
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!

-- Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

-- Maya Angelou (1928-)

feeling contemplative
at Saanich, BC, Canada

Sowing
by Miguel Otero Silva

When nothing remains of me but a tree,
when my bones have been scattered
beneath our mother earth:
when nothing remains of you but a white rose
nourished by that which once you were:
when the breath of the kiss that we exchange today
has embarked upon a thousand different breezes:
when even our names have become
mere sounds without echo
asleep in the shade of a fathomless sound:
then you will live in the beauty of the rose,
and I in the rustling of the tree,
and our love in the murmur of the breeze.

Listen to me!
My wish for us is, to live
in the spoken words of men.
I would survive with you
in the deep life stream of humanity:
in the laughter of children,
in the peace of man kind,
in love without weeping.

Therefore,
as we must give ourselves to the rose and the tree,
to the earth an the wind,
let us give ourselves, I beg you, to the future of the world.

feeling worried

Lonely Hearts
by Wendy Cope

Can someone make my simple wish come true?
Male biker seeks female for touring fun.
Do you live in North London? Is it you?

Gay vegetarian whose friends are few,
I'm into music, Shakespeare and the sun.
Can someone make my simple wish come true?

Executive in search of something new -
Perhaps bisexual woman, arty, young.
Do you live in North London? Is it you?

Successful, straight and solvent? I am too -
Attractive Jewish lady with a son.
Can someone make my simple wish come true?

I'm Libran, inexperienced and blue -
Need slim non-smoker, under twenty-one.
Do you live in North London? Is it you?

Please write (with photo) to Box 152
Who knows where it may lead once we've begun?
Can someone make my simple wish come true?
Do you live in North London? Is it you?

feeling amused

I'm reading This Craft of Verse, transcripts of six lectures given by Argentinian writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges at Harvard in the late '60s. I want to make not of the ideas that struck me, for future reference.

( Read more... )

Borges died when I was two, so I suppose that having his babies is not really an option. I will have to settle for reading this to someone else's.

...which was pointless and gross, I will post a nice piece of poetry by Anne Szumigalski. This devoted to

monkeycrackmary, who made my day some days ago by commenting: This new 'women should consider themselves pre-pregnant' decree fails to speak to those of us who consider ourselves 'pre-eccentric-lady-with-all-the-cats'.

Nettles

When I am old
I will totter along broken pavements
the strings of my boots undone
smelling a bit strong like any
fat old woman who has forgotten
which day is Tuesday
(my bath day if you like)

stiff my clothes from old dirt
not sweat at my age mumbling
the cracked enamel mug

eleven cats playing
in my weedy yard drinking
my own little ration of milk
with me and withy withy
the cats circle around my house
at night singly filing
in and sleeping on the
saggy stained bed and the chair
and the crumbly tabletop

One day they will find me dead
O dead dead
A stinking bundle of

dead

and in my hand
a peeled wand
and in my ear a cricket sitting
telling me stories and predictions

and the time of night

feeling awake

I watched Frontline: The Soldier's Heart on PBS tonight. It was about soldiers, mostly Marines, who suffered psychological trauma in Iraq. Fifteen to seventeen percent of soldiers surveyed on returning home suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder, generalised anxiety and/or major depression. Only forty percent of those tried to find help. They are afraid of stigmatisation by their officers and comrades. Seeking mental treatment can ruin careers. Instead, many drink, drive fast, start fights, and alienate everyone they love. Some take their own lives. The Pentagon is trying to combat this, but it's hard to change an attitude that deeply ingrained. Slashing the Veterans Association's funding doesn't help.

A Marine Psyc consultant talked about some of the causes of trauma. The military rarely uses the word "kill." They train their soldiers well, building up their instincts and reflexes. When the time comes to remove a potential threat, they are so well trained that they may do it without thinking. But their minds may not be prepared for what their bodies can do; the mind is not trained. The reality of taking another human life hits and suddenly, you're in trouble.

I found a poem by a veteran of the Great War, Siegfried Sassoon. Read it aloud.

( Repression of War Experience )

feeling sick

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28	29	30	31

A Lightkeeper's Log

A Poem*

Various Media

Randomly, because I think this one's super cute

A Poem, Twelve Years Too Late

Poem for a Stormy Day

Who Says It's Not National Poetry Month Anymore?

I Saw This Man about a Year Ago...

Just in time for Alice and Wonderland...

Meme from all around my circle

Two Poems: One Inspired by the Other

Random Poem (Though One of My Favourites Ever)

Random Poem

Extensive Excerpts

Instead of talking about the latest episode of House...

For What?

Profile

May 2013

Expand Cut Tags

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Active Entries