Poetry

Poetry / Writing — 1 Comment
10
Feb 11

Just In Time For Christmas: The Wassailing Madness

A merry band went wassailing, out through drifts of winter’s snow.
They left along the hidden path that all wassailers know.
But returning from their wassails to warm by Christmas hearth,
Their merry band had doubled, and was twice those that went forth.

Moved by a curiosity, no doubt born of Christmas cheer,
I hid amongst some bushes when next the wassailers came near.
Through the secret meadows and along the unmarked road,
I stalked the outbound choir, to know where their growth was owed.

From a dark and glutted building, still as a Christmas mouse,
I watched as the wassailers approached a bewreathed house.
Warming to their wassail, a family came to fill the door,
And then the song proceeded. It lives with me forevermore.

The starry night, the fretted neck, along which rang the chorus line.
The notes as clear as crystalled winter, ringing out in frozen time.
A countless thousand harmonies, at once near yet beyond reach,
Involving every ounce of air, robbing Nature of her speech.

Before the gathered wassailers could once repeat their sounding joy,
The attendant family had come and joined the wassailing envoy.
Voices raised in Christmas, they marched together down the street,
And I, I followed after, as if Marley’s ghost compelled my feet.

Through the silvered city, stores would empty to greet the song,
And every one who listened was converted to the throng.
Mulled wine was left to cooling, the turkey abandoned there to rot,
Job posts went untended, and babies were left crying in the cot.

Lovers broken from embraces, surgeons from patients in distress,
Joined in their interrupted finest, or arrived in gross undress.
Even motorists in transit, tumbling abruptly from speeding cars,
Would crawl along after the song, streaking blood across the tar.

Bewitching mind, bedeviling ear – beguiling whosoever chances hear
Its demonic promise of delights, its jolly strains of godless cheer!
A siren song of sallow tinsel, a gift loveless and hollow of all benefit,
Like sulfuric coal inside your stocking, burning the hand to close on it.

Noel! Noel! Natalis lumen, nephel. So cried the Adversary as he fell
Across the void, through silent night, unto the fiery lakes of hell,
Where screams are mocked by tawdry jingling bells,
And holly decks the halls of Mulciber, and crowns accursed Azazel!

Subsuming all the wassail-able, the wassailing army still did not cease,
But will insist on piggy pudding till the whole earth knows their peace.
An incessant, drumming “rum pum pum” from a place far and forlorn,
Keeps the shuffling footsteps moving, marching Westward, ever on.

I’ve past the end of my retelling, yet you seem unmoved by the affair.
Perhaps you notice I’ve been wassailing and returned no worse for wear.
You suppose that I’ve escaped somehow, and therefore you can too,
But of course I’ve known and know the song, and now, friend, so do you.

Wassail!

Poetry / Writing — 1 Comment
19
Dec 10

A Tribute to Hilarie Belloc

In the gloomy gloaming gray, a young man came to me.
He had a twinkle in his eye, which made it hard to see.
He put his hand inside my shirt, to better feel my heart,
“Seeing as you’re still alive, I guess I ought to start.”

There is a balmy baby crocodile in a seashell atop a tree.
She parties with a turbaned Grand Vizier and lunches with an MP.
But when she yawns her jaws, and the birds dance between her teeth,
There’re strands of children hanging there, and this is known as peace.

Three kitties went exploring, on a mission hand in hand,
And found, at last, the great Sahara, a paradise of sand.
Many kitties later and this litter box, vast as the sea,
Was all deplete and browning, used up entirely.

In Egypt they have the Pharaohs,
In France they have the Kings,
But here in free man’s Sheffield
We’ve made our masters out of things.

Yet if I owned a thousand feathered peacocks,
And invested wisely, and made one thousand more,
I’d still live in brackish Sheffield,
And so I’d still be poor.

I was told there would be magic.
I was told I’d wear a crown.
But I’ve opened all my empty drawers
And empty drawers is all I’ve found.

Maybe somewhere it is Christmas,
Maybe somewhere there’s a God,
And maybe someday there’s a free lunch
And I’ll escape this maze of gloaming fog.

Now my eyes had welled with tears, which were plain to see,
And so the man spoke again, for it seemed he pitied me.

Today I talked with my wall clock
And taught it to regret the passing time.
Now it flinches every second stroke
Because it thinks it’s dying.

With these words the old man rose and made to be on his way,
But I’d forgotten he was there, and smartly returned to play.

“In soft deluding lies let fools delight. A shadow marks our days, which end in night.”

- Hilarie Belloc, children’s author

Poetry / Writing — 3 Comments
14
Dec 08

Betrayal Is A Thorny Crown


Prior evidence to the contrary, I have never really had a passion for poetry. I like the romantic poets, especially Keats, but even with them I am only attracted to a few of their most famous works. The bulk of their poems I find inaccessible. When I write my own poetry, it is more as an exercise in language than any deep attachment to the process.

What I do enjoy are epic poems by Homer and Dante and Milton, as well as the verse of Shakespeare’s plays. Even when the language is dense and dated, if the writing is driven by character or story, that makes all the difference for me.

Maybe I have not been looking in the right place, but modern poetry has never drawn much interest from me. I am open to suggestions if anyone has some poetry they especially want to share with me. Until now, though, I have been entirely underwhelmed by even the most famous poets of the last century.

Except for songwriters. My favorite poetry all comes from music. Perhaps it is an unfair advantage, because being able to combine lyrics with music obviously provides for more of an emotional impact. Someone like Michael Stipe or Kurt Cobain can write nonsensical, even unintelligible, lyrics, but you marry it to the right tune, and you get magic. It will bore its way into your soul.

Yet somehow I believe that with the best songwriters–Elvis Costello, Lou Reed, Liz Phair–their lyrics transcend the music and work just as well by themselves. All my favorite songs are based on the words much more than the music.

Just recently, I have become deeply entranced by the music of Jenny Lewis. She is the lead singer for Rilo Kiley, but she has also put out a couple solo albums. She’s a supreme story teller, and able to capture an emotion with just a few lines. Her song Rabbit Furcoat feels like a four minute feature length movie.

From the song “Melt Your Heart”:

When you’re kissing someone who’s too much like you
It’s like kissing on a mirror
When you’re sleeping with someone who doesn’t get you
You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning

It’s bound to melt your heart
One way or another
It’s bound to melt your heart
For good or for bad
It’s like a valentine
From your mother
It’s bound to melt your heart

From the song “The Absence Of God”:

And you’re not happy but you’re funny and I’m tripping over my joy
But I just keep on getting up again
We could be daytime drunks if we wanted
We’d never get anything done that way baby
And we’d still be ruled by our dueling perspectives
And I’m not my perspective
Or the lies I’ll tell you every time

From the song “You Are What You Love”:

I’m fraudulent, a thief at best
A coward who paints a bullshit canvas
Things that will never happen to me
But at arms length, it’s Tim who said
I’m good at it, I’ve mastered it
Avoiding, avoiding everything

And from what I am convinced is the happiest break up song of all time, “Breakin’ Up”:

It’s not as if New York City
burnt down to the ground
once you drove away
It’s not as if the sun won’t shine
when clouds up above
wash the blues away

The truth is, I do not know that much about Rilo Kiley and Jenny Lewis, other than how fantastic their music is. I do know that other members of Rilo Kiley have their own side project called the Elected, so perhaps Jenny Lewis is not responsible for all the lyrics. But I am not going to take the time to look up all the liner notes myself. I will instead just recommend all of you to take a listen for yourselves. Just make sure you pay attention to the lyrics.

Lyric of the Day:

Betrayal is a thorny crown
you wear it well
just like a king
revenge is the saddest thing
honey, i’m afraid to say
you deserve everything

-Breakin’ Up
Rilo Kiley

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5
Dec 08

The Fly


Of all the things of I have ever written, this is what I am most proud of:

MY FLY AND I

Who am i
to kill a fly?
For though a fly
knows not it dies,
and to say goodbye
makes me sigh,
it would be a lie
for me to try
and separate that fly
from i.

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30
Nov 08

She Walks In Beauty


I am almost finished reading Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrel. At just over a thousand pages, it has provided a thoroughly enjoyable read over the last few months, interrupted by a Hong Kong adventure that left me stuck reading another book for a while. Look for a review in the next few days.

One of the characters in the book is Lord Byron, the famous poet, who in his time was as well known for his scandalous exploits as his writing. During his lifetime, he won fame throughout Europe for his charming good looks, his controversial writing (exemplified by his unfinished Don Juan), his political career and involvement in the Greek war for independence, and his many bisexual love affairs, including rumors that he seduced his half-sister. Truly, the Lindsay Lohan of his time.

In keeping with the poem theme of beauty, here is his most famous poem, ‘She Walks In Beauty’:

She walks in beauty—like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face—
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

I will not try and provide any criticism. The poem speaks for itself more eloquently than anyone will ever be able to do so on its behalf.

But how cool is it to have a name like George Gordon, Lord Byron. Another poet with a similar name is Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I need to figure out how I can marry into a Lordship. It will definitely help my writing career.

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28
Nov 08

Stealing Beauty


Here is another poem I wrote a long time ago. It also was influenced by the All This Useless Beauty song. I really love the idea that beauty that has been stored in museums somehow has no use. Of course the title and original idea was also inspired by the Liv Tyler movie of the same name.

It is just one stanza, from an original five. The others are not very good (or should I say, much worse than this one). When I get the time I will work on them and maybe post the whole poem.

STEALING BEAUTY

A fire burns between his legs
spurring him on.
He’s prowling through the night
hidden in the light, the smoke, the heat of humanity
crowded around him with smiles and combative eyes.
His own eyes troll the depths–
of sleeky steel legs, slithering on the dance floor,
of bouncing ball breasts, wrapped to impress,
of whirlpooling hips and sweet-tasting lips–
fishing underneath.
And his sex clanks back and forth
between his legs
like the bell that signs midnight
hoping that by its last chime
it will be
Stealing Beauty.

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24
Nov 08

Magic & Loss


One of my favorite songs, lyrically, is Lou Reed’s Magic and Loss. I think it really encapsulates the human condition.

My favorite line is: “They say no one person can do it all/but you want to in your head/But you can’t be Shakespeare/and you can’t be Joyce/so what is left instead.”

When I first heard this song, I was in University. The idea of conquering the world seemed possible then. This song deals with coming to terms with your own limitations.

But the song also deals with fire, and the passions of our life, and the drive we have to live.

I think this song can be inspiring to anyone. Everyone has a mixture of both magic and loss in their life, and the key to happiness is enjoying the magic as much as possible and not letting the loss hold us back.

Here is the entire song:

When you pass through the fire
you pass through humble
You pass through a maze of self doubt
When you pass through humble
the lights can blind you
Some people never figure that out
You pass through arrogance you pass through hurt
You pass through an ever present past
and it’s best not to wait for luck to save you
Pass through the fire to the light

As you pass through the fire
your right hand waving
there are things you have to throw out
That caustic dread inside your head
will never help you out
You have to be very strong
’cause you’ll start from zero
over and over again
And as the smoke clears
there’s an all consuming fire
lying straight ahead

They say no one person can do it all
but you want to in your head
But you can’t be Shakespeare
and you can’t be Joyce
so what is left instead
You’re stuck with yourself
and a rage that can hurt you
You have to start at the beginning again
And just this moment
This wonderful fire started up again

When you pass through humble
when you pass through sickly
When you pass through
I’m better than you all
When you pass through
anger and self deprecation
and have the strength to acknowledge it all
When the past makes you laugh
and you can savor the magic
that let you survive your own war
You find that that fire is passion
and there’s a door up ahead not a wall

As you pass through fire as you pass through fire
try to remember its name
When you pass through fire licking at your lips
you cannot remain the same
And if the building’s burning
move towards that door
but don’t put the flames out
There’s a bit of magic in everything
and then some loss to even things out.

Poetry / Writing — 1 Comment
2
Nov 08

Picasso Girl


Everyone wonders about my email address. I am not gay. It comes from a poem I wrote.

The poem is one of my favorites. The inspiration comes from an Elvis Costello song, All This Useless Beauty. The same song inspired another one of my poems as well, but in particular this one. The idea of the main character in the song walking through the museum and reflecting on all the beauty, and what a waste it was, immediately attracted me.

PICASSO GIRL

The museum
light floods me a shower
florescence
white light vacuums
the colors into the
air and bleeds them
together into the colorless
rainbow of every color
a white noise that blinds with its
omniscience i
watch a
thousand dreams live and
die through their windows of
time hanging forever a frozen
endeavor
their immortal
flirtations dissected by the
light and the eyes and the
cutting remarks
almost forgotten in that formaldehyde
starkness a
Picasso Girl
winks like a one
eyed queen staring
out through the darkness
between her teeth an
eviscerating brightness
in the moment
of that smile a history
of jagged lips and tongues melts
around the edges
of my jaded gazes
to puncture the paintings hung behind my eyes
body parts collide
a siamese monster in flame
joined to a wintery profile
by elbows and teeth and lips
kissing knees
a closer vivisection
of her jigsaw perspectives and
i prick myself on the corners until
her colors bleed into me
the black lines that surround our
anatomies skew themselves on
the chemicals that act as our
emotions until
i gently rake my fingers
across those marble romances
carving from her icy emerald glances
a time statuesque
until i see the
Picasso Girl
frames a truth
and until
i learn to forget the
blank canvas of her lies
to remember
time always blinds
and only monuments
can be left behind

The idea of the Picasso Girl, immortalized askew, a beautiful mishmash of perspectives, haunts me. The idea that the object of our desire is not viewed in a platonic manner in all its perfection has been reinforced in all my relationships. We distort our view of the people we love by the very act of loving them.

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