Newspaper Poetry

Howdy, y'all! I hope you're ready for another fabulous post! (Because you're getting one anyway.)

I saw this concept on the internet somewhere and decided to give it a try. However, I'm not very good at this, so these don't make a terrible amount of sense and don't say much of anything. Also, they might be kind of hard to read. The general rule is top to bottom, and as left to right as possible. For some of them it doesn't really matter how you read them, they make equal amounts of sense in any direction! But they were fun to do, and I thought you might enjoy looking at some pictures for once. I made them by finding articles that looked like they might have interesting words, then isolating the words I liked and blacking out the rest. These all came from articles on the first few pages of an old New York Times that I stole out of a recycling bin. 

Sorry for the poor image quality; I don't have a scanner and I'm not much of a photographer.

John Donne: Selected Poetry and Prose

Hi there! I'm currently working on something big, just for you! But I don't want you to get bored and think I'm not posting anything ever again. So in the meantime, here's a rant about one of my very favorite poets.

Really, this is going to be more of a rant than an actual review, because I'm pretty biased. In case you haven't heard, John Donne was a sixteenth/seventeenth-century English poet. He had a rather wild and troubled youth, then converted to Anglicism and became a priest. He married the love of his life (under opposition from her family) and they had 10 children. His family wanted him to be a politician but, fortunately for us, he persisted in writing and became one of the greatest poets of his age (ever).
About the book itself: it includes all his "Songs and Sonnets," most of his elegies, his two marriage poems, a couple satires, most of his religious poems, including the holy sonnets, as well as his "Devotions" and extracts from a few of his sermons. It's edited by T.W. and R.J Craik, in case you want to find this particular book, which I think is a nice, not too long selection of Donne's work.
John Donne has something for everybody. He has funny poems ("The Flea" and "Go and Catch a Falling Star" come to mind) sexy poems (really. He wrote lots of those. They're good for seducing people.), romantic poems ("Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" might be the absolute most beautiful, romantic poem in the English language. "The Sun Rising" is a close second.), and plenty of religious poems.Wild youth, priestly adulthood, remember? I truly love his religious poems. They are (sometimes excruciatingly) beautiful and always ring true. My personal favorite is "A Hymn to my God, in my Sickness," but all of them are good. Much of his later poetry was influenced by the death of his beloved wife, and his own chronic sickness. Certainly his Devotions and sermons are. Devotion #17 is actually the origin of both the common phrases "ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee" and "no man is an island." Probably didn't know those were about the same thing, did you?
Since Donne wrote a long time ago, and is most famous for using complicated metaphysical analogies, his poetry can be hard to read. To a student of literature, or even someone who reads the Bible a lot, the language shouldn't be a problem. For those others of you, most volumes of his poetry include some sort of note system with modernizations and explanations. The edition I read did, and for the most part they were helpful, but occasionally I would get one that was debatable, or just wrong. So if you do happen to read the very same book, use the notes, but do keep a few grains of salt handy.

In conclusion, John Donne is awesome, and you should definitely read his writings. You don't necessarily have to get a book to read them, though; just google "John Donne poems" and you will find plenty of beautiful, romantic, old-timey goodness.

The Oak Tree

This is an example of my early writing. I wrote it several years ago, and worked very hard on it too, but only a few people ever saw it. Now it comes to the light.
As I said, this is from a while ago, and I am aware that it is not the best piece of writing ever in the world. Therefore, comments on how to improve (my character development, for example) would be vastly appreciated.
Enjoy.




        “Look, Micheal, I found an acorn.” Susie held up the small brown nut. “Isn't that weird? Usually the squirrels eat them all up before spring.” She considered the acorn. “It's so pretty, don't you think?” He did. Micheal thought the acorn looked luminous, as if the bright light of new growth and potential were shining through that thin, smooth shell. Plant me, it seemed to say. I would that I could grow tall and strong; I would that I could reach the sky. He looked up from Susie's hand and saw a reflection of the acorn in her eyes. They were the same color, he noticed. “I know,” said Susie decisively. “We'll plant it!”
        “Okay,” said Micheal. He always agreed with Susie's ideas, something that often got him teased by the other members of their fourth-grade class.
         “I'll get a pot!” said Susie, and scrambled into her father's garden shed. She came out with a bag of soil and the biggest flowerpot Micheal had ever seen. He stared at it. “Because it'll be a tree,” Susie explained. “It's got to have a big pot.” She filled it with soil, spilling some on her hands and clothes. Then Susie sat back, the acorn clutched in her hand, the other hand absentmindedly tracing patterns in the spilled dirt. It seemed momentous, this planting of the seed of an oak tree. Like turning a great page in an enormous book, or taking the first step down a strange new road. She looked at the vibrantly brown seed one more time, then carefully poked it into the soil filling the huge flowerpot. “There,” she said, with a satisfied smile that seemed as bright as the sun.

         The weeks and the months and the years went by, some dragging their feet and some skipping along. Time swirled past in a beautiful blend of colors and changes, some happy, some sad, some joy, and some pain. One June morning in the very midst of this glorious swirl, Susie sat on her front porch reading Pride and Prejudice, with the young oak tree in its pot beside her. The small acorn had grown into a fine sapling half as tall as her, proudly waving its few small leaves. Susie sighed, wishing she had somewhere to sit in the shade. Although it was not yet summer, the sun shone fiercely, making her copper hair hot to the touch. She glanced over the pages of her book at Micheal, who was mowing his lawn next door. He had taken his shirt off. Susie sighed again, turning her gaze to the young tree beside her. “We're not serious,” she told it, firmly. They had gone out a few times, but... “I mean, we're friends. We were friends in kindergarten!” The oak seemed to be laughing at her. It was obviously paying no attention to her plight. “Insolent thing,” she muttered, looking back at her book, but not really paying any attention to the words. Moments later, Susie looked up again at the approaching roar of Micheal's lawnmower. He smiled and waved to her, and she could not keep her face from melting into a warm smile. It felt altogether too gooey and sweet to her. As soon as he had passed, she glared at the oak tree as if it were the cause of her confused feelings. “What're you looking at?” she demanded. The tree only laughed.

          Time passed, and the little oak was a silent witness to many things, there from its vantage point on Susie's front porch. Awkward greetings and hurried farewells, fights and kisses, and long hours of just sitting, alone or with another- all were watched by the young tree. Micheal and Susie went away from their houses and the oak tree, for college, for work, for other things. The tree could not watch them during those years, but only wait patiently for them to return. And they did.
         Susie took a final glance around her childhood home. It was good to be back, even for a little while, she thought. After years of living in dorms and shared apartments, Susie was moving into her a house of her own. She had finished loading her things into the trailer hooked to her car when she remembered the oak tree. “Can't leave you behind, can I?” she said, and placed it carefully on the floor next to her seat. It was much bigger and taller than she remembered, its highest leaves gently brushing the roof. They made a whispering sound that seemed to be telling of things yet to come. “What's your secret, hmm?” Susie inquired as she slid in beside it.
         As Susie drove, she thought. Not about the new step she was taking in her life, but about Micheal. She no longer pretended she did not love him, but she was afraid to speak of it, afraid of ridicule for still clinging to a childhood crush. Susie remained immersed in her silent thoughts as she transferred her few possessions to her new home, until another car pulling up behind hers shattered her thoughts like a rock thrown into a pond. It was Micheal. “Hey,” he said. “I heard you were moving in here and though you could use some help.” He smiled nervously. She smiled back. She never could stop smiling when Micheal was. There was just something about his wide grin that made her feel lighter than air, like she could jump for joy and never fall back down.
        “Thanks,” replied Susie, brushing her hair away from her face, “but I'm almost done.” It was true. The only thing remaining was the oak tree, looking absurdly like it was trying to sprout right out of the car. Micheal lifted it out for her.
        “Remember when we planted this thing?” His smile was brighter than ever as he considered it fondly. “It looks like it needs planting again. The roots are almost spilling out of the pot.”
        “Okay,” said Susie. “Let's plant it again.” They carefully lifted the tree out of its pot and buried its roots in Susie's new front yard. By the end of it they were both laughing and as covered in dirt as they had been all those years ago. Susie stood up, still laughing, but Micheal remained conspicuously kneeling. He took a small box out of his pocket. Susie's laughter stopped.
        “While I'm on my knees,” said Micheal. He took a breath, his smile still resolutely sticking to his face. He opened the box. It was a ring. “Susanna May Wilder, will you marry me?” Susie's heart stopped. Her mind froze. What? Marry him? She thought. What should I say? Her breathing was panicked but her mind was surprisingly clear. Yes, sung her heart, fluttering with joy. Yes, plead Micheal's eyes, brighter and bluer than the sky. Yes, sighed the oak tree, its roots already sinking into the new earth.
        “Yes!” cried Susie, and fell into his arms.

         The oak tree grew. It stretched higher, it waxed stronger, its roots became deeper and ever more unshakable. Every year its leaves withered and fell, and every year they sprouted anew. There were storms and winds and hail. There were times when it was thought the still-young tree would fall, because it could no longer be taken into the shelter of a house, when the wind began to blow. But it never did- the oak stood fast in the storms, and was stronger for it.
        Micheal and Susie sat under the oak tree, watching their two small children. They leaned against each other, his arm around her waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. Neither spoke, but there was a feeling of joy and love that hung around them like motes of dust in the sunshine. Rebekah ran up to them, clutching something in her small hand.
        “Look, Mommy, a rock with a hat!” she giggled, thrusting it out for her to see. Susie laughed.
        “That's not a rock, it's an acorn, from this tree.” She gestured at the overspread branches.
        “Yeah,” said Micheal, “if you put it in the ground it will turn into a big tree.” Rebekah thoughtfully absorbed this new knowledge and looked at the acorn again.
        “Oh,” she said, only her bright eyes speaking of the wonder of such a small thing becoming something so great. Then she ran to show her new treasure to her brother John, who immediately put it in his mouth. As Susie ran to save John from death by dirt, Micheal leaned against the tree and laughed softly.
        “What great kids,” he said. The oak's leaves murmured in agreement. Micheal looked lovingly at his family, laughing and rolling on the ground, and smiled.

         Nothing ever stays the same for long, and, as often happens, things changed. Some changes were slow, barely recognizable until they were complete. Some were fast, some were violently sudden. Sometimes the changes were for good, sometimes they were for bad, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Time passed, life went on – things changed.
        One autumn evening, years later, Micheal walked out to the oak tree. His gray head was bowed and his steps were slow and listless. When he finally reached the tree, he looked up and put his hand on its trunk. He imagined he felt a heartbeat through its rough bark, a steady pulse that spoke of life and growth. Micheal sighed, his eyes downcast. This tree was always where he felt Susie, not by a lifeless stone. He had spent almost two years without her, but his heart still ached like it was only a day. He turned his gaze upward, to the waving branches of the old oak. The light of the setting sun filtering through its shifting red leaves was so beautiful he could not keep a single tear from escaping his eye. How many hours we have spent together under this tree! Micheal thought. How much of our lives have been shared with it. He thought about how his and Susie's lives had always seemed so entwined with the oak tree, and how much they still were. Micheal stepped away from the tree and looked at it directly. “Some things never change, I guess,” he told it. Then Micheal turned and walked back, his head a little higher than before.

        Years went by, beat out in the rhythm of the passing seasons and the oak tree's changing leaves. Green, red, brown, green, red, brown. Birth, life, death, birth, life, death. Two links in this unceasing cycle, a man and a woman, stood by the old oak tree, contemplating the house behind it. “Thanks for helping me sort through all that stuff, John,” said Rebekah. “I don't think I could have handled it by myself.”
        “Yeah,” replied John. “I know how awful you've been feeling lately. Especially now... I don't know how you're making it.”
        “It's not that bad.” she said. “It's just... with Zanna off at college... and with Peter away.... and now Dad...” She broke off, visibly shaking with the effort of holding back the raw emotion that threatened to tear its way out of her throat.
        “It's okay,” said John, not knowing what else to say. “It's okay.” They looked at the oak, which was standing watchfully over them. Rebekah leaned on it, letting its calmness sink into her.
        “I don't know what we're going to do with the house,” she said, long-suppressed exhaustion creeping into her voice. “I don't know if I can stand to leave this old tree.”
        “I know what you mean,” said John. “We always did everything around it when we were kids. It's just always been there.” Rebekah sighed.
        “You know, I can't even imagine this tree not being here. Like – it's always going to be here – forever.” The oak tree sighed, its leaves' joyful whispers echoing all around them.

         “Yeah... forever.”

Never.

I'm going to write a villanelle someday, but not today.

_

Why do you think people look at the stars?
Write? Play? Dream?
Act? Love?
Why do middle-aged men quit their jobs and buy motorcycles?

There are those of us
Who are caught in the middle.
Too old for Narnia and Never-Never-Land -
Too young for heaven
Torn between Lothlorien and the Western Shore -
The flaming sword still in sight -
But unreclaimable.
Backwards never,
Forwards only by the will of the tyrannous trickling sand.

What about we in the middle?
Must we ever be content to remain
Here in this wonderful terrible always
Never enough world?

Henry V

Salutations, friends! Welcome to my first review, which is not, in fact, of a book at all. It also is an example of what my reviews will typically be like: not of popular or controversial material, and probably not terribly up-to-date either. In fact, I doubt that any of my reviews will help a single person decide what to read or watch. Instead, consider them suggestions, something I encountered and loved, or maybe didn't love, and wanted to tell you about. 

Today I am reviewing a film adaptation of Shakespeare's Henry V, directed by Kenneth Branagh, who also played the title role. It came out in 1989, so don't go looking for it in theaters or anything. Also, it was nominated for Oscars in Best Director and Best Actor in a Leading Role, so it really doesn't need me to justify it to you. But I'm going to anyway.
As you may or may not know, I adore Shakespeare. I love his words, his characters, everything about his plays. Therefore, it is not actually possible for me to critique the play itself (I don't think anyone is really up to it, since to criticize something, you really should be able to do it better. And Shakespeare, well, it's Shakespeare). I'm focusing on the film itself, as a work of cinematic art. And, I must say, it does remarkably well.
If you are considering which of the histories to see, or which version of Henry V to watch for your history of England class, the answer should unquestionably be: this one. The acting is marvelous, the cinematography (lighting, camera angles, set and music) beautiful. Previous to watching it, I had not been as huge a fan of Shakespeare's histories as I was of his comedies and tragedies. I thought they were a little bit (gasp) boring. Now, I am resolved to read as many of them as I can fit in between my classes. Yes, it's that good. You probably know the plot of Henry V, since you are nerdy enough to read a blog such as this. But, just in case, it is the story, based on the real honest-to-goodness history of England, of the battle of Agincourt and the events leading up to it. King Henry of England is advised that the throne of France rightly belongs to him, and he takes an invasion force across the channel to claim it. Shakespeare, though, adds much more to these historical details, and the result is a portrait of a torn king, and an insight into the question of a just war.
I loved this movie for many different reasons. As mentioned previously, the acting is superb. My pet peeve about Shakespeare in film or theatre is that the actors always feel they need to shout every line that contains the least bit of emotion. It's very annoying. Here, that didn't happen! I was so excited! Shouting was used only when appropriate, e.g. on the battlefield. Kenneth Branagh did an excellent job of making his voice more intense when the lines called for it, in a way that I think is far more powerful than mere volume. The play itself is very powerful, and this adaptation made it even more so. Henry's two main speeches - the eve of the battle and the St. Crispin's Day speech - were well done and very moving; I even found myself tearing up a bit. The multiple battle scenes are by no stretch of the imagination boring, so you can even make your action-fan boyfriend watch it with you. Just tell him it's a war movie - which it is.
Many Shakespeare adaptations are little more than filmed plays, but this one had a strong cinematic element. The music was intense but not distracting, which was wonderful, since I love good music in my movies. The costumes and setting were absolutely stunning (it actually won an Oscar for costume design). Also striking was the use of lighting, especially in the initial scene, where Henry is persuaded to go to war, and the scene of the night before battle. It added a symbolic touch that I really appreciated, and emphasizes rather than detracts from the main themes of the play. I, since I am a bit of a history nerd, also appreciated the portrayal of the Battle of Agincourt. Throughout the film it was grey and raining, which contributed to the atmosphere and mood. However, it also contributed to the mud which was the real cause of the overwhelming victory; it was basically a crowd disaster with lots of horses and sharp things, even though that was not known in Shakespeare's time. It also included the longbows that were the presumed cause of victory until pretty recently. 
Despite my overwhelming love for this film, there were a couple things I had a problem with. One, there were a few scenes in French which I, having only ever taken classes in Japanese and Latin, was unable to understand. And there were no subtitles, which I was really kinda sad about, since it looked pretty funny. So next time put subtitles, Kenneth Branagh. On a more serious note, at the end of the battle scene, the victorious army walked through the field of dead singing a hymn, "Non Nobis, Domine" (which I could understand). It translates to "not to us, Lord, but to thy name the glory" and was very triumphant and glorious-sounding. Yes, very emotional, extremely moving, but to what end? To my mind, war has been glorified enough and does not need any more romanticism attached to it. However, this does fit with the intent of Shakespeare's original play, which was a bit of a propaganda piece for England.

Anyway, that is about everything I have to say about Henry V. I encourage you to see it and read the play, because it is wonderful. Thank you for suffering through this terribly long review, and I hope it didn't turn you off my blog entirely. Have a fantastic day.

The Mirror People

Greetings, gentle reader. (*happy dance because I finally get to say that*) This week, I am dusting off an old poem I wrote in high school. It's slightly silly and not at all sophisticated, but I do like it. You might like it too.
The initial inspiration came from a phrase in Return of the King, but it actually has very little to do with anything in that excellent book. Instead, it's more of a demonstration of how I love the classical/romantic style but am not yet very good at it.

Silvered-crystal people in a bright and shining sun

Rejoice in clouds of glory

They twirl and dance and run.

Splintered sunbeams shatter as they leap from eye to eye

Pure light sounding one clear note

In a long and liquid cry.

The light reflected from the sun in limbs and faces shone

The people laugh, for it lights up

Small embers of their own.

The beaming sun laughs with them, delighting so to see

His light reflected back in all

Its radiant purity.

Dark with earth, a head looked out upon the glittering ones

What strange, peculiar people, they,

To dance out in the sun.

He peered at them through slitted eyes and, wondering, rubbed his head

This gesture of his puzzlement

Revealing just a shred

Of brightest silver, smoothest glass, now free of earth and grime

Which, as he leaned into the sun,

Began, a bit,

To shine.

Mission Statement

Hello, all. As you can see, I've decided to start a blog. The reasons for this are many: I was bored. Why not? So something interesting will come up when you google me. Because I felt like it. To get some criticism for my stuff. Just in case someone really wanted to know about my random and scattered thoughts. Rampant egotism.
This blog will include my poetry, perhaps some (very) short stories, book and movie reviews, and occasionally, some interesting thoughts that I think are worth writing down. I'll probably be dealing with some serious stuff, e.g. spirituality and religion, literary criticism, the meaning of life, etc. a good bit of the time, but when I'm not, I'll try to be at least moderately funny. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, as well as any other sort of comment you care to make. I will try to post something new once or twice a week unless I have reasonable proof that no one besides my dad is reading it.

And now, (since this is, after all, to be a primarily literature-based blog) here is my mission statement, as well as an explanation for the blog's name, in poem form:


My hands are cupped to the mirrored glass,
My own living breath frosting it with confused whorls and ferns
As I try to peer through.

If I glimpse some shadow,
I'll write it here,
Though it may be nothing.
Yes, it's probably nothing
But my own reflection.