Why do I peddle the same shit that I have to learn about in class nearly every day? I ask that to myself quite often, and its the same reason that I write when I have had to read such shitty books in the past. I do it because I want to. I do it because it quiets my mind, creating something and putting my thought to it. I do it because it's what I am thinking of at the time...because when I think, I don't think in terms of complete sentences and paragraphs. I don't even really think in English, but that's a little deep. I think in visual and emotional terms, so when I write, its hard to get my thoughts and feelings across with prose, so I decided to try poetry. My old English teacher wasn't wrong when he said that poetry is the most concentrated form of content ever.
For some reason, a disjointed, broken, and generally grammatically-incorrect sentence written poetically conveys ten times the emotional magnitude than does a piece of prose, and in a smaller space. Prose can take pages and pages to describe a scene, and there's a certain beauty in that, but poetry can convey that same emotion in one quick phrase, just like the human mind. When I see it's a good day, I could write pages on the scenery: the blue skies, the wind, the warm sun, the grass, the other people. But in poetry, I can do that in a smaller phrase, and I conveniently get to ignore grammar rules all in the name of poetic license. I have found out the hard way the difficulty of writing whats on my mind in prose; with poetry, it comes out like the sugar shits of thought.
In other news, its possible to work too hard in a day, and as a result, be bored the whole rest of the day.
edit: what the hell is going on with the formatting?
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Over-Analysis and 'Distance'
So...in Lit class today we went too in-depth with a poem and I drew some cool steampunk designs in my notebook with really no direction or motivation whatsoever. We read a poem called 'The Chimney Sweeper' by William Blake, and managed to spend more than three-quarters of the class analyzing some guy's commentary (colorful as it were) on child labor. We read the poem and analyzed what exactly the 'bright key' was. We slapped the waders on, and, knee-deep in the professor's shit, went about analyzing a poem too much. So I had a shitty day of classes, but a good day afterward.
I was doing laundry today when I came up with 'Distance.' Commentary about larger things after.
'Distance'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I saw you today,
walking across the way,
you still captivate me,
your inconspicuous beauty and unassuming stature.
I won’t make any assumptions about you,
other than your beauty all-around,
the type of looks
that tend to capture my eye.
You do what I like, and you do it well.
Our eyes have met, on several occasions,
but never with intent in mind,
only accident and hope.
I view you from afar,
With thoughts not impure…
Seriously! It’s tough to believe
but it’s all above the neck.
Ok, I lied, your body is nice too,
but it was the face that drew me to
the organs below it, and the whole package is what I like.
Am I content to watch from a distance,
or approach and initiate?
A distance it shall be,
because you are you and I am me.
And that is why I watch from a distance.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was doing laundry today when I came up with 'Distance.' Commentary about larger things after.
'Distance'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I saw you today,
walking across the way,
you still captivate me,
your inconspicuous beauty and unassuming stature.
I won’t make any assumptions about you,
other than your beauty all-around,
the type of looks
that tend to capture my eye.
You do what I like, and you do it well.
Our eyes have met, on several occasions,
but never with intent in mind,
only accident and hope.
I view you from afar,
With thoughts not impure…
Seriously! It’s tough to believe
but it’s all above the neck.
Ok, I lied, your body is nice too,
but it was the face that drew me to
the organs below it, and the whole package is what I like.
Am I content to watch from a distance,
or approach and initiate?
A distance it shall be,
because you are you and I am me.
And that is why I watch from a distance.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Interlude 1: I'm sorry, I had to.
A mermaid found a swimming lad/ plucked him for her own/ pressed her body to his body/ laughed, and plunging down/ forgot in cruel happiness/ that even lovers drown.
The above I found from a site, I'm pretty sure its a real poem, but the source eludes me right now. I could google it, but I'm going to google something else now, my new favorite poem.
To his Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That goes out to every woman who, and argument could be made, ruined pieces of my life because I devoted time to you. Time I can never get back. You're not getting any younger.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More about both of those a little later on in the day (it IS Saturday now >.<), along with the other poem I wrote Thursday night/Friday morn.
The above I found from a site, I'm pretty sure its a real poem, but the source eludes me right now. I could google it, but I'm going to google something else now, my new favorite poem.
To his Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That goes out to every woman who, and argument could be made, ruined pieces of my life because I devoted time to you. Time I can never get back. You're not getting any younger.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More about both of those a little later on in the day (it IS Saturday now >.<), along with the other poem I wrote Thursday night/Friday morn.
The Disclaimer
This is the first of a pair of poems I wrote last night (well, yesterday morning, if you must split the hair), and I love it. It just came out of me when I was trying to sleep, and I could think of nothing but the first paragraph, laying it out, planning the word-age, and I couldn't operate until I wrote it out. There was no stopping me after the first line.
The Disclaimer
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And here I feel a slight disclaimer
toward all who should want to lay her -
a witch, a harpy, the devil, she -
though now it seems with none but me.
I've chased her through dreams and real'ty,
quested through movies too shitty for me -
Borne gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh
all to attract the attention of her!
But now as unrequited my love may be
I pray that someday she'll return to me.
I've painted a picture - dreary and bleak -
of a boy-meets-girl story doomed to fail
But before you get the wrong idea,
I am no extraordinary male.
My list of faults goes on and on
the list is long
my days are short.
A litany of protests you could level to me
but the same volley pierces you too, you see!
For I may have been short, stupid or cold,
but never once did I see you grow bold.
'One Missed Call' was not displayed.
My concerns remained unweighed -
or calculated against the greatest of schemes,
but I digress! I've fallen back to the oldest routines -
Of throwing blame to where it could deserve to exist,
but it's not my place to judge your deeds...
well, maybe it is,
because you did them to me.
I've been wronged,
and in turn wronged -
and will do both to others again.
But in the words of an old friend
"Life Goes On!"
That advice I now lend.
To no one but me,
taking only my own pity,
carelessly thrown on a Thursday night -
She did this to me! I could point and wave,
and go on for days and days.
But now I should stop this whine
and give you a dotted line to sign.
This is a disclaimer
if you ever want to date her.
She could be your destiny,
or rip your heart asunder,
just as she once did to me.
The balls in your court, so the saying goes -
carefully consider what your love sows -
Now's the Time:
____________________________ (signature on the line)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I actually like reading this one.
The Disclaimer
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And here I feel a slight disclaimer
toward all who should want to lay her -
a witch, a harpy, the devil, she -
though now it seems with none but me.
I've chased her through dreams and real'ty,
quested through movies too shitty for me -
Borne gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh
all to attract the attention of her!
But now as unrequited my love may be
I pray that someday she'll return to me.
I've painted a picture - dreary and bleak -
of a boy-meets-girl story doomed to fail
But before you get the wrong idea,
I am no extraordinary male.
My list of faults goes on and on
the list is long
my days are short.
A litany of protests you could level to me
but the same volley pierces you too, you see!
For I may have been short, stupid or cold,
but never once did I see you grow bold.
'One Missed Call' was not displayed.
My concerns remained unweighed -
or calculated against the greatest of schemes,
but I digress! I've fallen back to the oldest routines -
Of throwing blame to where it could deserve to exist,
but it's not my place to judge your deeds...
well, maybe it is,
because you did them to me.
I've been wronged,
and in turn wronged -
and will do both to others again.
But in the words of an old friend
"Life Goes On!"
That advice I now lend.
To no one but me,
taking only my own pity,
carelessly thrown on a Thursday night -
She did this to me! I could point and wave,
and go on for days and days.
But now I should stop this whine
and give you a dotted line to sign.
This is a disclaimer
if you ever want to date her.
She could be your destiny,
or rip your heart asunder,
just as she once did to me.
The balls in your court, so the saying goes -
carefully consider what your love sows -
Now's the Time:
____________________________ (signature on the line)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I actually like reading this one.
Untitled Post
I offer you my first poem ever written (that I remember). I wrote it bored to death in my Lit class, so this might give you a good idea of how I view the study of poetry. Want to learn to appreciate poetry: write it yourself. Take you own random thoughts and paste them to a piece of paper. It'll do ya good.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seated here in class,
my brain rotting to pieces.
To my right people dwell-
they speak amongst each other, careless.
She shields here eyes from the harmful glare,
the sun's UV can kill --
the other two aren't facing it.
I am envious they feel
the glare of the sun at all.
Of what do they speak
in their tight-knit group?
What drew them together
class, location, what else?
Are they in a group -
working for a common cause?
Gone - they just disappeared.
The roar of a diesel engine fills the dead room.
The professor drones on;
sleep threatens me;
Mondays Fucking Suck.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote this because I saw a group of people standing outside the window closest to me. I saw them not in the class, and I desperately needed to change positions with them.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seated here in class,
my brain rotting to pieces.
To my right people dwell-
they speak amongst each other, careless.
She shields here eyes from the harmful glare,
the sun's UV can kill --
the other two aren't facing it.
I am envious they feel
the glare of the sun at all.
Of what do they speak
in their tight-knit group?
What drew them together
class, location, what else?
Are they in a group -
working for a common cause?
Gone - they just disappeared.
The roar of a diesel engine fills the dead room.
The professor drones on;
sleep threatens me;
Mondays Fucking Suck.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote this because I saw a group of people standing outside the window closest to me. I saw them not in the class, and I desperately needed to change positions with them.
Poetic License Taken
I'll offer this post as an introduction into the way I view poetry. Poetry is a soft subject, one I consider not at all worth study. It doesn't save lives, it doesn't cure disease, it doesn't really DO anything useful. The fact that college students (at least those attending a liberal-arts university, pursuing any degree) have to study some form of it (depending on their professor) grates me to no end, but that isn't the purpose of what I'm trying to tell you here.
For me, poetry has become similar to food: its all up for interpretation people. Personally, I like chicken wings and tacos and beer, foods modern cuisine critics seem to frown upon (though for some reason beer has come into a little light). For all I care, the critics can shove it. I eat what I want to eat, and, when that premise is extended to the arts, I view/read/do what I want to do. There's a reason for my major, Computer Science. I consider the soft sciences useless; sociology, liberal arts.
I'll read what I want to read, write what I want to write, and analyze what I want to analyze. When I read a poem, don't ask me about the auditor or the speaker, those people/terms are totally irrelevant to me. Don't ask me about alliteration or metaphor. And for god's sake, get rid of the stanzas (Italian, English...the list goes on). Categorizing a poem by its verse and rhyme scheme only moves people farther and farther away from the reading of poetry.
I see a Jackson Pollock 'painting' and I wonder "How in the hell is that art?" I read the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and feel the need to carve my eyes out. That poem, to me (and to me, me is the most important source of poetic criticism) is the driest, most boring, convoluted piece I have ever read. I'm sure the professor's insistence on spending two+ hours on that one poem didn't help it's case. But don't take my word for it! Mathematical proofs are proofs! They are universal, but poetic criticism is subjective to the person giving it. Do me a favor: read a poem for yourself. Like it? Read it again, and apply it to you. Hate it? Burn the fucking thing. Don't like what I have written here? That's cool too, you probably don't constantly have awe-inspiring pearls of wisdom drop from your lips either.
What I'm trying to say is this: the study of poetry had killed it for me. Forcing concrete, finite terms like stanza, rhyme scheme, alliteration, metaphor (and a host of other terms as well) attempts to attach a mathematical-like scheme to poetry. Poetry is not mathematical.
It is Art.
For me, poetry has become similar to food: its all up for interpretation people. Personally, I like chicken wings and tacos and beer, foods modern cuisine critics seem to frown upon (though for some reason beer has come into a little light). For all I care, the critics can shove it. I eat what I want to eat, and, when that premise is extended to the arts, I view/read/do what I want to do. There's a reason for my major, Computer Science. I consider the soft sciences useless; sociology, liberal arts.
I'll read what I want to read, write what I want to write, and analyze what I want to analyze. When I read a poem, don't ask me about the auditor or the speaker, those people/terms are totally irrelevant to me. Don't ask me about alliteration or metaphor. And for god's sake, get rid of the stanzas (Italian, English...the list goes on). Categorizing a poem by its verse and rhyme scheme only moves people farther and farther away from the reading of poetry.
I see a Jackson Pollock 'painting' and I wonder "How in the hell is that art?" I read the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and feel the need to carve my eyes out. That poem, to me (and to me, me is the most important source of poetic criticism) is the driest, most boring, convoluted piece I have ever read. I'm sure the professor's insistence on spending two+ hours on that one poem didn't help it's case. But don't take my word for it! Mathematical proofs are proofs! They are universal, but poetic criticism is subjective to the person giving it. Do me a favor: read a poem for yourself. Like it? Read it again, and apply it to you. Hate it? Burn the fucking thing. Don't like what I have written here? That's cool too, you probably don't constantly have awe-inspiring pearls of wisdom drop from your lips either.
What I'm trying to say is this: the study of poetry had killed it for me. Forcing concrete, finite terms like stanza, rhyme scheme, alliteration, metaphor (and a host of other terms as well) attempts to attach a mathematical-like scheme to poetry. Poetry is not mathematical.
It is Art.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)