Shel Silverstein

I’ve heard lots and lots about you, and have not read one thing you’ve written … this, will, change. 

No Longer Mute

Wow … after a grueling 3 months of Muselessness, out of nowhere Calliope appears! 

 

Of a Mute 

He walks- in speechlessness he lulling strolls

Investigating gnarly twigs that fell

And fall'n autumn leaves that languish, lacking souls

Is he within a heaven, or he a hell 

The world around him-animated- threats

And he, a foreigner to it doth shy

As too the loneliness that in me frets

I know his state removed from all, but why

Is he, like me, in dreadful mystic state

Is worldly beauty too much for him to bear

Receiving it with joy, but too with fear

Or, and God forbid I ask, is his fate

A curse? Or even worse- does Life not care

That he's caught between the Now and Nowhere

-jwm

Of the Poem (Parameters) 

Stanza: A hybrid between an English sonnet and a French sonnet
Meter: Pentameter (line 10, however, has ten and a half syllables) 

Rhyme Scheme: abab cdcd eff eff

Side Note

I promise I’m not exaggerating when I say that I thought I was suffering Rimbaud's fate (a very famous French Symbolist poet who, at the age of 19, abruptly ceased to write poetry for the rest of his life).

The poem, done within 30 minutes after a 3 month dry spell, was inspired by a neighbor boy who is autistic (I think) and very quiet and very, very standoffish. It’s not about him, but definitely influenced by him.

Rilke on Canvas

Ran across this canvas representation of the well known German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke ... nicely done! Check out this poem:

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Rainer Maria Rilke

****

I love that imagery … as if Rilke were watching a little bird flying out of an oak tree into the windy sky, but watching this happen through the medium of a pond of water (then imagining that the bird’s flight was descent into the deep). Very cool … read it again:

With my senses, as with birds, I climb

into the windy heaven, out of the oak,

in the ponds broken off from the sky

my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

In-fricking-credible!

I swear, as much as Pound and Eliot annoy me, the best thing that came out of the Imagist movement was without qualification Hilda Doolittle- one of thē most incredible poets to put ink to page. Happy birthday, lady …

Serious, experience how she employs poetic imagery so magically … in-fricking-credible!

Orchard

I saw the first pear

as it fell--

the honey-seeking, golden-banded,

the yellow swarm

was not more fleet than I,

(spare us from loveliness)

and I fell prostrate

crying:

you have flayed us

with your blossoms,

spare us the beauty

of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking

paused not,

the air thundered their song,

and I alone was prostrate.

O rough hewn

god of the orchard,

I bring you an offering--

do you, alone unbeautiful,

son of the god,

spare us from loveliness:

these fallen hazel-nuts,

stripped late of their green sheaths,

grapes, red-purple,

their berries

dripping with wine,

pomegranates already broken,

and shrunken figs

and quinces untouched,

I bring you as offering.

Yep ... awesome ...

Muselessness & Rilke

I wrote, a few days ago on Facebook, the following: "Museless since June. God forbid the thought that I become like Rimbaud and never write a poem again …"

A poet friend of mine responded: “Don't worry...she will return. I've had long dry spells too....but I found that reading more poetry helps get the juices flowing again or at least helps fertilize the imagination for future work.”

So I've decided that, uh, on the advice of Mr. Daniel Klawitter, I'd see if a heavy dose of Rilke can shake things up … 

Winter Cometh

Emily Bronte is among one of the very first female poets that I came to know, and a poet that I deeply respect (The Old Stoic, a delightful little poem about the desire to live in freedom, was the first poem of hers I read). 194 years ago on this day she was born, and so I thought I’d browse some of her works, and perhaps post one of them here … hence today’s post.

'Fall, Leaves, Fall'

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night's decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

Of the Poem:

On a superficial level this poem speaks of the poet’s delight in the coming winter, where the nights are longer and snow and ‘drearier’ days shroud the landscape. It is within the midst of an autumn that the poet happily anticipates, like myself at times, the cold and snowy months to come: Every leaf speaks bliss to me / Fluttering from the autumn tree.

But one other possible meaning, a bleaker meaning, weaved tacitly through the poem, may exist.

Little is known about the last two years of Bronte's life, but what is known is that in October of 1848 her health began to falter drastically. Her brother, in the month to follow, would succumb to tuberculosis. It’s said that she was also afflicted by the illness, and that she refused all medical attention (for reasons I’m still not quite clear on) until finally, on December 19th of the same year, she would succumb to her afflictions as well.

Often in the past people have used the seasons as symbols for the diverse stages of life- spring symbolizing birth, summer adolescence, autumn late adulthood, and winter old age and death. It’s obvious that the poem is referring to a desire for winter to come (interestingly, she doesn’t ever use the word ‘winter’ at all).

Is it possible that Bronte wrote this poem indicating a desire to move on from life to death? Is it possible that her illness was too much to endure, or that her brother’s decline and death affected her terribly, or that she wanted to be ‘released’ from the crippling onslaught of so cruel a disease?

It’s just a curious thought, and I’m by no means indicating that our poet was suicidal- far from it! My own guess is this … if this poem was composed during those obscure last years, then the likeliness that it was a cryptic work referring to a desire to die is at least there; if it was composed within the last few months of her life, I’m persuaded on the point. I don’t know … you tell me. 

Happy date of birth, dearest poet ... you're remembered.

Lo Seguitai Felice

Now THAT is the mindset of a 'down' lady (from the Vivaldi L'Olimpiade Opera, Act III, ‘Lo Seguitai Felice’):

Heureux, je l’ai suivi
quand le ciel était serein 
je veux encore le suivre 
les jours de tempête.

*translated:

I followed him happily 

when the sky was cloudless, 
I shall still follow him 
when there are storms in his breast.

To have that type of fidelity from a female is overwhelmingly invaluable! Just sayin' ...

Incredible, Incredible Poet!

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev (1803 - 1873)

I discovered this Russian poet last week (he’s of the late Romantic period). I cannot- not even remotely- express how utterly floored by his works I am. Philosophical, mystical, wreaking of love and spiritual undertones … this poet is a poet genius. You must, MUST seek out and read his works- or you’re missing out. (period)


Spring Storm
 
I love a storm in early May
When springtime's boisterous, firstborn thunder
Over the sky will gaily wander
And growl and roar as though in play.

A peal, another - gleeful, cheering...
Rain, raindust... On the trees, behold!-
The drops hang, each a long pearl earring;
Bright sunshine paints the thin threads gold.

A stream downhill goes rushing reckless,
And in the woods the birds rejoice.
Din. Clamour. Noise. All nature echoes
The thunder's youthful, merry voice.

You'll say: 'Tis laughing, carefree Hebe -
She fed her father's eagle, and
The Storm Cup brimming with a seething
And bubbling wine dropped from her hand.

Purely From Curiosity

This was really hard to do, and there are hundreds of other poets I love apart from those named here, but I was just too curious. The order of this list no doubt changes with my daily mood or taste or even needs, but this is the official list of my top 20 favorite poets.

1.       Emily Dickinson

2.      John Milton

3.      William Butler Yeats 

4.      Theodore Roethke

5.       Rainer Maria Rilke

6.      Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

7.      Mathew Arnold

8.      Robert Hayden

9.      Christina Rossetti

10.   Sir Thomas Wyatt

11.   Derek Alton Walcott

12.   Paul Laurence Dunbar

13.   Dylan Marlais Thomas

14.   William Wordsworth

15.   Charles Baudelaire

16.   Sylvia Plath

17.   Hilda Doolittle

18.   Dante Gabriel Rossetti

19.   Wilfred Owen

20.  Arthur Symons

Dickinson and Milton are the only two poets that alternate as my top favorite poet.

Yeats, My Influence

 

 

Born today in 1865: William Butler Yeats 

I love Yeats … came to know him early, early on. What I appreciate about him is his mysticism, his incorporation of mythology (especially Irish mythology, of course) into his poems, his diversity, and the depth of his prolific imagination. 

He inspires me to be creative and to explore not just the ‘rosy’ side of poetry, but comedic side; the tragic side; the hopeless and melancholic side …  the infernal side. He taught me that poetry is a strong, broad-spectrum realm, and by no means some tiny little limited sphere within the world of art.

He helped me appreciate poetry, and for it I thank him dearly.

On my list of poets, he’s one of the highest.

To the Weary

When Sadness Has My Soul Distraught

When sadness has my soul distraught
And twists my weary, weary bones
And owns my bright blue days with gray
And manifests with moans

I will not shrink, nor I repine
Beneath the anguish running deep
Nor sleep will I through all the day

Nor endless will I weep

For though the pain and woe are real
I know that inly I am strong
Let throngs of troubles trouble me
They cannot quench my song

-jwm

Poetic Parameters:

Stanza: Quatrain 
Meter: Lines 1 through 3, tetrameter; line 4,  trimeter

Rhyme scheme: abab dcdc efef 

Note: Notice that the second word of the third line of each stanza rhymes with the last word of both lines two and four (I thought it a good device to use to keep the poem ‘glued together’ better).

Pope and Pentameters

This one's for you, Pope ... happy date of birth, brotha!

 

Of Warfare

Dedicated to three incredible, incredible poets: Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, and Joyce Kilmer.

The Trenches 

They held with horrid hell their lines 

Til shells dispelled their noxious fumes 

Then through the labyrinth there fell 

A myriad to Earth’s gray womb 

A thousand summers ere that day 

Those fruitful fields were green and bloom 

What once were luscious, lovely plains 

Are now a wasteland and a tomb 

-jwm

Of the Poem (A Brief Comment):  

I apologize for that gruesome picture of dead soldiers along that trenchbed, but war is real, and as disturbing as sights like this may be, we need to remember that this is what we do to each other.

I hate it- I can’t stand that we war. But whether it’s for remembering a noble cause (if such a thing exists), or acknowledging the inherent evilness of it, or even simply to weep at its existence, we cannot and should not look lightly past the fact that we war with one another, and that warfare is one of the most heinous, one of the most brutal and cruelest, one of the most unfortunate aspects of human reality.

Never Mind

Here's the poem, done in blank verse, that I read for poetry night last night (it was fun, fun, fun):

Too Much Mind

It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both pure and fair,
Abides unoccupied by most of us.

We clutch and grab and struggle to survive
In this world. We feel offense and give it.
Ceaseless ambiguities flood our lives,
And emotional fortitude fades fast.
And so, we take up residence in mind-
Because “it is our mind that brings us peace.”

This is false. Our mind, like spinning daggers,
Cuts everything asunder- rips through flesh
Like a rapacious wolf dying to kill!
Mind divides, mind isolates, mind severs …
… and it must! Mind must dissect, and must know,
Must analyze the details … mind must judge.

And judge we do. We judge each other from
The cold and callous depths of abstraction-
Seeing obscure silhouettes, not people.
We judge as if we were beyond reproach,
Sinless monks sipping green tea, wearing white.
But we deceive ourselves. We are like Borg:
Hardly human at all- reproachable!
Machines removed from Life’s inner myst’ry.

It is from that abject state of being that
We shun and accuse one another, we lie
And steal and rape and kill for sport, we war
With the intensity of roguish brutes,
Set aflame entire countries, and will starve
Anyone to death just to prove a point-
Indeed, when we vanquish a people … joy!

Mind brings no peace- just deep desolation.
It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both fair and pure,
Calls us to compassion and empathy.
Empathy and compassion will bring peace …

Not mind. Mind fears vulnerability
And shrinks in self-complacent lack of trust,
It cannot endure the thought of Spirit,
And will not cater to heart or heaven.
Abandon that residence! Shun that lie!
Rebuke that belligerent hoax! Rebel!
Mind brings no peace- only desolation.
Shut it out and let God reign again-
Stroll the sacred cobbled floors of the heart;
Be brave, and enter that inner sanctum
And seek out in that temple heaven’s throne …

And follow heart.

-jwm

Poetry and Art

Um ... interesting? According to NPR, Expressionist artist Edvard Munch wrote a poem on the backside of one of his most famous works, The Scream (in it he describes the eerie and dreadful encounter he had during one particular sunset). 

Here's that work: 

'The Scream' 

I was walking along the road with two friends. The Sun was 

setting — 

The Sky turned a bloody red 

And I felt a whiff of Melancholy — I stood 

Still, deathly tired — over the blue-black 

Fjord and City hung Blood and Tongues of Fire 

My Friends walked on — I remained behind 

— shivering with Anxiety. I felt the great Scream in Nature.