Our Past as a Dream: Edgar Allan Poe

“It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.” 

I cannot agree more with Poe’s statement here. Even within the stream of a single lifespan our distant past presents itself often as if it were a dream. One wonders: Is the life of the caterpillar a dream to the butterfly?

Let us entertain the thought that life persists after death (for myself, I believe it does). Just what will we remember of this existence? Will we remember the taste of the foods we enjoyed while we were here? Will we remember the cold sensation of winter breezes, the ancient auburn hue hovering over falling autumn leaves, the perfumed smell of loam-drenched trees after a summer thunderstorm, or the distant melodies of tiny birds greeting spring’s sunny advent?

One thing is certain, if life does persist after the death of our bodies, then Poe—at this very moment, wherever he is out there—knows the answer to our inquiry, and the truth of the above quote of his.

Edgar Allan Poe: January 19, 1809 — October 7, 1849 Happy 211th, dear poet

Luc Bat- a Vietnamese Form

Just came across an interesting Vietnamese form of poetry called Luc Bat. It starts with a six syllable line, and then an eight syllable line follows, and the pattern repeats for as long as you would like it to (6,8,6,8,6,8, etc).

But here's the challenge. The sixth syllable of every eight-syllable line has to rhyme with the last syllable of the six-syllable line before it, which in turn has to rhyme with the eighth syllable of the eight-syllable line before it. Seems tricky, but rhythmically it is practical. Here is my first attempt (let me know what you think):


Our Time

Our time is brief, I say-
An interval from day to night
Delineates this plight.

But do not shrink in fright or fear
At Night as it draws near-
Be brave, without a care to creep,
Embrace the day, then sleep.

-jwm

A Dawning of Dying

  


On My First Real Encounter with Death (Very Young)

In my youth I saw a bird’s ravished body
Lying in the silence of a furrow
Its auburn feathers were wilted and shoddy
And ants stripped its flesh and belly thorough

Strange … so strange imagining this bird to be
To have once ascended the vaulted blue
To have woven music in the old oak tree
Or to have plucked from grass the morning dew

And now, alas … struck down from the sky it flew
This bird, this tiny little creature lies
Displaying a sure message in open view
That whatever comes to live also dies

In the quietude of that lonely meeting
I marveled dreadfully that this should be
That death swallows life, and that life is fleeting
And that all will succumb …
                                                          … including me

-jwm