Ekphrastic: L'Enigme

I guess the artistic spirit of Paris just infected me. Don't get used to it.





Long ago, in ages yet to come,
smoke rises from the glittering city.
The domes and spires and skyscrapers of home
stand blackened shells, or do not stand at all,
fallen and crumbling to dust where they lie broken.

 An angel, young and beautiful as dawn
coursed through the sky. He clothed himself in its pall,
his strong white wings filled with ash and smoke.
The darkness burned his eyes, the silence deafened,
too late, too late to hush the roaring guns,
too late to quench the fires with silver light.

He has placed rings in the young mother's ears,
hidden away the worst of the awful devices.
He tried to fan away the smoke, tried
to turn the beautiful harvest back to gold, tried
to find one green, one living thing, and all
to no avail. The city sleeps around him.

He falls before the sphinx, her slow thighs couchant,
still and silent watcher with distant eyes.
Desperate in his anguish, he looks up,
reaching, imploring, screaming to know: "Why?"
She smiles her curious smile, and tenderly
lifts up his tear-ruined face with a velveted claw,
but her bright eyes are cold and alien,
and her answer the same as it always is.







P.S. You know how a really long time ago I was trying to write a sad poem and the impossibility of that basically killed my blog and my poetry forever? Well, this isn't anything like the poem I was trying to write, but it is way sadder. I guess I just needed some art museums and to be really excited in Paris.


P.P.S. If you're still wondering about my obsession (I don't know why you would be, but just in case), it caused me to hyperventilate from excitement like five times in the past week. Just so you know.

Autumn

Uh, hey guys. Long time, huh. Uh... guess I didn't do so fantastically on the "every week" thing, did I? I kind of started this thing and it was too evil for me to finish because it kind of caused me to realize I would never be a poet because I've actually never really been sad because my life has been basically perfect, and then this caused my creativity to crash and burn, and I kind of gave up on everything. So that's why you got nothing all summer. Yeah.

BUT... then the other day last week the second day of fall it was the falliest day you could imagine and it felt exactly like this poem that I kind of wrote on accident and then liked too much for no one else to ever read it. So here it is. 


The misty mountains are wreathed in smoke
the aerie of some fiery dragon awoke
by the smell of the earth and the feel of the air
and the streamers of moonlight caught in the trees
whose whispers at night carry soft to his lair.
He sighs, and his cold spicy breath will freeze
gilding the grass and the yellowing leaves.
He shakes his wide wings, preparing to fly,
and mysteries like leaves, scarlet and gold,
flake from his scales and fall through the sky.
So reach out and catch one, all stiff from the cold,
then look up through the bones of the bare-branched grove
and shiver to think of his shadow above.




BUT don't get too used to it because I just got a real job writing things which real people who aren't related to me might theoretically read but you will never see because they will be terrible because apparently I've lost the ability to write real sentences that have beginnings and ends and punctuation. But anyway I hope you liked the poem.

The King-fisher

Sitting on his flowered bough he
suddenly falls - not like a thunderbolt but
like a stone
beneath the icy river.
Three ageless seconds and then
he erupts skyward, life
held up in his sharp beak.



Yay, bonus poem! You get this on the same day because it's just a little thing I wrote while my professor was talking about "The Waste Land" (so it's a bit modernist-influenced, don't you think? Has that Imagist thing going?) and because it's pretty much exactly the same as every poem I have ever written.



Oh, and obsession status: a few days ago I realized I was sometimes forgetting about it for hours at a time. So I looked at some pictures and such and I'm better now.

Things Improved by Sunlight

Hi there. I'm in the process of writing a long poem/post/thing, but it's taking way longer than I expected (like really really long) and, seeing as it's already about two weeks late (sorry!), here's a filler poem while I finish it. It's really more of a list, but remember, lists are cool.



Mallards with their jeweled heads, and
unexpected stained-glass butterflies
Arching branches shifting dappled
shadows on the ground
Frescoed clouds in soft colors
Mountains with the red light spilling down
And my head, hair hot like metal
dancing solemn as a swinging censer




Obsession status: It is now possible to think about other things. But still somewhat difficult.

Mist

I'm sorry this is so late! I wanted to post! I had one! Blogger wouldn't let me! I promise more stuff very soon to make up for it.



The frozen breath of the earth
cupped in her hands the mountains to keep them warm
Heaven's loving sighs
extend the lunasphere to a soft paper lamp
blunting the sharp peaks
coiling around like a lover
keeping secret the mysteries
deep in the moonstruck mountains.




Obsession status: I made a t-shirt. It is awesome.

Seafoam

Fifty white horses, all
rearing and plunging, are
galloping on where they
break as they fall.

Lightly they fade away
Borne on the wind and stars
Scattering, sighing, like
moonbeams at day.

After these, fifty more
Year after year they'll be
galloping onward to
crash on the shore.

Stingless

Merry Christmas! You get a poem. A poem that's not about Christmas. You're welcome. 


What do you think of a stingless bee?
It's still creepy. Too many legs and
those scary eyes and jaws and
it still looks the same. You definitely
don't want it crawling on you, or even
near you. It just gives you the creeps,
sting or no.
It still makes honey, though
- a sweet service -
and its wings, when you look closer,
are actually kind of beautiful.



Do you think all my poems are the same? It feels like they're all the same. Well???

Simile #1 in POS Major

Note: not its actual title, but I kind of had to, didn't I? Also, more posts on the way soon, because I feel bad about disappearing for so long and not fulfilling my moral obligation.



Like waterfalls
rushing, pouring, giving
watering living
laughing, dancing, surging
flowing
continuing

Like trumpets
bold and brassy
clarion clear
harmonic, lovely, sweet
exhilarating
annunciatory

Like wings
flight
heaven
joy

The Ocean

I didn't say so last post, but I feel really, really bad about neglecting this blog so long, especially when I don't even have the excuse of busyness. So to make up for it, I give you two posts in one day. AND, as further apology, I will try very hard to get you a story by next week. That's how sorry I am.



The ocean has always frightened me a little.
Maybe that's why I'm so attracted to it -
a love affair that's less than unrequited,
a fascination I can't quite explain.

Perhaps because it's so mysterious,
unknown, so deep and strange and unexplored.
We know it's very beautiful, a world
as full of life as ours, but we know too
that deeper down is  only terrible darkness.

So powerful, the waves, the tides - a force
unstoppable, inexorable, immense.
The sea is merciless, it's true, and yet
so filled with lovely secrets whispered soft
and only fuzzily caught in shell-like ears.

I splash at the edge, in fun, maybe imagine
a life beneath the water's glittering face,
look longingly out to sea and the setting sun,
and tell myself I'm not afraid at all.

But if I were someday to take the plunge, I would
calm my racing heart, look up, and smile,
open my eyes, and dive.

Ivy

This isn't much of a poem, I'm afraid. But tomorrow is the last day of Lyssa Poetry Month and I'll have something really good then, promise.



Constantly it climbs, grows
always it shows itself
to know its creation.
Twining up and down,
into the ground and
up around the trees
and buildings, pulling apart
the mason's art but
the heart of the maker remains.
Ivy thrives in shade
but was made for
light, prayed to and
feared and a crown
of ancient renown, even
cut down and hated.
Evergreen ivy shall engrave
all things save none,
even the grave, its foe,
it covered in life, and forgave.

A Soap-Bubble Song

I think my writing skills are declining. Either that or I'm becoming more self-aware.



A toadstool hatched a fairy child
A seedling hatched a flower mild
The Sun, he hatched an eagle wild
On all of them the mountains smiled.

The fairy flew to the moon and back
The flower made the earth to crack
The eagle brewed a plan of attack
And the world was taken quite aback.

She gave to me a rainbow dress
It gave one perfumed breath (or less)
He gave me a look of constant stress
And now I'm set for life, I guess.

X(Chi)

This didn't turn out as good as I thought it would. I might try to rewrite it later.



It may not be a real loss, not forever,
     But still it may be the hardest thing you have ever done.
            Impossible, maybe, heartbreaking, but you do it
                   Because it will be worth it
                          To sacrifice, and because
                                 One
                          Who sacrificed
                   Thought you were worth it
            And did the impossible, broke his heart for you
      And with the two hardest things in the universe
You come out the real winner in the end (and forever).

Psyche

It's terza rima, yay! The Italian form is one of my favorites, but it's pretty hard to write in because English doesn't have as many rhymes as Italian. So if the poem below seems fake/forced/any other sort of bad, that's my excuse.
Cupid and Psyche is my absolute favorite Greek myth. In Greek, Psyche means soul, or butterfly.



Fair Psyche lies beside her husband-god
Afraid to be so close to one so great
She lights her torch, her higher self forgot.

Celestial Cupid lies, her loving mate,
His open eyes all full of wounded trust
He leaves her to be torn and tried by fate.

Good Psyche weeps, her lovely spirit crushed
By her own doubt, and her lost god. She knows
Not how to find him, only that she must.

A lifetime passes; the girl's heart bleeds, but does
The thousand heavy tasks required by Love
She mourns her lot, but walks the path she chose.

Her trials complete, her virtue proven above
Mere mortal women, Psyche finally kisses
Her Cupid again, he leads her to taste of

Sweet nectar and ambrosia, and she is
Immortal and eternal, like the stars-
Her love forever hers, she always his.

Nocturne

The sun is gone, all colors turned to grey,
the last of twilight's fireflies
have slipped away.

The shadows lurk with darkness' languid ease,
they dance like blackened skeletons
around the trees.

Don't look around, look upward to the skies
of sweet and deathless stars
and close your eyes -

The crickets' song, and silvery air of night
keep live a world of music
Live and bright.

Tragedy

Words can be very beautiful.
Paint too, and clay, metal, cloth.
Music is a glorious thing.
But the awful tragedy that is
The heart of all human art is:
None can truly capture
The aching beauty of wind and sun
Or the heady difference of
Air that trees have breathed.

Alliterative Verse

So yesterday I read a very nice translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In the introduction there was something I didn't know: English poetry has rhyme because that was what the Romance languages (like French) used, because the accents were mostly on the last syllable. However, Germanic languages (like English before French got mixed in) had the accent on the first syllable, so they used alliteration to highlight that!  Isn't that cool? So all the old English poems, like Sir Gawain and Beowulf, were in alliterative verse! In my ignorance I have been neglecting a full half or more of my linguistic/poetic heritage! This must be remedied at once!



The legacy left me to listen and learn from
Is all held in the murky myth-cloud of Middle English.
Almost apparent but always elusive,
The reticent words will refuse to be read
Shrinking away from me like Sherwood in shadows,
A cross-eyed impression of fair Camelot
Too darkened by distance to dance in the twilight
Never quite near enough to drop into focus.
Trying to see through the ground to the tree-roots -
Just barely an almost and always will be.



Sorry it's kinda short. Also while I was reading the Green Knight, I had to cover up the page that had the original text on it, because I kept trying to see how close the translation got, and it was too frustrating.

Libraries

Sorry, I didn't spend much time on this one. Books to read, you know.



Information
And stories
And information that is stories
Stories that may not be information but are still true
All pressing down on exposed minds like
An approaching thunderstorm on exposed skin
(huge heavy slightly threatening and glorious).
They say
It would take ten thousand lifetimes to
Read through the Library of Alexandria
But I'm betting
I could cut that time in half.

Midsummer Night

Okay, I like this one. 


Midsummer night with the moon and the mist
mingled with smoke from the watchfires round
Ringing the island with mythos and wyrd from the
sea and the sky and the sun and the ground.

Midsummer night and the giants are dancing
Dancing with stones and the fairies unseen
The sea and the trees and the stars are all singing
Singing to the dance of the island in green.

Midsummer night and the island is weeping
Mourning the loss of the world gathered here
Sheltering those that the rest cannot understand
Driv'n from a world that was driven by fear.

Fireflies

Sorry about yesterday's post. I hope you didn't read it. This one is better.



Do you really expect me to
take such a thing in stride?
Low-flying miracles
under the trees.
Tiny blink-dancing stars
Now to flash, now to hide
No other purpose than
humans to tease.
How can I live with this sight?
Easy to explain but impossible to understand
Magical beings of light
Wide-eyed reflections of wonder and joy
Just like the rest of this world.

Happy Fathers' Day!

By the time anyone will be reading this, it will be the Day of the Dad. I wanted to write a poem to celebrate my dad, but then I realized I'm not a good enough poet for that yet, so here's a poem by Robert Hayden:


"Those Winter Sundays"

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

But that is totally cheating. So here's another, completely unrelated, poem I wrote. Not today, a long time ago. Because two half cheats make a whole cheat, or something.


Steady hands
conducting a power stronger
and truer than electricity
A stream of sparks
brighter than electrons
coursing through the copper wire of my hair
into my deepest being.


Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.