This Happiest Night

God has given us so many beautiful things, scattered throughout our lives, that are yet nothing more than that - things. It is up to us to gather all these together and give them the meaning that can come only from a human; from a soul. A fire is, in itself, nothing more than the observable manifestation of the bonding of carbon and oxygen molecules; a cup of tea merely the dried leaves of camellia sinensis steeped in hot water; a book is a lump of methodically pressed and stained wood pulp. Gather these together in a man, though, and a miracle occurs. The simple things transcend their matter, to find meaning in the man. The whole becomes greater - so much greater - than its parts, as the soul places itself, lynchpin and cog, in the midst of a spiderweb of earthly things. The corporeal becomes spiritual, but so too, the spiritual must become corporeal, and both are better for the change. For, just as the things find meaning in the man, the man also finds fullness in the things. And so we gather all the accoutrements of winter around us which, alone, have no importance, but, taken into our hearts and souls, turn a cold and dead season into the happiest time of the year. Fire, tea, books, blankets, music, snow. What are these, by themselves? Things, and nothing else. But give them to a man, and he molds them into a grand and glorious piece of art. So enjoy your wintertide. I know I am.


This Happiest Night

We gather our feet by the fire's soft glow,
where the embers cast heat on the lingering snow
and the strains of the sweet music play soft and low,
on this chilliest time of the year.

A book in the hand and a blanket to keep
quiet watch on the land, where the flakes settle deep
and the cedar trees stand with their heads bowed in sleep,
while we, we have nothing to fear.

For trouble cannot enter into this hall,
when the hearthstones are hot and the flames ever tall,
and the kettle has caught up its whispering call
for us few, huddled restful and near.

So let us be light as the hours grow long
and we measure the night by the meter of song;
yes, within all is right, be the world so wrong,
on this happiest time of the year.

The Carolers' Prayer

After three wonderful nights of caroling, I have come to the realization that caroling is a lost art, but, even more so, is the art of greeting the carolers. I have lost track of how many times we were met, and then sent off, with a smile given more out of politeness and social necessity than actual happiness. And, while we won't be found performing at the Met any time soon, our singing was certainly far from bad. In fact, our harmonies were generally pretty spot on. The worst instance occurred when a husband and wife asked if we would leave so they could shut the door; they didn't want to let out any more heat. But, every once in a while, someone comes along who makes all the chill and damp and unfriendly houses worth it. Even if it happens only once in a night, it is sufficient. Usually, it's an older couple or a family, and they invariably offer not only hot drinks and cookies, but a place to sit and the sort of wonderfully pleasant conversation that one only gets between two complete strangers, who are yet connected by something far more foundational - far more important - than a low heating bill. God bless them; they make the season.

The Carolers' Prayer

A wind is falling through the trees,

so burdened by the snow,

as, with our lanterns lifted high,

a-caroling we go.

Our footprints track from door to door,

our herald-knock is bold,

and though our cheeks be rosy-red,

our hands and feet are cold.

Our song is one of ages past,

and yet is just as sweet,

for time cannot dilute the joy

it brings to those we greet.

And all we beg: do not forget

your duty at the door;

we seek a little joy, too;

we cannot ask for more.

So call us in to warm our toes;

we shan't stay long, no fear.

A cookie and a drink is all,

and we'll return next year.

Past Three O'Clock

I went caroling today, and it was absolutely wonderful. The wind was blowing, the snow was falling, and our toes were frozen, but the surprise and happiness on people's faces when they opened their doors to a burst of song made up for all of it. Of course, it also helped that there was a roaring fire and hot tea waiting for us when we were done. This poem is taken from 'Past Three O'Clock,' which began as a song for the London waits, or town watchmen, of the 1600's, and ended as a 19th century carol.


Past Three O'Clock

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

Born is He, so innocent,
of God, and of a man,
and forth the seraphs' praises went
since ere the world began.

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

All creation cries 'Nowell'
in one triumphant word,
so stay not, sirs, but rise and tell
the coming of the Lord!

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

The Holly and the Ivy

I've been singing old Christmas traditionals with this dear soul for the past month or so, and it has opened up a world of wonderful carols that I never knew existed. So, to do my own little part in passing these on, I thought it fitting to write a series of poems, as we approach Christmastime, that pay keen and humble homage to their sadly fading memory. This first is taken from 'The Holly and the Ivy,' an English folk carol set down in the latter half of the 19th century.


The Holly and the Ivy

The holly and the ivy set
their roots upon the earth,
and of the two, the holly, true,
recounts the Savior's birth.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a flower white
and stainless as the snow,
and Mary bore the Savior for
us sinners here below.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a berry red
and ruddy as the sword,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to herald Heaven's word.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a prickle sharp
and keen as winter chill,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to carry all our ill.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a bark as bitter
as His agony,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to set us captives free.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The Thorn

All I have to say is, if you've never read anything by Monsignor Luigi Giussani, go out to your local bookstore or hop on Amazon and purchase 'Is It Possible to Live This Way?' You won't regret it. And then, look into the Communion and Liberation movement (don't worry - despite it's suggestive name, it has absolutely nothing to do with Communism or liberation theology). You'll be setting yourself up for the greatest journey of your life.


The Thorn

Set against the thorn, the thick
blood rolls as quick as ready water,
drop for drop, up from the prick,
the point married to the matter,

letting out the life in waves,
with every pulse upon the vein,
but pouring forth, in pouring saves,
and holds the moment by the pain.

For only through this loss is found
the compass turn of destiny,
that leads the soul, no longer bound,
desire of the blinded, free,

to fill the vessel, emptied out
of every darkness in the glass.
The life that was a life without
has found a final life at last.

Suffer Silence

Given that I skipped last week, here's another cheerful poem to lighten the cold, dark nights. Well, maybe not, but I promise to post some warmer poems over the next couple weeks, as we enter the Advent season.


Suffer Silence

Silence is madness’ seat, turning the mind
back on itself, where it cannot but find
cancers concealed from introvert eyes
by the confounding of pleasureful guise;
voices that call out of women and wealth,
hindering man from the sight of himself.

The Drowning

I was certainly not depressed when I wrote this poem, but I generally find it easiest to relay emotions that are opposed to those I am currently feeling. I don't know if everyone is this way, but often my most cheerful or beautiful poems come when I am most depressed, while my poems of death and destruction find their way out in my happiest times. Funny, but that's how it is. I suppose it is a sign that we can best express not what we truly are, but what we truly desire or lack.


The Drowning

Rippling the water
with a shrill and shivered cry,
and wings that beat a frenzy,
in a final, fluttered try -
a vain attempt to rise up
to the mountains and the sky;
naught but the hope of one who’s fated
nevermore to fly.

Returning

As much as I would like to post more seasonal poems, I've run a little dry for the time being. So, instead of giving you a poem about falling leaves and rain and tea and other autumnal whatnot, I figured the next best thing is a poem that feels as if it should be read while sipping tea to the falling of rain and leaves. Here's a quiet, cozy little poem about companionship and marriage.


Returning

Walk with me now; I know not where to go,
but I can find solace in you,
and then, perhaps, though the journey is slow,
we’ll make our way there, sure and true,
back to the home that I used to know,
and through us it will be made new.

Rain

I love rain. Not the five-minute rain bursts of Michigan, nor the two-month obliterating rains of California, but the lingering and fabulously wet rains of Oregon. I would never complain about the sun, but ultimately, I enjoy the sun insofar as I enjoy the shade, and to enjoy something only to the extent that you can hide from it is an odd pleasure, indeed. Rain, however, should not and cannot be avoided. It is a delight to every sense of the body, and turns small daily happinesses into great ones. I intend my next purchase to be a full-length umbrella; not to keep dry, but to hear the drops of water as they strike the cloth.


Rain

A timpani patter upon the tin roof
announces the fall of the sky,
and everyone here seems to be so aloof,
though none of us shall remain dry.
We cannot escape, and to tell you the truth,
I never intended to try.

Gentle Arms

Last Tuesday, a dear friend and peerless man came very close to dying in an attack on the Humvee he was riding through the streets of Afghanistan. The three men inside the Humvee were killed, and he only survived because he was manning the machine-gun turret on top of it. He escaped with blessedly minor injuries - singed lungs, broken legs, and local burns - and is currently in Texas awaiting surgery. I wanted to dedicate a poem to his return and recovery, but it took me a while to find one that fit my mood. I hope this does the trick.


Gentle Arms

Carry me home;
my body is worn.
Long did I roam,
but now I am born
upon gentle arms
and though my old door,
away from all harms,
to wander no more.

Your Silence

I wrote this one Summer day at Laurelhurst Park. As with most of my poems, the first two lines came to me in a sing-song way, and the rest followed slowly and ploddingly from there. I suppose I was thinking of Elijah's journey up Mt. Horeb, and so the language of the poem tends to mirror the perception of God not as wind or earthquake or fire, but as a still, small voice in the silence, which is yet infinitely more powerful than any of the preceding chaos. As a side note, I unconsciously mimicked Chesterton's rhyming pattern and meter in his dedication to 'The Man Who Was Thursday,' which reads thus: "Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled; Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world." If you are not familiar with this poem, you should read it immediately. Though it is limited somewhat by Chesterton's rigid two-step style, it has some of the most beautiful and powerful imagery that I have ever come across. It is, by far, my favorite Chesterton poem. You can find a copy of it here: To Edmund Clerihew Bentley.


I never gazed upon your face,
nor heard the words you spoke.
Your silence was a thunderclap
that sudden on me broke,
like staffs against the knotted backs
that cut the furrows deep
and terror calling soldiers
to an everlasting sleep.
I could not name the moment
when your standard rose, unfurled,
but when it did, I heard your silence
ring throughout the world.

Ascent

The turning of Summer affords a special freedom; one which is not found in the vast expanse of cloudless days and long evenings, but rather in the welcome release that comes with life's quiet rest. Autumn allows us to put away the frenzied activity of the past months and look instead to the slow peace that resides in rainy days and leafless trees (aided, of course, by hot fires, cups of tea, and the like). It is a measured freedom, but that does not keep it from being boundlessly liberating.


Ascent

Mist on the water, my soul is light,
a quicksilver shadow now taking flight,
to glide on an autumn-whispered breeze
above crimson crowns on the royal trees;
past clouds in the sky, mounts capped in snow;
place stars in the heavens; I count them low,
for no earthly cords can bind me long;
my soul makes to fly and my wings are strong.

The Last Leaf

I anticipate the coming months, I know, but I could not wait to post a true Autumn poem. It's about time we had some real weather!


The Last Leaf

One leaf left upon the wood,
and time once was that it withstood
the shearing winds, but wick and fill
have fled before the autumn chill,
that little breaths can free its moor
and send it forth from timbered shore,
to plot its twisting journey down
and settle lightly on the ground.

Humility

Well, the title of this week's post has a certain fittingness to it; I finally buckled to the conformists and added links to my blog. It is only fair that I pay some credence to those who have provided me with some small portion of inspiration or happiness, and perhaps, through them, you, too, may find something worthwhile. I reserve, of course, the power to add and remove links at my whim, and to shamelessly pilfer them from other blogs. It's a sign of flattery, after all.


Humility

Praise is poison to the heart
that cannot bear the sweet,
and glory nurses gluttony,
when given it for meat.

Better, then, the blunt critique
to tear the prideful down,
with meekness for audacity,
and thorns for laurel crown.

Happiness Missed

Every once in a while, I attach myself to a poet I particularly admire (don't worry, the dead variety) and try to emulate his or her style of poetry. This one came from my 'Emily Dickinson' period.


Happiness Missed

Happiness is often missed
in haste to satisfy
pleasures that, like breaths deep drawn,
soon scatter by and by.

But the grief that follows thence,
when understanding wakes,
ne’er is voided nor delayed
when on the heart it breaks.

So pass not the quiet need
that whispers to your soul,
for, in leaving it behind,
you leave what makes you whole.

Words

Every year or two, I make a brief sabbatical down to Southern California. I do this in part to visit old friends and to relax, but also to assure myself that, despite the chaos in my own life, there will always be some things that remain unchanged. California is my anchor, and the people I know there are sincere friends - the sort that will be just as true whether you talk once a day or once a year. So what does all this have to do with the poem? Well, I wrote it a while back, after I had gone three years without visiting California, and was suddenly struck by a deep melancholy and a desire to see all the people I'd left behind. There are times when you are surrounded by people and yet you are crushed by loneliness; you are missing that true companionship that is rarely found and never replaced by common friendship. That is where I was when I wrote this.


Words

There is sorrow and sadness in all that I see,
as even in moments of laughter I’m blue,
and nothing I do is now done happily,
for it has been so long since I’ve talked to you.

Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

A little more free verse. This might be the last one for a while. I suppose the title is a bit of a paradox, but I couldn't think of a better one.


Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

Midnight,
and the muse
has left me
for the poets
of the East.

The Forgotten

More mildly-structured free verse; this is becoming a trend. Give me a few more weeks, and we'll be back to well-ordered scansion, but for the moment, allow me my fancies. This was written in a graveyard, and I must say, as morbid as it sounds, graveyards are wonderful places to meditate. They are almost always well kept and spacious, with lots of greenery and statues, and the occasional pond; unlike parks, you will rarely ever see another soul; and by their very nature they are extremely conducive to self-reflection - good luck being flippant in a graveyard.


The Forgotten

It is sad to see the fields of graves,
once well-tended, now forgotten,
covered in a careless bed of leaves,
such a quiet, faded end
to so many loves and sins,
and to know that I'll return,
not a visitor of the dead,
but a man, soon forgotten.

Hypocricy

Well, I missed a week and a half, so I apologize to my audience, such as it is... Life has been busy. But here is a counterpart to the last poem (in form, at least; not content). I figure, as long as I'm posting quasi-free verse, I may as well make a run of it.


Hypocrisy

The poet freed
from the bounds of meter and rhyme
is a sad creature indeed,
who has traded aspiration
for instant gratification,
and freedom for license,
and just as abstract art and atonality
have replaced the form with banality
and formlessness and worse,
so to free verse
has abandoned the ancient verbal melodies.
But, alas,
even these lesser songs
have a place and time,
as here and now.

Don't Go Away

For those of you who know me, it should come as no surprise that I generally avoid writing any form of free verse poetry. I couldn't avoid posting this next piece, however. It is several years old, now, and I've grown quite attached to it, for one reason or another. It has a fairly constant, if loose, rhyming structure, but lacks any strict meter. I suppose, though, that at the end of the day, the tempo flows consistently enough to satisfy my inner scansionist. Oh, and just in case anyone wonders, I shamelessly hijacked the substance of the 'teardrop' line from Jeff Buckley's 'Lover, You Should Have Come Over,' one of the greatest lost-love ballads ever. That's a form of flattery, right?


Don’t Go Away

I’m lying in my bed
and listening to rain
that falls upon the flowers.
Why did I think I could sleep
when haunted by these hours;
seeing you again
and all that could have been.

Why did I let you go?
I know, no need to say.
I won’t let you go.
I know, don’t go away.

But who can say what time will tell,
so if you go I’ll wish you well.
Just promise you’ll give me one kiss
as we part, separate ways.
A teardrop to hang silently
in my heart all my days,

and you will always be on my mind, love,
yes, you will always be on my mind,
just don’t go away.

White Halos

It's not exactly fair for the young to write about the old, but I've done it anyway, and with all the lack of foresight and knowledge and wisdom that accompanies youth. It is in the spirit of this innate foolishness that I post this poem, which in all likelihood has little bearing on the reality of old age. But it is also in the spirit of that other old age - August, whose receding days whisper of falling leaves and school buses.


White Halos

My friends, your chairs are empty,
this loneliness is new.
Our days were once so plenty,
but now are numbered few.

I see your heads around me
with halos white adorned,
though not as angels are we,
but merely men forlorn,

Recalling how time wandered
and we did watch it pass,
without a breath to ponder
that none of this would last.

So now we’re left with hours,
and all these empty chairs,
and feebleness for power,
and halos for our hair.

Mute

I know this post comes a little late (not that I am ever one for schedules), but the internet decided to forcibly remove itself from my life. So, for the past three days, I have lived pro natura, and it has been both a pleasant and troubling experience. It was more than a little upsetting to see just how dependent I had become on something in which I don't really take any pleasure. These are the times when I wish we didn't have so many superfluous amenities. The more we're given, the more we are unable to refuse, and if the choice arises, man will always choose the greater over the less. But very frequently, the less is just what is needed. So now we sit at our desks and talk about how we can't live without the internet, when we never see just how little we are able to live with it. Anyways, this poem has nothing to do with that.


Mute

If our words were half as heady
as the thoughts we birth,
sending forth poor messengers
to stumble through the earth,
then our ears would ever course with
golden wine of song,
but mute we are, and mute we stay,
and mute, can only long.

Seasons of Mirth

Now that sunny days truly do appear to be upon us for good, it's about time for a summery poem. I hope this adds some lazy cheer to your lives.


Seasons of Mirth

As silent notes upon the air,
tuneless, but not untuned,
the augered elms extend their leaves,
in summer heat cocooned,
and turn their lofty, knotted arms
above the restful earth.
The hours do not trespass on
the seasons of their mirth.

Water Deep

Well, this poem was inspired by the first line of Ariel's song in Act I, Scene ii, of the Tempest. I still prefer Shakespeare's, of course, but what this lacks in ability, it makes up for in brevity. As an aside, that particular song in the Tempest also contains one of my favorite descriptive phrases - 'sea-change.' I never cease to be amazed at the way in which Shakespeare can beautifully capture so much meaning in merely a word or two.


Water Deep

Five fathom full, and far below,
bones, my bones, lie scattered so,
and sleepless my drifting ghost shall be,
till they lay drying by the sea.

Ordinary Treasures

As I read this now, it's tone, if not cheerful, is at least optimistic. I wrote this, however, in one of my darker moods, so I'm not quite sure where all the depression and angst went. Content-wise, it is about those countless things we take for granted in our lives that, in fact, are the greatest possible blessings. On a separate note, welcome back to those of you who went on the CL vacation (you know who you are). I had an amazing five days, and hope that your time was equally wonderful.


Ordinary Treasures

My friend, my friend,
how lucky you are.
All that you count common,
I yearn from afar.

So always remember
these treasures you hold.
Then you will grow richer
as others grow old.

Lost Time

This is one of two poems I wrote that were inspired by Iron and Wine (otherwise known as Sam Beam). He's one of the great poet-songwriters of our time, and if you haven't heard of him, you should do yourself a favor and look him up. Sorry about the commercial plug, but if it's good enough, then it transcends commerce. In this case, the idea first sprung from the title of one of his albums - Our Endless Numbered Days.


Lost Time

I once used my time
as if it were sand,
pouring it out
through a slackening hand,

and I wish that I knew
what I now comprehend:
my time was a gift
and those endless days end.

Lucretius, or From the Shore

Well, it's the first full day of Summer, and the signs are in the air. I've finished my grading, the sun is up and shining at 9:30 in the morning, and nothing sounds more inviting right now than spending some time on the water. This next poem has little to do with anything, simply because I couldn't think of anything else to post at the moment; this weather is making me anxious to leave. A little background, though, for those of you who aren't familiar with Lucretius. He was an Epicurean philosopher who posited that the only way for a man to be truly happy was to sever all emotional connections to the world. According to him, such things as wives and children should be treated no differently (emotionally speaking, that is; not physically) than a vase, which is neither treasured nor, when it breaks, mourned. Sorrow comes from attachment, and so happiness must come from distance. I never really bought into this, but it's certainly a brave and different take on human happiness. I wrote this poem as an accompaniment to one of his examples, in which a man, standing on the shore and watching a ship sinking, feels neither fear nor sadness, only relief that he is not one of those who will die. It's a little longer, and I generally find it harder to write good long poetry than good short poetry, but I tried.


Lucretius, or From the Shore

A perilous step led me here,
a rough and broken path,
along the chalky cliffs that rub the sky.

Above, the smoky storm clouds sheer,
below, the foamy wrath,
and thrust between the titans, two, am I.

The raindrops, thick, begin to fall,
the west wind heaves a sough,
as lightning, distant, dances in the air,

and through the fog, a ship mast tall,
upon a pitching prow,
appears with sail marred by rent and tear.

The crewmen, like so many ants,
run frantic on the deck
to bring the straining ship in to the shore.

Though courage not their labor wants,
yet none shall save the wreck
from sinking ‘neath the waves for evermore.

And I cannot but help be glad,
as on the stones I stand,
and watch the vessel flounder in the waves,

for though such human loss is sad,
safe am I on the land,
while other men go down into their graves.

The Day I Left

Well, school is done, and I wanted to post a poem in honor of that, but was at a total loss. I guess that will have to wait until next week, when I have sufficiently recovered. Until then, enjoy this one. I know the subject is a little on the melancholy side, but it has a light tone to it. And if there's anything I enjoy, it's mixing melancholia and cheerfulness. You probably think I'm joking, but I'm not; it's the Brit in me.


The Day I Left

The day I left, I lost your heart.
I thought I kept it, but I fear
it slipped away, as we apart,
and now I cannot find it here.

So long I hoped that it would stay
obscured from every searching eye,
alone for me, and for the day
that I could take my footsteps by.

But when I came, your heart was gone;
the ground beneath was cold and bare.
You left me here to search, alone,
and I can’t find it anywhere.

Ode to Tobacco

In honor of the return from basic training of our dear friend and tobacco connoisseur, Bennett Gebken, I am posting the second part of an intended 'Trilogy of Vice.' It begins with 'Ode to a Martini' and continues here with tobacco. I am torn, however, about how to end it. Should the crowning piece pertain to bridge or croquette? Both are equally British, and both lend themselves equally to debauchery (yes, I know that sounds a little absurd - debaucherous card games and lawn sports - but trust me on this one).


Ode to Tobacco

When talking drags upon the ears
and thoughts upon the nerve,
to lubricate those gentle gears
a different drag will serve.

A puff upon that goodly weed
can soothe the savage soul;
it speaks a universal creed
from paper, leaf, or bowl.

So savor well the smoky song
that swirls out of sight,
but do not ruminate too long;
please let me have the light.

Song for a Lazy Day

I suppose it's time for a real Summer poem, so here you go. I'm not quite sure about the third verse; it breaks the meter of the poem, but it is meant to give it a pausing, wandering feel, as if the reader were taking a short detour off the beaten path.


Song for a Lazy Day

The days slip by,
unnoticed, unhurried,
and everyone is walking slow,

so take your time
and try not to worry;
just let the little things go,

while the sun
lingers on,
as the wind plays a lazy song,

and I’m happy
just sitting here,
watching the apple trees grow.

Human

Ah, another death poem. Onward, Summer!


Human

What man is called happy
in this scattered life?
Each tincture of blessing
is spoiled by strife.

For we are but vessels
the world cannot fill,
till years take their passing
and bodies lie still.

Silently

And we're back on track with another poem! It's short, dark, and depressing, but then it's only this time of year, with 14 hours of beautiful sunlight beating down on the Willamette River, that we can afford to read and write this sort of thing.


Silently

At last the dark dismal
covers the sky.
You do not ask how
and you do not ask why.

It is not your place
to question the will
that closes your eyes
and bids you lie still.

Desire

Two months without a post! I do apologize. I have no excuses; the fault is entirely my own. It appears, however, that somewhere out there, people are actually reading my posts, and so, for those who so kindly asked, I now return with more weekly poems. I hope their virtues, as they are, make up for my absence. This latest is a short one. It was written while I was on a Dickinsonian kick, and I tried to capture that brief, yet amazingly self-contained, nature of her own writing. The style is somewhat different, but I feel that I have succeeded, to a certain extent, in encapsulating a broad and universal idea in a few brief lines of text. Enjoy.


Desire

The most sublime pleasure of passion’s pursuit
Resides not in taking, but wanting the fruit.
Disdain satisfaction, then, at such a cost,
For, reaching the heart, one will find it is lost.

Strength in the Darkness

The second poem of the week. I originally wrote this poem to the metrics of Elliott Smith's song, 'Between the Bars.' To that end, I sacrificed a natural flow for a mimicked one, and now regret it, especially in the brief third interim verse. On the other hand, it's a fun little demonstration of the extent to which music grants an almost artificial structure to lyrics.


Strength in the Darkness

Speak to me ever so soft in my ear,
gently and close, that no one may hear,
telling me that I have nothing to fear
as I slip into the night.

Stay here beside me and speak once again.
walk with me all the way through to the end,
for I fear that I have no other friend.
Help me make all of this right.

Close my ears
to the sound
Of the demons
around,

As I wait and I pray
For the light of the day,
Help me to stay...

Keep up your courage and wait in the wings.
Soon we will see so much happier things:
The rise of the sun and the changes it brings,
Down upon us from such height.

The Mime

Another week and another poem, or rather, another two, as I was delinquent in my posting last week. Here's a bit more humor to help keep the spirits up through these last few wet days of winter.


The Mime

What if a mime,
when in an act,
quite suddenly had
a heart-attack?

Would the audience
comprehend
that this mime
was near his end?

Or would they nod
their heads and say:
“His acting is
quite good today.”

Icarus, Fly

Here's a brief poetic hors d'oeuvre for your consumption. It is no more meaningful than it appears, though I was pleasantly surprised at how the subject and the form came together without issue. Yet another case of the muse superseding the artist, as always, for the better. This poem does hearken back to the late romanticism of the likes of John Clare and Charlotte Smith, of which I am not overly fond, though I feel it is short enough to allow for such a lapse of judgment.


Icarus, Fly

Rise up, fair Icarus, though your wings melt
and your doom darkly waits in the fall,
for it’s better to fly too close to the gods
than to never have flown at all.

Shadows in the Cave

Plato summed up his entire philosophy of form and truth in the cave analogy, as presented in 'The Republic.' While I do not adhere strictly to such a world-view, I am still quite fascinated by its stratification of reality. This poem was inspired, as one might guess from the title, by the shadows cast in Plato's cave, and the false beliefs that cast them.


Shadows in the Cave

The fire casts such shadows deep
from silhouettes in crimson glow,
as slowly round the rocks they creep,
in restless rank and broken row
that beckons eyes impressed in night
to focus on the formless show
and linger not on summer sight
that bursts beyond the cavern cold,
revealed in Apollo’s might
to only those who wander, bold.

Golden One

I'm too tired to provide a full analysis for this poem. It's about contentment, and having something greater than yourself; greater than the world, in fact. Enjoy.


Golden One

Golden one, now lay my head
upon your shoulder bare,
and whisper sleep into my ear
with soothing strands of prayer.

Then in my dreams you will arise,
though different than you are;
your smile will be the crescent moon,
each amber eye a star.

Your hands will rest upon me
in the wind that wanders by,
and rain will spring from heaven
with each teardrop that you cry.

Your face, the pure and pale dawn,
bathed in the morning light;
your voice, the simple silence,
cloaked in deepest black of night.

In everything I’ll see you
and then everything hold dear,
and with each glance and footstep
I will search to draw you near.

So with your arms of earth that
hold the ocean, take me home,
and give me a safe harbor,
that I nevermore need roam.

Restless Thoughts

Well now, let me preface this poem with a caveat - I was not in the least suicidal when I wrote this. In fact, the genesis of this poem was a classic example, for me, of the inspiration of my muse (though what muse would inspire such poetry, I do not know in the slightest). I was sitting by my bedroom window, trying to think of a good opening line (for I often find that it is easy to build a good poem from a good first line, whereas a poor opening will send one nowhere but down) when this poem came to me, in toto, and I merely wrote it down. Needless to say, I was a little shocked at the morbidity of it all, yet at the same time, I was quite taken with the alliteration and imagery. This is one case where I feel almost that I had no part in the creation of this poem, though on some level, of course, I must have formed it. Disturbing, but perhaps just a little cool.


Restless Thoughts

Bitter, bitter pill of white,
send me out into the night.
Close my eyes and stay my dreams.
Stop my ears to earthly screams.
Sure as silver, quick and deep,
lay me out in silent sleep,
without tremor, without breath.
As I were, and unto death.

Concerning the Poet

Here's a bit of self-reflective poetry for your enjoyment. Though not humorous, there is certainly nothing heavy or serious about it. The pattern and cadence of the words is meant to evoke the rolling, unpredictable path that would lead through the thoughts of a poet, leaving one feeling refreshed and maybe just a little bit happier.


Concerning the Poet

The poet’s heart is not so different
from the poet’s mind,
for both desire truth and tumble
ever on to find,
through paths erratic, beauty, be it
hid in common clay,
and so proclaim their wonders found
in most beautiful way.

The Remains of the Years

I'll try to distance myself from the infectious depression of a rainy winter, and focus on some lighter poetry. To start out, here's a short and sweet look at the slow death that is old age (I know, that doesn't sound terribly light-hearted, but give it a chance).


The Remains of the Years

Legs by the bedside
and hair on a hook,
eyes carefully placed
on top of a book,
teeth in a water glass,
ears on the shelf;
what, in old age,
have I done with myself?

Found

I feel as if I should write something clever here, but I can't, so I'm substituting with mildly deprecating self-reflection. Anyways, this is temptation; nothing more, nothing less.


Found

Through the glass,
through the mist,
gilded gaze
in a kiss.
Ivory,
supple bliss,
breaching
the wall.

Grasping now,
grasping near;
want and wish
crystal clear,
all enclosed
in a tear.
Finding,
we fall.

The Thaw

A new year and a new poem. Perhaps a late post is not the best foot to start out on, but holiday obligations will prevail. And so a poem for my little audience, in anticipation of warmer days and melting snow.


The Thaw

Bashful sun, bear me up
under your glow.
Tell me plain, through the rain,
all that you know.

Waking days, lilac sprays,
verde on the vine.
Gentle glow, soft and low,
in the rose wine.

Aimless breeze, through the trees,
wandering by.
Tell me all from your hall,
deep in the sky.