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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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