5.06.2008
For My Grandmother
No Coward Soul is Mine
by Emily Brontë
(This is the last poem that by Emily Brontë ever wrote.)
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And Faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life, that in me has rest,
As I, undying Life, have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and moon were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou — Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
Dedicated to Isabel (Dixon) Goodine
March 18, 1922 — May 5, 2008
by Emily Brontë
(This is the last poem that by Emily Brontë ever wrote.)
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And Faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life, that in me has rest,
As I, undying Life, have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and moon were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou — Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
Dedicated to Isabel (Dixon) Goodine
March 18, 1922 — May 5, 2008
Labels: poetry
5.19.2007
The Death Bed
They actually quoted Siegfried Sassoon on Numb3rs tonight! I haven't written a poet guide about him yet, but I really should as he's one of my favourite poets. This is the end of the poem, the part they quoted on the show:
Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He’s young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But death replied: "I choose him." So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.
If you want to read the full poem, head over to Weirdgrrl's Words.
Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He’s young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But death replied: "I choose him." So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.
If you want to read the full poem, head over to Weirdgrrl's Words.
Labels: poetry
4.18.2007
The First Presentiment
I finally found the Yevtushenko poem that I was looking for the other day. I was reminded of it during a discussion with a friend about the inability that many of us have to forgive ourselves. For the life of me, I can't figure out which book of poetry it's from (unless I have some poetry books still in storage), but fortunately I'd copied this one into an old journal of mine:
The first presentiment of a poem
In a real poet
Is the feeling of sin
Committed somewhere, sometime.
Even if that sin was not his—
He considers himself guilty,
His navel connects him
To all the tribes of mankind.
And no longer his own master
He runs away from glory and ecstasy
With his head ready to admit guilt
But nevertheless held high.
The casualties of war and peace,
Every broken branch,
Builds up in him a feeling of guilt,
His guilt, not just that of the age.
And his life is frightful to him—
He feels it as sinful as sin itself.
Every woman is his guilt,
A gift which cannot be returned.
Shame always moves the poet,
Thrusting him into boundless space,
And he builds bridges with his bones,
Paying what is unpayable.
And there—and there, at the end of his path
Which is there and cannot be escaped,
He will say: "God forgive me..."
Not having any hopes that this will be so.
And his soul will pass from his body,
And descend into hell, indifferent to paradise—
Forgiven by God, but never
Forgiven by himself.
The first presentiment of a poem
In a real poet
Is the feeling of sin
Committed somewhere, sometime.
Even if that sin was not his—
He considers himself guilty,
His navel connects him
To all the tribes of mankind.
And no longer his own master
He runs away from glory and ecstasy
With his head ready to admit guilt
But nevertheless held high.
The casualties of war and peace,
Every broken branch,
Builds up in him a feeling of guilt,
His guilt, not just that of the age.
And his life is frightful to him—
He feels it as sinful as sin itself.
Every woman is his guilt,
A gift which cannot be returned.
Shame always moves the poet,
Thrusting him into boundless space,
And he builds bridges with his bones,
Paying what is unpayable.
And there—and there, at the end of his path
Which is there and cannot be escaped,
He will say: "God forgive me..."
Not having any hopes that this will be so.
And his soul will pass from his body,
And descend into hell, indifferent to paradise—
Forgiven by God, but never
Forgiven by himself.
Labels: poetry
4.17.2007
Rhymes with Limes
Okay, this post is for all those people who land on my blog looking for poems about limes. (There's even one blog out there that says my blog title is guilty of false advertising since there's neither a lime nor orange in sight.) But tonight, while I was looking for a different poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko—one of my favourite poets—I discovered that he actually wrote a poem about limes! So here it is (though I could still be accused of false advertising with my post title, since nothing in the English version of this poem actually rhymes...
):
Fresh smell of limes,
A stream of bitterness,
And so for some reason
I have not succumbed.
Fresh smell of limes
All around me, hovering,
A new leaf full of resin
Stuck to my tongue,
Now a child's moan—
A ball bounced into the water.
Fresh smell of limes
Says: "Don't cry!"
And oldish chap weeps
By the beer-stall.
Take pity on him,
Fresh smell of limes!
The leaves have grown large.
With them you have saved
Me from disaster,
Chistiye Prudy.
And I'll pluck up the nerve
To be wiser than disaster
And I'll paint myself
In the benches' fresh colour.
A chess tournament
Between baldies and beards
Will make the world new:
"Your move, comrade!"
What to move, where to?
Hardly any pieces.
Read the right move
On the pond's surface.
The wind sails through
With the heat of pasties.
The wide-angle camera
Seduces one to be snapped.
Green, gold, blue,
Brightly clamorous,
The pet shop
Offers fish in jars.
Perhaps Moscow
As a Baba Yaga
Can be cuddly
Like nobody else.
God protect me,
If I have grown weak,
From not fighting back
The feeling that I'm finished.
Better to bite,
banishing melancholy,
The taxi's bright light
Like an Anonovka apple!
Kiss in the shadow
The white arc of elbow
And draw into yourself
The fresh smell of limes.
How grudging is May—
It gives pleasure shamefully;
Don't leave it to destiny
Rather than thirst after life!
However sweet the seduction
Of living any old way may appear,
The fresh smell of limes
Can deceive!
):Fresh smell of limes,
A stream of bitterness,
And so for some reason
I have not succumbed.
Fresh smell of limes
All around me, hovering,
A new leaf full of resin
Stuck to my tongue,
Now a child's moan—
A ball bounced into the water.
Fresh smell of limes
Says: "Don't cry!"
And oldish chap weeps
By the beer-stall.
Take pity on him,
Fresh smell of limes!
The leaves have grown large.
With them you have saved
Me from disaster,
Chistiye Prudy.
And I'll pluck up the nerve
To be wiser than disaster
And I'll paint myself
In the benches' fresh colour.
A chess tournament
Between baldies and beards
Will make the world new:
"Your move, comrade!"
What to move, where to?
Hardly any pieces.
Read the right move
On the pond's surface.
The wind sails through
With the heat of pasties.
The wide-angle camera
Seduces one to be snapped.
Green, gold, blue,
Brightly clamorous,
The pet shop
Offers fish in jars.
Perhaps Moscow
As a Baba Yaga
Can be cuddly
Like nobody else.
God protect me,
If I have grown weak,
From not fighting back
The feeling that I'm finished.
Better to bite,
banishing melancholy,
The taxi's bright light
Like an Anonovka apple!
Kiss in the shadow
The white arc of elbow
And draw into yourself
The fresh smell of limes.
How grudging is May—
It gives pleasure shamefully;
Don't leave it to destiny
Rather than thirst after life!
However sweet the seduction
Of living any old way may appear,
The fresh smell of limes
Can deceive!
Labels: poetry
4.12.2007
Shrimp, Shrimp, Glorious Shrimp
An acrostic poem for my shrimp-loving friends (and no, I'm not talking about characters from SpongeBob SquarePants), inspired by a recent conversation at Denny's of all places:
Sizzling, scintillating seafood delight,
Hunger abated, appetite sated.
Recipes for Pad Thai or Cajun Shrimp Stew
I know you'll find something to tantalize you.
Mouth-watering morsels in every bite,
Portions created, cravings then sated.
Some Shrimp Recipes just for you.
Enjoy!
Sizzling, scintillating seafood delight,
Hunger abated, appetite sated.
Recipes for Pad Thai or Cajun Shrimp Stew
I know you'll find something to tantalize you.
Mouth-watering morsels in every bite,
Portions created, cravings then sated.
Some Shrimp Recipes just for you.
Enjoy!
Labels: odds and ends, poetry
4.02.2007
Babel Poetry
My Dad sent me this experiment recently. He pasted Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" into the BabelFish language tool.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see my stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promise to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
He translated it from English to Japanese and back:
Think of that I have known someone's forest whether these are I.
That house is in the village, but;
He does not look at my stop here where that forest
observes at that it is full with the snow.
As for the horse where I am small
when the forest without the farmer it stops soon
between the lake which freezes,
evening strange that year is darkest must think.
He gives the vibration to the bell of that harness
in order to ask whether or not there is the mistake.
The only other things the extent of the thin layer
the easy wind of sound and like the cotton wool.
The forest is beautiful, is deep darkly,
but before I sleep, I sleep,
and before possessing mile which goes,
as for me the promise which is maintained and mile which goes.
To me, this one actually sounds a bit like my Outside the Box Poet poem that I generated through the Madlib Poem generator. It's strange but I like it. With a little tweaking, it could actually sound like a surrealist poem.
And finally English to Italian to French back to English:
Of which wood those I am I you think that I know.
Its put is in the village, in any event;
It will not see mien stops here
to look at its wood filling in on snow.
My small horse must think it strange to stop
without a firm neighbor
between wood and the lake frozen
the darker evening of the year.
It gives to his flange wiring a jolt
to ask whether it is to us a certain error.
Swept single other sound
of easy wind and rivet washer lanuginoso.
Wood are beautiful, dark and deep,
but I have the promise to maintain
and the miles to go initially that it sleeps
and miles with going initially which sleeps.
I remember reading someone's theory that if you translate from English through a series of certain different languages in a specific order and then back to English, that the "true meaning" will emerge. Well, it sure as heck must not be this order. This one starts to sound like Babel Rap, nonsense. Some interesting phrases emerge, but nothing resembling poetry. Or truth. Curious.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see my stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promise to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
He translated it from English to Japanese and back:
Think of that I have known someone's forest whether these are I.
That house is in the village, but;
He does not look at my stop here where that forest
observes at that it is full with the snow.
As for the horse where I am small
when the forest without the farmer it stops soon
between the lake which freezes,
evening strange that year is darkest must think.
He gives the vibration to the bell of that harness
in order to ask whether or not there is the mistake.
The only other things the extent of the thin layer
the easy wind of sound and like the cotton wool.
The forest is beautiful, is deep darkly,
but before I sleep, I sleep,
and before possessing mile which goes,
as for me the promise which is maintained and mile which goes.
To me, this one actually sounds a bit like my Outside the Box Poet poem that I generated through the Madlib Poem generator. It's strange but I like it. With a little tweaking, it could actually sound like a surrealist poem.
And finally English to Italian to French back to English:
Of which wood those I am I you think that I know.
Its put is in the village, in any event;
It will not see mien stops here
to look at its wood filling in on snow.
My small horse must think it strange to stop
without a firm neighbor
between wood and the lake frozen
the darker evening of the year.
It gives to his flange wiring a jolt
to ask whether it is to us a certain error.
Swept single other sound
of easy wind and rivet washer lanuginoso.
Wood are beautiful, dark and deep,
but I have the promise to maintain
and the miles to go initially that it sleeps
and miles with going initially which sleeps.
I remember reading someone's theory that if you translate from English through a series of certain different languages in a specific order and then back to English, that the "true meaning" will emerge. Well, it sure as heck must not be this order. This one starts to sound like Babel Rap, nonsense. Some interesting phrases emerge, but nothing resembling poetry. Or truth. Curious.
2.04.2007
Everyone Remembers the Girl Who Cries
And now for a little blurb about how the open mike night went. There are a couple of performers who really impressed me, but I'm going to talk about them in future posts. This particular post is mainly about my "performance." I got up and read "Hunger" which I chose partly because it sounds good when read aloud and partly because I wrote it almost 20 years ago and it was never very deeply personal anyway. In any case, it seemed to be fairly well received.
I glanced over at Jadesong, who organized the event, and mentioned that I had more poems if she wanted more. She said yes, as did the audience, so I turned the page and the next poem was "When your body betrays you." I had decided that one was too personal for me to be able to read at an open mike night and I made the mistake of saying, "I don't think I can read this one out loud." At which point, Jadesong said to read it... that raw was good. And it seemed as though many of the audience members agreed.
So I went to start reading... and I just froze, with tears springing to my eyes before I even got one word out. I looked to Jadesong in desperation; she offered to sing a song while I composed myself. Not quite the complete out that I was looking for, but a brief reprieve, in any case. So I tried to listen to her and compose myself and thought I was ready. I got up, got halfway through the poem, read the "I believe I could do anything" line and choked again. Jadesong didn't miss a beat, jumped right back up and started singing while I turned my back to the audience trying to find some composure... I don't cry in public, I hate it, I refuse to... yet here I was... a woman on the verge.
But I took a couple of deep breaths and stepped back up to the mike and delivered the rest of it, building the momentum and not thinking too much about the meaning. Did I receive pity applause? I'm not sure. I had a lot of people come up to me afterwards to compliment me on my reading, which was nice, but I think it's mostly because everyone remembers the girl who cries, or almost cries, on stage. Tends to make an impression, y'know.
I glanced over at Jadesong, who organized the event, and mentioned that I had more poems if she wanted more. She said yes, as did the audience, so I turned the page and the next poem was "When your body betrays you." I had decided that one was too personal for me to be able to read at an open mike night and I made the mistake of saying, "I don't think I can read this one out loud." At which point, Jadesong said to read it... that raw was good. And it seemed as though many of the audience members agreed.
So I went to start reading... and I just froze, with tears springing to my eyes before I even got one word out. I looked to Jadesong in desperation; she offered to sing a song while I composed myself. Not quite the complete out that I was looking for, but a brief reprieve, in any case. So I tried to listen to her and compose myself and thought I was ready. I got up, got halfway through the poem, read the "I believe I could do anything" line and choked again. Jadesong didn't miss a beat, jumped right back up and started singing while I turned my back to the audience trying to find some composure... I don't cry in public, I hate it, I refuse to... yet here I was... a woman on the verge.
But I took a couple of deep breaths and stepped back up to the mike and delivered the rest of it, building the momentum and not thinking too much about the meaning. Did I receive pity applause? I'm not sure. I had a lot of people come up to me afterwards to compliment me on my reading, which was nice, but I think it's mostly because everyone remembers the girl who cries, or almost cries, on stage. Tends to make an impression, y'know.
Labels: poetry
2.02.2007
The Chicks Are Gonna Have Their Say... Tonight
The oblique West Side Story reference in the title suggests that I have not yet shaken my musical-theatre-itis. But this post is actually another one about the Women's Open Mike Night hosted by Jadesong at the Jane Doe Marketplace & Café (311 17 Ave SW).
Some local artists that will be performing:
Vi An : Vocals & Percussion
Shelly K Hip Hop : Spoken Word
Kali (Karylin) : Spinning Poetry
Moksha (Mel) : Vocals, Percussion & Electro Pop
It starts at 7:00 p.m. and you have to sign up right at 7 if you want to perform. I still haven't decided what I'll be reading... and part of me is starting to chicken out... well, we'll see.
Some local artists that will be performing:
Vi An : Vocals & Percussion
Shelly K Hip Hop : Spoken Word
Kali (Karylin) : Spinning Poetry
Moksha (Mel) : Vocals, Percussion & Electro Pop
It starts at 7:00 p.m. and you have to sign up right at 7 if you want to perform. I still haven't decided what I'll be reading... and part of me is starting to chicken out... well, we'll see.
1.29.2007
Still More Open Mike Poetry
I've already posted four of the five poems that I'm considering for the open mike night:
So here's the fifth:
Prophecy
A dark mind,
a beautiful mind,
the stuff of nightmares,
my breath of life.
Where is the cosmic battle?
Good versus evil,
the apocalyptic themes that make my heart soar with meaning.
My prophecy,
my destiny.
Such dreams I have,
blood, breath and death pulsing…
orange sky over a dead planet;
smoke and steam and clouds of dust;
fires sear and rage, purifying;
furious winds twist and swirl;
and blood rains down as the world ends
filling me with the power to lead the way
into this strange new day.
I think I envy Nash…
his beautiful mind,
his fantasies so full of worth.
If I need to be crazy to make it real,
I would gladly lose my mind.
My waking life seems the dream,
numb and meaningless,
blank walls, white space,
empty, airless, nothing.
I am not of this world.
My heart beats strangely here,
my blood runs sluggish through my veins,
and my soul finds no purchase.
I will suffocate if I stay.
For I must dance in chaos to gain strength,
face mortal fear to find hope,
feel pain to know I'm alive.
The burden or the gift…
But I need the wild horses,
the tribal drum,
the beating, black, breath-stealing wing.
As others need air and water.
So here I stand,
arms wide to embrace the coming darkness.
And here I wait
to begin my life…
your nightmare…
my dream.
cm
june 17, 2002
"Echoes" (in Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition)
"Ground War" (in I'm baaack)
"When your body betrays you" (in Open Mike Night)
"Hunger" (in More Open Mike Poetry)
So here's the fifth:
Prophecy
A dark mind,
a beautiful mind,
the stuff of nightmares,
my breath of life.
Where is the cosmic battle?
Good versus evil,
the apocalyptic themes that make my heart soar with meaning.
My prophecy,
my destiny.
Such dreams I have,
blood, breath and death pulsing…
orange sky over a dead planet;
smoke and steam and clouds of dust;
fires sear and rage, purifying;
furious winds twist and swirl;
and blood rains down as the world ends
filling me with the power to lead the way
into this strange new day.
I think I envy Nash…
his beautiful mind,
his fantasies so full of worth.
If I need to be crazy to make it real,
I would gladly lose my mind.
My waking life seems the dream,
numb and meaningless,
blank walls, white space,
empty, airless, nothing.
I am not of this world.
My heart beats strangely here,
my blood runs sluggish through my veins,
and my soul finds no purchase.
I will suffocate if I stay.
For I must dance in chaos to gain strength,
face mortal fear to find hope,
feel pain to know I'm alive.
The burden or the gift…
But I need the wild horses,
the tribal drum,
the beating, black, breath-stealing wing.
As others need air and water.
So here I stand,
arms wide to embrace the coming darkness.
And here I wait
to begin my life…
your nightmare…
my dream.
cm
june 17, 2002
Labels: poetry
1.25.2007
Ugly Side
I noticed that someone landed on my blog searching for the meaning of the Blue October song "Ugly Side" (sample). Although on the one hand I think the general meaning is self-evident, I decided to write about it because the specific lyrics might seem a little odd to some people.
Ugly Side lyrics:
I must have sneezed
On knees I freeze
I mean I just choked up
Somehow I slept
I dream, I mean
I dreamt of nothing
Able to breathe
A sweet relief
Now that you're here with me
A northern degree
Dove into me
Now I'm recovering
[Chorus]
I only want you to see
My favorite part of me
And not my ugly side
Not my ugly side
Hook up a C.B. Wave a way
For conversation flow
I'm shoved in your cave, to wage this rage
Don't let me go
A kick and a scream is all that seems
To mean a lot thus far
I won't let you on my stage, my page
You can't know
Yet you have to know
[Chorus]
So calm... and now it's dark
I look for you to light my heart
I'm in between the moon and where you are
I know... I can't be far
The most general interpretation is simply how hard it is to share your those parts of yourself that you don't like with someone that you actually want to share your whole self with. More specifically, I believe it relates to Justin Furstenfeld's history with drugs, his recovery and his ardent desire not to have to share that part of his past and himself with someone he's starting a new relationship with.
As for specific phrases that may or not make grammatical sense… I say don't analyze that stuff too deeply. It's poetry. It elicits an emotional reaction of confusion and melancholy and fear and love. In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg writes:
P.S. Blue October is coming to Calgary!!!!! They'll be playing at Mac Hall on April 7. Get your tickets soon. I know I will!
Ugly Side lyrics:
I must have sneezed
On knees I freeze
I mean I just choked up
Somehow I slept
I dream, I mean
I dreamt of nothing
Able to breathe
A sweet relief
Now that you're here with me
A northern degree
Dove into me
Now I'm recovering
[Chorus]
I only want you to see
My favorite part of me
And not my ugly side
Not my ugly side
Hook up a C.B. Wave a way
For conversation flow
I'm shoved in your cave, to wage this rage
Don't let me go
A kick and a scream is all that seems
To mean a lot thus far
I won't let you on my stage, my page
You can't know
Yet you have to know
[Chorus]
So calm... and now it's dark
I look for you to light my heart
I'm in between the moon and where you are
I know... I can't be far
The most general interpretation is simply how hard it is to share your those parts of yourself that you don't like with someone that you actually want to share your whole self with. More specifically, I believe it relates to Justin Furstenfeld's history with drugs, his recovery and his ardent desire not to have to share that part of his past and himself with someone he's starting a new relationship with.
As for specific phrases that may or not make grammatical sense… I say don't analyze that stuff too deeply. It's poetry. It elicits an emotional reaction of confusion and melancholy and fear and love. In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg writes:
"The aim is to burn through to first thoughts... to the place where you are writing what your mind actually sees and feels, not what it thinks it should see and feel. It's a great opportunity to capture the oddities of your mind. Explore the rugged edge of thought."I believe these lyrics are definitely the stuff of "first thoughts." Not to say that I don't have my ideas about what Justin means in certain phrases, but I'm more concerned with what he's feeling and how he makes me feel. So my advice is not to try to deconstruct the song, just feel it.
P.S. Blue October is coming to Calgary!!!!! They'll be playing at Mac Hall on April 7. Get your tickets soon. I know I will!
Labels: music, poetry, pop culture
1.23.2007
More Open Mike Poetry
Of the five poems that I decided to choose from for the open mike night, some of them are already posted on this blog: "Echoes" (in Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition), "Ground War" (in I'm baaack) and now "When your body betrays you" (in Open Mike Night). So here's a fourth that I'm considering.
This one was written during my first year of university when I had run out of money and was rationing my food beyond rational levels, trying to make it stretch until my grant came in. Then a friend offered to take me out for a movie and dessert. Instead of asking for real food (which I desperately needed), I gave into temptation and ordered a decadent chocolate cake and an espresso. I ended up with a sugar/caffeine high that was more intense than any drug I've ever taken (wow, that makes me sound like some kind of druggie... I swear, I'm not). When I got home, I had to lie down on my bed because the room was spinning and this poem was basically swirling about on the ceiling for me to write down. (I was also reading a book of mathematical science fiction stories at the time, which I think had some influence.)
Hunger
I close my eyes
I see only darkness.
But there is one light
circling,
flashing,
spinning about my head.
The darkness becomes a topological landscape —
shapes ballooning,
shrinking,
rotating
faster and faster.
It is the pain in my stomach,
the hunger that won't disappear.
I stand;
I fall back into my spinning world of weakness:
the flesh,
the spirit.
There is so much I must do
but I can only spin,
only think of
the hunger.
It is a drug that deadens the senses,
confuses the mind.
There is whiteness,
blackness,
of space,
of asylum.
I am lost
in the dimensionless void.
Concentration
Direction
Decision
Completion
Hurl away into the vast darkness;
Whirl away into oblivion.
Someone must throw a rope to this dying soldier in flatland
before I lose my perception of
up and down
(dup and owen);
before I lose my grasp of
mind and matter
matter and mind
(what really matters and why do I mind?).
My fragile reality is slipping
or am I throwing it away
to watch it break,
shatter,
into a million distorted realities.
Darkness
Brightness
Emptiness
Pain
Hunger
*
Eat
I must eat to think,
I must think to act,
I must act to live,
I must live to...
die.
Disperse the clouds of fog from my reason!
I must think to survive!
The frustration of my hunger,
of my weakness
saps me of my strength —
a vicious circle
vicious spiral
down (owen)
down (owen)
into the nothingness
I have tried to avoid.
I close my eyes
I see only darkness.
cm
october 16, 1988
This one was written during my first year of university when I had run out of money and was rationing my food beyond rational levels, trying to make it stretch until my grant came in. Then a friend offered to take me out for a movie and dessert. Instead of asking for real food (which I desperately needed), I gave into temptation and ordered a decadent chocolate cake and an espresso. I ended up with a sugar/caffeine high that was more intense than any drug I've ever taken (wow, that makes me sound like some kind of druggie... I swear, I'm not). When I got home, I had to lie down on my bed because the room was spinning and this poem was basically swirling about on the ceiling for me to write down. (I was also reading a book of mathematical science fiction stories at the time, which I think had some influence.)
Hunger
I close my eyes
I see only darkness.
But there is one light
circling,
flashing,
spinning about my head.
The darkness becomes a topological landscape —
shapes ballooning,
shrinking,
rotating
faster and faster.
It is the pain in my stomach,
the hunger that won't disappear.
I stand;
I fall back into my spinning world of weakness:
the flesh,
the spirit.
There is so much I must do
but I can only spin,
only think of
the hunger.
It is a drug that deadens the senses,
confuses the mind.
There is whiteness,
blackness,
of space,
of asylum.
I am lost
in the dimensionless void.
Concentration
Direction
Decision
Completion
Hurl away into the vast darkness;
Whirl away into oblivion.
Someone must throw a rope to this dying soldier in flatland
before I lose my perception of
up and down
(dup and owen);
before I lose my grasp of
mind and matter
matter and mind
(what really matters and why do I mind?).
My fragile reality is slipping
or am I throwing it away
to watch it break,
shatter,
into a million distorted realities.
Darkness
Brightness
Emptiness
Pain
Hunger
*
Eat
I must eat to think,
I must think to act,
I must act to live,
I must live to...
die.
Disperse the clouds of fog from my reason!
I must think to survive!
The frustration of my hunger,
of my weakness
saps me of my strength —
a vicious circle
vicious spiral
down (owen)
down (owen)
into the nothingness
I have tried to avoid.
I close my eyes
I see only darkness.
cm
october 16, 1988
Labels: poetry
1.19.2007
Open Mike Night
I was recently invited to read one of my poems at a Women's Open Mike Night in a couple of weeks. So I've been going through my poetry, trying to decide what to read and I've narrowed it down to five. This is one of the five. I wrote it in September of 1998, when I couldn't return to veterinary school because of my health. The doctors hadn't diagnosed me with Lupus yet, but I'd been feeling like hell for about a year and was seeing truckloads of specialists and having so many medical tests that my arms were like pincushions...
When your body betrays you
it leaves a mark on your soul
like a bruise
that slowly turns from
blue
to green
to yellow
as the injury ages
but never goes away
like a laceration
with jagged edges
that cuts too deeply
so that infection steals in
and creates an ulcer
that never heals
like an ache
that stems from deep within your bones
so that its very marrow
feels the pain
that keeps you awake
through the long deep cruel night
and you never sleep
like a scar
that grows larger
instead of shrinking
and the skin thickens
and people think that means it doesn't hurt
when it's really more painful
and it will never go away.
I believe I could do anything
if only my body
would stop the treachery
halt the treason
cease the betrayal
that makes me want to cry out
to the stars
and the empty
lonely
dark
space
and rage against the heavens
and beat against
the great flapping wing
that steals the breath from my lungs
until I drown
or choke
on the salt water
that is squeezed from my eyes
like blood from a stone.
cm
September 30, 1998
When your body betrays you
it leaves a mark on your soul
like a bruise
that slowly turns from
blue
to green
to yellow
as the injury ages
but never goes away
like a laceration
with jagged edges
that cuts too deeply
so that infection steals in
and creates an ulcer
that never heals
like an ache
that stems from deep within your bones
so that its very marrow
feels the pain
that keeps you awake
through the long deep cruel night
and you never sleep
like a scar
that grows larger
instead of shrinking
and the skin thickens
and people think that means it doesn't hurt
when it's really more painful
and it will never go away.
I believe I could do anything
if only my body
would stop the treachery
halt the treason
cease the betrayal
that makes me want to cry out
to the stars
and the empty
lonely
dark
space
and rage against the heavens
and beat against
the great flapping wing
that steals the breath from my lungs
until I drown
or choke
on the salt water
that is squeezed from my eyes
like blood from a stone.
cm
September 30, 1998
1.06.2007
Here, Bullet
I was browsing through a largely fluffy series of articles at Boing Boing when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the review of "Here, Bullet," a book of poetry written by Sgt. Brian Turner, 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, while he was serving in Iraq:
Here, Bullet
If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.
What grabbed me was its honesty. I would have to argue with the Publishers Weekly review that claimed the verse in this book is not good, merely timely. Granted, Turner isn't Sigfried Sassoon, but then Iraq is not World War I. As Turner himself writes, "This is a language made of blood. It is made of sand, and time." So no comparisons to past war poets, please; judge these poems on their own merits, in our own time.
Here, BulletIf a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.
What grabbed me was its honesty. I would have to argue with the Publishers Weekly review that claimed the verse in this book is not good, merely timely. Granted, Turner isn't Sigfried Sassoon, but then Iraq is not World War I. As Turner himself writes, "This is a language made of blood. It is made of sand, and time." So no comparisons to past war poets, please; judge these poems on their own merits, in our own time.
11.03.2005
High School Confidential
So here's the long promised post about my trip to Toronto. Main point of interest: my high school reunion. Unfortunately, Leaside, my alma mater, doesn't do reunions by year or even by decade... it's all 60 years at once. So it's really hit or miss as to whether you'll find anyone from your year.
In my case, I only came across one person from my graduating class but it turned out to be one of the people from my inner sanctum of friends, so that was pretty cool. And she had updates on some of the other people from that group (aka XYZ*), so I got to hear about how they were doing.
Jeanette, the friend in question, has just released her first independently produced, self-titled CD. So allow me to suggest that you check out her music and her website: Jeanette Lee.
One of the other friends Jeanette updated me on was Jennifer Griesbach, a harpsichordist now living in New York and involved in a variety of projects, including an early music ensemble called Sympatica.
Besides Jeanette, there were probably another dozen people there that I had actually hung out with and considered friends at various points in my high school career. And then there was the ego-boosting comment from one guy who exclaimed, "you're not supposed to look BETTER than you did in high school!" Gotta like that.
*You may be wondering about the XYZ... to make a long story short, one of our math teachers decided to hand pick students for an advanced Calculus class. The course code was Calculus XYZ. We all ended up becoming friends and often referred to our group by that invented course code. Why do I remember that silly piece of trivia? Because I immortalized it in a poem that one of those friends asked me to create for her high school yearbook:
From limits to lines,
derive it three times,
take the integral of the sum.
From strange biochemistry
(what rhymes with "emistry"?)
playing P and C on the run.
Fine food before lunch,
the cafeteria bunch,
first semester with X, Y, and Zed.
Doing phys ed in physics,
broad shoulders and biceps,
formal dates with awfully swelled heads.
All in all it's been great,
all our friends, loves and hates,
doing school work once in a while.
Next year, well we'll see,
Waterloo, U. of T.
XYZ will continue in style.
Okay, now I'm going back into hibernation because National Novel Writing Month has started and I have 50,000 words to write.
In my case, I only came across one person from my graduating class but it turned out to be one of the people from my inner sanctum of friends, so that was pretty cool. And she had updates on some of the other people from that group (aka XYZ*), so I got to hear about how they were doing.
Jeanette, the friend in question, has just released her first independently produced, self-titled CD. So allow me to suggest that you check out her music and her website: Jeanette Lee.
One of the other friends Jeanette updated me on was Jennifer Griesbach, a harpsichordist now living in New York and involved in a variety of projects, including an early music ensemble called Sympatica.
Besides Jeanette, there were probably another dozen people there that I had actually hung out with and considered friends at various points in my high school career. And then there was the ego-boosting comment from one guy who exclaimed, "you're not supposed to look BETTER than you did in high school!" Gotta like that.
*You may be wondering about the XYZ... to make a long story short, one of our math teachers decided to hand pick students for an advanced Calculus class. The course code was Calculus XYZ. We all ended up becoming friends and often referred to our group by that invented course code. Why do I remember that silly piece of trivia? Because I immortalized it in a poem that one of those friends asked me to create for her high school yearbook:
From limits to lines,
derive it three times,
take the integral of the sum.
From strange biochemistry
(what rhymes with "emistry"?)
playing P and C on the run.
Fine food before lunch,
the cafeteria bunch,
first semester with X, Y, and Zed.
Doing phys ed in physics,
broad shoulders and biceps,
formal dates with awfully swelled heads.
All in all it's been great,
all our friends, loves and hates,
doing school work once in a while.
Next year, well we'll see,
Waterloo, U. of T.
XYZ will continue in style.
Okay, now I'm going back into hibernation because National Novel Writing Month has started and I have 50,000 words to write.
Labels: music, odds and ends, poetry
8.07.2005
Outside the Box Poet
While visiting the Language is a Virus website that I mentioned in my previous post, I was playing around with some of the toys it offers. Here's the crazy but cool poem I created with their Madlib Poem generator:
fun i have never imagined, joyfully beyond
any intellectual, your hearts have their tangerine bliss:
in your most extraordinary math are things which solve me,
or which i cannot dream because they are too intense
your cryptic look curiously will unbreathe me
though i have rain myself as a puzzle,
you shine always breath by breath myself as creation cries
(shouting voraciously, seriously) her cult art
or if your dream be to celebrate me, i and
my imagination will write very darkly, spontaneously,
as when the aficionado of this intellectual reads
the theatre succinctly everywhere watching;
nothing which we are to dance in this film hears
the music of your pierced books: whose poetry
drinks me with the laughter of its tequila,
loving wine and research with each living
(i do not laugh what it is about you that eats
and pierces; only something in me tattoos
the crossword of your soul, more eclectic than all creation)
my eyes, not even the goth, has such alternative skin.
(Note: I tweaked it ever so slightly, changing a few things that didn't make sense to me... which means that this version actually does make a kind of sense to me. Believe it or not.)
fun i have never imagined, joyfully beyond
any intellectual, your hearts have their tangerine bliss:
in your most extraordinary math are things which solve me,
or which i cannot dream because they are too intense
your cryptic look curiously will unbreathe me
though i have rain myself as a puzzle,
you shine always breath by breath myself as creation cries
(shouting voraciously, seriously) her cult art
or if your dream be to celebrate me, i and
my imagination will write very darkly, spontaneously,
as when the aficionado of this intellectual reads
the theatre succinctly everywhere watching;
nothing which we are to dance in this film hears
the music of your pierced books: whose poetry
drinks me with the laughter of its tequila,
loving wine and research with each living
(i do not laugh what it is about you that eats
and pierces; only something in me tattoos
the crossword of your soul, more eclectic than all creation)
my eyes, not even the goth, has such alternative skin.
(Note: I tweaked it ever so slightly, changing a few things that didn't make sense to me... which means that this version actually does make a kind of sense to me. Believe it or not.)
7.13.2005
Poetry
The next of my category posts that I've chosen to compile is Poetry (both mine and other people's):
Outside the Box Poet (8.07.2005)
Spring in Calgary (4.21.2005)
The Nights (12.12.2004)
Mad Girl's Melancholy Mood (11.12.2004)
Secret Music (9.15.2004)
Inglish (9.04.2004)
Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition (8.28.2004)
Triskelion Tattoo (8.20.2004)
For a Moment (8.12.2004)
Not a Pretty Poem (8.08.2004)
I'm baaack (5.06.2004)
Desire (4.11.2004)
Fireflies in a Windstorm (4.04.2004)
Outside the Box Poet (8.07.2005)
Spring in Calgary (4.21.2005)
The Nights (12.12.2004)
Mad Girl's Melancholy Mood (11.12.2004)
Secret Music (9.15.2004)
Inglish (9.04.2004)
Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition (8.28.2004)
Triskelion Tattoo (8.20.2004)
For a Moment (8.12.2004)
Not a Pretty Poem (8.08.2004)
I'm baaack (5.06.2004)
Desire (4.11.2004)
Fireflies in a Windstorm (4.04.2004)
Labels: poetry
4.21.2005
Spring in Calgary
What sound wafts in through open window
with night's crisp city air?
Methinks 'tis water swishing pavement,
though lacking rain's despair.
Instead the orchestration features
motorized brushing.
Behold, the longed-for street sweeper...
a blessed sign of spring!
with night's crisp city air?
Methinks 'tis water swishing pavement,
though lacking rain's despair.
Instead the orchestration features
motorized brushing.
Behold, the longed-for street sweeper...
a blessed sign of spring!
Labels: poetry
12.12.2004
The Nights
It is the nights I cannot bear.
The sunlight of the daytime hours,
Weak and wintry as it may be,
Has sufficient prospects in its power
To distract me from my misery.
But night falls early now,
As fleeting joy falls to despair,
And another sleepless night awaits me.
I'm so tired of this stale, mournful air.
So I'm drinking wine out of the bottle,
Dropping Kleenex on the floor,
Wallowing in sad songs and morbid poetry.
Too recently I saw this place before.
Time does not heal anything,
Was the only lesson learned while there.
Amnesia is the only cure.
And it's the nights I cannot bear.
The sunlight of the daytime hours,
Weak and wintry as it may be,
Has sufficient prospects in its power
To distract me from my misery.
But night falls early now,
As fleeting joy falls to despair,
And another sleepless night awaits me.
I'm so tired of this stale, mournful air.
So I'm drinking wine out of the bottle,
Dropping Kleenex on the floor,
Wallowing in sad songs and morbid poetry.
Too recently I saw this place before.
Time does not heal anything,
Was the only lesson learned while there.
Amnesia is the only cure.
And it's the nights I cannot bear.
Labels: poetry
9.15.2004
Secret Music
I've had a certain Siegfried Sassoon poem echoing in my mind for the last few days. For me, the poem depicts the triumph of the human spirit in times of adversity (a favourite theme of mine). In any case, I just thought I might as well share...
Secret Music
I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty garlanded in hell.
My dreaming spirit will not heed
The roar of guns that would destroy
My life that on the gloom can read
Proud-surging melodies of joy.
To the world's end I went, and found
Death in his carnival of glare;
But in my torment I was crowned,
And music dawned above despair.
Secret Music
I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty garlanded in hell.
My dreaming spirit will not heed
The roar of guns that would destroy
My life that on the gloom can read
Proud-surging melodies of joy.
To the world's end I went, and found
Death in his carnival of glare;
But in my torment I was crowned,
And music dawned above despair.
Labels: poetry
9.04.2004
Inglish
I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you
On hiccough, thorough, lough, and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps?
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead: it's said like bed, not bead—
For goodness' sake don't call it "deed"!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.)
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's dose and rose and lose
Just look them up—and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart—
Come, come, I've hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive!
I'd mastered it when I was five.
And yet to write it, the more I tried,
I hadn't learned at fifty-five.
by T.S. Watt (1954)
I was reminded of this poem today while reading "Inglish (iz a tuf languaj to spel)" in the September edition of Saturday Night magazine. It's about the spelling reform movement that promotes simplification of the English spelling system to better reflect the phonetics of the language. My knee-jerk reaction was to reject reformation out of hand. The three arguments that I subsequently formulated to support my reaction were:
(1) The proper spelling of a word can give you an idea of its origins, which can help you figure out the meaning of an unfamiliar word.
(2) What about all of the existing printed matter? Will future generations taught spelling-reformed English be able to understand anything written in pre-reform English?
(3) With all of the dialects within the English language, whose phonetics would we use? I'm thinking that British spelling reform would look far different from American spelling reform.
Well, all of these points were mentioned in the article to some degree. Apparently my first point is proof of my intellectual elitism. Hmm... an uncomfortable, but possibly accurate, assessment. So let's put that one aside for now. The second and third points were acknowledged as obstacles to spelling reform. But apparently there are far more people than you might think trying to overcome these challenges. So maybe someday spelling reform advocates, such as the Simplified Spelling Society, will have answers to those questions that will satisfy even me. But I'm not holding my breath.
Ironic Epilogue: It was with a certain amount of embarrassment and amusement that I found myself reflecting on my strongly held opinions against spelling reform while I was working on my cryptic crossword and realized that I hadn't the faintest idea of how to spell "rutabaga" [the plural of which was the answer to "Turnips in a sack one put in furrows (9)"].
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you
On hiccough, thorough, lough, and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps?
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead: it's said like bed, not bead—
For goodness' sake don't call it "deed"!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.)
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's dose and rose and lose
Just look them up—and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword,
And do and go and thwart and cart—
Come, come, I've hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive!
I'd mastered it when I was five.
And yet to write it, the more I tried,
I hadn't learned at fifty-five.
by T.S. Watt (1954)
I was reminded of this poem today while reading "Inglish (iz a tuf languaj to spel)" in the September edition of Saturday Night magazine. It's about the spelling reform movement that promotes simplification of the English spelling system to better reflect the phonetics of the language. My knee-jerk reaction was to reject reformation out of hand. The three arguments that I subsequently formulated to support my reaction were:
(1) The proper spelling of a word can give you an idea of its origins, which can help you figure out the meaning of an unfamiliar word.
(2) What about all of the existing printed matter? Will future generations taught spelling-reformed English be able to understand anything written in pre-reform English?
(3) With all of the dialects within the English language, whose phonetics would we use? I'm thinking that British spelling reform would look far different from American spelling reform.
Well, all of these points were mentioned in the article to some degree. Apparently my first point is proof of my intellectual elitism. Hmm... an uncomfortable, but possibly accurate, assessment. So let's put that one aside for now. The second and third points were acknowledged as obstacles to spelling reform. But apparently there are far more people than you might think trying to overcome these challenges. So maybe someday spelling reform advocates, such as the Simplified Spelling Society, will have answers to those questions that will satisfy even me. But I'm not holding my breath.
Ironic Epilogue: It was with a certain amount of embarrassment and amusement that I found myself reflecting on my strongly held opinions against spelling reform while I was working on my cryptic crossword and realized that I hadn't the faintest idea of how to spell "rutabaga" [the plural of which was the answer to "Turnips in a sack one put in furrows (9)"].
8.28.2004
Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition
Went to see Jasmine [website under construction] Whenham last night at Karma. Also playing were Amy Bishop (from Calgary) and Athena Reich (from New York). I've already talked about Jasmine in previous posts, so suffice it to say she was fabulous as always. Amy was brand new to me. She has a wonderful voice and her rendition of Summertime alone was worth the price of admission (actually, since the cover was only $5.00, it was worth far more than that). But it was Athena who fulfilled my horoscope: "Expect the unexpected." Definitely a unique listening experience unlike any other (forgive the redundancy; put it down to trying to create emphasis by repetition), but since we do love to describe artists by using other artists...
Imagine a combination of... hmm... let me think... okay, try Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush (or maybe Tori Amos), Laurie Anderson and Liza Minnelli... and if you can conceive of that merger without ever having seen Athena, then I applaud your powers of imagination. She has power, passion, perception, (s)punk... my increasingly pathetic alliterations completely fail me at this point, so let's drop the contrivances. (I so want to coin a word at this point... doesn't "contrivations" sound better than "contrivances"? No? Just me? Oh well, back to the topic at hand.) She's quirky, creative, intelligent, funny, theatrical, energetic, haunting and sometimes kinda shocking. Enough adjectives for you? (I know, adjectives are the tool of a weak writer... c'est la vie, at least they're not adverbs.) And I love the fact that so many of her songs are inspired by dreams.
I bought her latest CD, Stranger Things Have Happened, and am still deciding on my favourite tracks. At this point, I'll pick Anarchy, Merry Go Round, Duality in D and Back to Canada. I also really liked a song that she played that was a sequel to Jesse – I think it was called Maybe I – but, unfortunately, it's not on the CD. Guess I'll have to buy her next one for that. Then she played some songs from Athena Under Attack, her rock opera about 9/11 (think "Björk sings Brecht"). The quintessential song from the play, How Can I Sleep, is incredibly poignant and felt as though it might have been transcribed from my thoughts - were my thoughts so well articulated - which makes me itch to both have that CD and see the play... the first itch being rather easier to scratch than the second. And if you'll allow me to direct this discussion back to me (me, me... all about me!), it also reminded me of the poem that I wrote about that particular day:
Echoes
Melancholy riffs
echo in my head,
so empty of all thought.
Instead—
such images of evil
and the din of fear,
death,
last breaths.
And I fancy that I see
the fabric of freedom
disintegrate,
like an ancient shroud,
into so much dust—
a broken trust—
on the streets of the city.
Dante had nothing on this.
The evil that man wreaks upon man
overwhelms me
as before,
as always.
And my cold soul
fills with loneliness.
There is no anger yet,
nor tears,
just despair and sorrow
to face the morrow.
So as this long day collapses into dark night,
the only solace that I find
is in the blues refrain
that echoes in my mind.
So, yeah... ahem... how to kill the jazzed up mood leftover from last night. On that note, I think I'll just discreetly tiptoe out of the room.
Imagine a combination of... hmm... let me think... okay, try Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush (or maybe Tori Amos), Laurie Anderson and Liza Minnelli... and if you can conceive of that merger without ever having seen Athena, then I applaud your powers of imagination. She has power, passion, perception, (s)punk... my increasingly pathetic alliterations completely fail me at this point, so let's drop the contrivances. (I so want to coin a word at this point... doesn't "contrivations" sound better than "contrivances"? No? Just me? Oh well, back to the topic at hand.) She's quirky, creative, intelligent, funny, theatrical, energetic, haunting and sometimes kinda shocking. Enough adjectives for you? (I know, adjectives are the tool of a weak writer... c'est la vie, at least they're not adverbs.) And I love the fact that so many of her songs are inspired by dreams.
I bought her latest CD, Stranger Things Have Happened, and am still deciding on my favourite tracks. At this point, I'll pick Anarchy, Merry Go Round, Duality in D and Back to Canada. I also really liked a song that she played that was a sequel to Jesse – I think it was called Maybe I – but, unfortunately, it's not on the CD. Guess I'll have to buy her next one for that. Then she played some songs from Athena Under Attack, her rock opera about 9/11 (think "Björk sings Brecht"). The quintessential song from the play, How Can I Sleep, is incredibly poignant and felt as though it might have been transcribed from my thoughts - were my thoughts so well articulated - which makes me itch to both have that CD and see the play... the first itch being rather easier to scratch than the second. And if you'll allow me to direct this discussion back to me (me, me... all about me!), it also reminded me of the poem that I wrote about that particular day:
Echoes
Melancholy riffs
echo in my head,
so empty of all thought.
Instead—
such images of evil
and the din of fear,
death,
last breaths.
And I fancy that I see
the fabric of freedom
disintegrate,
like an ancient shroud,
into so much dust—
a broken trust—
on the streets of the city.
Dante had nothing on this.
The evil that man wreaks upon man
overwhelms me
as before,
as always.
And my cold soul
fills with loneliness.
There is no anger yet,
nor tears,
just despair and sorrow
to face the morrow.
So as this long day collapses into dark night,
the only solace that I find
is in the blues refrain
that echoes in my mind.
So, yeah... ahem... how to kill the jazzed up mood leftover from last night. On that note, I think I'll just discreetly tiptoe out of the room.
8.20.2004
Triskelion Tattoo
Was just reading up on the Celtic symbol that I recently had tattooed onto my upper back (at Smilin' Buddha... anyone know if they've got a website?), called a triskelion or triskele (from Greek for "three-legged"):
I was initially drawn to it because it was reminiscent of the Isle of Man symbol of the three bent, armoured legs joined around a central point (my paternal grandmother was from the Isle of Man):
A little background: Long before the Christian trinity was introduced to the Celts, the number 3 was very prevalent in Celtic religions and had a variety of forms and meanings. Commonly seen images in Celtic art and symbolism include spirals and Celtic knots. Spirals are considered to represent spiritual balance between inner and outer consciousness, whereas knotwork represents the intricacy and interconnectedness of all things. The three Manx legs comprise one fairly literal form of triskelion from around the 11th century, but the symbol in my tattoo actually pre-dates it.
The triple spiral triskelion that I chose is often thought to symbolize the Druidic Sister Goddesses of sovereignty: Fodla, Eriu and Banba. Though others claim it represents the three forms of the Wiccan Goddess: Maiden, Mother and Crone. Other interpretations include the four elements, with earth at the centre surrounded by "the wave of sea, the breath of wind, and the flame of fire." Yet another theory is that the triskelion represents the continuity of life in the trinity of birth, death and rebirth.
I had expected myself to settle on the "maiden, mother, crone" meaning, but the wording of the last interpretation reminded me of a poem I wrote many years ago:
How Long
How long will these emotions last
a minute
a day
forever?
Through birth
then death
then rebirth?
If I live other lives
do my emotions live them with me?
If I live through a war
does the memory burn within me
through birth
then death
then rebirth?
Is that why I wake
in the middle of the night
with sweat on my brow,
hearing thunder when the sky is clear
hearing screaming when there's no one near
being afraid of...
nothing,
nothing at all.
How long will these emotions last
a minute
a day
forever?
Leaving aside for a moment the implication of reincarnation, I think the very cycle of the life we are currently living includes many metaphorical births, deaths and rebirths. Having chosen to get this tattoo as a sort of rite of passage marking a significant event in my life (not dissimilar to the Maori, I suppose), I like the idea of it representing a recent "death" and current "rebirth."
I was initially drawn to it because it was reminiscent of the Isle of Man symbol of the three bent, armoured legs joined around a central point (my paternal grandmother was from the Isle of Man):
A little background: Long before the Christian trinity was introduced to the Celts, the number 3 was very prevalent in Celtic religions and had a variety of forms and meanings. Commonly seen images in Celtic art and symbolism include spirals and Celtic knots. Spirals are considered to represent spiritual balance between inner and outer consciousness, whereas knotwork represents the intricacy and interconnectedness of all things. The three Manx legs comprise one fairly literal form of triskelion from around the 11th century, but the symbol in my tattoo actually pre-dates it.
The triple spiral triskelion that I chose is often thought to symbolize the Druidic Sister Goddesses of sovereignty: Fodla, Eriu and Banba. Though others claim it represents the three forms of the Wiccan Goddess: Maiden, Mother and Crone. Other interpretations include the four elements, with earth at the centre surrounded by "the wave of sea, the breath of wind, and the flame of fire." Yet another theory is that the triskelion represents the continuity of life in the trinity of birth, death and rebirth.
I had expected myself to settle on the "maiden, mother, crone" meaning, but the wording of the last interpretation reminded me of a poem I wrote many years ago:
How Long
How long will these emotions last
a minute
a day
forever?
Through birth
then death
then rebirth?
If I live other lives
do my emotions live them with me?
If I live through a war
does the memory burn within me
through birth
then death
then rebirth?
Is that why I wake
in the middle of the night
with sweat on my brow,
hearing thunder when the sky is clear
hearing screaming when there's no one near
being afraid of...
nothing,
nothing at all.
How long will these emotions last
a minute
a day
forever?
Leaving aside for a moment the implication of reincarnation, I think the very cycle of the life we are currently living includes many metaphorical births, deaths and rebirths. Having chosen to get this tattoo as a sort of rite of passage marking a significant event in my life (not dissimilar to the Maori, I suppose), I like the idea of it representing a recent "death" and current "rebirth."
8.12.2004
For a Moment
I was born with a patina of rust
an old soul
black hole
so cold
and I know it is with the dust and the rust
in the sadness and the madness
that I belong
but you came along
shiny and new
like a freshly minted penny
(...for your thoughts...)
and I longed for your squeaky clean soul
for the light
the laughter
the easy acceptance
but such is not my fate
my place
my prophecy.
I know that now.
I've known it always.
But I had hoped
for a moment
that I was wrong.
an old soul
black hole
so cold
and I know it is with the dust and the rust
in the sadness and the madness
that I belong
but you came along
shiny and new
like a freshly minted penny
(...for your thoughts...)
and I longed for your squeaky clean soul
for the light
the laughter
the easy acceptance
but such is not my fate
my place
my prophecy.
I know that now.
I've known it always.
But I had hoped
for a moment
that I was wrong.
Labels: poetry
8.08.2004
Not a Pretty Poem
How is it possible
that I have ever been capable
of finding beauty in pain?
Everything I feel,
every thought I think,
every molecule inside me
is ugly.
I didn't expect reality to be this real.
I know now that tears do not begin in your eyes.
Tears start with a corporeal pain that radiates through the body, making you curl up in a ball on the floor waiting for it to pass.
And refresh my memory... is it possible to cry without choking on your sobs until your throat is sore and you don't believe you'll ever breathe again?
Though, come to think of it, breathing is overrated...
every time I breathe, I want to throw up.
My traitorous stomach...
there used to be butterflies there.
Why did I ever think there was merit in pain?
There is nothing noble in how I suffer.
There is nothing glorious in this grief.
It's visceral.
It's physical.
It's literal.
Move it along, there's no poetry here.
that I have ever been capable
of finding beauty in pain?
Everything I feel,
every thought I think,
every molecule inside me
is ugly.
I didn't expect reality to be this real.
I know now that tears do not begin in your eyes.
Tears start with a corporeal pain that radiates through the body, making you curl up in a ball on the floor waiting for it to pass.
And refresh my memory... is it possible to cry without choking on your sobs until your throat is sore and you don't believe you'll ever breathe again?
Though, come to think of it, breathing is overrated...
every time I breathe, I want to throw up.
My traitorous stomach...
there used to be butterflies there.
Why did I ever think there was merit in pain?
There is nothing noble in how I suffer.
There is nothing glorious in this grief.
It's visceral.
It's physical.
It's literal.
Move it along, there's no poetry here.
Labels: poetry
5.06.2004
I'm baaack
My poor neglected blog...
What's been going on in my life? Lessee, since I don't intend to use this forum to talk about my love life (aside from the passing comment of "happy, happy, joy, joy")... very brief synopsis of the current events in my life: the Calgary Flames are in the Western Conference Finals of the Stanley Cup playoffs (who'da thunk that I'd turn into a Flames fan? Oh well, when in Rome...), my dad did NOT win the Poetry Face-Off (musta been rigged), I am now the proud owner of a faster computer and a high speed internet connection (heaven, I'm in heaven...), I've just signed up to volunteer for the NDP in the upcoming but as-yet-unannounced election (I know what you're thinking... NDP + Alberta = wasted vote, but a grrl's gotta do what a grrl's gotta do) and, after a month long hiatus, I'm planning on returning to editing my novel. So, for anyone keeping score, my goal this month is to clock another 20 hours on Being Zoe. To help myself keep track of the hours, I'm gonna head back over to the NaNoEdMo website and erase the hard fought 50 hours from my profile *gulp*, and start the clock tick tocking again. Think that about covers it, unless you want a rant about Iraq. Tell ya what, even though it's no longer National Poetry Month, I'll swap you a rant for a poem (written when Bush Sr. waged his war against Iraq):
Ground War
Ice on filthy concrete,
like salty streaks on grubby faces,
fills me with a loneliness
and the tears lie close behind my eyes.
I exist through the hours
while my mind wanders in its haze
and my life appears to go on
but the tears lie close behind my eyes.
Kindness seems most painful
for it is difficult to bear its inequality
and when you tell me that you love me
the tears lie close behind my eyes.
Nothing has been learned
from napalmed children in Vietnam
except to censor the photos
and the tears lie ever close behind my eyes.
I am so angry
and feel so helpless
these tears cannot remain behind my eyes.
Tonight,
they flow.
cm
february 23, 1991
What's been going on in my life? Lessee, since I don't intend to use this forum to talk about my love life (aside from the passing comment of "happy, happy, joy, joy")... very brief synopsis of the current events in my life: the Calgary Flames are in the Western Conference Finals of the Stanley Cup playoffs (who'da thunk that I'd turn into a Flames fan? Oh well, when in Rome...), my dad did NOT win the Poetry Face-Off (musta been rigged), I am now the proud owner of a faster computer and a high speed internet connection (heaven, I'm in heaven...), I've just signed up to volunteer for the NDP in the upcoming but as-yet-unannounced election (I know what you're thinking... NDP + Alberta = wasted vote, but a grrl's gotta do what a grrl's gotta do) and, after a month long hiatus, I'm planning on returning to editing my novel. So, for anyone keeping score, my goal this month is to clock another 20 hours on Being Zoe. To help myself keep track of the hours, I'm gonna head back over to the NaNoEdMo website and erase the hard fought 50 hours from my profile *gulp*, and start the clock tick tocking again. Think that about covers it, unless you want a rant about Iraq. Tell ya what, even though it's no longer National Poetry Month, I'll swap you a rant for a poem (written when Bush Sr. waged his war against Iraq):
Ground War
Ice on filthy concrete,
like salty streaks on grubby faces,
fills me with a loneliness
and the tears lie close behind my eyes.
I exist through the hours
while my mind wanders in its haze
and my life appears to go on
but the tears lie close behind my eyes.
Kindness seems most painful
for it is difficult to bear its inequality
and when you tell me that you love me
the tears lie close behind my eyes.
Nothing has been learned
from napalmed children in Vietnam
except to censor the photos
and the tears lie ever close behind my eyes.
I am so angry
and feel so helpless
these tears cannot remain behind my eyes.
Tonight,
they flow.
cm
february 23, 1991
Labels: poetry
4.11.2004
Poem 2. Desire
A desire, not of the body, but of the mind.
A craving so intense I can taste the satisfaction.
A longing from within the depths of my heart, my soul.
I want you.
So completely.
So utterly.
I yearn for the union of our minds,
When our thoughts exist as one,
And our imaginations wander hand in hand.
Intangible desire,
Yet nothing is more real.
cm
1987
A craving so intense I can taste the satisfaction.
A longing from within the depths of my heart, my soul.
I want you.
So completely.
So utterly.
I yearn for the union of our minds,
When our thoughts exist as one,
And our imaginations wander hand in hand.
Intangible desire,
Yet nothing is more real.
cm
1987
Labels: poetry
4.04.2004
Poem 1. Fireflies in a Windstorm
Can you understand the way my mind works?
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
The way my thoughts connect?
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
The synapses in my brain?
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
***
While attending a lecture on math—
I'm off on a tangent
of an x,y,z curve
lost in three-dimensional space
When a girl I know speaks of death—
do you see the little bird?
do you hear the haunting melody?
When friends discuss 'responsibility'—
a match flares in the darkness,
someone lights a candle to see
***
Words speak images to me
and images speak words.
One becomes the other before my eyes
as they dance in chaos inside my mind.
I try to explain the song of poetry
that I hear all day,
but I can't.
I have lived so long inside my head
I forgotten the music of speech—
its rhythms,
its patterns,
its sequence.
I can see by your face that you make no sense of it, of me.
Have you never tried to catch
fireflies in a windstorm?
cm
march 11, 1993
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
The way my thoughts connect?
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
The synapses in my brain?
~ fireflies in a windstorm ~
***
While attending a lecture on math—
I'm off on a tangent
of an x,y,z curve
lost in three-dimensional space
When a girl I know speaks of death—
do you see the little bird?
do you hear the haunting melody?
When friends discuss 'responsibility'—
a match flares in the darkness,
someone lights a candle to see
***
Words speak images to me
and images speak words.
One becomes the other before my eyes
as they dance in chaos inside my mind.
I try to explain the song of poetry
that I hear all day,
but I can't.
I have lived so long inside my head
I forgotten the music of speech—
its rhythms,
its patterns,
its sequence.
I can see by your face that you make no sense of it, of me.
Have you never tried to catch
fireflies in a windstorm?
cm
march 11, 1993
Labels: math and science, poetry
4.03.2004
National Poetry Month
Okay, folks. April is apparently National Poetry Month. So maybe I'll dust off some of my poems and actually post them on the website during the course of the month. By no coincidence, this is also the month that hosts the final rounds of CBC's Poetry Face-Off. And my Dad is one of the participants! He won the Whitehorse Face-Off and will be in the finals from April 19-22 on "Sounds like Canada" (CBC Radio One). So tune in, listen and vote. It's just like Canadian Idol... except it's radio, not TV... and it's poetry, not music... and I'm thinking that there's no recording contract at stake... hmm, perhaps my comparison is flawed. And not that I would dream of influencing anybody's vote (who me?) but just in case you're curious, you should vote for -- I mean, my Dad's name is -- Bob Mumford.
Speaking of CBC, I emailed them about Snakes & Ladders. Alas, they are not planning to bring it back as a regular series next year. *pout*
And perhaps you're wondering what ever happened with NaNoEdMo. Well, I "won"! Woohoo! Meaning that I actually completed 50 friggin' hours of editing for Being Zoe. Cramming around 15 hours into the last two days and finishing a mere 1/2 hour before the deadline. Phew. So what did I actually win? The honour of having my EdMo nickname included on the very small list of other "winners" on the EdMo website. But, of course, that overwhelming honour is not why I did it (not so much an incentive... go figger). The fruits of victory lie, instead, in the progress I made on my first novel. Don't know if anyone remembers my reference to the zero draft I had at the end of NaNoWriMo. But I said that I would have a proper first draft by the end of EdMo. Well... er... ahem... not so much. I'm thinking this is closer to a 0.75 draft. But hey, that's better than zero, right?
Speaking of CBC, I emailed them about Snakes & Ladders. Alas, they are not planning to bring it back as a regular series next year. *pout*
And perhaps you're wondering what ever happened with NaNoEdMo. Well, I "won"! Woohoo! Meaning that I actually completed 50 friggin' hours of editing for Being Zoe. Cramming around 15 hours into the last two days and finishing a mere 1/2 hour before the deadline. Phew. So what did I actually win? The honour of having my EdMo nickname included on the very small list of other "winners" on the EdMo website. But, of course, that overwhelming honour is not why I did it (not so much an incentive... go figger). The fruits of victory lie, instead, in the progress I made on my first novel. Don't know if anyone remembers my reference to the zero draft I had at the end of NaNoWriMo. But I said that I would have a proper first draft by the end of EdMo. Well... er... ahem... not so much. I'm thinking this is closer to a 0.75 draft. But hey, that's better than zero, right?
Labels: poetry
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