The Packbats' Weblog

Accidentally a poem on fedi today:

We've been mulling for a while about how to word this, but:

Identity is not a logic puzzle.
It's a story
or a poem.

There is no excluded middle
no law of noncontradiction
there are landmarks,
 memories,
  friendships,
resonant frequencies that sound in unison with selves
and victories won in the struggle for self-understanding.

They should be celebrated.

        THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER

        by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

            I heard the old, old men say,
            "Everything alters,
            And one by one we drop away."
            They had hands like claws, and their knees
            Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
            By the waters.
            "All that's beautiful drifts away
            Like the waters."

- from In the Seven Woods, 1903.

(Quoted in "And So To Fade Away" by Ken Arneson, linked by pecunium a while ago. Text was copy-pasted from The Poetry Archive.)

What is one of your favorite poems? View other answers

My favorite poem is "The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently" by Thomas Lux, published in The New Yorker, July 14, 1997. As far as I know, it is still in copyright and not legitimately available online - not even where I read it, online - except, arguably, in the Google Books free preview.

I know absolutely nothing of his other poetry.

Given that I cannot in good conscience reproduce Lux, I offer instead a bit of verse from one Dr. John McCrae:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

I just found out that there was/is a group on the Net which strives to speak only in words of one beat. They have a page of poems made thus here, with an FAQ here.

I think this is a fine fun thing to do (though I know it to have been done ere this). I thought to give one of old Lord Alf. Tenn.'s works a try, or Bob Frost's, but they proved too much for me; I did not know them. In spite of that, I will try a bit of E. Pound. Not a lot of long words in this one in the first place.

The Tree
I stood still and was a tree in midst of wood,
To know the truth of things not seen before;
Of Daph. and of the green tree's bow
And those gods'-hosts, that love-pair old
That grew elm-oak in midst of wold.
'Twas not ere when the gods had been
With grace bid come, and been brought right in
Straight to the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this awe-made thing:
Yet I have been a tree in midst of wood,
And swarms of new things known as good
That had no sense in my head's sight before.


Oh, I found the one-word thing linked here. I left the poem on the post there as well.

Ed.: The wordsofonebeat comm. I joined it – it is still small, though.

Ed. 2: E. Pound's work can be found not changed here, here, and some more spots I lack the space to name.

What is poetry? What is it?
Is it words in lines the author chooses?
What makes poetry? What makes it?
What makes prose not poetry?

Ancient poems in verse were written
Rhyme and meter being sound and rhythm
Modern Muses cast off scansion
Writing, lacking meter, modern poems.

Is just imagery sufficient?
What do poets want to make in writing?
Is mere metaphor unfinished
When it lacks the form of ancient writing?

What is poetry? What is it?
How am I my poetry to write?

'Tis dark and silent ere the songs begin;
'Tis dark, 'tis night, so dark no shadows fall,
But in the silence preparations end
And music stirs to life and starts to call.

The concert opens with a single note,
A gleam of light, a circle on the ground,
But then arises shining out to coat
The world with light and life, to make a sound.

A wondrous sound it is that this light makes!
It sets to ringing every frozen limb
With echoes of the solid light they break
And traceries of white around their rims.

The symphonies of light I love to see
I see in ice and light upon a tree.

---

Inspired by Flashlight Music essay in ZhurnalWiki.

One day, a seed was planted in a pot,
And many days it spent there as it grew.
One day, the plant was moved into a plot
And given space to start its growth anew.

The gardener put her years into the plant
To help it grow unhurt and blossom bright.
She watered it and kept away the ants
That threatened it with illness, damage, bight.

And when the plant awoke with thoughts and words
She educated it in worthy things.
She gave it books, those wondrous verbal herds
Of life and wisdom, tales and songs to sing.

And yet, the plant's uncertain what to do
Or how to tell its gardener "I love you."

A sheet of paper,
White, untouched by thought and mind:
Possibility.

A palette's colors;
Paint, just waiting for a brush:
Possibility.

A noble artist
Soul, that makes imagined worlds:
Possibility.

A painting, dreaming,
Glimpse, display of newly formed
Possibility.

I cough, and cough again, and cough twice more.
I try to stop, and fail. I drink more tea,
And yet, I cough still more. My throat? Still sore,
And worse, the coughs still come to torment me.

I sit and read, and hope distraction cures.
I sit and read, I sit and cough and read,
And curse the rebel cough which still endures
And curse again; the coughing takes no heed.

I cough twice more, and moan of wretched luck;
I cough again, and wish my cough would die
And let me be. Instead, the cold has stuck,
And neither tea nor pluck will make it fly.

I have to wait it out, like storms at sea,
And let the waves subside and set me free.

---

I seem to be in sonnet-writing mode. This is odd, especially since my natural meter is iambic tetrameter.

Ah, well. It seems to be turning out alright.

March 9 - 13, 2005

I was reading when you saw me
Sitting with my book alone.
Maybe you were bored, and therefore
Curious about your guest.

So you wandered over, saw me
Sitting with an empty lap.
Did you find that lap inviting?
Worth the walk across the room?

Did you? Still, I found it shocking,
Sitting with my open lap,
When I felt a pawprint on me,
When you stepped on me, your guest.

Fool I was, I missed your meaning;
Sitting, not to make a lap,
But to read alone in comfort,
Reading, sitting in your room.

Though I knew you wanted something,
Sitting there, I knew not what.
Still, I didn't want to snub you,
Not when I was just your guest.

Petting you was my reaction.
Sitting near you, petting you.
Soon you bored of simple petting,
Soon you left and crossed the room.

Left alone, I soon returned to
Sitting with my book again.
You were gone and soon forgotten
By your quiet reading guest.

---

I'm not completely satisfied with this, but I'm never satisfied with anything I do. In any case, more of my poetry is available on my school site.