The woman's shield is edged in black
its center coloured by the glow
the dance she weaves moves in and out
of pillars of smoke and flame
she sings to no-one and to all
she dances to the rattle's pitch
her arms outstretched, she calls the earth
and sky to be her witnesses
the dim-lit shapes beyond the fire
of bear, of fox, of toad, of crow
in pine-like chorus moan reply:
her spirits watch her sorrowing
the dead man's corpse lies still and cold
upon the scaffold hardening
no spell recalls her lover's eyes
his smile is only memory
coyote, vulture, now will bear
his body to the quiet place
her spirits also now depart
and she alone is dancing there
her shield now too is cold and hard
the frost is beaded on its rim
she slings it on her back and goes:
the burial is finished.
-- 16.xi.90
Commentary: A test of the principle of linguistic purity
A literalist may argue that what is happening here is not strictly a "burial", since the corpse has been placed on a scaffold. "Funeral" could of course be used, and might indeed be more correct, for that refers to the ceremony attending the dead prior to inhumation or cremation, for example. But I have often striven to use Germanic roots rather than Romance. Here I suppose I fail mightily, so the objection to "funeral" (a word derived from Latin) is weakened:
center, coloured, dance, moves, pillar, flame,
chorus, reply, spirit,
corpse, scaffold, memory,
coyote, vulture, quite, place, depart,
finished:
All of these words come from sources other than the Germanic languages, although today they are common enough. The most outlandish, I suppose, is "coyote", which comes from the Meso-American language Nahuatl. I did wonder about that as I wrote the piece. A more "pure" version might be:
The woman's shield is edged in black
its middle by the glow is hued
the step she weaves goes in and out
of clouds of smoke and fire
she sings to no-one and to all
she steps out to the rattle's pitch
her arms outstretched, she calls the earth
and sky to be her witnesses
the dim-lit shapes beyond the fire
of bear, of fox, of toad, of crow
in pine-like ringing moan reply:
her soul-mates watch her sorrowing
the dead man's body still and cold
upon high gallows hardening:
no spell recalls her lover's eyes
his smile now only in her mind
the wolves and ravens now will bear
his body to the sighing ground
her soul-mates also now go forth
and she alone is standing there
her shield now too is cold and hard
the frost is beaded on its rim
she slings it on her back and goes:
the burial is over.
"Scaffold" non est "gallows", but I thought of "upon the high ground hardening" and rejected that. The basic notion of the poem is, in fact, not particularly "Germanic": I can't recall reading of any German group that exposed the dead, rather than practicing immediate inhumation or cremation. Still, I think the piece works well enough as it stands. The altered version alters too much of the meaning as a sacrifice to language. I have no plans to change the title to "Funeral", nor to propose as definitive the "pure English" version given just above.
Friday, February 29, 2008
As The King Has Fallen
Fire crowns the holly birth
thunder lingers long on the edges of the sky
where oak has fallen overnight
before her returning lightning
as the king has fallen
so may we all
so may the iron-lords speedily
may the water, sun, and earth arise
and may vain towers crumble
the holly king, the harvest king,
the new king to rule in the dawning age
where fools have soiled the hallowed lands
before her returning lightning
as the king has risen
so may we all
so may the tree-lords speedily
may the water, sun and wind arise
and may vain towers crumble.
-- 1987
thunder lingers long on the edges of the sky
where oak has fallen overnight
before her returning lightning
as the king has fallen
so may we all
so may the iron-lords speedily
may the water, sun, and earth arise
and may vain towers crumble
the holly king, the harvest king,
the new king to rule in the dawning age
where fools have soiled the hallowed lands
before her returning lightning
as the king has risen
so may we all
so may the tree-lords speedily
may the water, sun and wind arise
and may vain towers crumble.
-- 1987
She stands (by the white wall of wave)
She stands by the white wall of wave
a dune never swallowed
she stands and is the sea which does not stand
she moves through the dark cloud of night
unbroken light in darkness
she moves and is the dark which does not move
she cries in the burnt heart of earth
a tear never withered
she cries and is the earth which does not cry
standing, moving, crying ever
wave and light and earth respond
she hears in the blue caves of ice
a song without an ending
she hears and is the ice which does not hear
she feels the glistening air of dawn
a finger never calloused
she feels and is the air which does not feel
she turns in the grey face of rock
a dance never mastered
she turns and is the rock which does not turn
hearing, feeing, turning ever
ice and air and rock respond.
-- ? 2000
Commentary:
Why suppose for a moment that God should be symbolized only with the grammatical masculine?
a dune never swallowed
she stands and is the sea which does not stand
she moves through the dark cloud of night
unbroken light in darkness
she moves and is the dark which does not move
she cries in the burnt heart of earth
a tear never withered
she cries and is the earth which does not cry
standing, moving, crying ever
wave and light and earth respond
she hears in the blue caves of ice
a song without an ending
she hears and is the ice which does not hear
she feels the glistening air of dawn
a finger never calloused
she feels and is the air which does not feel
she turns in the grey face of rock
a dance never mastered
she turns and is the rock which does not turn
hearing, feeing, turning ever
ice and air and rock respond.
-- ? 2000
Commentary:
Why suppose for a moment that God should be symbolized only with the grammatical masculine?
Flocks
On the great water the flocks are gathered
white wings, brown wings, black wings mingle
on the ice an on the islands
the flocks sit crying through the night.
Follow each stream-mouth, follow each brooklet
smaller flocks have come to feed
in the meadows, in the thickets
red wings, yellow wings, green wings slide.
Over the fields the dense flocks flutter
shining wings, dull wings, whirring wings bend
trees turn white beneath their weight
the close flocks twitter through the night.
The great river and the smaller streams
ice-blue now and reed-beds golden:
in the shallows, standing, watching
blue wings, grey wings, folded wings wait.
-- ? 1990
white wings, brown wings, black wings mingle
on the ice an on the islands
the flocks sit crying through the night.
Follow each stream-mouth, follow each brooklet
smaller flocks have come to feed
in the meadows, in the thickets
red wings, yellow wings, green wings slide.
Over the fields the dense flocks flutter
shining wings, dull wings, whirring wings bend
trees turn white beneath their weight
the close flocks twitter through the night.
The great river and the smaller streams
ice-blue now and reed-beds golden:
in the shallows, standing, watching
blue wings, grey wings, folded wings wait.
-- ? 1990
If I Were
If I were the grain in the ear
you would be the mill and grind me down
or a pebble in the sea
you would be the wave and wash me down
or the stone of the grave
you would be the moss and melt me down:
you are the mill and the wave
you are the moss and the sun
and I am ground and worn and broken
and melted.
If I were the sweat of the brow
you would be the hand and fling me away
or the troublesome lace
you would be the finger and pull me away
or the challenge to the sameness
you would be the thought and put me away
or the cause of it all
you would be the mind and laugh me away:
you are the hand and the finger
you are the thought and the mind
and I am flung and put and pulled
and laughed.
-- ? 1991
you would be the mill and grind me down
or a pebble in the sea
you would be the wave and wash me down
or the stone of the grave
you would be the moss and melt me down:
you are the mill and the wave
you are the moss and the sun
and I am ground and worn and broken
and melted.
If I were the sweat of the brow
you would be the hand and fling me away
or the troublesome lace
you would be the finger and pull me away
or the challenge to the sameness
you would be the thought and put me away
or the cause of it all
you would be the mind and laugh me away:
you are the hand and the finger
you are the thought and the mind
and I am flung and put and pulled
and laughed.
-- ? 1991
Fictional Epigrams: But Are They Poetry?
In all of this need be no fear
for all moves as it has this seven month.
Lior Rhonh in Searhawk Mountain (Anaysavaskara), Act II, scene ii
The Udhivaean equivalent of Shakespeare's Macbeth's "I will not be afraid of death and bane,/ 'Til Birnam forest come to Dunsinane" (V.iii.59-60) -- the height of hubris. The aey speaking this line is about to be overthrown by an unforeseen strategy.
Armed as she is with aunties
who would teach her the all of womanhood.
Lior Rhonh's Parfyghyd ("The All of Womanhood"). Parodized by Alaf Mor, replacing "womanhood" with "widowhood" in a piece extolling murder of "excessive" spouses.
Commentary:
Epigrams and aphorisms have always fascinated me. The epigrams at each chapter heading in Frank Herbert's Dune were sufficient to carry me through that sometimes dry work. But epigrams themselves are fascinating. The sayings from Poor Richard's Almanack come immediately to mind: "He who drinks his ale alone / Let him catch his horse alone".
I find myself constantly referencing wise sayings, which may be something of a sign of weakness of thought. On the other hand, it is I who determines when the saying relates to the circumstance. And having a ready supply of wise sayings prepares one to cope with situations, one hopes, better than one would without.
Sometimes I have challenged my students to write some aphorisms as part either of a philosophy course or of a verbal communications course.
The first of the above epigrams from "Lior Rhonh" is an example of attempts at re-contextualizing in a secondary world wisdom from this primary world. So, in a world in which Birnam does not exist and the lopping of tree-limbs would be a most extreme stratagem, what might be an equivalent of Macbeth's lines?
The second works in the same vein overall but is an attempt more specifically to build a possible situation -- in the initial instance quite serious, but then parodized -- in a culture (paralleled by several traditional ones in our primary world) in which women have a leading role, and in which young women are guided in their education not by extra-familial institutions, but by an extended community of women elders.
Part of my fascination with epigrams is the way that they can be "unpacked": they are like mantras or seeds: all the genetic material is present in them to be something extensive, but it is in a very compressed form.
Now to the question in the title line: Are they Poetry?
Well, they are certainly compressed, so they may fit the "intensity" test, using LeGuin's definition of poetry. The degree of "pattern" they exhibit is harder to say. On that count, we might suppose that these are not poems.
The are intended to be taken as fragments of larger pieces. That those larger pieces do not exist is no obstacle to the imagination. Just as a potsherd can suggest any number of possible forms, so can these bits. If they are taken as fragments, how can we proceed to reconstruct?
I think we could fare as well or better with these than with what we have of Sappho.
for all moves as it has this seven month.
Lior Rhonh in Searhawk Mountain (Anaysavaskara), Act II, scene ii
The Udhivaean equivalent of Shakespeare's Macbeth's "I will not be afraid of death and bane,/ 'Til Birnam forest come to Dunsinane" (V.iii.59-60) -- the height of hubris. The aey speaking this line is about to be overthrown by an unforeseen strategy.
Armed as she is with aunties
who would teach her the all of womanhood.
Lior Rhonh's Parfyghyd ("The All of Womanhood"). Parodized by Alaf Mor, replacing "womanhood" with "widowhood" in a piece extolling murder of "excessive" spouses.
Commentary:
Epigrams and aphorisms have always fascinated me. The epigrams at each chapter heading in Frank Herbert's Dune were sufficient to carry me through that sometimes dry work. But epigrams themselves are fascinating. The sayings from Poor Richard's Almanack come immediately to mind: "He who drinks his ale alone / Let him catch his horse alone".
I find myself constantly referencing wise sayings, which may be something of a sign of weakness of thought. On the other hand, it is I who determines when the saying relates to the circumstance. And having a ready supply of wise sayings prepares one to cope with situations, one hopes, better than one would without.
Sometimes I have challenged my students to write some aphorisms as part either of a philosophy course or of a verbal communications course.
The first of the above epigrams from "Lior Rhonh" is an example of attempts at re-contextualizing in a secondary world wisdom from this primary world. So, in a world in which Birnam does not exist and the lopping of tree-limbs would be a most extreme stratagem, what might be an equivalent of Macbeth's lines?
The second works in the same vein overall but is an attempt more specifically to build a possible situation -- in the initial instance quite serious, but then parodized -- in a culture (paralleled by several traditional ones in our primary world) in which women have a leading role, and in which young women are guided in their education not by extra-familial institutions, but by an extended community of women elders.
Part of my fascination with epigrams is the way that they can be "unpacked": they are like mantras or seeds: all the genetic material is present in them to be something extensive, but it is in a very compressed form.
Now to the question in the title line: Are they Poetry?
Well, they are certainly compressed, so they may fit the "intensity" test, using LeGuin's definition of poetry. The degree of "pattern" they exhibit is harder to say. On that count, we might suppose that these are not poems.
The are intended to be taken as fragments of larger pieces. That those larger pieces do not exist is no obstacle to the imagination. Just as a potsherd can suggest any number of possible forms, so can these bits. If they are taken as fragments, how can we proceed to reconstruct?
I think we could fare as well or better with these than with what we have of Sappho.
17.iii.07 b: Gardens and Words
A word is a symbol of something --
a thing, a feeling, an abstraction of quality
A garden is also a symbol -- both the garden and the word
are products of the mind
A garden exists only in the mind
in the world outside the mind
there is only the plant, the ground, the water:
that they are in some sort of order
is no surprise but adventitious --
in the grand scheme of things many ordering schemes
are possible, and if an animal species
is involved, well -- whatever works.
Tomatoes have done well our of the bargain.
To have a place to flourish free of competition
and produce numerous offspring -- from the perspective
of the species this latter is the primary desideratum.
It's true that other species have been reduced in number,
but if we can believe the fossil records
this is not unheard of
and in fact the process of selection
relies upon attrition at some level.
Those of us who love words hope for their survival.
I mourn particularly the second person familiar, "thou".
Commentary:
Formally, this is an example of the sort of "poetry" to which one is often exposed at open readings.
What can be said about this piece that would qualify it as "poetry"?
Well, it's divided into lines. So it is not prose. Therefore, it must be poetry!
I'm not convinced by that argument. If this is poetry, it must justify its existence as such. Poetry typically builds on some sort of general pattern. What is the pattern here?
Well, we have an assertion (line 1) followed by three examples (line two)
a linked assertion with a condition (line 3b, line 4) and amplification (lines 5, 6) and then three examples (line 7) and then something of a conclusion (lines 8-12). An example is then given of the material of the conclusion (tomatoes, specifically: line 13), which is then abstracted into a principle (lines 14-16). A response to a possible objection to the application of this principle is given in lines 17-18, and then abstracted itself into a principle (lines 19-20).
Finally, a link is made to the first assertion about words, but through a new assertion (line 21), and an example given (line 22).
The pattern, then, is a rather loosely constructed logical argument.
The material of the argument: words, feelings, gardens, mind, ground, water, order, and finally "thou" could all be the stuff of poetry, but I think here we have only nominally, superficially, the appearance of poetry.
Yet the meditation here is not unpoetic. For surely, poetry is concerned with the way the mind and the world of matter interact. This passage (I hesitate to say "poem" at this stage, for it has not yet to my satisfaction been established as such) explores matters that could work perfectly well in a poem. But for my money -- and I wrote the darn thing, so surely I might have some say in its classification -- this is not a poem per se.
I include it here, first, as an opportunity to discuss the boundaries of poetry -- how far can one stray from fixed meter and rhyme before one is outside of the bounds of poetry? -- and second, as an offering to those whose definition of poetry permits such a piece as this. Obviously, I do occasionally write such things.
I generally write them in essay form, however.
a thing, a feeling, an abstraction of quality
A garden is also a symbol -- both the garden and the word
are products of the mind
A garden exists only in the mind
in the world outside the mind
there is only the plant, the ground, the water:
that they are in some sort of order
is no surprise but adventitious --
in the grand scheme of things many ordering schemes
are possible, and if an animal species
is involved, well -- whatever works.
Tomatoes have done well our of the bargain.
To have a place to flourish free of competition
and produce numerous offspring -- from the perspective
of the species this latter is the primary desideratum.
It's true that other species have been reduced in number,
but if we can believe the fossil records
this is not unheard of
and in fact the process of selection
relies upon attrition at some level.
Those of us who love words hope for their survival.
I mourn particularly the second person familiar, "thou".
Commentary:
Formally, this is an example of the sort of "poetry" to which one is often exposed at open readings.
What can be said about this piece that would qualify it as "poetry"?
Well, it's divided into lines. So it is not prose. Therefore, it must be poetry!
I'm not convinced by that argument. If this is poetry, it must justify its existence as such. Poetry typically builds on some sort of general pattern. What is the pattern here?
Well, we have an assertion (line 1) followed by three examples (line two)
a linked assertion with a condition (line 3b, line 4) and amplification (lines 5, 6) and then three examples (line 7) and then something of a conclusion (lines 8-12). An example is then given of the material of the conclusion (tomatoes, specifically: line 13), which is then abstracted into a principle (lines 14-16). A response to a possible objection to the application of this principle is given in lines 17-18, and then abstracted itself into a principle (lines 19-20).
Finally, a link is made to the first assertion about words, but through a new assertion (line 21), and an example given (line 22).
The pattern, then, is a rather loosely constructed logical argument.
The material of the argument: words, feelings, gardens, mind, ground, water, order, and finally "thou" could all be the stuff of poetry, but I think here we have only nominally, superficially, the appearance of poetry.
Yet the meditation here is not unpoetic. For surely, poetry is concerned with the way the mind and the world of matter interact. This passage (I hesitate to say "poem" at this stage, for it has not yet to my satisfaction been established as such) explores matters that could work perfectly well in a poem. But for my money -- and I wrote the darn thing, so surely I might have some say in its classification -- this is not a poem per se.
I include it here, first, as an opportunity to discuss the boundaries of poetry -- how far can one stray from fixed meter and rhyme before one is outside of the bounds of poetry? -- and second, as an offering to those whose definition of poetry permits such a piece as this. Obviously, I do occasionally write such things.
I generally write them in essay form, however.
17.iii.07 a
Pencil makes impermanent marks across the sheet
grey on white
like the snow
white on new green, now meting fast but seven inches
thick turning wet with the sunny minutes glaring
more than eyes can watch.
The little pools turn to rivulets,
flow into gullies.
The tracks of the raccoon and grackle and deer
are all wiped clean by the melting snow
as thoroughly as an eraser cleans the page
yet something has changed
no moment is erased completely
each builds on those before slowly moving what is to what is
in another place in another time.
Being with you I think about time
and timelessness living in the moment
and yet recollecting what has been
hoping and planning for the future
I say again and again
all we have is now
but now is all the moments that have been waiting
for all the moments that yet may be.
Is there one future only which ill be
and one past only which has been?
Might not there have been other pasts, if only we knew
and other futures, if only our moments take a certain direction?
The snow is melting fast.
It hid what was, and now reveals what will be
as my pencil slides across the page.
Commentary:
I tend to prefer poetry which is more structured than this -- for this reason I have tended toward lyric, where the need for metre is strong -- but there is structure here, nonetheless. Curiously, the structure lies predominantly in the content: the transition from the pencil and the action of drawing (or, rather, writing on the page, for the reference is very directly to the writing of the words "Pencil makes impermanent marks across the sheet/ grey on white/ like the snow", etc.) to the snow, then the reflection on the action of the snow, the meditation upon time, the return to the snow, and finally the return to the act of writing.
By no means is this "tight". I can think of at least one writer in my immediate circle who would boil this one down to about twelve lines. Sometimes, though, it's nice to stretch out a bit.
grey on white
like the snow
white on new green, now meting fast but seven inches
thick turning wet with the sunny minutes glaring
more than eyes can watch.
The little pools turn to rivulets,
flow into gullies.
The tracks of the raccoon and grackle and deer
are all wiped clean by the melting snow
as thoroughly as an eraser cleans the page
yet something has changed
no moment is erased completely
each builds on those before slowly moving what is to what is
in another place in another time.
Being with you I think about time
and timelessness living in the moment
and yet recollecting what has been
hoping and planning for the future
I say again and again
all we have is now
but now is all the moments that have been waiting
for all the moments that yet may be.
Is there one future only which ill be
and one past only which has been?
Might not there have been other pasts, if only we knew
and other futures, if only our moments take a certain direction?
The snow is melting fast.
It hid what was, and now reveals what will be
as my pencil slides across the page.
Commentary:
I tend to prefer poetry which is more structured than this -- for this reason I have tended toward lyric, where the need for metre is strong -- but there is structure here, nonetheless. Curiously, the structure lies predominantly in the content: the transition from the pencil and the action of drawing (or, rather, writing on the page, for the reference is very directly to the writing of the words "Pencil makes impermanent marks across the sheet/ grey on white/ like the snow", etc.) to the snow, then the reflection on the action of the snow, the meditation upon time, the return to the snow, and finally the return to the act of writing.
By no means is this "tight". I can think of at least one writer in my immediate circle who would boil this one down to about twelve lines. Sometimes, though, it's nice to stretch out a bit.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Fireflies
Our three hearts
beat as one beat
as one love binding
under the trees walking
we walk faster now
slower and stop
beneath the opening
stars in clouds stars
as one love binding
we wish upon
this evening to be this
evening always
watching fireflies
beat as one beat
as one love binding
in the trees winking
we stand feeling now
wineberries and ice
beneath the opening
mouths in smiles mouths
as one love binding
as fireflies spiral
this evening to be this
evening always
-- 15.vii.07
Commentary:
The 15th of July was a busy day for poetry at Seven Clouds House. Maybe I should be bitten by skunks more often. I wrote another piece, "Raspberries", accompanying "Fireflies" and partly developing the line "wineberries and ice", which while not exactly panned by my writers' group was sent back for considerable revision. However, I'm not convinced that the revisions improved it considerably, so here is the original:
My daughter calls
them wineberries but
to me it makes little difference
to me they are raspberries
the brambles catch in my hairs
the breeze lifts to their barbs
to me they are sweet patience
my fingers tickling the cups
of globes of honey into my palm
to me they are time frozen
a perfect day, tears healed
at least for the moment in slow
motion like a careful old man
slowly treading his way when
I am old I hope to be him.
I explained something of the background of the poem in an experience I had of being very deeply sad (which I was often last summer) and going to the berry patch beside a horse-pasture overlooking the Conestoga about the middle of the day and collecting something like a gallon of raspberries. The horses came close to see what I was doing, and I think they felt comfortable with me bending over and plucking the fruits, because for horses head down to the ground means safety and grazing; head up means danger and alertness. The writers' group suggested that I bring in more of my knowledge of raspberries. David Spolum said of the fifth stanza, "these three poor lines work too hard." Linda King Brown suggested that I "build in the light and the horses" and "make more clear the quaity of picking, bending over, gathering, harvesting" and also that the berry season is fleeting. Joanne Servansky suggested that I should develop the third and fifth stanza into something along the lines of "I don't want to be a dried-up berry; I want someone to savor my sweet honey", which led to jokes about "my fingers tickling the cups" and so on -- at which Mr Spolum said (we were meeting in his house) "You turn my dining room into a den of iniquity." Other great suggestions were to build in the notion of receiving, of communion, of accepting what the bramble is giving.
A partial reworking of this then became
My daughter calls
them wineberries but
to me it makes little difference
to me they are raspberries
the brambles catch in my hairs
the breeze lifts to their barbs
the breeze rises from the river
lazing below the pasture where
two horses stand at the fence watching
me graze -- I'm sure that's what
they think I am doing, bending, plucking
rising and moving, looking for more raspberries
to me they are sweet patience
my fingers tickling the cups
of globes of honey into my palm
for raspberries are tiny cups of seed and sugar
bals which steadily swell from the flower's center
until at perfect ripeness the orbs no longer can
hold the syrup, and then on feels it sticky on the tip
of the finger and with the slightest touch the cup loosens
and falls, a gift to the animal who will carry
the next generation of raspberry to another
fencerow, another wood's edge, and all unknowing
plant it with a neat packet of manure.
Without this moment, the sugars dry and the cup
becomes a withered blackened husk of skin before
falling to the ground beneath the old canes
my life is poised here as I walk among the brambles
half-way up a hill above the brown river, the rains
having past have left glorious golden days to bathe
me in sunlight, breeze lifting
in quiet moments trapped in my thoughts
I have been unable to live, lost in my feelings
I have been unable to plan
now I stoop and gather raspberries
and in this gentle slow motion
my center is restored.
beat as one beat
as one love binding
under the trees walking
we walk faster now
slower and stop
beneath the opening
stars in clouds stars
as one love binding
we wish upon
this evening to be this
evening always
watching fireflies
beat as one beat
as one love binding
in the trees winking
we stand feeling now
wineberries and ice
beneath the opening
mouths in smiles mouths
as one love binding
as fireflies spiral
this evening to be this
evening always
-- 15.vii.07
Commentary:
The 15th of July was a busy day for poetry at Seven Clouds House. Maybe I should be bitten by skunks more often. I wrote another piece, "Raspberries", accompanying "Fireflies" and partly developing the line "wineberries and ice", which while not exactly panned by my writers' group was sent back for considerable revision. However, I'm not convinced that the revisions improved it considerably, so here is the original:
My daughter calls
them wineberries but
to me it makes little difference
to me they are raspberries
the brambles catch in my hairs
the breeze lifts to their barbs
to me they are sweet patience
my fingers tickling the cups
of globes of honey into my palm
to me they are time frozen
a perfect day, tears healed
at least for the moment in slow
motion like a careful old man
slowly treading his way when
I am old I hope to be him.
I explained something of the background of the poem in an experience I had of being very deeply sad (which I was often last summer) and going to the berry patch beside a horse-pasture overlooking the Conestoga about the middle of the day and collecting something like a gallon of raspberries. The horses came close to see what I was doing, and I think they felt comfortable with me bending over and plucking the fruits, because for horses head down to the ground means safety and grazing; head up means danger and alertness. The writers' group suggested that I bring in more of my knowledge of raspberries. David Spolum said of the fifth stanza, "these three poor lines work too hard." Linda King Brown suggested that I "build in the light and the horses" and "make more clear the quaity of picking, bending over, gathering, harvesting" and also that the berry season is fleeting. Joanne Servansky suggested that I should develop the third and fifth stanza into something along the lines of "I don't want to be a dried-up berry; I want someone to savor my sweet honey", which led to jokes about "my fingers tickling the cups" and so on -- at which Mr Spolum said (we were meeting in his house) "You turn my dining room into a den of iniquity." Other great suggestions were to build in the notion of receiving, of communion, of accepting what the bramble is giving.
A partial reworking of this then became
My daughter calls
them wineberries but
to me it makes little difference
to me they are raspberries
the brambles catch in my hairs
the breeze lifts to their barbs
the breeze rises from the river
lazing below the pasture where
two horses stand at the fence watching
me graze -- I'm sure that's what
they think I am doing, bending, plucking
rising and moving, looking for more raspberries
to me they are sweet patience
my fingers tickling the cups
of globes of honey into my palm
for raspberries are tiny cups of seed and sugar
bals which steadily swell from the flower's center
until at perfect ripeness the orbs no longer can
hold the syrup, and then on feels it sticky on the tip
of the finger and with the slightest touch the cup loosens
and falls, a gift to the animal who will carry
the next generation of raspberry to another
fencerow, another wood's edge, and all unknowing
plant it with a neat packet of manure.
Without this moment, the sugars dry and the cup
becomes a withered blackened husk of skin before
falling to the ground beneath the old canes
my life is poised here as I walk among the brambles
half-way up a hill above the brown river, the rains
having past have left glorious golden days to bathe
me in sunlight, breeze lifting
in quiet moments trapped in my thoughts
I have been unable to live, lost in my feelings
I have been unable to plan
now I stoop and gather raspberries
and in this gentle slow motion
my center is restored.
Theme from "The Woman with Seven Demons": lyric
She said, "I was a girl of easy virtue
I found my way in hidden doors
with no keys I needed passwords
slipping through the cracks in floors
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I find salvation
before my die is cast?"
I told her I had plenty of faults of my own
after all, we're only flesh and bone;
she said, "That makes no difference to me
my pain goes down and hard like a crushing sea
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I find salvation
before my die is cast?
I've been wayward in my walk
and I haven't talked the talk
I've played the game but by my own rules
and now I see that I'm a fool
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I reach salvation
before my die is cast?"
She told me to imagine that I was her shoes
I guess I wasn't listening or I was confused
If I had it, I'd give her the world
but all I have is just this word:
"Yes.
Forever and a day:
for us always onwards following the way:
come on home to me, darling, let me hold your troubled head
let your tears flow down like rivers
let my sweet breath be your bread."
"And can I really change?
How long will it last?
Will I reach salvation
before my die is cast?"
"Yes, my darling, yes!
Forever and a day.
For us always onwards following the way:
come on home to me, darling, let me hold your troubled head
let your tears flow down like rivers
let my sweet breath be your bread."
-- 10.x.07
Commentary:
Of this piece, my friend and colleague Gwyn McVay said with great anguish, "You took my line and gave it to a whore!" The line to which she refers was not precisely hers, although she drew my attention to it. It was produced by one of her students, who likely intended "imagine you were in my shoes", but actually wrote "imagine you were my shoe". Ms McVay may develop this line however she likes, and I hope that she will feel free to do so.
I was presented with the phrase "imagine you were my shoe" at about the same time I was working on developing a story "The Woman with Seven Demons", in which I consider pivotal events in the life of a woman who arcs through Catholic school into modelling for pornographers, and then becomes a porn photographer and web-site designer herself, and then abandons the business entirely. (I have since found some interesting real-life parallels, certainly not exact, in Nina Hartley and Sharon Mitchell, PhD: a shout out to C. Pacifico Silano for providing me with the initial reference directing me to Hartley and Mitchell.)
I had begun and then abandoned storyboards for a film version, but as I was toying with what came out as this song, I thought that it might be fun to move through the action of the proposed film with songs. (I have since watched Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves; thanks to David Spolum for that suggestion. Plus ca change, plus c'est le meme chose. There is nothing new under the sun, but of the making of short stories and films there may be no end, even if the subject matter may start to stale a bit.)
While I talk influences here, I must say, too, that I was revisiting Brian Eno's songwriting again, and getting a big kick out of his Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy). Like several others, I've fantasized of remaking that album, but it's so brilliant just as it is, I hate to mess with it. Still, I learned "Burning Airlines Give You So Much More" and "The Fat Lady of Limbourg", and it was especially the latter that I had in mind with the apparent non-sequitors which build into a new structure of meaning in combination one with another.
For those curious about the song-writing and song-performance process, the original of this poem was essentially what is found above (as I've explained in earlier posts, I rarely rework a piece extensively -- "Wayworn", amusingly, was more heavily worked over than most); I struggled with the wording of the third line of the first refrain ("can I find" versus "can I reach" versus "will I reach" -- in the end I just used them all). "My sweet breath" in the second refrain was originally "the sweet breath", but that seemed too impersonal and was almost instantly amended. "I've played the game in my own way" has been changed to "I've played the game but by my own rules", which is sure enough cliche, but that's lyric poetry for you.
Other than those relatively minor changes, the only alteration was to the order of the verses. Verse four was originally verse two, verse two verse three, and verse three verse four: that's really a simple shift.
I found my way in hidden doors
with no keys I needed passwords
slipping through the cracks in floors
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I find salvation
before my die is cast?"
I told her I had plenty of faults of my own
after all, we're only flesh and bone;
she said, "That makes no difference to me
my pain goes down and hard like a crushing sea
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I find salvation
before my die is cast?
I've been wayward in my walk
and I haven't talked the talk
I've played the game but by my own rules
and now I see that I'm a fool
and can I really change?
and how long will it last?
and can I reach salvation
before my die is cast?"
She told me to imagine that I was her shoes
I guess I wasn't listening or I was confused
If I had it, I'd give her the world
but all I have is just this word:
"Yes.
Forever and a day:
for us always onwards following the way:
come on home to me, darling, let me hold your troubled head
let your tears flow down like rivers
let my sweet breath be your bread."
"And can I really change?
How long will it last?
Will I reach salvation
before my die is cast?"
"Yes, my darling, yes!
Forever and a day.
For us always onwards following the way:
come on home to me, darling, let me hold your troubled head
let your tears flow down like rivers
let my sweet breath be your bread."
-- 10.x.07
Commentary:
Of this piece, my friend and colleague Gwyn McVay said with great anguish, "You took my line and gave it to a whore!" The line to which she refers was not precisely hers, although she drew my attention to it. It was produced by one of her students, who likely intended "imagine you were in my shoes", but actually wrote "imagine you were my shoe". Ms McVay may develop this line however she likes, and I hope that she will feel free to do so.
I was presented with the phrase "imagine you were my shoe" at about the same time I was working on developing a story "The Woman with Seven Demons", in which I consider pivotal events in the life of a woman who arcs through Catholic school into modelling for pornographers, and then becomes a porn photographer and web-site designer herself, and then abandons the business entirely. (I have since found some interesting real-life parallels, certainly not exact, in Nina Hartley and Sharon Mitchell, PhD: a shout out to C. Pacifico Silano for providing me with the initial reference directing me to Hartley and Mitchell.)
I had begun and then abandoned storyboards for a film version, but as I was toying with what came out as this song, I thought that it might be fun to move through the action of the proposed film with songs. (I have since watched Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves; thanks to David Spolum for that suggestion. Plus ca change, plus c'est le meme chose. There is nothing new under the sun, but of the making of short stories and films there may be no end, even if the subject matter may start to stale a bit.)
While I talk influences here, I must say, too, that I was revisiting Brian Eno's songwriting again, and getting a big kick out of his Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy). Like several others, I've fantasized of remaking that album, but it's so brilliant just as it is, I hate to mess with it. Still, I learned "Burning Airlines Give You So Much More" and "The Fat Lady of Limbourg", and it was especially the latter that I had in mind with the apparent non-sequitors which build into a new structure of meaning in combination one with another.
For those curious about the song-writing and song-performance process, the original of this poem was essentially what is found above (as I've explained in earlier posts, I rarely rework a piece extensively -- "Wayworn", amusingly, was more heavily worked over than most); I struggled with the wording of the third line of the first refrain ("can I find" versus "can I reach" versus "will I reach" -- in the end I just used them all). "My sweet breath" in the second refrain was originally "the sweet breath", but that seemed too impersonal and was almost instantly amended. "I've played the game in my own way" has been changed to "I've played the game but by my own rules", which is sure enough cliche, but that's lyric poetry for you.
Other than those relatively minor changes, the only alteration was to the order of the verses. Verse four was originally verse two, verse two verse three, and verse three verse four: that's really a simple shift.
Wayworn: lyric
Bruised and muddied, torn
and bloodied, and now
you'd like to pretend that these wounds
will quickly mend
I'm gonna rise up, and then
I'm coming after you:
did you really think we were through?
Did I scare you? When love cuts
in like a knife it takes
a thousand miles of that road to heal
it's true,
and I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
He's got nothing I won't
give and I bet what I've got
that fellow'll never live, say
you won't have me but that teardrop
in your eye says a whole lot
more than that lie
and I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
Set me up then
you made off with the loot then
you sent me off without a boot what kind of
partner did you think
that I would be that
I would leave you in that
hole and walk off free?
And I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
-- 12.viii.07
Commentary:
This piece has three main inspirations: my emotional struggle relative to my estranged wife (who happens also to be a great fan of all things cowgirl); my emotional struggle relative to my romantic partner at the time I wrote the poem (who happens also not to be my wife); and the television show Firefly.
I was introduced to Firefly by two friends in July of 2007, and it was a great revelation to me. I think it's one of the most brilliant science-fiction works ever. My rationale for this probably belongs properly somewhere else, but I'll just say briefly that Whedon's imaginary world does precisely what Tolkien argues (in "On Fairy-Stories") the best fantasy must have: a close relationship to the laws of the Primary World. The more far-out elements of the story-telling in Firefly, such as the "experimental" origins of the Reevers, are still perfectly sensible, once one grasps the principles involved. The notion of the Alliance based upon a merger of the People's Republic of China and the United States of America is also perfectly valid predictively. But, let's also recognize the richness of character development, which is absolutely astonishing considering that the show lasted only a single season on the tube, and something like four episodes (some of the best, in fact) never aired.
Whereas with some other fine science-fiction shows (I won't name any, but it's not hard to search for examples) season after season passes with virtually no character development, but plenty of exposition of possibly reasonable physics, say, or slightly concealed topical commentary, Firefly presents realistic characters in realistic situations (okay, we have to give kudos to the brilliant meta-text of Wash's "this isn't science fiction" and Zoe's rejoinder, "you live on a spaceship"): why, this is a futuristic world in which, gosh-darn it, one of the main characters is a Christian minister (or at least pretending to be one: and yes, I suppose one could argue that despite the explicit reference to Noah it is possible that Book's "symbol" is not the Christian Bible, but why bother?). And let me just say, too, that when I first heard the theme song -- which, for those of you who are non-initiates, is a kind of c&w piece with a fiddle break -- I realized this was a daring project (and for those of you who are initiates, I was introduced to the show through the boxed set of DVDs, and I watched "Serenity" first, not "The Train Job").
Anyway, "Wayworn" is a kind of homage to Whedon and company. This could be sung by several of the characters sensibly. The idea suggested at several points of betrayal within a company of thieves is a link to the show. The music for "Wayworn" is maybe not exactly c&w, but it certainly points in that direction.
and bloodied, and now
you'd like to pretend that these wounds
will quickly mend
I'm gonna rise up, and then
I'm coming after you:
did you really think we were through?
Did I scare you? When love cuts
in like a knife it takes
a thousand miles of that road to heal
it's true,
and I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
He's got nothing I won't
give and I bet what I've got
that fellow'll never live, say
you won't have me but that teardrop
in your eye says a whole lot
more than that lie
and I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
Set me up then
you made off with the loot then
you sent me off without a boot what kind of
partner did you think
that I would be that
I would leave you in that
hole and walk off free?
And I'm wayworn and
I'm bloodied and I'm torn.
Did you really think it had nothing to do with you or
Did you really think it was all about you?
-- 12.viii.07
Commentary:
This piece has three main inspirations: my emotional struggle relative to my estranged wife (who happens also to be a great fan of all things cowgirl); my emotional struggle relative to my romantic partner at the time I wrote the poem (who happens also not to be my wife); and the television show Firefly.
I was introduced to Firefly by two friends in July of 2007, and it was a great revelation to me. I think it's one of the most brilliant science-fiction works ever. My rationale for this probably belongs properly somewhere else, but I'll just say briefly that Whedon's imaginary world does precisely what Tolkien argues (in "On Fairy-Stories") the best fantasy must have: a close relationship to the laws of the Primary World. The more far-out elements of the story-telling in Firefly, such as the "experimental" origins of the Reevers, are still perfectly sensible, once one grasps the principles involved. The notion of the Alliance based upon a merger of the People's Republic of China and the United States of America is also perfectly valid predictively. But, let's also recognize the richness of character development, which is absolutely astonishing considering that the show lasted only a single season on the tube, and something like four episodes (some of the best, in fact) never aired.
Whereas with some other fine science-fiction shows (I won't name any, but it's not hard to search for examples) season after season passes with virtually no character development, but plenty of exposition of possibly reasonable physics, say, or slightly concealed topical commentary, Firefly presents realistic characters in realistic situations (okay, we have to give kudos to the brilliant meta-text of Wash's "this isn't science fiction" and Zoe's rejoinder, "you live on a spaceship"): why, this is a futuristic world in which, gosh-darn it, one of the main characters is a Christian minister (or at least pretending to be one: and yes, I suppose one could argue that despite the explicit reference to Noah it is possible that Book's "symbol" is not the Christian Bible, but why bother?). And let me just say, too, that when I first heard the theme song -- which, for those of you who are non-initiates, is a kind of c&w piece with a fiddle break -- I realized this was a daring project (and for those of you who are initiates, I was introduced to the show through the boxed set of DVDs, and I watched "Serenity" first, not "The Train Job").
Anyway, "Wayworn" is a kind of homage to Whedon and company. This could be sung by several of the characters sensibly. The idea suggested at several points of betrayal within a company of thieves is a link to the show. The music for "Wayworn" is maybe not exactly c&w, but it certainly points in that direction.
Hunter Hunted
A single pillow on my bed
a place to lay my tired head
while you, in yours, lie cold
comforted by thoughts alone
lie awake and hear our talks
echoing in silence, visions of our walks
and the growing moon move on
into the west where I had gone
searching for your track before we ever met
I have been hunter, hunted, spent
half of my life it seems half dead
waiting for the fire of love to be fed.
-- 16.ix.07
Commentary:
This is one of the pieces generated by creating a rhyme scheme with one structure of the stanzas, and then dividing the lines into another structure.
a place to lay my tired head
while you, in yours, lie cold
comforted by thoughts alone
lie awake and hear our talks
echoing in silence, visions of our walks
and the growing moon move on
into the west where I had gone
searching for your track before we ever met
I have been hunter, hunted, spent
half of my life it seems half dead
waiting for the fire of love to be fed.
-- 16.ix.07
Commentary:
This is one of the pieces generated by creating a rhyme scheme with one structure of the stanzas, and then dividing the lines into another structure.
Cuckoo Child: a lyric poem for my daughter
My cuckoo child
lay you down in another nest
my darling daughter
see you dance
while I rest and o
how I wish
everything were perfect stars
and moonlight gentle
afternoons of laughter
in a house of rain and
sunshine
You're almost a woman
but you're always my darling
who lay with her head
in the palm of my hand
I wrote the lullaby
your mother sang to you
I've loved you since
before your first
drew breath and o
how I wish
everything were perfect stars
and moonlight gentle
afternoons of laughter
in a house of rain and
sunshine, my cuckoo child.
-- 15.vii.07
Commentary:
The "cuckoo" of the poem does not refer to insanity, but to the situation of the genus of bird called "cuckoo": they lay their eggs in other birds' nests. At the time I wrote this poem, I was fairly well finished with the physical process of separating from my wife, and at the time I thought perhaps that Willow would soon have a stepmother. This did not happen, but Willow was physically moved from the farmette on which we had been living to a rather different life shuttling between her mother's rancher in a lovely older suburban neighborhood with mature trees and my apartment home in the "country" (more apparent than actual: two suburban cul-de-sacs are within sight of my apartment).
The 15th of July, 2007, is notable in that it was the day I was bitten by a skunk when I tried to free him from a trap on my landlord's property. This resulted in a rabies series and an ongoing struggle with my insurance provider, which insists that 1) rabies series are not covered, or 2) the series falls within my deductible, or 3) the treatment was improper for the condition treated, or 4) some combination of the above as seems best to the provider at the moment.
On the 15.vii.07 I also wrote "Taillights", for those who are concerned to keep records of such things. Perhaps it was suggested by the skunk?
lay you down in another nest
my darling daughter
see you dance
while I rest and o
how I wish
everything were perfect stars
and moonlight gentle
afternoons of laughter
in a house of rain and
sunshine
You're almost a woman
but you're always my darling
who lay with her head
in the palm of my hand
I wrote the lullaby
your mother sang to you
I've loved you since
before your first
drew breath and o
how I wish
everything were perfect stars
and moonlight gentle
afternoons of laughter
in a house of rain and
sunshine, my cuckoo child.
-- 15.vii.07
Commentary:
The "cuckoo" of the poem does not refer to insanity, but to the situation of the genus of bird called "cuckoo": they lay their eggs in other birds' nests. At the time I wrote this poem, I was fairly well finished with the physical process of separating from my wife, and at the time I thought perhaps that Willow would soon have a stepmother. This did not happen, but Willow was physically moved from the farmette on which we had been living to a rather different life shuttling between her mother's rancher in a lovely older suburban neighborhood with mature trees and my apartment home in the "country" (more apparent than actual: two suburban cul-de-sacs are within sight of my apartment).
The 15th of July, 2007, is notable in that it was the day I was bitten by a skunk when I tried to free him from a trap on my landlord's property. This resulted in a rabies series and an ongoing struggle with my insurance provider, which insists that 1) rabies series are not covered, or 2) the series falls within my deductible, or 3) the treatment was improper for the condition treated, or 4) some combination of the above as seems best to the provider at the moment.
On the 15.vii.07 I also wrote "Taillights", for those who are concerned to keep records of such things. Perhaps it was suggested by the skunk?
Advent
I.
We awaken in the night
aching with the pain of the world
we wait for the word to form
this earth so solid seeming
like a crust of foam
with a word could cease
but this is not the promise.
To remember and to bless
I in the darkness spark
the first candle
in the middle night
a bell rings, its deep brown tone
shaking my spine
nearer comes the child:
to my heart, come
to my heart, I will give you shelter
in the dark, cold night
as in that night no one
gave me shelter, will you take me?
I am finding form
in the shaking flame.
Your breath is catching
harsh and then smooth
like a draft guttering me
feel the wind deep
in your belly smoothing
so the yellow flame will rise
and with your shadow
dance across the wall
like walkers in the desert
moonlight going home.
II.
Deeper into the darkness:
the moon thinning to a thread
You for whom we wait
gave shape to the seasons.
Deeper into the darkness:
in the shade of death and doubt
You in whom we trust
allow us to falter.
Deeper into the darkness:
the sulfur tang of a match
glowing in its agony
twisting like a soul
deeper into darkness:
we are not free, yet free
glowing in our torment
our soul rises in flame.
Deeper into darkness:
red light of the embers
choking smoke or incense
fingers over the candle.
Deeper into darkness
the hard shadow
looms over the light
that much brighter.
III.
Three fires now
hover over the royal cloth
brewed from sea-born shells
we await together and alone
crowns we do not deserve
we did not ask
but came into the world, cried
breathed, struggled,
and went on as well as we could
moving like driftwood
on the waves of life
slowly worn into something
rounded and soft.
In this night as the moon grows
we release our hate and fear
open like flowers,
our hearts ready to be renewed
to be children like you:
we await alone and together
crowns we do not deserve.
IV.
The longest night is past.
You, sun of suns, rise
bright beyond the clouds of our world.
In each quarter of the circle
candles bear up our hopes.
We awaken in the night
aching with the pain of the world
we wait for the word to form
this earth so solid seeming
like a crust of foam
with a word could cease
but this is not the promise.
To remember and to bless
I in the darkness spark
the first candle
in the middle night
a bell rings, its deep brown tone
shaking my spine
nearer comes the child:
to my heart, come
to my heart, I will give you shelter
in the dark, cold night
as in that night no one
gave me shelter, will you take me?
I am finding form
in the shaking flame.
Your breath is catching
harsh and then smooth
like a draft guttering me
feel the wind deep
in your belly smoothing
so the yellow flame will rise
and with your shadow
dance across the wall
like walkers in the desert
moonlight going home.
II.
Deeper into the darkness:
the moon thinning to a thread
You for whom we wait
gave shape to the seasons.
Deeper into the darkness:
in the shade of death and doubt
You in whom we trust
allow us to falter.
Deeper into the darkness:
the sulfur tang of a match
glowing in its agony
twisting like a soul
deeper into darkness:
we are not free, yet free
glowing in our torment
our soul rises in flame.
Deeper into darkness:
red light of the embers
choking smoke or incense
fingers over the candle.
Deeper into darkness
the hard shadow
looms over the light
that much brighter.
III.
Three fires now
hover over the royal cloth
brewed from sea-born shells
we await together and alone
crowns we do not deserve
we did not ask
but came into the world, cried
breathed, struggled,
and went on as well as we could
moving like driftwood
on the waves of life
slowly worn into something
rounded and soft.
In this night as the moon grows
we release our hate and fear
open like flowers,
our hearts ready to be renewed
to be children like you:
we await alone and together
crowns we do not deserve.
IV.
The longest night is past.
You, sun of suns, rise
bright beyond the clouds of our world.
In each quarter of the circle
candles bear up our hopes.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Lyric: The Water In Me
I take a walk along the river
I watch the current touch the shore
I wonder how I can deliver
when I'm asked for more and more
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
the feelings you only ever hide
I see the clouds above the hillside
so near they seem caught in the trees
my body shaking in a landslide
pulling me down onto my knees
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
The feelings you only ever hide
The rain is falling for the tears that
are caught behind my eyes half blind
with bitter memories of the jeers that
taunted me when I thought I was kind
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
the feelings you only ever hide
In the mirrors of frozen puddles
I see reflected sailing clouds
Here is the answer to my muddles
I speak the riddle's key out loud
The water in me's held up in ice
The water waits for the fire of the sun
The water in me is the price
Paid when you hold back from everyone
The water in me's held up in ice
The water waits for the fire of the sun
The water in me is the price
Paid when you hold back from everyone
-- January 2008
Commentary:
Maybe there is not too much to say here; this is a bit of the sort of nasty side of being married to a songwriter, I guess. If he or she is successful and sells thousands of units, why, you get to hear yourself dissed on the radio, and maybe thousands of people are saying, "Yeah, that's what I'd say to my old lady if only I had the balls." But it's not a ballsy song at all -- more in the line of Parthian shot. (Yes, tell all your friends: it is in THIS blog that the words "ballsy" and "Parthian shot" can occur in the very same sentence).
(For posterity's sake, the "river" here is in my mind the Conestoga, the "hillside" is above my house in Slackwater and the "mirror... puddle" was on Slackwater Road. But even a cursory glance at the poem should show that these specific landmarks are almost completely irrelevant to a reading of the piece.)
I watch the current touch the shore
I wonder how I can deliver
when I'm asked for more and more
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
the feelings you only ever hide
I see the clouds above the hillside
so near they seem caught in the trees
my body shaking in a landslide
pulling me down onto my knees
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
The feelings you only ever hide
The rain is falling for the tears that
are caught behind my eyes half blind
with bitter memories of the jeers that
taunted me when I thought I was kind
You say that I could never care
You say the failing's on my side
You say that we could never share
the feelings you only ever hide
In the mirrors of frozen puddles
I see reflected sailing clouds
Here is the answer to my muddles
I speak the riddle's key out loud
The water in me's held up in ice
The water waits for the fire of the sun
The water in me is the price
Paid when you hold back from everyone
The water in me's held up in ice
The water waits for the fire of the sun
The water in me is the price
Paid when you hold back from everyone
-- January 2008
Commentary:
Maybe there is not too much to say here; this is a bit of the sort of nasty side of being married to a songwriter, I guess. If he or she is successful and sells thousands of units, why, you get to hear yourself dissed on the radio, and maybe thousands of people are saying, "Yeah, that's what I'd say to my old lady if only I had the balls." But it's not a ballsy song at all -- more in the line of Parthian shot. (Yes, tell all your friends: it is in THIS blog that the words "ballsy" and "Parthian shot" can occur in the very same sentence).
(For posterity's sake, the "river" here is in my mind the Conestoga, the "hillside" is above my house in Slackwater and the "mirror... puddle" was on Slackwater Road. But even a cursory glance at the poem should show that these specific landmarks are almost completely irrelevant to a reading of the piece.)
On Poetry II: Lyric Poetry
I sometimes hear comments suggesting that lyrics are different than poetry (for example, "So-and-so's lyrics are almost poetry"). This is probably grounded in an elitist error -- the thought that lyric is a lesser form of poetry, extended to a complete demotion or ejection from the class. Perhaps the lyrics "When I'm Sixty-Four" by Lennon & McCartney are less liable to formal and substantial interpretation than "When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow" (Sonnet II) by Shakespeare. Perhaps.
Certainly, bad lyrics exist. Sed, abusus non tollit usum. In other words, don't slight lyric just because some lyricists can't, or don't, edit their work well. Lyric stands in the same relationship to poetry as apple to fruit, not as apple to orange. Lyric is a type of poetry. And bad poetry exists, too.
It's true that lyrics must be assessed at least in part with the thought that they are meant to be sung, not merely scanned with the eye or heard read. Particularly when lyrics include frequently repeated phrases, they may seem absurd or boring when merely read, but when sung they may gain power in the repetition. (Even when read, the repetition of the reading may begin to move the reader or listener into a magical state -- but that is perhaps better left for another discussion).
Consider the refrains of the Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime":
Same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
letting the days go by
water flowing underground
into the blue again
after the money's gone
once in a lifetime
there is water underground
Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
letting the days go by
water flowing underground
into the blue again
into the silent waters
under the rocks and stones
there is water underground
Particularly "same as it ever was", while of course the signature hook of the song, these refrains are fine (I think excellent) poetry, but to be read, they require either fortitude (temerity?) or alteration. When I sing this song, I avoid the strict repetition of the sounds in "same as it ever was"; I sing the eight repetitions, but I vary the melody. That's certainly not the way David Byrne approaches the lyric, but I guess that's just the point: I'm not David Byrne, and he's probably relieved.
Or, to take an example from closer to home: "Taillights".
I'm watching your taillights
going down the lane again
I feel such joy from the time we've had
I hardly mind
that now you're going home.
One day soon, I won't see those lights
fading faster than the fireflies
down that lane, 'cause you'll be home
with me
all night long.
As "poetry" to be read, well, I doubt that I would ever offer this one, but as lyric it's fine. I don't think I would ever read "Love Me Do" by Lennon and McCartney from a podium except perhaps for comic effect, but sung it's perfectly charming (although to sing it from a podium would be cognitively dissonant).
As sung, "Taillights" is a more extended production:
I'm watching your taillights
going down the lane again
I feel such joy from the time we've had
I hardly mind
that now you're going home
going home, oh
you're going home, you're going home
going home
you're going home, going home,
oh you're going home, you're going home.
You're going home
going home, oh
you're going home, you're going home
going home
you're going home, going home,
oh you're going home, you're going home.
One day soon, I won't see those lights
fading faster than the fireflies
down that lane 'cause you'll be home with me all night long
oh, you'll be home, you'll be home, oh
you'll be home, you'll be home, all night long,
you'll be home you'll be home, oh, you'll be home, you'll be home.
Oh, you'll be home, you'll be home, oh
you'll be home, you'll be home, all night long,
you'll be home you'll be home, oh, you'll be home, you'll be home.
But I'm not convinced that the greater length increases the podium-worthiness of the piece. It does give greater scope for vocal styling in singing.
Certainly, bad lyrics exist. Sed, abusus non tollit usum. In other words, don't slight lyric just because some lyricists can't, or don't, edit their work well. Lyric stands in the same relationship to poetry as apple to fruit, not as apple to orange. Lyric is a type of poetry. And bad poetry exists, too.
It's true that lyrics must be assessed at least in part with the thought that they are meant to be sung, not merely scanned with the eye or heard read. Particularly when lyrics include frequently repeated phrases, they may seem absurd or boring when merely read, but when sung they may gain power in the repetition. (Even when read, the repetition of the reading may begin to move the reader or listener into a magical state -- but that is perhaps better left for another discussion).
Consider the refrains of the Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime":
Same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
same as it ever was
Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
letting the days go by
water flowing underground
into the blue again
after the money's gone
once in a lifetime
there is water underground
Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
letting the days go by
water flowing underground
into the blue again
into the silent waters
under the rocks and stones
there is water underground
Particularly "same as it ever was", while of course the signature hook of the song, these refrains are fine (I think excellent) poetry, but to be read, they require either fortitude (temerity?) or alteration. When I sing this song, I avoid the strict repetition of the sounds in "same as it ever was"; I sing the eight repetitions, but I vary the melody. That's certainly not the way David Byrne approaches the lyric, but I guess that's just the point: I'm not David Byrne, and he's probably relieved.
Or, to take an example from closer to home: "Taillights".
I'm watching your taillights
going down the lane again
I feel such joy from the time we've had
I hardly mind
that now you're going home.
One day soon, I won't see those lights
fading faster than the fireflies
down that lane, 'cause you'll be home
with me
all night long.
As "poetry" to be read, well, I doubt that I would ever offer this one, but as lyric it's fine. I don't think I would ever read "Love Me Do" by Lennon and McCartney from a podium except perhaps for comic effect, but sung it's perfectly charming (although to sing it from a podium would be cognitively dissonant).
As sung, "Taillights" is a more extended production:
I'm watching your taillights
going down the lane again
I feel such joy from the time we've had
I hardly mind
that now you're going home
going home, oh
you're going home, you're going home
going home
you're going home, going home,
oh you're going home, you're going home.
You're going home
going home, oh
you're going home, you're going home
going home
you're going home, going home,
oh you're going home, you're going home.
One day soon, I won't see those lights
fading faster than the fireflies
down that lane 'cause you'll be home with me all night long
oh, you'll be home, you'll be home, oh
you'll be home, you'll be home, all night long,
you'll be home you'll be home, oh, you'll be home, you'll be home.
Oh, you'll be home, you'll be home, oh
you'll be home, you'll be home, all night long,
you'll be home you'll be home, oh, you'll be home, you'll be home.
But I'm not convinced that the greater length increases the podium-worthiness of the piece. It does give greater scope for vocal styling in singing.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
26.ii.08 Some New Song Lyrics
"Raining Again"
It's raining again, and I'm sitting here alone
listening to the clatter on the roof
as the night grows long long toward the dawn
and I long, long
for a different ending to my day
and it's raining again and once again I'm all alone
thinking about my daughter with her ma
sleeping, how I'd love to kiss her brow
and tuck her in
from these many miles away
and the train's cry down by Safe Harbor
carries up the river with the rain
I hear a Barred Owl calling in the hollow
"Who cooks for you-all, who cooks for you?"
No one cooks for me, owl, I'm frightful lonely
as the rain
pours down to wash me away
I wish I had a shoulder I could cry on
I've go nobody I can telephone
When I'm feeling lonely I have nobody
to listen to me
like I listen to the rain
and the train's cry down by Safe Harbor
echoes up the river with the rain
and I think of all of this
long, long, I'm here alone
The rain is my friend, with me when I'm all alone
I whisper to its clatter on the roof
It's my lullaby long long toward the dawn
and I long, long to hear its melody again.
-- 29.i.08
Commentary:
As usual, this piece is essentially a first draft. The only emendations I see in the manuscript are the addition of "here" in the first line, a replacement of "rail" with "train" (which happened in the process of writing the line), a replacement of "hide my tears" with "wash me away" at the end of the third verse, the addition of "'ve" after "I" in the second line of the fourth verse, and a replacement in the last lines of the fourth verse of "Nobody who will listen to the rain at the end of the day" with "to listen to me like the rain", replaced in turn by the lines given above.
The music is intended to be roots blues, but that is more a feeling than an actual appropriation of traditional blues construction. For those who can figure out such things, the notes of the guitar chords involved are DADADF, DDDADA, DADCDF, DGDBDG, with a run from the "C" in the third chord C-B-F on the 3rd and 4th strings; and for those interested in such things this involves some fairly relaxed left-hand positions, since the tuning I employ is DGDADE (6-1). I have just hit the ceiling of my technical musical knowledge.
The lyrics are straightforward; I was not doing any kind of clever philosophical mind experiment in experiencing some Other's Weltanschaaung: no, it is about my experience at the time of writing the piece -- about a month ago. It was, indeed raining, I did indeed hear a train whistle. I took a bit of a liberty with the Barred Owl: although I have heard the local Barreds calling lately, none called that evening that I heard.
When I play this song, I think of someone sitting in a tarpaper shack with a corrugated metal roof. That is an extreme exaggeration downward of my current digs (very nice contemporary, and in fact brand-new, three-bedroom with a low-flush toilet and even a dishwasher [which I use as a concealed drying rack], thanks Ben & Mercia!), but even so all this opulence is irrelevant to the heart. And of course life can be rich and wonderful in a tarpaper shack. I think.
In fairness to people who do live in tarpaper shacks, I will say that for the better part of six months I lived in the shell of a mobile home with no electric, no heat, no running water, and -- for a long time -- no other means of cooking than an open fire (not in the trailer, which was wrapped in 4-mil plastic in an attempt to weatherproof it). This was a traumatic experience for me, overall. So, if you live in a tarpaper shack and happen to be reading this, let me ask you this: what do you think of the tarpaper shack? If you don't like it, what obligation do you think I have to change that for you? Because I love feeling responsible.
No one should have to live in a tarpaper shack or a plastic-wrapped shell of a trailer. It was a good experience for a pampered suburbanite such as myself to have, particularly since it wasn't so much something I chose as something which was thrust upon me. But that whole episode produced its own fascinating batch of songs nineteen years ago. That's another story.
I'm a bit nervous about some of the language here. "Frightful" as an adverb is not a word I use regularly. As I was composing these lyrics I was thinking in part of my experience of what years ago we called Negro Spirituals. Perhaps that is no longer an approved term for this sort of music. My mother was fond of these, or at any rate it was my impression that she was -- I remember her singing them to me when I was very young. She also sang "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess.
It's raining again, and I'm sitting here alone
listening to the clatter on the roof
as the night grows long long toward the dawn
and I long, long
for a different ending to my day
and it's raining again and once again I'm all alone
thinking about my daughter with her ma
sleeping, how I'd love to kiss her brow
and tuck her in
from these many miles away
and the train's cry down by Safe Harbor
carries up the river with the rain
I hear a Barred Owl calling in the hollow
"Who cooks for you-all, who cooks for you?"
No one cooks for me, owl, I'm frightful lonely
as the rain
pours down to wash me away
I wish I had a shoulder I could cry on
I've go nobody I can telephone
When I'm feeling lonely I have nobody
to listen to me
like I listen to the rain
and the train's cry down by Safe Harbor
echoes up the river with the rain
and I think of all of this
long, long, I'm here alone
The rain is my friend, with me when I'm all alone
I whisper to its clatter on the roof
It's my lullaby long long toward the dawn
and I long, long to hear its melody again.
-- 29.i.08
Commentary:
As usual, this piece is essentially a first draft. The only emendations I see in the manuscript are the addition of "here" in the first line, a replacement of "rail" with "train" (which happened in the process of writing the line), a replacement of "hide my tears" with "wash me away" at the end of the third verse, the addition of "'ve" after "I" in the second line of the fourth verse, and a replacement in the last lines of the fourth verse of "Nobody who will listen to the rain at the end of the day" with "to listen to me like the rain", replaced in turn by the lines given above.
The music is intended to be roots blues, but that is more a feeling than an actual appropriation of traditional blues construction. For those who can figure out such things, the notes of the guitar chords involved are DADADF, DDDADA, DADCDF, DGDBDG, with a run from the "C" in the third chord C-B-F on the 3rd and 4th strings; and for those interested in such things this involves some fairly relaxed left-hand positions, since the tuning I employ is DGDADE (6-1). I have just hit the ceiling of my technical musical knowledge.
The lyrics are straightforward; I was not doing any kind of clever philosophical mind experiment in experiencing some Other's Weltanschaaung: no, it is about my experience at the time of writing the piece -- about a month ago. It was, indeed raining, I did indeed hear a train whistle. I took a bit of a liberty with the Barred Owl: although I have heard the local Barreds calling lately, none called that evening that I heard.
When I play this song, I think of someone sitting in a tarpaper shack with a corrugated metal roof. That is an extreme exaggeration downward of my current digs (very nice contemporary, and in fact brand-new, three-bedroom with a low-flush toilet and even a dishwasher [which I use as a concealed drying rack], thanks Ben & Mercia!), but even so all this opulence is irrelevant to the heart. And of course life can be rich and wonderful in a tarpaper shack. I think.
In fairness to people who do live in tarpaper shacks, I will say that for the better part of six months I lived in the shell of a mobile home with no electric, no heat, no running water, and -- for a long time -- no other means of cooking than an open fire (not in the trailer, which was wrapped in 4-mil plastic in an attempt to weatherproof it). This was a traumatic experience for me, overall. So, if you live in a tarpaper shack and happen to be reading this, let me ask you this: what do you think of the tarpaper shack? If you don't like it, what obligation do you think I have to change that for you? Because I love feeling responsible.
No one should have to live in a tarpaper shack or a plastic-wrapped shell of a trailer. It was a good experience for a pampered suburbanite such as myself to have, particularly since it wasn't so much something I chose as something which was thrust upon me. But that whole episode produced its own fascinating batch of songs nineteen years ago. That's another story.
I'm a bit nervous about some of the language here. "Frightful" as an adverb is not a word I use regularly. As I was composing these lyrics I was thinking in part of my experience of what years ago we called Negro Spirituals. Perhaps that is no longer an approved term for this sort of music. My mother was fond of these, or at any rate it was my impression that she was -- I remember her singing them to me when I was very young. She also sang "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
On Poetry
Poetry I think is very well defined by Ursula K. LeGuin as "patterned intensity of language".
To me, poetry is among the purest, perhaps the singe purest, linguistic art.
Art, to me, is self-expression, but by this I do not mean expression of the personality or ego. Surely, these have plentiful expression -- perhaps they are themselves nothing more than expression. But art from my perspective is the expression, the pressing-out, the coming-into-the-outer-word, of the inner being.
The inner being is both that which is most uniquely individual and that which is most universal in each of us.
I know that I am in the presence of truly great art when I say of it, "that is precisely what I would have done with that medium, to present that message. It could not be better demonstrated." When I see Andy Goldsworthy's works, for example, I am in complete awe. And I think I may have stated elsewhere that I believe that no visual art is more purely art than Goldsworthy's, in part because there is nothing between Goldsworthy and his art: the art is an expression not only of Goldsworthy's nature, but the nature of his medium; he has given voice to ice and stone and wood and leaf: the voice they themselves have, but only with a situation of amazing miraculous probability would they ever exhibit that voice... but with the human mind and heart and hand and will at work, that voice rings out clearly. Goldsworthy's work comes as close as I think I have ever seen any work to what Tolkien calls "subcreation".
When I am in the presence of paper and pencil and suddenly words begin to come, and I am in no way forcing the words, but channeling them gently: this is when the best poetry comes, and I hesitate to call it my own. It has come through me, but it belongs ultimately to all.
This does not mean I will never assert my copyright vigorously, but I am talking here about art, not about law.
These Trenches is an example of something remarkable in poetry. I composed this piece, in the sense that I was ready at the moment that words flowed, they came through me, it was my hand tapping the keyboard. Yet I can read this piece and experience the same shuddering emotion I would experience from any great work of poetry. This may sound egotistical, but I assure my reader that it is precisely not ego in the recognition of the value of a piece such as this.
Indeed, I am inclined to believe that ego is a considerable impediment to the poet. When not composing, it may be fine to be inflated as a dirigible, but when Poetry calls, ego must be swept away. In my experience (and I have been writing poetry off and on for a little over thirty years), poetry is often very bad when one tries to make it happen. It is often very good when it happens on its own.
Where does this leave the poet as a practitioner?
It might seem as though the best poetry would be produced by someone who never thought about structure, musicality, metre, diction, tone, and so on... and yet this proves often not to be the case. Sometimes poets who have been working for only a few years and who are completely untrained produce amazingly fine work, it's true. Especially persons first hearing the call of Poetry write excellent work, and they should probably be grateful to some events in their lives that opened that window. They may well be frustrated as the window closes; they may so far despair of the loss (as they experience it) to commit suicide, or to wish to do so.
The tradition of speaking of the Muse is, in my experience, not fatuous: but the Muse is not outside of the self. The Muse, and the Muse's gift, which is Music, is within: part of me and yet not me, just as I am part of the world and yet also my own being. We who are called by the Muse respond to something within us, which if denied might produce tremendous energy, but also might produce horrific injury.
The power of the Muse is the full power of human being, but just as in anything else I am far from fully realized as a human, just so in poetry. Poetry, then, becomes a model for me of what it may be to be human.
Just as life calls to me in a broad and tremendous challenge, so does Poetry, but Poetry is more focused by far than life in its entirety. Still, to be better at giving Poetry an opportunity to come into mental and physical being is to be better at being human.
How is this to be done?
Consider LeGuin's definition: poetry is patterned intensity of language. This can take any number of different forms. Rhyme is a pattern, so is rhythm and metre, so is diction, and so on. All the elements classically associated with poetry, all the elements associated with language generally, are patterns. When the patterns are intensified, like sunrays condensed with a magnifying glass and focused on paper, something incendiary occurs.
Just as visual artists must prepare their bodies to manipulate their media as fits the needs of their art, poets must prepare themselves.
Vast numbers of words may be placed into a line of poetry in almost infinite combinations, but as one begins to arrange groups of words, the range of possibilities narrows. With experience, one comes to know when one is saying not enough and when one is saying too much.
Contemplation, observation, meditation: these are considerable parts of the poetic life.
But these not be solitary or quiet pursuits, not outwardly, at any rate: they are states of the mind, the heart, the will far more than of the body.
One must strive to understand that as a poet, one is an instrument of poetry, and just as each different sort of instrument has a different range of sounds, so each poet expresses a certain range. I will never approach Homer as a poet, for I shall never have his command of Greek. I will never approach Shakespeare as a poet, because I am not an instrument of iambic pentameter. But neither of them shall ever approach me, because neither regard nature or the power of the Germanic roots of English as I do.
To achieve intensity of language, I have tended very strongly over the past twenty years to restrict my vocabulary when communicating poetry to words deriving from Anglo-Saxon. I do slip, sometimes purposefully, sometimes explainably, but increasingly my understanding of etymology has fed my poetic activity.
Surely, this is not desirable for all poets any more than it is desirable for clarinets to be the only instrument in a symphony orchestra.
Each poet must discover her or his own voice. For some it is through particular forms (so one might associate Shakespeare with the sonnet, for example). For others it may be through subject matter or tone (so one might associate Poe or Plath with gloom, for example). For me, assonance, restricted diction, and musicality of phrasing have been guiding principles.
To me, poetry is among the purest, perhaps the singe purest, linguistic art.
Art, to me, is self-expression, but by this I do not mean expression of the personality or ego. Surely, these have plentiful expression -- perhaps they are themselves nothing more than expression. But art from my perspective is the expression, the pressing-out, the coming-into-the-outer-word, of the inner being.
The inner being is both that which is most uniquely individual and that which is most universal in each of us.
I know that I am in the presence of truly great art when I say of it, "that is precisely what I would have done with that medium, to present that message. It could not be better demonstrated." When I see Andy Goldsworthy's works, for example, I am in complete awe. And I think I may have stated elsewhere that I believe that no visual art is more purely art than Goldsworthy's, in part because there is nothing between Goldsworthy and his art: the art is an expression not only of Goldsworthy's nature, but the nature of his medium; he has given voice to ice and stone and wood and leaf: the voice they themselves have, but only with a situation of amazing miraculous probability would they ever exhibit that voice... but with the human mind and heart and hand and will at work, that voice rings out clearly. Goldsworthy's work comes as close as I think I have ever seen any work to what Tolkien calls "subcreation".
When I am in the presence of paper and pencil and suddenly words begin to come, and I am in no way forcing the words, but channeling them gently: this is when the best poetry comes, and I hesitate to call it my own. It has come through me, but it belongs ultimately to all.
This does not mean I will never assert my copyright vigorously, but I am talking here about art, not about law.
These Trenches is an example of something remarkable in poetry. I composed this piece, in the sense that I was ready at the moment that words flowed, they came through me, it was my hand tapping the keyboard. Yet I can read this piece and experience the same shuddering emotion I would experience from any great work of poetry. This may sound egotistical, but I assure my reader that it is precisely not ego in the recognition of the value of a piece such as this.
Indeed, I am inclined to believe that ego is a considerable impediment to the poet. When not composing, it may be fine to be inflated as a dirigible, but when Poetry calls, ego must be swept away. In my experience (and I have been writing poetry off and on for a little over thirty years), poetry is often very bad when one tries to make it happen. It is often very good when it happens on its own.
Where does this leave the poet as a practitioner?
It might seem as though the best poetry would be produced by someone who never thought about structure, musicality, metre, diction, tone, and so on... and yet this proves often not to be the case. Sometimes poets who have been working for only a few years and who are completely untrained produce amazingly fine work, it's true. Especially persons first hearing the call of Poetry write excellent work, and they should probably be grateful to some events in their lives that opened that window. They may well be frustrated as the window closes; they may so far despair of the loss (as they experience it) to commit suicide, or to wish to do so.
The tradition of speaking of the Muse is, in my experience, not fatuous: but the Muse is not outside of the self. The Muse, and the Muse's gift, which is Music, is within: part of me and yet not me, just as I am part of the world and yet also my own being. We who are called by the Muse respond to something within us, which if denied might produce tremendous energy, but also might produce horrific injury.
The power of the Muse is the full power of human being, but just as in anything else I am far from fully realized as a human, just so in poetry. Poetry, then, becomes a model for me of what it may be to be human.
Just as life calls to me in a broad and tremendous challenge, so does Poetry, but Poetry is more focused by far than life in its entirety. Still, to be better at giving Poetry an opportunity to come into mental and physical being is to be better at being human.
How is this to be done?
Consider LeGuin's definition: poetry is patterned intensity of language. This can take any number of different forms. Rhyme is a pattern, so is rhythm and metre, so is diction, and so on. All the elements classically associated with poetry, all the elements associated with language generally, are patterns. When the patterns are intensified, like sunrays condensed with a magnifying glass and focused on paper, something incendiary occurs.
Just as visual artists must prepare their bodies to manipulate their media as fits the needs of their art, poets must prepare themselves.
Vast numbers of words may be placed into a line of poetry in almost infinite combinations, but as one begins to arrange groups of words, the range of possibilities narrows. With experience, one comes to know when one is saying not enough and when one is saying too much.
Contemplation, observation, meditation: these are considerable parts of the poetic life.
But these not be solitary or quiet pursuits, not outwardly, at any rate: they are states of the mind, the heart, the will far more than of the body.
One must strive to understand that as a poet, one is an instrument of poetry, and just as each different sort of instrument has a different range of sounds, so each poet expresses a certain range. I will never approach Homer as a poet, for I shall never have his command of Greek. I will never approach Shakespeare as a poet, because I am not an instrument of iambic pentameter. But neither of them shall ever approach me, because neither regard nature or the power of the Germanic roots of English as I do.
To achieve intensity of language, I have tended very strongly over the past twenty years to restrict my vocabulary when communicating poetry to words deriving from Anglo-Saxon. I do slip, sometimes purposefully, sometimes explainably, but increasingly my understanding of etymology has fed my poetic activity.
Surely, this is not desirable for all poets any more than it is desirable for clarinets to be the only instrument in a symphony orchestra.
Each poet must discover her or his own voice. For some it is through particular forms (so one might associate Shakespeare with the sonnet, for example). For others it may be through subject matter or tone (so one might associate Poe or Plath with gloom, for example). For me, assonance, restricted diction, and musicality of phrasing have been guiding principles.
In The Waiting Time
Weary of the warrior's way
aching for some time of peace
I move from room to room unknowing
how to carry out this pace
I tell myself this will be over
the waiting time for us will end
and in newness this life open
out into its spring again
I am raw as foggy mornings
wishing for that smoking cup
between my hands, or your face
looking always, always up
I could wish and sometimes do
that time could somehow be
turned back, and yet our paths
that world would cross, and we
would find each other as we have
moving forward, building our lives
into something hopeful, better
but that in us which now strives
I wonder: would it be in us
were time turned back, or
is it only in us now because
our wearing lives have so worn
us, changed, into our present form?
29.xi.07
aching for some time of peace
I move from room to room unknowing
how to carry out this pace
I tell myself this will be over
the waiting time for us will end
and in newness this life open
out into its spring again
I am raw as foggy mornings
wishing for that smoking cup
between my hands, or your face
looking always, always up
I could wish and sometimes do
that time could somehow be
turned back, and yet our paths
that world would cross, and we
would find each other as we have
moving forward, building our lives
into something hopeful, better
but that in us which now strives
I wonder: would it be in us
were time turned back, or
is it only in us now because
our wearing lives have so worn
us, changed, into our present form?
29.xi.07
The Work Is Love
Turning to work
and returning to work
finding in the work
purpose and direction
Work that is play
and words that play
finding in that play
content and satisfaction
Love like the sea wave
bores caves in the cliff
that booms until it tumbles
with the high tide that whelms
and pulls back to the depths
Love like the sea wave
pushes up the dune
silts in the mangrove
piles high the wrack
over the rocks
lying still waiting as they are slowly worn
The work is love
and like a sea wave
grinds the rock
with glittering flecks of shell
Work that is play
splashes and foams
and roars, bores in the cliff
until it tumbles
with the high tide that whelms
and pulls back to the depths.
25.i.08
and returning to work
finding in the work
purpose and direction
Work that is play
and words that play
finding in that play
content and satisfaction
Love like the sea wave
bores caves in the cliff
that booms until it tumbles
with the high tide that whelms
and pulls back to the depths
Love like the sea wave
pushes up the dune
silts in the mangrove
piles high the wrack
over the rocks
lying still waiting as they are slowly worn
The work is love
and like a sea wave
grinds the rock
with glittering flecks of shell
Work that is play
splashes and foams
and roars, bores in the cliff
until it tumbles
with the high tide that whelms
and pulls back to the depths.
25.i.08
These Trenches
These trenches are not dug in the chalk soil of the old hills
not pocked with mortar shells, not strafed by machine guns
not burned by flamethrowers, not filled with rainwater and rot
Here we do not climb ladders to lurch into barbed wire
watching the sturdy farmers, miners, factory workers
torn limb from limb or eroded by shrouding yellow fog
These trenches are excavated in our minds, these dugouts
reinforced with sandbags and creosoted timbers reek
in our hearts; words the howitzers that our lives rock.
We soldier on, our feet in churning mud unyielding, holding
close the bolt-action of our fears, unwilling to let go,
doing or dying for king and country without final trust
but not knowing what else to do we follow orders
and with the spade and pick of the imagination carve
a new salient to guard our exposed flank's thrust.
O God in Heaven who succored the dying in that great war
when the tank was new and the aeroplane pity us
in these trenches of hopelessness where we slogging rust.
29.xi.2007
Author's commentary:
This poem was written for a friend who often uses imagery of war in her poems about her marriage. Both of us have suffered from abuse within our relationships -- suffered both as abused and abuser, I think, although perhaps I should not speak for her. She wrote to me about her recommitment to her marriage, and this was linked with the ecclesiastical season of Advent. She spoke of the first Sunday in Advent as being New Year's Day; for me the Christian New Year would be either Christmas (which of course Advent anticipates) or Easter, but I will not argue the point too much.
In one evening, I wrote a series of poems considering the basic theme of expectation of the coming Good; These Trenches expresses the fundamental difficulty we face as humans: in our minds and hearts, we are at war -- at war with each other, at war with nature, at war with ourselves.
Structurally, the poem evolved at a point when I was playing with a technique suggested to me by Joanne Servansky. She and I were toying with various sorts of codes, and she began to write poems in which she wrote a kind of standard ABAB CDCD EFEF rhyme scheme, but then divided the stanzas ABA BCD CDE FEF, for example. I found this intriguing, and I began to construct poems which were basically four-lines-to-a-stanza but then divided into 3-2-3-2 patterns or even more abstracted combinations, the goal being to set up novel interactions. At the same time I was also working at the back of my mind to break free from end-stopping my lines, incorporating more enjambment not only from line to line but from stanza to stanza. (In large part, this last has been a goal since I attended a workshop with Li-Young Lee a few years ago; Mr Lee suggested to me that my poems were like a series of closed rooms because of the end-stopping: with enjambment, it would be as though doors or windows were opened in the lines and stanzas inviting the listener or reader to move on to the next line, the next stanza.)
This poem does not directly incorporate the above technique, but, as I note, was composed at the same point in my thinking. I did not feel that rhyme would be appropriate to the subject, but I used assonance to link the stanzas into two groups.
The first group (rot/fog/rock) identifies the real location of the war: it is not here, not here, not here (first stanza), even though the horror is very immediate and everyday (second stanza): the place of the conflict is our minds, our hearts, our words (third stanza). The second group (trust/thrust/rust: which of course is rhymed, as it happens, but my intent was not primarily to rhyme -- it's okay that it worked out this way, and I suppose some critique may think it is some kind of genius. That's okay, too) tells what we are doing (fourth stanza) and why (fifth stanza), and begs for help (sixth stanza). I suppose we could say that the rhyme -- rather than assonance -- here establishes a closer link between the conceptual grouping, which without that link is really more tenuous.
In the first stanza, the five-times repeated "not" is set against the clear, if often violent, imagery. I am reminded of a lesson in childrearing: when trying to modify behavior, tell a child what you do want her or him to do, not what you don't, because the word "not" is ignored. So, if you say "do not throw yoghurt on the rug" you can be certain that in moments yoghurt will be spilled, whereas if you say, "keep your yoghurt in the bowl", the child will be careful to do so. Thus the theory, at any rate. I find in this stanza, though, that the principle stands, fairly well: even if these trenches are not, not, not, not, not, it is the digging, the pocking, the strafing, the burning, and the filling that I imagine as I read this stanza.
not pocked with mortar shells, not strafed by machine guns
not burned by flamethrowers, not filled with rainwater and rot
Here we do not climb ladders to lurch into barbed wire
watching the sturdy farmers, miners, factory workers
torn limb from limb or eroded by shrouding yellow fog
These trenches are excavated in our minds, these dugouts
reinforced with sandbags and creosoted timbers reek
in our hearts; words the howitzers that our lives rock.
We soldier on, our feet in churning mud unyielding, holding
close the bolt-action of our fears, unwilling to let go,
doing or dying for king and country without final trust
but not knowing what else to do we follow orders
and with the spade and pick of the imagination carve
a new salient to guard our exposed flank's thrust.
O God in Heaven who succored the dying in that great war
when the tank was new and the aeroplane pity us
in these trenches of hopelessness where we slogging rust.
29.xi.2007
Author's commentary:
This poem was written for a friend who often uses imagery of war in her poems about her marriage. Both of us have suffered from abuse within our relationships -- suffered both as abused and abuser, I think, although perhaps I should not speak for her. She wrote to me about her recommitment to her marriage, and this was linked with the ecclesiastical season of Advent. She spoke of the first Sunday in Advent as being New Year's Day; for me the Christian New Year would be either Christmas (which of course Advent anticipates) or Easter, but I will not argue the point too much.
In one evening, I wrote a series of poems considering the basic theme of expectation of the coming Good; These Trenches expresses the fundamental difficulty we face as humans: in our minds and hearts, we are at war -- at war with each other, at war with nature, at war with ourselves.
Structurally, the poem evolved at a point when I was playing with a technique suggested to me by Joanne Servansky. She and I were toying with various sorts of codes, and she began to write poems in which she wrote a kind of standard ABAB CDCD EFEF rhyme scheme, but then divided the stanzas ABA BCD CDE FEF, for example. I found this intriguing, and I began to construct poems which were basically four-lines-to-a-stanza but then divided into 3-2-3-2 patterns or even more abstracted combinations, the goal being to set up novel interactions. At the same time I was also working at the back of my mind to break free from end-stopping my lines, incorporating more enjambment not only from line to line but from stanza to stanza. (In large part, this last has been a goal since I attended a workshop with Li-Young Lee a few years ago; Mr Lee suggested to me that my poems were like a series of closed rooms because of the end-stopping: with enjambment, it would be as though doors or windows were opened in the lines and stanzas inviting the listener or reader to move on to the next line, the next stanza.)
This poem does not directly incorporate the above technique, but, as I note, was composed at the same point in my thinking. I did not feel that rhyme would be appropriate to the subject, but I used assonance to link the stanzas into two groups.
The first group (rot/fog/rock) identifies the real location of the war: it is not here, not here, not here (first stanza), even though the horror is very immediate and everyday (second stanza): the place of the conflict is our minds, our hearts, our words (third stanza). The second group (trust/thrust/rust: which of course is rhymed, as it happens, but my intent was not primarily to rhyme -- it's okay that it worked out this way, and I suppose some critique may think it is some kind of genius. That's okay, too) tells what we are doing (fourth stanza) and why (fifth stanza), and begs for help (sixth stanza). I suppose we could say that the rhyme -- rather than assonance -- here establishes a closer link between the conceptual grouping, which without that link is really more tenuous.
In the first stanza, the five-times repeated "not" is set against the clear, if often violent, imagery. I am reminded of a lesson in childrearing: when trying to modify behavior, tell a child what you do want her or him to do, not what you don't, because the word "not" is ignored. So, if you say "do not throw yoghurt on the rug" you can be certain that in moments yoghurt will be spilled, whereas if you say, "keep your yoghurt in the bowl", the child will be careful to do so. Thus the theory, at any rate. I find in this stanza, though, that the principle stands, fairly well: even if these trenches are not, not, not, not, not, it is the digging, the pocking, the strafing, the burning, and the filling that I imagine as I read this stanza.
Argument
This journal is designed to showcase poems and analysis of poems.
It may be that poems should never be analyzed by their authors.
If this is so I am making a dreadful mistake.
It may be that poems should never be analyzed by their authors.
If this is so I am making a dreadful mistake.
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