Monday, April 13, 2009
Poetry
I've added some more of my poetry to the list. Some poems, such as "Genesis," are rather scandalous. Again, I kind of hope that no one reads this, but I keep on posting in the hope that it will be read. Such contradictory emotions.
The Dragonfly
The Dragonfly
Death has caressed the dragonfly;
I have him caught in my embrace.
His wings flutter, silent, in the wind,
paravent and lacerate.
No more shall he taunt me,
No more shall I give chase.
His death’s cause is vitric-clear.
I killed my dragonfly
Never knowing he was mine
until the moment him I held
in my deathful embrace.
My heart flutters silently,
paravent and lacerate
Death has caressed the dragonfly;
I have him caught in my embrace.
His wings flutter, silent, in the wind,
paravent and lacerate.
No more shall he taunt me,
No more shall I give chase.
His death’s cause is vitric-clear.
I killed my dragonfly
Never knowing he was mine
until the moment him I held
in my deathful embrace.
My heart flutters silently,
paravent and lacerate
Genesis
The stanzas of this poem were originally half as long, as each line was really twice the length it is now and all the rhymes were internal. That is no more. For publishing ease, I lengthened the poem. Use your imaginations to recreate what it was like. I wrote the last two stanzas pretty quickly last night, so that's why they may not seem to fit with the rest of the poem. It might be lengthened more into an epic-length poem. More of a mock epic, because this is not great poetry.
"The Half-Demon’s Genesis”
- or -
“What Happens When You’re a Jerk to Your Bride: In Rhyming Verse not Drawing from Experience”
In the deepening darkness of the night,
in a mountain’s shadow that held no light,
A young man hurried in his haste,
trying to act before it turned too late.
To aid a friend not yet in need,
he betrayed an ancient creed.
The young man, strong in word and deed,
left alone his new bride against her heed.
All in their cottage she was alone,
list’ning to the forest ‘round her moan,
And all alone she had to wait.
It was her husband’s fool-mistake.
In the deepening darkness of the night,
from the mountain that held no light,
A careening scream flew about her head,
and kept the bride from her nuptial bed.
From the dark forest a demon came,
kept away by no demon’s bane.
His breath rattled window panes,
his step shook the house’s frame.
He caught the scent of the lone bride,
and within two strides was at her side,
He was brimming with insatiable heat;
of forbidden fruits he would eat.
Swiftly upon her he did descend,
his demon-arms around her bend.
His hulking form around her curled,
finally his demon-lust unfurled,
In the night with her demon-lover,
such lust in herself did the bride uncover.
The heat, the guilty, overwhelming pleasure,
the pain that never could have measure
Would tear her heart and body sore,
and would leave her ever wanting more.
Once filled with dark demon’s seed,
only upon demon-love would she feed.
The deep darkness paled in light of day,
whisking the demon-lover away.
Her husband came home to a ravished bride;
‘twere better had she died.
Though every night she had her mate,
her hunger never could he sate.
After nine month’s heat had passed,
a child did befoul the world at last.
This was no normal child like any other,
but a demon who almost killed its mother.
And from its very birth-hour,
it ate all it could devour.
No other child could its mother hate,
no child reject such sweet lactate,
As black as one heart from Marrakesh,
this child did feast upon its parent’s flesh
The mother fain would return to ash and dust
if she could but nurse her demon-child’s lusts.
And thus, like a flittering fey,
the mother’s last traces of humanity did fade away
And soon she was nothing left but a husk,
a ravished carcass to fade away in dusk.
The demon-child did grow,
half-demon, half mortal, always screaming out a row.
Its mother dead,
the cuckolded husband did force it out of his empty stead
To let it wander on the wastes.
If any new-husband leaves in haste
His youngling bride to wait,
let him be warned of a half-demon to usurp his mate
And leave nothing but sorrow
for a thing which could have waited until the morrow.
"The Half-Demon’s Genesis”
- or -
“What Happens When You’re a Jerk to Your Bride: In Rhyming Verse not Drawing from Experience”
In the deepening darkness of the night,
in a mountain’s shadow that held no light,
A young man hurried in his haste,
trying to act before it turned too late.
To aid a friend not yet in need,
he betrayed an ancient creed.
The young man, strong in word and deed,
left alone his new bride against her heed.
All in their cottage she was alone,
list’ning to the forest ‘round her moan,
And all alone she had to wait.
It was her husband’s fool-mistake.
In the deepening darkness of the night,
from the mountain that held no light,
A careening scream flew about her head,
and kept the bride from her nuptial bed.
From the dark forest a demon came,
kept away by no demon’s bane.
His breath rattled window panes,
his step shook the house’s frame.
He caught the scent of the lone bride,
and within two strides was at her side,
He was brimming with insatiable heat;
of forbidden fruits he would eat.
Swiftly upon her he did descend,
his demon-arms around her bend.
His hulking form around her curled,
finally his demon-lust unfurled,
In the night with her demon-lover,
such lust in herself did the bride uncover.
The heat, the guilty, overwhelming pleasure,
the pain that never could have measure
Would tear her heart and body sore,
and would leave her ever wanting more.
Once filled with dark demon’s seed,
only upon demon-love would she feed.
The deep darkness paled in light of day,
whisking the demon-lover away.
Her husband came home to a ravished bride;
‘twere better had she died.
Though every night she had her mate,
her hunger never could he sate.
After nine month’s heat had passed,
a child did befoul the world at last.
This was no normal child like any other,
but a demon who almost killed its mother.
And from its very birth-hour,
it ate all it could devour.
No other child could its mother hate,
no child reject such sweet lactate,
As black as one heart from Marrakesh,
this child did feast upon its parent’s flesh
The mother fain would return to ash and dust
if she could but nurse her demon-child’s lusts.
And thus, like a flittering fey,
the mother’s last traces of humanity did fade away
And soon she was nothing left but a husk,
a ravished carcass to fade away in dusk.
The demon-child did grow,
half-demon, half mortal, always screaming out a row.
Its mother dead,
the cuckolded husband did force it out of his empty stead
To let it wander on the wastes.
If any new-husband leaves in haste
His youngling bride to wait,
let him be warned of a half-demon to usurp his mate
And leave nothing but sorrow
for a thing which could have waited until the morrow.
Empty
“Empty”
Fingers flying so quickly across a bunch of keys, signifying so little
No thought behind them
Not crafting, like Yeats
Not tapping, like Keats,
Into the soul of things.
Looking again still more into
lives of things
snapping
life
fingers tapping
across little black keys
full of notes full of death
the dirge of life heading
towards the funeral pyre
respire
respire once and give
a response
before the date of expiration
life is
untappable, unmentionable, unworthy
and unwritten
Fingers flying so quickly across a bunch of keys, signifying so little
No thought behind them
Not crafting, like Yeats
Not tapping, like Keats,
Into the soul of things.
Looking again still more into
lives of things
snapping
life
fingers tapping
across little black keys
full of notes full of death
the dirge of life heading
towards the funeral pyre
respire
respire once and give
a response
before the date of expiration
life is
untappable, unmentionable, unworthy
and unwritten
Friday, April 10, 2009
Spooniness in Full Force
I was reading an interview by my high school theater teacher. Not only is he a Shakespearean actor, he is also a poet and very interested in Keats. He comes from the similar Judeo-Christian background that I do, but he has adapted some of our common beliefs to suit his own purposes. In doing so, he has only expanded the scope and realm of those beliefs. If you want to know more about what I’m talking about, check the interview out for yourself here:
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/poetry/080222interview.html
Please forgive the format that the article appears in, particularly the ads which are geared towards an LDS community. It is the interview which is really interesting to me. He talks about inspiration. Other authors have discussed how inspiration, how genius, is something more along the demons, a thing that comes and goes. I agree more with Mr. Tanner; it is not a demon that visits us, but inspiration is rather a conduit that can be opened directly to God.
Naturally, I desire to open this conduit. It seems like with many things, however, that it is not to be, try as might. As Mr. Tanner indicates, most people never reach this state. Only after much skill has been acquired, only after much suffering for the sake of craft, only after utter mastery can the craftsmen and craftswomen let go of their training, become vulnerable, open themselves up to God, and become artists. They walk into the dark. This darkness is the light of illumination, of inspiration. We have to lose ourselves in order to find what is bigger than ourselves.
I do not think I have a lack of desire. As I am right now, I lack skill, mastery, and patience, but I know that if I desire this thing to be and put in all my effort, my God will take care of my inadequacies. The following is a poem where I try and overcome my inadequacies, where I try and practice resisting those deficiencies.
“The Violet Hulled Ship”
Liz Lyon
My body lies curled around a
rock like a pillow,
naked and waiting.
A straight vine-line cracks my head,
fractures with images of matchmakers
Oozing onto the cement, playing
their game in amber tones.
The line is heavy, the air is old.
Where I am, it shall not be there also
on this empty shore bereft of all
but the vine-line.
My vision fades, into nothing but
the gray on this abysmal handmade shore.
My heart lacks the pulsing fire, it
has not yet been on the pyre. The refiner,
the purifier’s tinctures will remain unscathing. The heart
made of hardened, hand-packed ash cannot rest
in tomes of flesh or flames of respiration.
I lie curled on this shore, waiting for
the ship with the violet hull
which will never come
to bring to life the small violet buds
of the vine-line.
For the violet-hulled ship has already passed,
lingering no longer amidst
a forlorn and forgotten body that cannot
capture the capability.
Nails grate against the cement,
scraping, perfect points of tendon’s tension,
of bone striving against muscle, of dust against rock.
The ship does not return.
Somewhere, beyond the line and empty shore, two
violet orchids wrap around a fractured ivory skull,
kissing it in the darkness.
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/poetry/080222interview.html
Please forgive the format that the article appears in, particularly the ads which are geared towards an LDS community. It is the interview which is really interesting to me. He talks about inspiration. Other authors have discussed how inspiration, how genius, is something more along the demons, a thing that comes and goes. I agree more with Mr. Tanner; it is not a demon that visits us, but inspiration is rather a conduit that can be opened directly to God.
Naturally, I desire to open this conduit. It seems like with many things, however, that it is not to be, try as might. As Mr. Tanner indicates, most people never reach this state. Only after much skill has been acquired, only after much suffering for the sake of craft, only after utter mastery can the craftsmen and craftswomen let go of their training, become vulnerable, open themselves up to God, and become artists. They walk into the dark. This darkness is the light of illumination, of inspiration. We have to lose ourselves in order to find what is bigger than ourselves.
I do not think I have a lack of desire. As I am right now, I lack skill, mastery, and patience, but I know that if I desire this thing to be and put in all my effort, my God will take care of my inadequacies. The following is a poem where I try and overcome my inadequacies, where I try and practice resisting those deficiencies.
“The Violet Hulled Ship”
Liz Lyon
My body lies curled around a
rock like a pillow,
naked and waiting.
A straight vine-line cracks my head,
fractures with images of matchmakers
Oozing onto the cement, playing
their game in amber tones.
The line is heavy, the air is old.
Where I am, it shall not be there also
on this empty shore bereft of all
but the vine-line.
My vision fades, into nothing but
the gray on this abysmal handmade shore.
My heart lacks the pulsing fire, it
has not yet been on the pyre. The refiner,
the purifier’s tinctures will remain unscathing. The heart
made of hardened, hand-packed ash cannot rest
in tomes of flesh or flames of respiration.
I lie curled on this shore, waiting for
the ship with the violet hull
which will never come
to bring to life the small violet buds
of the vine-line.
For the violet-hulled ship has already passed,
lingering no longer amidst
a forlorn and forgotten body that cannot
capture the capability.
Nails grate against the cement,
scraping, perfect points of tendon’s tension,
of bone striving against muscle, of dust against rock.
The ship does not return.
Somewhere, beyond the line and empty shore, two
violet orchids wrap around a fractured ivory skull,
kissing it in the darkness.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Life Goal #27
Life goal #27 - which I fully intend on achieving throughout my four years at college - is to read all 37 of the plays accredited to Shakespeare.
All's Well That Ends Well
As You Like It
The Comedy of Errors
Cymbeline
Love's Labours Lost
Measure for Measure
The Merry Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Venice
A Midsummer Night's Dream Much Ado About Nothing
Pericles, Prince of Tyre
Taming of the Shrew
The Tempest
Troilus and Cressida
Twelfth Night
Two Gentlemen of Verona
Winter's Tale
Henry IV, part 1
Henry IV, part 2
Henry V
Henry VI, part 1
Henry VI, part 2
Henry VI, part 3
Henry VIII
King John
Richard II
Richard III
Antony and Cleopatra
Coriolanus
Hamlet
Julius Caesar
King Lear
Macbeth
Othello
Romeo and Juliet
Timon of Athens
Titus Andronicus
All's Well That Ends Well
As You Like It
The Comedy of Errors
Cymbeline
Love's Labours Lost
Measure for Measure
The Merry Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Venice
A Midsummer Night's Dream Much Ado About Nothing
Pericles, Prince of Tyre
Taming of the Shrew
The Tempest
Troilus and Cressida
Twelfth Night
Two Gentlemen of Verona
Winter's Tale
Henry IV, part 1
Henry IV, part 2
Henry V
Henry VI, part 1
Henry VI, part 2
Henry VI, part 3
Henry VIII
King John
Richard II
Richard III
Antony and Cleopatra
Coriolanus
Hamlet
Julius Caesar
King Lear
Macbeth
Othello
Romeo and Juliet
Timon of Athens
Titus Andronicus
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