posted
For those of you in BYU community who are interested, I have two poems in the most recent edition of Inscape. One of them took first place in their poetry contest, which brings my cash total from writing prizes at BYU to $700! <laughs> Too bad I have to get my degree and get out of here this year...
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I've been getting back into writing poems recently as I read epics and ancient poetry with my students. Here are a couple of my recent attempts:
Bhakti
The wind's own son examines, bites and breaks the gift His orange eyes, they peer at every stone he plucks, And Rama, angered, tries to understand his friend.
'Tis worthless, Lord: the bracelet does not bear your name Hanuman says. The demon Vibhishana mocks: Why not destroy your flesh as well? It too is plain
Devotion questioned, brave Hanuman doest flinch. The monkey pulls his flesh aside to show his love For carved in every bone is Ram's holy name.
I read this teary-eyed, and something bubbles deep. My inward-turning vision scans the porous white, But not a word is written, nowhere lurks a god.
A sigh: I'd guessed as much, but whimsically I sink To cells, to chromosomes, to codons, gene Obsessed increasingly by dumb, unknown desire.
I enter molecules and burrow deeper still, Near drunk with hope, but growing sad with every void, Approach a proton, pry it desperately apart
Unleash the quarks and bosons, quantum bits of stuff, And in a maddened thrash of deepening despair I find your name, aglow in every particle.
More Alive than the Living
Swirling words through eyes to mind Dance in complex patterns there Characters freed from the world of the page Whispering urgently into my soul Pandemonium, secret nahualli Keep me company, thrive inside of me
Berate me if you must, And praise me when you wish Just don't slip back into that finished book I'll turn the final page, but always stay
Let your voices echo, Fire synapses as you will Iterate and mingle with the present residents: The sweet yet husky rasp my wife has burned into my brain, The soft and squeaky rhythms of my daughter loving praise, The rapid, happy burble of my boisterous little boy, And every rounded character That other minds have birthed for me All the precious clones that my conscience now comprise.
Then, in time, breed- Merge, break yourselves up, Let the bits be drawn together As they will, to form new patterns: Bricolage children whre born from my fingers as Colonists searching for eyes and for minds.
[ June 09, 2004, 03:20 PM: Message edited by: David Bowles ]
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Anyway, critiques are welcome, since I'm trying to tweak it.
THE FORTUNE OF GILGAMESH
Sorrow rimes old Gilgamesh ashen, pallid. Shuffling steps he takes in the twilit throne room, Mighty Uruk slumbers; her king ignores her: Dead is Enkidu.
Nightly dreams do echo Humbaba's curses Uruk's greatest son does not see his fortune Clay-like sibling dried into dust and mourning- Blessing sempiterne:
Never will their friendship begin to falter Nor Enkidu leech from his richer friend, while One day cursing Gilgamesh as a miser, Most ungratefully.
Never will a woman erode their closeness, Boring into both of them, hungry temptress, Putting mates at odds while she smiling watches Friendship atrophy.
Uruk's offshoot plucks at his graying whiskers, Longing after Uta-napishti's secret. Seven loaves have augured his mortal kismet, Ever taunting him.
Why does Ninsun's progeny run from death? Our Mortal end gives meaning to life, makes poignant, Precious every second we live. The deathless Slowly petrify-
Spouses die and children fall prey to old age, Friends betray and cities begin to crumble, Onward moves th' immortal undying shuffle: Solemn weariness.
Shamash rises sleepily over Mashu, Sunlight warms the city's foundations slowly Serpents stir, and Gilgamesh snarls in anger: Youth's abandoned him.
Ancient men have died, and the king is weakening: Skin will not be shed, for the Plant of Heartbeat Snakes have eaten; mas metamorphosis is But a fantasy.
Oh, my king, why weep for the past? You're older, Wiser- round you mighty and unmatched works stand, Tablets praise you: Gilgamesh, friend Enkidu, Heroes endlessly.
Smile at fortune's subtlety, turn your face to Shamash, stand on Urus amazing walls as Thirteen mighty winds ruffle your graying hair, and Know your destiny.
posted
Ah, and here's one that is really appropriate for this site: I sent it to several friends during Christmas-
PHILOTES
Across the miles I feel your joy For friendship spins its unseen threads From heart to heart to bind us all; Though distance pull them taut and thin, It cannot truly sever them
They form a web of strength and love That sometimes, in our darkest hour, Does glow with supernatural light To guide us swiftly through the night Back to the waiting arms of hope.
[ June 09, 2004, 03:24 PM: Message edited by: David Bowles ]
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Well, I, for one, really like Philotes. I also like More Alive Than the Living. The other two, while I can admire their craft, were a bit beyond me, not really getting much of the literary allusions. (But I consider that a deficiency on my part.) Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
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I really, really liked Bhakti, but thought the other ones were too obviously exercises in craft. They're GOOD exercises, though. Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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I sit and wait covered in black leather binding my back Waiting and wanting just you to come to me bringing They say you are mad and I dont believe it could be I wait in the shower sullenly imagining your singing
Trapped in a room where everyone laughs their mind No one understands your arent lying when you say Our love is true and pure and sweet, there we will be Together I wish, you ask me-for only one day?
My butterfly an empty cold shell of hate and pain But still sparked inside will last a burning light To touch together our tear stained lips in lust and hope Don't forget me, I wont forget you my gloriously bright
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Thanks, Tom. That's precisely what I was looking for. Trying on new techniques is always rough going at first, heh.
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Very dark, Spike. I can imagine the band Disturbed singing it.
BTW, for Karl, bhakti means devotion (it's a Hindi term)- the poem is derived from an incident at the end of the Indian epic The Ramayana. Rama, the incarnation of Vishnu, is walking along with the brother of the demon king he's just defeated and with Hanuman, the monkey warrior largely responsible for that victory. Hanuman has been wanting some token of Rama's for a long time, something with his name engraved. Rama gives him a bracelet, and the monkey tears it apart looking for his lord's name. Rama thinks he's being difficult, and Hanuman tells him the bracelet is worthless without Rama's name on it. The demon then scoffs and tells him he ought to destroy himself, then. Hanuman rips open his chest to show Rama enshrined in his heart and the god's name written over and over on all of his bones. I admire such devotion, I am brought to tears by it, but I can't seem to find anything worthy enough of it... except my wife.
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I diddn't know about this thread, so i started one for my self but now i know, and I'll let my other thread die.
"Our future"
I long for nothing more than you, I wish for no future but our future, With our house in the mountains, Just above our meadow, Where we fish in the head waters, Of our river, the Rio Grande, Our meadow is surrounded by trees, These trees are evergreens, aspens and the like, Our children will play in them, As we sit on the porch watching, Growing ever older, and more ornery, Never leaving our utopia, Until one of us dies, And the kids drag the other away.
Edit: This poem is a work in progress, I'll edit it as I improve it, feel free to give suggestions
[ March 15, 2004, 07:02 PM: Message edited by: J T Stryker ]
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Last semester, I wrote a French sonnet and posted it here a page ago. I'm now working on a series of artwork about woman and the kitchen and I've spiffed it up a bit. I also wrote a companion sonnet in English, that's not a direct translation, but basically the same poem. Here they are:
La Cuisine
Tu apparaissais en cherchant un got de lait, La femme qui cuisinait ta reu, ta plu Chaque jour tu te couchais sur ma table nue, Chaque jour dans ma cuisine, je te langeais.
Je versais tout, tu as bu, tu as mastiqu Tes mots, tu as mch bien les miens sur le plat Si chaud, comme le pain et comme lodorat Comme lhaleine et ton morceau de fruit piqu.
Mme de moi, tu tais toujours affam Sur ton sein et devant le mien, jtais nourrice Tu as trouv le meilleur feu dans ma matrice Tu est mon Sire et mon descendant jamais.
Mon enfant, homme, dneur : mange, mange-les. Donne-moi tes parties, et je vais les mler.
The Kitchen
You'd come in slyly with an empty glass The cooking lady liked you and would wink A friendly wink over a steamy sink My table was your bed and then your class.
I'd empty all my pitchers as you'd sip On milk and words and stutters in your bowl Warm from my oven, bread and fruit you stole We'd top it with our breath to give it zip.
Oh, baby boy, so hungry and so bright I nursed you as you nursed me in your arms My oven was the warmest of my charms My master and my child and my light.
Now come on baby, come fill up your bowl You give me all your parts; I'll mix you whole.
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Lovelorn souls connecting in the ether fragile threads reaching out across the miles no skin to skin, no loving caress but gaining insight and flowing light where shadows hide and dispel the night Although that touch is sadly missed the soul is gently kissed
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CT, the fruit poem was delightful. REALLY delightful, on second read.
EDIT: I thought, in the interest of giving a good critique, I should say exactly what was delightful about CT's poem.
It was so succinct. Simple and evocative to the point of . . . well, sensuality. You capture the pain and sweetness of being in love, and not knowing if that love is returned, or even returnable.
Wonderfully done, again.
In case mackillian ever deletes her 'Frozen over' thread, here's my latest:
I shall bathe
I've been rolling in dew, running in rain, But I've never seen a river. Never heard water whisper, in love and in pain, So deep to my heart that I shiver And burn.
I've walked in blizzards, and stumbled in mist But I've never heard the sea. Never felt the waves around my legs, and reach to kiss My lips. The hopeful all of me Licks salt.
I shall not wade. I shall bathe.
And this dust that I shake into the waves, Dust from snow, and dew, and rain, May it rest. May it stay lost in the sea of days, And never see the sky again Forever.
[ May 22, 2004, 09:56 PM: Message edited by: Scott R ]
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I love Scott R's poetry. This one is no exception.
CT yours are wonderful! The first one is my favorite, too. It is a plum. <smacks her lips on it>
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And thank you even moreso on the further critique.
I was also trying to play with alliteration (too/tender/to/touch) and loose rhyme (You/fruit/too, touch/just/plucked, tender/mine/linger, reach/sweet). I was going for a structure that was simple enough to fade into the background.
What I'm reading as Mormon in your piece is -- I think -- the acceptance (even embracing?) of desolation, almost as birthright. I expect that the line "And this dust that I shake into the waves" likely was intended to evoke baptism in water, but each time I read it as washing dust into waves of sand. Desolate, stark, but -- hmmm, homelike? I believe it's the "salt" and "burn" references too, although I imagine that for you it is a reference to the salt of the sea.
For me, it reminds me of what John/Leto II would write to a wormgod of Dune. (I hope this isn't sacreligious to you!)
And then the salt lick is such a powerful metaphor. Again, for you, likely it is the salt of the sea, but it reminds me strongly of the dire need of a deer at a winter saltlick. Lastly, this reminds me of a powerful poem written by a friend (a Lutheran minister), who wrote of a wolf at a saltlick with a blade buried inside. As he licked his tongue bled, and he lapped so eagerly at the salt, unknowing. (Much, much less goth than it sounds -- this was actually a cycle on Christian themes of death and rebirth).
So, a lake of salt and dust, the power of redemption and rebirth, the anticipation of desolation (and persecution), the consumption of self for sustenance -- eh, yeah, feels pretty Mormon by my read. Maybe I was reading a different poem, though; still, maybe we got to the same place with it.
[Thanks,ak! ]
Aha, I got it, Scott -- what turned me toward a dry bath was the initial contrast drawn in the first line. You -- I think -- were contrasting the other waters you've washed (or waded) in with the baptismal waters, but something (mis)fired in my brain and set me up for a contrast of water with dryness. Heh, wow, great on both reads.
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Wow. There's some good poetry in this thread. I especially like CT's Indeed. It made me laugh inside. I didn't see the Mormonism in Scott's poem, but I don't know much about it actually... Hehehe. Still, the poem is very good. Reading it over a couple of times, I really felt it. Thank you Scott..
Here's one I randomly picked out of my vaults.
I'm filled with starts and stops, now allowing myself to speed past my cares now tripping over the potholes of my life...
Now halting on the threshold of the world before going from zero... tosixty!!!!! Heart beating ten thousand miles a minute, eyes burning with joy and fear and thengrindingtoascreechingHALT and rolling sideways in surprise.
Is it my destiny to go fast and slow? The wheeling weights of speed marred by a lonely halt in a land that I don't understand.
Better to be zooming past blurred landscapes, unable to see the wasted plains, burned by the heat of the sun and fear, beyond the frosted windows.
'Salt' in this sense is sea salt-- the narrator is being kissed by ocean waves, after all. In my mind, I was thinking of Christ's "You are the salt of the earth," speech.
But I LOVE your interpretation. Interpretation is half the fun of poetry.
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My body tortures my empty soul I am falling, falling... Free me, Death, and take your toll! I am fleeing, fleeing... Mournful wails assault my ears I am shrieking, shrieking... The living pain cries joyful tears I am breaking, breaking... Hear the battered skull scrape stone I am spinning, spinning... Filled with sharp and shattered bones I am fading, fading... The Ghost of Present Time is damned I am laying, laying... Kept here by a single strand I am playing, playing... My body is numb; my soul freed I am probing, probing... Soaked in life, my spirit bleeds I am praying, praying... I tell you now to murder me I am pleading, pleading... Take me, O wise Deity I am leaving, leaving...
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I do not write poetry, not anymore. But I was just wondering, why has this thread survived so long with "Potry" on it?
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Zhug so spicy, zhug so strong I eat zhug the whole day long. On toast, in stew, on birthday cake, Zhug on tzimmes, cheese, and steak!
I like zhug, I cannot lie I like zhug on ham and rye! Smell the zhug upon my breath-- Sniff too much, and meet your death.
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How quickly we forget! It wasn't possible before this "new iteration" to change thread titles.
CT, I LOVE Indeed. This thread brings back happy memories. I love reading all your work.
Scott, "I shall bathe" gives me a transformative experience, but not religious in any way! I would almost say sexual, but that's not right, more a living to full potential, experiencing life "fully immersed" rather than just letting the water lap at your ankles/touch you in small bits.
Pixie, are yours meant to be read together or are they separate explorations on "the fall"?
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The conundrum for me is why everyone comments on "Potry" and no one even seems to notice "Orginal."
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Oddly enough, upon re-reading my posts, I noticed quite a few letters and apostrophes had strangely dropped out of words, far too many to be just typos (and these poems had been heavily edited in Word before being posted here). Anyone else experience something similar?
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I love sushi! Yes I do! Sushi sushi in my stew! Give me sushi every day I'll use my credit card to pay!
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On the lip of a crater you squeezed my hand On the face of an airless moon. I caught your eye and laughed and said, “I think I should breathe some soon,
Or else change into my dragon form Which has no need for air,” And your shining eyes glowed back at me From beneath your shining hair.
“I’m good,” you replied, “I can just do this,” And the skin of you crumbled and broke, The dark fell away and from underneath The light of a new sun woke.
It waxed as I watched the last shreds of the shell Break away blasted out by the light Of the star of which the astronomers tell That arose on the moon that night.
I saw you then with skin so bright And remembered you from the start, And then I recalled my own self as well As I gathered you to my heart.
And my outsides, too, broke off and fled Toward the edge of the farthest strand And shining we flew with hand in hand O’er that stark and airless land.
And nothing has ever been the same Since the night when I lost my skin And grew up and left the shards of my shell And remembered the one within,
And I dance with joy as I go before Looking back across the bar To you, my friend, as I sing this hymn, Remember who you are.
[ July 11, 2004, 03:29 PM: Message edited by: ak ]
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Farmgirl, I've been twiddling with it here and there. Does the line sound any better to you as it is now?
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I wrote this poem in Seventh grade as part of a science project....I thought I would put it on here until I can concoct something a little more delectable...hmmm, lemon merengue pie sounds good...
Tiger
Tiger, roaming the wildlands green, Your coat has such a lovely sheen
The Asian "Outback" You Call your home, Only to you is devoted this poem
You enjoy playing, swimming in lakes, Strength and Stamina, that's what it takes
Your roars shake the earth, few humans may hear it, We're so scared of you, we can't hardly get near it
On Cattle and Goats, you mainly feed, And possibly Buffalo, if you feel the need
You, o radiant king of beasts, We marvel at, admiring your feats
To the Spanish, you are fondly known as "El Tigre" The french prefer "Le Tigre", sipping their Tea today
So whether you be French, Spanish, or American like me, Admire the Tiger, and better off you'll be.
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Here's the poem that aka was talking about in another thread (it initially appeared in Inscape Vol. 23, Iss. 1).
Udine
The night that Margaret got sick, we made the hasty decision to go and help (she was afraid of hospitals and wouldn’t call an ambulance). The buses had long since
stopped running, so we put on jeans and t-shirts and ran ourselves, even though their apartment was on the other side of town. We reached Piazza Primo Maggio near midnight,
and in the park-like square I jogged right by a hooker underneath a street-light. Dressed in purple—-mini-skirt, blouse and stockings—-he towered above me, at least 6’3” in his
five-inch heels. In that brief moment, I heard him cough brokenly and sigh and shift his weight from foot to foot. My feeling of terror and revulsion passed. My eyes
met his. We shared a passing glance, and I felt a sudden flare of empathy for my transvestite prostitute—-both whores and missionaries learn early on to keep
a clinical distance, not to be discouraged by scorn, and above all not to take rejection personally. We both nodded as I ran past—-professional courtesy.
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Grisha and Rahul, Oh what could be more cool? No gods could furnish out a pair Of dudes so awesome, wise, and fair.
Who is so funny, smart, mad cool As you, my wonderful Rahul? And who could help but kiss and kiss ya My sweet, adorable, dear Grisha?
I can’t believe my crazy luck, That such delightful lightning struck. Indeed, there can be joy no higher, I must have joined the celestial choir.
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