When father and son are close in heart and mind,
When the bond of blood and gratitude is true,
Their two lives seem as one, so intertwined
That each to the other becomes a mirrored view.
How precious for the world is such a thing!
A light that shines for everyone to see;
Most happy joy these two and one shall bring
To all who muse on life’s vast mystery.
Though generations turn from age to age,
And much has changed, still much has stayed the same;
For many continue to batter at the cage
That nets them with their selfishness and shame.
And so sometimes such light has less esteem,
But when night falls more brightly does it gleam.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
To Shelley (2008)
O noble heart and melancholy soul,
Dwelling amidst high cloudy billowings,
Fair shapes and aspects – thought’s sweet pillowings,
Which make us smile sadly, and extol
That curious creature – Man; they do console
And calm the dreams that agitation brings
In anxious times. I think your spirit sings
To free me from this heavy world’s control.
Free to gaze with strange serenity
Over the hecatombs of human pride,
Where, for the old, the young have ever died,
And still die! Though men must with misery
And grief abide, but teach your sacred song,
Then grief is beauty, and pain is never long.
Dwelling amidst high cloudy billowings,
Fair shapes and aspects – thought’s sweet pillowings,
Which make us smile sadly, and extol
That curious creature – Man; they do console
And calm the dreams that agitation brings
In anxious times. I think your spirit sings
To free me from this heavy world’s control.
Free to gaze with strange serenity
Over the hecatombs of human pride,
Where, for the old, the young have ever died,
And still die! Though men must with misery
And grief abide, but teach your sacred song,
Then grief is beauty, and pain is never long.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
To The End (2009)
A breath of passing air, a breeze
Soft-whispering, beams of light
Quick through the clouds then gone, the sea’s
Swift shimmer on a moonlit night.
How words are like! We speak – they rise
On manifold rays unseen,
Are caught by winds to boundless skies
Or murmur of a mood serene.
These subtle things, these gossamer,
These weightless thoughts of ours
Seem nothing; yet a word may stir
A heart for restless hours,
Enrich the poor, uplift the weak,
Or paint a universe,
Cross many thousand years may speak
Deep truths, and wisdom still disburse.
Over waters silent, it is said,
The Demiurge once passed,
Who spoke a word and with it fed
The world – and instantly were cast
The sweetest harmonies ever heard,
And those unheard more sweet:
The songs which burst from beast and bird,
And those which souls alone can meet.
These droplets of the quenchless fount
Of creativity,
Have issued forth beyond all count
Since humankind’s nativity;
Just so, must poets to the end
Sing beautifully and bold,
Till all as poets comprehend,
Or human hearts fall cold.
Soft-whispering, beams of light
Quick through the clouds then gone, the sea’s
Swift shimmer on a moonlit night.
How words are like! We speak – they rise
On manifold rays unseen,
Are caught by winds to boundless skies
Or murmur of a mood serene.
These subtle things, these gossamer,
These weightless thoughts of ours
Seem nothing; yet a word may stir
A heart for restless hours,
Enrich the poor, uplift the weak,
Or paint a universe,
Cross many thousand years may speak
Deep truths, and wisdom still disburse.
Over waters silent, it is said,
The Demiurge once passed,
Who spoke a word and with it fed
The world – and instantly were cast
The sweetest harmonies ever heard,
And those unheard more sweet:
The songs which burst from beast and bird,
And those which souls alone can meet.
These droplets of the quenchless fount
Of creativity,
Have issued forth beyond all count
Since humankind’s nativity;
Just so, must poets to the end
Sing beautifully and bold,
Till all as poets comprehend,
Or human hearts fall cold.
Monday, December 6, 2010
An Acrostic: Laurel (2010)
Laurel is the poet’s tree, her branches ever green
And lightsome, stirring in the wind that passes by unseen.
Until I found my laurel tree, I wandered everywhere,
Restless with the world I knew, and sick with its despair.
Even now I laugh and smile to think of how I’d roam,
Lost from my own self, at last to find her in my home.
And lightsome, stirring in the wind that passes by unseen.
Until I found my laurel tree, I wandered everywhere,
Restless with the world I knew, and sick with its despair.
Even now I laugh and smile to think of how I’d roam,
Lost from my own self, at last to find her in my home.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Tritina: The Question (2010)
The question we must ask ourselves is why.
Yet most of us are scared to ask, for we
Might find the ugly reason for this war.
We claim that we are free to speak, but war
Makes cowards of us all; we don’t ask why
We spend these hundred billions as we
Betray the poor and helpless, nor do we
Dare ask who profits. Instead we march to war
To die for “freedom,” never asking why.
Love (2010)
Like sheaves of wheat up-gathered are we all
By Love, who takes us to his threshing floor
Where we are sifted and our husks down fall,
While what is left is ground up more and more
To perfect whiteness, flour for the fire –
The sacred fire that bakes the sacred bread
For God’s high feast of purified desire,
Upon which every soul has sometime fed.
But there are those who wish to love in part,
To have the peace and pleasure, not the pain;
Yet if they let their fear consume the heart,
They’ll never fully witness Love’s refrain –
They’ll laugh, but never fully all their years,
They’ll weep, but never weep with all their tears.
By Love, who takes us to his threshing floor
Where we are sifted and our husks down fall,
While what is left is ground up more and more
To perfect whiteness, flour for the fire –
The sacred fire that bakes the sacred bread
For God’s high feast of purified desire,
Upon which every soul has sometime fed.
But there are those who wish to love in part,
To have the peace and pleasure, not the pain;
Yet if they let their fear consume the heart,
They’ll never fully witness Love’s refrain –
They’ll laugh, but never fully all their years,
They’ll weep, but never weep with all their tears.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Garden (2008)
The volatile world of matter flows
Over our senses, jarringly, confusedly,
Or sweetly, gently; its melodies transpose
Incessantly, scarcely do we sense them flee
But back they flood in anguished throes –
Or coupled in an unheard harmony!
Our thoughts, upon an immaterial stream,
Rush though our inner wildernesses,
Placid, foaming, dark, or swift agleam,
From one now fluently the next fluoresces:
One single, grand, interminable theme
Which to its close-veiled end progresses.
The one, downward and turbidly descending,
The other striving upward to the sheer
And secret spring of its own rare depending;
They meet in us over some unmapped frontier
Where light is but a vague and spectral blending;
Two several-purposed worlds within one sphere.
Here – just before the day’s first effulging;
Here – inferior airs translate to aether;
Here – where a thought is first divulging,
Causing a power in the world to stir:
Here – by some grace’s awesome will indulging,
Reason bids the unforeseen occur!
Here is the poet’s paradise, the wide
And open garden of the mind’s delight,
Fruited to never sate nor to subside;
But fail you will to breach it with your sight;
It is a cloistered place, forever denied
To those who clasp the earthen over tight.
Over our senses, jarringly, confusedly,
Or sweetly, gently; its melodies transpose
Incessantly, scarcely do we sense them flee
But back they flood in anguished throes –
Or coupled in an unheard harmony!
Our thoughts, upon an immaterial stream,
Rush though our inner wildernesses,
Placid, foaming, dark, or swift agleam,
From one now fluently the next fluoresces:
One single, grand, interminable theme
Which to its close-veiled end progresses.
The one, downward and turbidly descending,
The other striving upward to the sheer
And secret spring of its own rare depending;
They meet in us over some unmapped frontier
Where light is but a vague and spectral blending;
Two several-purposed worlds within one sphere.
Here – just before the day’s first effulging;
Here – inferior airs translate to aether;
Here – where a thought is first divulging,
Causing a power in the world to stir:
Here – by some grace’s awesome will indulging,
Reason bids the unforeseen occur!
Here is the poet’s paradise, the wide
And open garden of the mind’s delight,
Fruited to never sate nor to subside;
But fail you will to breach it with your sight;
It is a cloistered place, forever denied
To those who clasp the earthen over tight.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Always the Same (2010)
The months must pass, the seasons come and go,
The years succeed themselves with breathless haste,
As all things bend to life’s inconstant flow;
Our very world is made to grow and waste.
And so it is with passion and desire –
Brief winds that rouse the heart and pass away,
Brief winds that turn an ember into fire,
A self-consuming blaze, doomed to decay.
But love, I’ve learnt, obeys a different law,
Eternal and unchanging, always the same,
And ever to its object kneels in awe,
Kept warm by its sacred, self-renewing flame.
And so it is I sing my love for you
With poems always the same and always new.
The years succeed themselves with breathless haste,
As all things bend to life’s inconstant flow;
Our very world is made to grow and waste.
And so it is with passion and desire –
Brief winds that rouse the heart and pass away,
Brief winds that turn an ember into fire,
A self-consuming blaze, doomed to decay.
But love, I’ve learnt, obeys a different law,
Eternal and unchanging, always the same,
And ever to its object kneels in awe,
Kept warm by its sacred, self-renewing flame.
And so it is I sing my love for you
With poems always the same and always new.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Second Chances, for my friend, Jim Khuu
I loved her, and I let her slip away,
The woman of my dreams, who loved me too;
I couldn’t find the words to really say
I loved her, and I let her slip away.
Now here we are again, and come what may
I’ll tell her what I knew and know is true:
I love her, and won’t let her slip away!
This woman of my dreams, who loves me too.
The woman of my dreams, who loved me too;
I couldn’t find the words to really say
I loved her, and I let her slip away.
Now here we are again, and come what may
I’ll tell her what I knew and know is true:
I love her, and won’t let her slip away!
This woman of my dreams, who loves me too.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Come Sleep (2006)
Come Sleep and wipe away from my sore eyes
Their worries, bring to me a dreamless slumber
To quiet what thoughts now march like thunder
From a tempest rushing across the skies.
Come help the spirit that helplessly tries
To close these lids, that wrenched asunder
Offer up anguish their easy plunder;
Upon your aid alone my hope relies.
A dreamless sleep and peace for an anxious soul:
I pray for this, and thankful would I be
To slip into your realm, to give control
To any who might numb this memory!
But only thunder comes, so restlessly I stir
This eternal night, and think of him with her.
Their worries, bring to me a dreamless slumber
To quiet what thoughts now march like thunder
From a tempest rushing across the skies.
Come help the spirit that helplessly tries
To close these lids, that wrenched asunder
Offer up anguish their easy plunder;
Upon your aid alone my hope relies.
A dreamless sleep and peace for an anxious soul:
I pray for this, and thankful would I be
To slip into your realm, to give control
To any who might numb this memory!
But only thunder comes, so restlessly I stir
This eternal night, and think of him with her.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Follow the Light (2010)
No matter how the darkness breeds,
No matter visions dim and bleak,
Follow the light wherever it leads.
Upon despair and fear it feeds
And waxes while it makes us weak –
No matter how the darkness breeds
The more it does the more it needs
And ever more must ever seek,
So follow the light wherever it leads.
Its gleam is pregnant with the seeds
Of words that we must someday speak,
No matter how the darkness breeds;
Such words have power, like the creeds
Proclaimed of old from mountain peak,
So follow the light wherever it leads.
Follow: though the body bleeds,
The spirit knows what it must seek;
No matter how the darkness breeds
Follow the light wherever it leads.
No matter visions dim and bleak,
Follow the light wherever it leads.
Upon despair and fear it feeds
And waxes while it makes us weak –
No matter how the darkness breeds
The more it does the more it needs
And ever more must ever seek,
So follow the light wherever it leads.
Its gleam is pregnant with the seeds
Of words that we must someday speak,
No matter how the darkness breeds;
Such words have power, like the creeds
Proclaimed of old from mountain peak,
So follow the light wherever it leads.
Follow: though the body bleeds,
The spirit knows what it must seek;
No matter how the darkness breeds
Follow the light wherever it leads.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Gonzo (2010)
This poem is on a very disgusting subject, but I felt the need to write about it. Pornography is something that suffuses our culture, from fashion to music videos and the advertising industry. Chris Hedges graphically writes about it in Empire of Illusion, a book that everyone ought to read. There are 4.2 million porn websites, 12% of the web, servicing 72 million worldwide visitors monthly. 25%, or 68 million, of all daily search-engine requests are for porn. 40 million Americans are regular visitors to porn sites. The largest users of internet porn are between the ages of 12 and 17. Most female porn actresses are addicted to whole cocktails of drugs as a way to cope with the humiliation they endure.
It is more or less obvious how it degrades women, but it is less obvious how it degrades men. Pornography is not actually about sex, it is about exploitation, domination and cruelty. Women are turned into commodities and men become their degraded torturers, and the most extreme porn is exactly that: torture. There is nothing human about it; all emotion, all love and compassion, all empathy is eliminated, everything that is sacred about humanity is defaced. It is the worship of bestiality and ultimately the exaltation of a dying culture's obsession with its own annihilation. Where there is no humanity there is only death.
We watch it on the screen, a piece of meat
For masturbating men to fuck to death,
A moaning corpse that once was pure and sweet,
That once had lovely dreams; now only meth,
Now only liquor, pills to numb the pain,
The agony that kills a little more,
And kills still more with every shot, again
With every time they laugh and call it “whore.”
It dies for us, this strange commodity,
This spectacle for inward-dying men,
Who groan and lust for death’s cold ecstasy,
Alone and panting in their secret den.
And as we watch we die a little more
With every “bitch” and “cunt” and “fucking whore.”
It is more or less obvious how it degrades women, but it is less obvious how it degrades men. Pornography is not actually about sex, it is about exploitation, domination and cruelty. Women are turned into commodities and men become their degraded torturers, and the most extreme porn is exactly that: torture. There is nothing human about it; all emotion, all love and compassion, all empathy is eliminated, everything that is sacred about humanity is defaced. It is the worship of bestiality and ultimately the exaltation of a dying culture's obsession with its own annihilation. Where there is no humanity there is only death.
We watch it on the screen, a piece of meat
For masturbating men to fuck to death,
A moaning corpse that once was pure and sweet,
That once had lovely dreams; now only meth,
Now only liquor, pills to numb the pain,
The agony that kills a little more,
And kills still more with every shot, again
With every time they laugh and call it “whore.”
It dies for us, this strange commodity,
This spectacle for inward-dying men,
Who groan and lust for death’s cold ecstasy,
Alone and panting in their secret den.
And as we watch we die a little more
With every “bitch” and “cunt” and “fucking whore.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
Erin's Eyes (2010)
A world resides in Erin’s eyes
That makes my thought drift far away,
To emerald hills and cloudless skies,
To where the woodland forests rise,
Which hide the faeries from the day.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes,
It over-brims with warm surprise,
And beckons in the strangest way
To emerald hills and cloudless skies,
Where the wise are fools and fools are wise,
Where some strange magic comes to play.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes:
Enchanted by all this world implies,
I fall beneath the gentle sway
Of emerald hills and cloudless skies,
Where all is green, where nothing dies,
Where life is joy – eternal May.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes
Of emerald hills and cloudless skies.
That makes my thought drift far away,
To emerald hills and cloudless skies,
To where the woodland forests rise,
Which hide the faeries from the day.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes,
It over-brims with warm surprise,
And beckons in the strangest way
To emerald hills and cloudless skies,
Where the wise are fools and fools are wise,
Where some strange magic comes to play.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes:
Enchanted by all this world implies,
I fall beneath the gentle sway
Of emerald hills and cloudless skies,
Where all is green, where nothing dies,
Where life is joy – eternal May.
A world resides in Erin’s eyes
Of emerald hills and cloudless skies.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Poetry's Blossom (2010)
Part One: Lament
Poetry’s blossom is dying,
For insects have gnawed it away,
Devouring the petals still trying
To bloom for their funeral day;
But helpless, they wilt and decay.
Around it its ruins are lying,
The wreck of its forsaken past;
While earth in its sadness is sighing
That beautiful things cannot last
In the face of the plague and the blast.
Poetry’s blossom is crying –
The dirge of its silent despair;
The insects are tearing and prying
Till nothing is left that is fair,
But a song, trailing off in the air.
Part Two: Celebration
Were poetry’s blossom to die,
And a long and dark winter descend
To blanket the earth with the cry
Of the vicious, would loveliness end?
Would the heart at last despair and bend?
Were poetry’s blossom to fall
To the plague of the ugly and cruel,
If the blast of the storm and the squall
Should obscure the pure light of its jewel,
Would the passion of the heart grow cool?
Oh no! For its bloom may subsist
Through the cruelest and bitterest cold,
When poets seem not to exist,
When the earth has grown tired and old,
And the only light is the gleam of gold.
Poetry’s blossom is gone,
And yet it shall never depart!
Its seed, though forgotten, sleeps on,
Awaiting the time when its art
May lighten once more the failing heart.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Mistress of the Western Seas (2006)
O Mistress of the western seas
I've sought you by the shores,
Amongst the rocks, the cedar trees
And where the ocean roars
And crashes. I have felt a breeze,
A seaside whispering;
I've lain through afternoons of ease
To sirens listening.
For they, commingling with the foam
Which caps the spumy waves,
Were telling of your hidden home
Where poets make their graves.
By every morning that I've strolled,
As often I've beheld
The gulls and terns, their voices rolled
In yours, a song has welled
From some deep recess, secret sea
Of waters dark and cold;
Yet flush with truths invisibly,
Eternally retold.
To them I've listened, listened well
For all these many years;
I've known their melancholy swell -
The salt of human tears.
I've walked beneath the lonesome moon
When all the noise of day,
The sirens of the afternoon,
Had all but died away.
My Mistress you were clearer then,
And clear your gentle moan;
Yet still you flitted from my ken
And I was left alone.
Fade not into the deep, fade not
From one so like to you!
Imbue me with your sacred draught,
Though misery ensue.
O Mistress, I'll behold the dawn,
I'll watch the dying day;
I'll see your spirit sail upon
A cloud, or on a ray
Of amber light, to take your rest
Upon the ocean's lip;
I'll press that moment to my breast
That it may never slip
Away again. Though it may burn
And yield me up its pain,
My heart for you shall ever yearn
To mark your mournful strain.
So happy would I be to score
Your plaintive song but once:
The music of the ocean's core
For which my spirit hunts;
To send amongst my fellow men,
And hear their joyous cries
At this - the child of my pen
Before this body dies.
Then Mistress, if my fortunes hold
I'd slip beneath your waves,
And sleep amid my forebears old,
Where poets make their graves.
I've sought you by the shores,
Amongst the rocks, the cedar trees
And where the ocean roars
And crashes. I have felt a breeze,
A seaside whispering;
I've lain through afternoons of ease
To sirens listening.
For they, commingling with the foam
Which caps the spumy waves,
Were telling of your hidden home
Where poets make their graves.
By every morning that I've strolled,
As often I've beheld
The gulls and terns, their voices rolled
In yours, a song has welled
From some deep recess, secret sea
Of waters dark and cold;
Yet flush with truths invisibly,
Eternally retold.
To them I've listened, listened well
For all these many years;
I've known their melancholy swell -
The salt of human tears.
I've walked beneath the lonesome moon
When all the noise of day,
The sirens of the afternoon,
Had all but died away.
My Mistress you were clearer then,
And clear your gentle moan;
Yet still you flitted from my ken
And I was left alone.
Fade not into the deep, fade not
From one so like to you!
Imbue me with your sacred draught,
Though misery ensue.
O Mistress, I'll behold the dawn,
I'll watch the dying day;
I'll see your spirit sail upon
A cloud, or on a ray
Of amber light, to take your rest
Upon the ocean's lip;
I'll press that moment to my breast
That it may never slip
Away again. Though it may burn
And yield me up its pain,
My heart for you shall ever yearn
To mark your mournful strain.
So happy would I be to score
Your plaintive song but once:
The music of the ocean's core
For which my spirit hunts;
To send amongst my fellow men,
And hear their joyous cries
At this - the child of my pen
Before this body dies.
Then Mistress, if my fortunes hold
I'd slip beneath your waves,
And sleep amid my forebears old,
Where poets make their graves.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Three Poems Given as Christmas Gifts (2006)
To Julia, in a volume of Lord of the Rings
Remember when, reclined on father's chest,
Or snug by mother's side, this cover turned,
And lo! It was Hobbiton! So did the quest
Begin. How many fiery logs were burned
With Frodo, Sam, in halls of Rivendell
When Strider was revealed, and too the ring;
And how we gasped before Tom Bombadill
Had saved us from that horrid cryptic thing!
Adventures in the deeps of Khazad-dum
When Gandalf fell and shadows dimmed our eyes –
O horrible fate! Then Boromir's fell doom:
A land of sorrow under gloaming skies.
But there was joy as well: with Legolas
And Gimli; horns of the Rohirrim
Wildly blowing! Eowen, daughty lass!
Shield-maiden who withstood the Witchking grim.
Triumph to despair, to triumph again,
And tears with Sam and Frodo on the verge
Of Doom's abyss, when magma fell like rain
And flowed around, death looming on the surge.
Then later to the west: wistful farewells;
Unwelcome end, but earnest called the sea!
How long ago, yet still the memory swells
Today, of evenings spent so happily.
Perhaps one day, with children of your own,
By fire's side, you'll open wide this door
To Middle Earth, and they when they are grown,
And so these joys live on forevermore.
To Valerie, in a volume of Shelley and Keats
A book! But no mere book: ten thousandfold
A portucullis to high poetry.
Beneath these gilded arches, joyful, bold,
Pass through to realms of lofty purity.
But hold! Before you enter this fair land
Transcendent, home to all the sons of light,
Enwreathe yourself with ivy, take in hand
Bouquets of lilies, violets, pansies bright:
This is the realm of Flora: Spring eterne,
Where fair-eyed youths disport themselves at ease,
For all is joy where powers be to turn
Despondency to eminent thoughts which please.
So enter! John and Percy now await
With high discourse in mankind's highest state.
To Mom, in a volume of Shakespeare
Proud Shakespeare, patron of the English tongue,
Still claims achievement's summit: Everest
Mere hillock quaint. None come before have sung,
Nor after, of such truths so well expressed.
Those objects of his thought too luminous,
To shield us, clothed in metaphors sublime
By layers on layers ambiguous,
Begat ideas discovering with time.
Thus doubly has he gifted humankind:
With thoughts profound, of insight incompared
To elevate the musings of the mind;
And made the richer during moments shared.
So take this book as if a promise made
To seek the mutual infinite in his shade.
Remember when, reclined on father's chest,
Or snug by mother's side, this cover turned,
And lo! It was Hobbiton! So did the quest
Begin. How many fiery logs were burned
With Frodo, Sam, in halls of Rivendell
When Strider was revealed, and too the ring;
And how we gasped before Tom Bombadill
Had saved us from that horrid cryptic thing!
Adventures in the deeps of Khazad-dum
When Gandalf fell and shadows dimmed our eyes –
O horrible fate! Then Boromir's fell doom:
A land of sorrow under gloaming skies.
But there was joy as well: with Legolas
And Gimli; horns of the Rohirrim
Wildly blowing! Eowen, daughty lass!
Shield-maiden who withstood the Witchking grim.
Triumph to despair, to triumph again,
And tears with Sam and Frodo on the verge
Of Doom's abyss, when magma fell like rain
And flowed around, death looming on the surge.
Then later to the west: wistful farewells;
Unwelcome end, but earnest called the sea!
How long ago, yet still the memory swells
Today, of evenings spent so happily.
Perhaps one day, with children of your own,
By fire's side, you'll open wide this door
To Middle Earth, and they when they are grown,
And so these joys live on forevermore.
To Valerie, in a volume of Shelley and Keats
A book! But no mere book: ten thousandfold
A portucullis to high poetry.
Beneath these gilded arches, joyful, bold,
Pass through to realms of lofty purity.
But hold! Before you enter this fair land
Transcendent, home to all the sons of light,
Enwreathe yourself with ivy, take in hand
Bouquets of lilies, violets, pansies bright:
This is the realm of Flora: Spring eterne,
Where fair-eyed youths disport themselves at ease,
For all is joy where powers be to turn
Despondency to eminent thoughts which please.
So enter! John and Percy now await
With high discourse in mankind's highest state.
To Mom, in a volume of Shakespeare
Proud Shakespeare, patron of the English tongue,
Still claims achievement's summit: Everest
Mere hillock quaint. None come before have sung,
Nor after, of such truths so well expressed.
Those objects of his thought too luminous,
To shield us, clothed in metaphors sublime
By layers on layers ambiguous,
Begat ideas discovering with time.
Thus doubly has he gifted humankind:
With thoughts profound, of insight incompared
To elevate the musings of the mind;
And made the richer during moments shared.
So take this book as if a promise made
To seek the mutual infinite in his shade.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Poetry of Earth (2010)
The poetry of earth is never dead,
Even in this, the autumn of our age,
When memory creaks and cracks, and life has fled
Into its caves and holes, before the rage
Of winter falls like frenzy. Still I hear
The soft-voiced songs of swallows in the trees,
The beaver’s splash, and watch a leaping deer
Flee to the forest, full of grace and ease.
The poetry of earth will live forever,
Even when winter silences the joy
That rides the summer wind, for it will never
Die as long as there’s one single boy
To ply the woods, and find in every thing
Some new delight and reason for the spring.
Even in this, the autumn of our age,
When memory creaks and cracks, and life has fled
Into its caves and holes, before the rage
Of winter falls like frenzy. Still I hear
The soft-voiced songs of swallows in the trees,
The beaver’s splash, and watch a leaping deer
Flee to the forest, full of grace and ease.
The poetry of earth will live forever,
Even when winter silences the joy
That rides the summer wind, for it will never
Die as long as there’s one single boy
To ply the woods, and find in every thing
Some new delight and reason for the spring.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Rose (2010)
I fell asleep one summer day
When all the world was young and gay,
But all the colour fled away
When I found myself awake.
For as I slept I had a dream:
A garden and a flowing stream,
Illumined by some lovely gleam
That caused my heart to ache.
At first I listened to the chime
Of water, passing out of time,
And mused that death was life’s great crime,
To give and then to take.
Then found myself amid the rows
Of flowers, in a place where grows
The loveliest, most radiant rose;
The place my heart would break.
I only sought to make it mine,
And in my hand to let it shine
In all its beauty, pure and fine;
But this was my mistake.
For as I reached my hand was torn,
My life spilled out upon its thorn;
And now I wander, lost and lorn,
Alone but for this ache.
And still I dream and see the rose,
And waking, feel the wind that blows
Between the wilting garden rows
With sorrow in its wake.
And still I dream and see the rose,
And waking, feel the ache that grows,
A restless stream that flows and flows
With sorrow in its wake.
When all the world was young and gay,
But all the colour fled away
When I found myself awake.
For as I slept I had a dream:
A garden and a flowing stream,
Illumined by some lovely gleam
That caused my heart to ache.
At first I listened to the chime
Of water, passing out of time,
And mused that death was life’s great crime,
To give and then to take.
Then found myself amid the rows
Of flowers, in a place where grows
The loveliest, most radiant rose;
The place my heart would break.
I only sought to make it mine,
And in my hand to let it shine
In all its beauty, pure and fine;
But this was my mistake.
For as I reached my hand was torn,
My life spilled out upon its thorn;
And now I wander, lost and lorn,
Alone but for this ache.
And still I dream and see the rose,
And waking, feel the wind that blows
Between the wilting garden rows
With sorrow in its wake.
And still I dream and see the rose,
And waking, feel the ache that grows,
A restless stream that flows and flows
With sorrow in its wake.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Over the Sea (2010)
Where is the lady whom you love?
Far, far away and over the sea.
Where is the lady whom you love?
Somewhere that I can never be.
Why is your love so far away?
She fled to seek another shore.
Why is your love so far away?
She did not love me anymore.
And what did she do before she fled?
She gazed upon me as I slept.
And what did she do before she fled?
She gazed upon me as she wept.
But why did she weep and wake you not?
The two of us were meant to wed.
But why did she weep and wake you not?
Another was with me in my bed.
So what shall you do now that she’s gone?
I’ll walk and weep by the wine-dark sea.
So what shall you do now that she’s gone?
I’ll kneel and pray she returns to me.
And what if she should not return?
I’ll wander by this stony shore.
And what if she should not return?
Until I wander nevermore.
Far, far away and over the sea.
Where is the lady whom you love?
Somewhere that I can never be.
Why is your love so far away?
She fled to seek another shore.
Why is your love so far away?
She did not love me anymore.
And what did she do before she fled?
She gazed upon me as I slept.
And what did she do before she fled?
She gazed upon me as she wept.
But why did she weep and wake you not?
The two of us were meant to wed.
But why did she weep and wake you not?
Another was with me in my bed.
So what shall you do now that she’s gone?
I’ll walk and weep by the wine-dark sea.
So what shall you do now that she’s gone?
I’ll kneel and pray she returns to me.
And what if she should not return?
I’ll wander by this stony shore.
And what if she should not return?
Until I wander nevermore.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Roll Onward (2006)
Roll onward, blue mountains, 'till I see no more,
Roll onward your valleys to some unseen shore;
The Sun shining warmly does beckon us all
To sip summer's nectar and hearken her call.
Be still, placid waters, the vent of the day
Comes quick to bestir with a ruffling spray;
Then moments of quiet so lucid and clear
Must sink to the depths of your roiling mere.
You swallows, sing brightly and welcome the dawn,
You cardinals and blackbirds, sing twittering on;
Yet sing not so loud you disturb the sweet rest
Embracing these valleys and soothing my breast.
Pass softly, you zephyrs, across these blue hills,
Pass softly and hear how the universe trills,
How everything joins in harmonious song;
Pass softly, you heralds of change, you belong.
Roll onward, blue mountains, 'till I see no more,
You winds, carry onward to some unseen shore
These verses; enjoin them to life's endless stream,
To live, though this moment must pass like a dream.
Roll onward your valleys to some unseen shore;
The Sun shining warmly does beckon us all
To sip summer's nectar and hearken her call.
Be still, placid waters, the vent of the day
Comes quick to bestir with a ruffling spray;
Then moments of quiet so lucid and clear
Must sink to the depths of your roiling mere.
You swallows, sing brightly and welcome the dawn,
You cardinals and blackbirds, sing twittering on;
Yet sing not so loud you disturb the sweet rest
Embracing these valleys and soothing my breast.
Pass softly, you zephyrs, across these blue hills,
Pass softly and hear how the universe trills,
How everything joins in harmonious song;
Pass softly, you heralds of change, you belong.
Roll onward, blue mountains, 'till I see no more,
You winds, carry onward to some unseen shore
These verses; enjoin them to life's endless stream,
To live, though this moment must pass like a dream.
Friday, June 11, 2010
When You are Old (2010)
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And rocking to and fro beside the fire,
Call up the ancient memories of desire
When you first took another's heart to keep.
How brightly they flame, those thoughts of elder days!
When love arrived and found you unprepared,
When you were young and passionate, and scared
To let your heart be fully set ablaze.
Now as the flames grow soft and low and tired,
Look over at the one you chose to wed,
So long ago, whom you did not deny;
Though he is not the one you once desired,
No matter, I’ll ever stand by what I said,
When I prayed he love you even more than I.
And rocking to and fro beside the fire,
Call up the ancient memories of desire
When you first took another's heart to keep.
How brightly they flame, those thoughts of elder days!
When love arrived and found you unprepared,
When you were young and passionate, and scared
To let your heart be fully set ablaze.
Now as the flames grow soft and low and tired,
Look over at the one you chose to wed,
So long ago, whom you did not deny;
Though he is not the one you once desired,
No matter, I’ll ever stand by what I said,
When I prayed he love you even more than I.
Friday, June 4, 2010
To Robert Baldwin (2010)
Baldwin! I speak your name like liberty!
It sounds of struggle and patience to the end
That forced a mighty Empire to bend
Before your will, and your Great Ministry.
Today you stand in quiet comity
On Parliament Hill, and talk with your best friend,
Your LaFontaine; on you both we still depend
To help us grow into our destiny.
Your friendship set a course to nationhood,
And raised up men with courage to go on;
Your leadership proved you true and just and good
When faith was weak and scarcely lingered on.
Baldwin! You took your colleague’s open hand
And formed from two a fair and single land.
It sounds of struggle and patience to the end
That forced a mighty Empire to bend
Before your will, and your Great Ministry.
Today you stand in quiet comity
On Parliament Hill, and talk with your best friend,
Your LaFontaine; on you both we still depend
To help us grow into our destiny.
Your friendship set a course to nationhood,
And raised up men with courage to go on;
Your leadership proved you true and just and good
When faith was weak and scarcely lingered on.
Baldwin! You took your colleague’s open hand
And formed from two a fair and single land.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Come Slumber (2010)
Come slumber, quiet herald of my dreams,
And wrap me in your soft and luscious arms;
Sweep me away upon the silent streams
Of fantasy, allure me with your charms.
Night is the time when imagination wheels
With joy and happy freedom, when it flies
To any place that fantasy reveals,
To any place that love and joy surmise.
So slumber, come, oh come, for there is one
Whom I would see and dearly wish to hold!
Yet I cannot; it seems she won’t be won
By anything that hands or thoughts can mould.
So slumber, come and let me taste your bliss,
If not in life, then dreaming of her kiss.
And wrap me in your soft and luscious arms;
Sweep me away upon the silent streams
Of fantasy, allure me with your charms.
Night is the time when imagination wheels
With joy and happy freedom, when it flies
To any place that fantasy reveals,
To any place that love and joy surmise.
So slumber, come, oh come, for there is one
Whom I would see and dearly wish to hold!
Yet I cannot; it seems she won’t be won
By anything that hands or thoughts can mould.
So slumber, come and let me taste your bliss,
If not in life, then dreaming of her kiss.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Autumn, 2008 (2008)
Sing goddess! Sing through your faithless lyre;
Sing to this world, even as beauty flees,
Leaving us parched and barren as the trees;
Ignite again your wild and raving fire!
Lost have I been. Parnassus’ holy spire
Hid by the thoughtless clouds, I dwelt instead
In the earth of pain and sadness, death and dread.
But now you come in the glory of our Sire!
So sing goddess! Sing of the heavenly spheres,
The radiant city which has no end,
How happiness is ours, and turn our tears
To joy for the Good which must transcend.
For even the thickest darkness melts away
Before the slightest candle’s slenderest ray.
Sing to this world, even as beauty flees,
Leaving us parched and barren as the trees;
Ignite again your wild and raving fire!
Lost have I been. Parnassus’ holy spire
Hid by the thoughtless clouds, I dwelt instead
In the earth of pain and sadness, death and dread.
But now you come in the glory of our Sire!
So sing goddess! Sing of the heavenly spheres,
The radiant city which has no end,
How happiness is ours, and turn our tears
To joy for the Good which must transcend.
For even the thickest darkness melts away
Before the slightest candle’s slenderest ray.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Song for Spring (2010)
This is the time for youths to sing
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
And each his favourite blossom dons,
And each adorns her dress;
They frolic on the waking lawns,
Their joy they can’t suppress!
One picks a daisy from the land,
He loves her innocence;
One takes carnations from his hand,
A married couple hence.
One boy walks off with petals blue,
Forget-me-nots, for one
Who almost loved but bid adieu,
And left his heart undone.
There goes the girl with lilied hair
And juniper on her wrist;
Whoever woos her should despair,
For she will not be kissed!
This is the time for youths to sing
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
The boys and girls now dance and sing,
Delighting in the hour,
And round one maid they make a ring
And give to her a flower.
To her they give high beauty’s bloom,
The garden’s luscious queen,
A blushing bloom of sweet perfume,
A heart that’s ever green.
For loveliness, she is a rose,
A rose she is with reason;
Her verdant splendour warmly glows,
The crown of this fair season.
And now the garden is complete,
Spring’s court is strewn with bliss;
The queen, sweet rose, makes all replete,
Now nothing is amiss.
This is the time for youths to sing
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
And each his favourite blossom dons,
And each adorns her dress;
They frolic on the waking lawns,
Their joy they can’t suppress!
One picks a daisy from the land,
He loves her innocence;
One takes carnations from his hand,
A married couple hence.
One boy walks off with petals blue,
Forget-me-nots, for one
Who almost loved but bid adieu,
And left his heart undone.
There goes the girl with lilied hair
And juniper on her wrist;
Whoever woos her should despair,
For she will not be kissed!
This is the time for youths to sing
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
The boys and girls now dance and sing,
Delighting in the hour,
And round one maid they make a ring
And give to her a flower.
To her they give high beauty’s bloom,
The garden’s luscious queen,
A blushing bloom of sweet perfume,
A heart that’s ever green.
For loveliness, she is a rose,
A rose she is with reason;
Her verdant splendour warmly glows,
The crown of this fair season.
And now the garden is complete,
Spring’s court is strewn with bliss;
The queen, sweet rose, makes all replete,
Now nothing is amiss.
This is the time for youths to sing
And spend their slender hours
In gardens, blooming for their king,
Sweet Spring, among the flowers.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
My Noble Friend (2009)
My noble friend, when many question why
A person might desire to deeply peer
Into the rich, spectacular night sky,
And seek for solace in the eternal sphere;
When much too many people cannot find
The time to lose themselves in sweet delight
With great ideas; when high Art is maligned
By whom, for all their seeing, have no sight;
When learning and the joy of seeking truth
No longer captivate, no longer shine
In people’s eyes, no sympathy, no ruth
Mark out that subtle spark of the divine:
It’s then, my friend, that you should fear the world,
In expectation of an imminent storm.
When fools rise high, and wisdom is down-hurled,
Corruption reigns, and idiots inform
The public sense, some doom is in the air;
For Boreas, on happy April’s breath,
Shrieks not his oracles of cold despair
With killing frost, with ice and wheezing death!
And tranquil interludes of warm July
Are not precursed with dark calamities;
But sickness is a prophet of demise,
Cachexia, the telltale of disease!
It’s then, my friend, I think that Goodness fled
The world, and waits beside some liquid rill
With hopeful eyes, yet weeping, sore and red,
Whose prayers and tears those waters overspill,
And make their way to earth, for those that heed,
With providence – without them all were vain!
They flow and flourish all in spite of greed,
Piercing the boundless realm of human pain,
And find their way to you and I, my friend,
Who do our best to soothe her woeful stream,
To work this muddy world until it mend,
So we may greet her, other than in dream.
A person might desire to deeply peer
Into the rich, spectacular night sky,
And seek for solace in the eternal sphere;
When much too many people cannot find
The time to lose themselves in sweet delight
With great ideas; when high Art is maligned
By whom, for all their seeing, have no sight;
When learning and the joy of seeking truth
No longer captivate, no longer shine
In people’s eyes, no sympathy, no ruth
Mark out that subtle spark of the divine:
It’s then, my friend, that you should fear the world,
In expectation of an imminent storm.
When fools rise high, and wisdom is down-hurled,
Corruption reigns, and idiots inform
The public sense, some doom is in the air;
For Boreas, on happy April’s breath,
Shrieks not his oracles of cold despair
With killing frost, with ice and wheezing death!
And tranquil interludes of warm July
Are not precursed with dark calamities;
But sickness is a prophet of demise,
Cachexia, the telltale of disease!
It’s then, my friend, I think that Goodness fled
The world, and waits beside some liquid rill
With hopeful eyes, yet weeping, sore and red,
Whose prayers and tears those waters overspill,
And make their way to earth, for those that heed,
With providence – without them all were vain!
They flow and flourish all in spite of greed,
Piercing the boundless realm of human pain,
And find their way to you and I, my friend,
Who do our best to soothe her woeful stream,
To work this muddy world until it mend,
So we may greet her, other than in dream.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Shaded Looks (2006)
When pleasure is pain and pain is pleasure,
And each confused into the other grows;
When joy should hurt in equal measure,
And every thought should every thought oppose:
It’s then upon her beauty that I dwell,
And lacking will, must linger overlong;
Then Heaven’s eye reflected is my Hell,
For being here it’s there that I belong.
And when I think that I might only taste
The pleasure of her lips to feel the pain
Of ‘fare thee well’ – such hell by heaven graced
Condemns me to this agonized domain:
Not quite in Hell, exiled from Heaven’s glory,
By shaded looks I’m damned to Purgatory.
And each confused into the other grows;
When joy should hurt in equal measure,
And every thought should every thought oppose:
It’s then upon her beauty that I dwell,
And lacking will, must linger overlong;
Then Heaven’s eye reflected is my Hell,
For being here it’s there that I belong.
And when I think that I might only taste
The pleasure of her lips to feel the pain
Of ‘fare thee well’ – such hell by heaven graced
Condemns me to this agonized domain:
Not quite in Hell, exiled from Heaven’s glory,
By shaded looks I’m damned to Purgatory.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
More than Words (2010)
Some things there are that are only heard
When nature sings with a silent tongue,
But her intimations waste away
If none be still to hear them sung.
Their silence says much more than words,
And if his cluttered thoughts he clear,
If she would pause and deeply breathe,
The truth between them they would hear.
For Eden shines within her eyes,
And heaven lights upon his brow;
In speechless thought they are betrothed,
But speechless, neither will avow.
When nature sings with a silent tongue,
But her intimations waste away
If none be still to hear them sung.
Their silence says much more than words,
And if his cluttered thoughts he clear,
If she would pause and deeply breathe,
The truth between them they would hear.
For Eden shines within her eyes,
And heaven lights upon his brow;
In speechless thought they are betrothed,
But speechless, neither will avow.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
You Poets, Born of Astral Dust (2006)
You poets, born of astral dust
And lunar filaments,
From heaven stream your sentiments,
Divine your trust!
You poets, fly from worldly cares,
Guard well your sacred souls,
You are not of the sphere that rolls
In rude despairs.
You spirits, doomed to roam the earth
And seek the Beautiful,
Take hope though roads seem ever full
Of Beauty's dearth.
For Mistress Beauty may be found
If heavenward you seek,
She dwells upon a lofty peak,
Not on the ground.
Yet poets, though she be your quest
Few make it through the fray,
Or from this care-worn world will stray
Upon her breast.
So poets, if you find at last
The embraces of an elf
In whom coy Beauty is herself,
Why, hold her fast!
And lunar filaments,
From heaven stream your sentiments,
Divine your trust!
You poets, fly from worldly cares,
Guard well your sacred souls,
You are not of the sphere that rolls
In rude despairs.
You spirits, doomed to roam the earth
And seek the Beautiful,
Take hope though roads seem ever full
Of Beauty's dearth.
For Mistress Beauty may be found
If heavenward you seek,
She dwells upon a lofty peak,
Not on the ground.
Yet poets, though she be your quest
Few make it through the fray,
Or from this care-worn world will stray
Upon her breast.
So poets, if you find at last
The embraces of an elf
In whom coy Beauty is herself,
Why, hold her fast!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Old Frog (2009)
(For Grandpa Frank, aka The Chintz, on his Birthday)
There once was a crusty old frog
Who sat in a pond on a log,
As plump as a blimp,
With a leg and a limp,
And cackled all day in the fog.
Now this fog was his own special art,
And its secret he wouldn’t impart;
He could spew it at will,
And its vapours could kill,
And it came with the name of a fart.
He would sit on his log through the day
And heckle the tadpoles at play,
Then at noon he would cheer
For his afternoon beer,
Which his gut knew was not far away.
When finished and filled with his fuel
He farts for his joy in the pool,
And cackles with glee
At a puddle of pee
And a poop that sinks down like a jewel.
One day he was dropping a load
When along came a poisonous toad,
She picked up a stick
And said, “run you old prick!”
As she thrashed him for every fart owed!
Well, that crusty old frog gave a squeal,
But he and the toad cut a deal;
Now they’re both on the log
In that vaporous bog,
Making farts thick enough to congeal!
There once was a crusty old frog
Who sat in a pond on a log,
As plump as a blimp,
With a leg and a limp,
And cackled all day in the fog.
Now this fog was his own special art,
And its secret he wouldn’t impart;
He could spew it at will,
And its vapours could kill,
And it came with the name of a fart.
He would sit on his log through the day
And heckle the tadpoles at play,
Then at noon he would cheer
For his afternoon beer,
Which his gut knew was not far away.
When finished and filled with his fuel
He farts for his joy in the pool,
And cackles with glee
At a puddle of pee
And a poop that sinks down like a jewel.
One day he was dropping a load
When along came a poisonous toad,
She picked up a stick
And said, “run you old prick!”
As she thrashed him for every fart owed!
Well, that crusty old frog gave a squeal,
But he and the toad cut a deal;
Now they’re both on the log
In that vaporous bog,
Making farts thick enough to congeal!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
You and I (2010)
The brimming sky adores the land,
The blooming land the sky,
Whose rains caress the happy land
Which flowers with a sigh.
The rivers that collect the rain
Seek out the lovely sea,
To meld into it once again
And gurgle happily.
The ocean wraps the world around,
Its waters join the air,
Which rains its love upon the ground
That lays its bosom bare.
The world is moved with love and bliss,
The earth and sea and sky;
They seek each other’s happy kiss,
Why not you and I?
Nothing alone can be complete,
And love alone must die!
So why not live and love, my sweet?
Why not you and I?
The blooming land the sky,
Whose rains caress the happy land
Which flowers with a sigh.
The rivers that collect the rain
Seek out the lovely sea,
To meld into it once again
And gurgle happily.
The ocean wraps the world around,
Its waters join the air,
Which rains its love upon the ground
That lays its bosom bare.
The world is moved with love and bliss,
The earth and sea and sky;
They seek each other’s happy kiss,
Why not you and I?
Nothing alone can be complete,
And love alone must die!
So why not live and love, my sweet?
Why not you and I?
Monday, March 22, 2010
To a Certain Mr. Woods (2010)
Yes you can show your perfect smile
And bleach your perfect teeth;
But Tiger, though you flaunt your style
You cannot bleach what’s underneath!
And bleach your perfect teeth;
But Tiger, though you flaunt your style
You cannot bleach what’s underneath!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
To S. (2006)
I love you for your form and perfect grace,
Your measured pace, your style, each balanced part,
The way you charm us to our proper place
'Mid thoughts profound: you win this poet's heart.
As numbered as the men who loved you were,
Who held you long, were faithful more or less,
Who shaped you in their likeness, this I'm sure
And by the poems which lay ahead profess:
Since beauty is expressed in wide array,
The ironies of life, the truths that tell,
If like the rest your faith I should betray,
In this unlike: they never loved so well.
Forget the rival forms I may employ;
Your claim is first, dear Sonnet, to my joy.
Your measured pace, your style, each balanced part,
The way you charm us to our proper place
'Mid thoughts profound: you win this poet's heart.
As numbered as the men who loved you were,
Who held you long, were faithful more or less,
Who shaped you in their likeness, this I'm sure
And by the poems which lay ahead profess:
Since beauty is expressed in wide array,
The ironies of life, the truths that tell,
If like the rest your faith I should betray,
In this unlike: they never loved so well.
Forget the rival forms I may employ;
Your claim is first, dear Sonnet, to my joy.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Lake Superior, 2006 (2006)
Hail cheerful floret, growing mid the stones
Of Superior's shores, beneath the arch
Of autumn's ominous vesture and its groans –
A tempest onslaught and relentless march.
Such tender petals clinging by a breath,
Their yellow joy against the sullen rock,
So poised as though a moment and their death
Will, pouncing, tear them from your slender stalk.
And yet I sense some hidden strength remains
And perseveres in each defiant bloom,
Which could not be dismayed though all the rains
Of autumn's malice prophesy their doom.
For why should beauty fear the mortal claw
Of any nature? Bloom on floret bold!
Though ages pass, as this one, dead and cold,
Such beauty is its own eternal law.
Of Superior's shores, beneath the arch
Of autumn's ominous vesture and its groans –
A tempest onslaught and relentless march.
Such tender petals clinging by a breath,
Their yellow joy against the sullen rock,
So poised as though a moment and their death
Will, pouncing, tear them from your slender stalk.
And yet I sense some hidden strength remains
And perseveres in each defiant bloom,
Which could not be dismayed though all the rains
Of autumn's malice prophesy their doom.
For why should beauty fear the mortal claw
Of any nature? Bloom on floret bold!
Though ages pass, as this one, dead and cold,
Such beauty is its own eternal law.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Without Too Many Words (2009)
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why we must be two,
When loneliness has known me well
And emptiness has been with you.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why you turn away
When none are waiting where you go
And I stand here and hope you stay.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why I’m standing here
When lovely girls pass all around
And year is piling up on year.
Without too many words, my love
Please tell me why you wish to go,
When life and youth will pass you by
And passion you will never know.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why we must be two,
When all you need is in my eyes
And all I want I see in you.
Please tell me why we must be two,
When loneliness has known me well
And emptiness has been with you.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why you turn away
When none are waiting where you go
And I stand here and hope you stay.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why I’m standing here
When lovely girls pass all around
And year is piling up on year.
Without too many words, my love
Please tell me why you wish to go,
When life and youth will pass you by
And passion you will never know.
Without too many words, my love,
Please tell me why we must be two,
When all you need is in my eyes
And all I want I see in you.
Monday, March 1, 2010
To the Olympians (2010)
Bright stars! Shine forth in all your excellence!
Feel deeply the moment and guard the memory,
Which moves a billion strangers with immense
Emotion, so proud that humans thus can be.
We look at you and see the hardships borne,
The injuries, the break and bitter fall;
And yet, all bounds and barriers are out-worn
And now you stand in triumph at it all.
Prometheans! Take the gods’ eternal fire!
Push on against the limits of our race,
And prove yourselves, and all of us inspire.
Such greatness forgetful time cannot erase,
For the child who sees you raise the flame today
Tomorrow will carry it further on its way.
Feel deeply the moment and guard the memory,
Which moves a billion strangers with immense
Emotion, so proud that humans thus can be.
We look at you and see the hardships borne,
The injuries, the break and bitter fall;
And yet, all bounds and barriers are out-worn
And now you stand in triumph at it all.
Prometheans! Take the gods’ eternal fire!
Push on against the limits of our race,
And prove yourselves, and all of us inspire.
Such greatness forgetful time cannot erase,
For the child who sees you raise the flame today
Tomorrow will carry it further on its way.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Winter (2010)
Winter, you seem to choke my very breath
With chills and frost and bitter, bitter ice.
You, the very shadow of death, proceed
Across a land that languishes for song;
The forests are silent, the cities silent too,
The fields that once abounded now are still.
This muteness presses down upon the world
And sings a foreboding music all its own:
Biting the bark of barren shrubs and trees,
A cry on the mourning wind that passes by,
A dirge that tells the weeping and the moans
Of those who must endure and carry on.
Through all of time you’ve whined your bleak lament
And pressed your arctic hand upon our hearts,
Reminding us of our thin mortality,
As if you wished to freeze our very souls
And smother out eternally the stuff
Of happiness – an unseen, inner death.
All creatures tremble to pass beneath your rod,
Your glacial rule that overruns the earth;
But there is a fire that you can never staunch,
For love cannot despair, nor faith, nor hope,
Which know, despite your shadow and your song,
That your hand will lift with the melting of the snow.
With chills and frost and bitter, bitter ice.
You, the very shadow of death, proceed
Across a land that languishes for song;
The forests are silent, the cities silent too,
The fields that once abounded now are still.
This muteness presses down upon the world
And sings a foreboding music all its own:
Biting the bark of barren shrubs and trees,
A cry on the mourning wind that passes by,
A dirge that tells the weeping and the moans
Of those who must endure and carry on.
Through all of time you’ve whined your bleak lament
And pressed your arctic hand upon our hearts,
Reminding us of our thin mortality,
As if you wished to freeze our very souls
And smother out eternally the stuff
Of happiness – an unseen, inner death.
All creatures tremble to pass beneath your rod,
Your glacial rule that overruns the earth;
But there is a fire that you can never staunch,
For love cannot despair, nor faith, nor hope,
Which know, despite your shadow and your song,
That your hand will lift with the melting of the snow.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Music (2009)
Music, in a lullaby
Sung to a cradled, sleeping child,
Though insubstantial as a sigh,
As orisons, or dreams compiled,
Rests not on air, yet it may lie
In memory in a slumber mild.
Poetry, in whispers soft
Passing from one heart to a lover,
To heaven lightly lifts aloft
Like prayer, though a moment hover
‘Round her soul, as oceans waft
Beneath the moonlight’s silver cover.
Memory, when youth is spent,
Softens the harsher tones of life,
Fresh as the spirit may invent
New poems to mend some antique strife,
Or charm with stories affluent
A grandchild, or beloved wife.
Music, in an elegy
Sung for a loved and parted soul,
With power moves confusedly:
Though grieved, sweet memories console,
Though loved, still lost: the poetry
Of life and all that life may dole.
Beauty whispers through it all,
Singing and stirring; you too shall choose
To follow or decline her call,
This lovely, unseen, supernal muse,
Who beckons us beyond the pall
And intimates of what ensues.
Sung to a cradled, sleeping child,
Though insubstantial as a sigh,
As orisons, or dreams compiled,
Rests not on air, yet it may lie
In memory in a slumber mild.
Poetry, in whispers soft
Passing from one heart to a lover,
To heaven lightly lifts aloft
Like prayer, though a moment hover
‘Round her soul, as oceans waft
Beneath the moonlight’s silver cover.
Memory, when youth is spent,
Softens the harsher tones of life,
Fresh as the spirit may invent
New poems to mend some antique strife,
Or charm with stories affluent
A grandchild, or beloved wife.
Music, in an elegy
Sung for a loved and parted soul,
With power moves confusedly:
Though grieved, sweet memories console,
Though loved, still lost: the poetry
Of life and all that life may dole.
Beauty whispers through it all,
Singing and stirring; you too shall choose
To follow or decline her call,
This lovely, unseen, supernal muse,
Who beckons us beyond the pall
And intimates of what ensues.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Passionate Poet to his Love (2009)
Come live with me and be my love
And we'll the highest pleasures prove:
The treasures hidden in the fields
And forests – all that nature yields.
We'll sing amid the wooded dells,
And fall beneath the skylark's spells;
Beside a sighing mountain stream
We'll rest and share a leafy dream;
Then venturing to the mountain's peak
We'll see what words will never speak!
If you these pleasures may but move,
Come live with me and be my love.
I'll weave for you a laurel crown,
An ivy sash and myrtle gown
And slippers wrought of silver light
To chase the moon across the night,
And when we catch her by the sea
She'll fill us up with poetry!
If these delights your heart may move,
Come live with me and be my love.
Yet, if these pleasures cannot be,
Still will I love you faithfully;
And if my faith your spirit move,
Then live with me and be my love.
And we'll the highest pleasures prove:
The treasures hidden in the fields
And forests – all that nature yields.
We'll sing amid the wooded dells,
And fall beneath the skylark's spells;
Beside a sighing mountain stream
We'll rest and share a leafy dream;
Then venturing to the mountain's peak
We'll see what words will never speak!
If you these pleasures may but move,
Come live with me and be my love.
I'll weave for you a laurel crown,
An ivy sash and myrtle gown
And slippers wrought of silver light
To chase the moon across the night,
And when we catch her by the sea
She'll fill us up with poetry!
If these delights your heart may move,
Come live with me and be my love.
Yet, if these pleasures cannot be,
Still will I love you faithfully;
And if my faith your spirit move,
Then live with me and be my love.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Tower (2009)
Up, up and up and up it grows,
With spires great and proud;
Its shadow far and wide it throws,
By people’s fear and awe it rose,
Who stand below and cowed.
Up, up and up, it reaches higher,
Until it seems the sky
Is pierced in two by bricks and fire,
By bitumen, and one’s desire
Against the heavens to try.
The axis of a total power,
An empire of the world;
And never realm does it devour
Can quench the famine of that tower;
More conquest must be hurled.
Behold an army marching out;
Behold the slaves that army brings,
Enchained and wailing from the rout;
Now hear those slaughterous warriors shout,
“Hail Nimrod, king of kings!”
And Nimrod, high atop his walls,
Great hunter of the earth,
Looks on his armies, golden halls,
His toiling mass of nameless thralls,
And cannot sum their worth.
Beside him stands, with midnight sheen,
Dark onyx of his crown,
Proud Semiramis, orient queen,
Whose thirsting eyes will never glean
Enough to let them drown.
“My queen, this world is in my fist
And every nation quails
Against my armies to resist,
Such might is in this mortal wrist
That none alive curtails!
“And yet I am not satisfied,
My heart must still be fed;
It thunders with a godlike pride
And wails, ‘what god has ever died?’
What god has known the dread
“Of such an empire in his grip?
And yet no god will be
A banquet for the worms which slip
Within our tombs with eager lip
To taste nobility!”
Thus Nimrod cried with fearsome gaze
And loathed his feeble realm,
But hated more the sun’s free rays,
Which taunted him into a craze
By lighting every helm.
“Dread lord of earth and sea and air,
Have no more doubts and fears.
No god with you shall long compare;
We’ll make the very heavens despair
And break the celestial spheres!
“Behold this tower, spiralling,
Built up by countless hands
Subdued by you: it is your spring
To give the gods a mortal sting,
And vanquish heaven’s bands!
“Then all the universe must fall
Beneath your awful might;
The gods before your feet will crawl
And beg your mercy, but the pall
Of death shall steal their light!
“Then I shall be your ceaseless queen
And rule throughout the night,
As you the day will rule serene;
We’ll torment all who would demean
Our glory and our right!”
So Semiramis spoke her bent,
And all the heavens shook,
Foreboding some most ill event;
For heaven and earth, each malcontent,
The other cannot brook.
Then Nimrod, from his mighty tower,
Looks up and fiercely cries,
“Yes! God himself will fear my power!
I’ll tear him down, his heart devour,
And throw him from the skies!
“The sun will set within my crown,
And shine on whom I may;
I’ll sear the airs, the fields I’ll brown,
This world will fear my scorching frown
And death itself obey!”
The king sends forth his bold command
To muster all his force,
As numberless as grains of sand,
Their marching shakes the very land
With chariot, man and horse.
Arriving with the Hunter’s Moon,
The earth his armies hide,
Unto the edge of vision strewn,
Such gold and jewels all festoon
And boast their deadly pride.
The eve before the king’s great war
He gazes over the plain,
And sees a falcon upward soar
As if to strike at heaven’s door –
Him nothing can contain!
But lo! On silent wings there sweeps
The hooting bird of death,
And strikes the falcon as it steeps,
Then plummets with it to the deeps
While screeching out its breath!
Astonished, Nimrod staggers back
And stumbles on his throne,
A fear arises dim and black –
“And yet did not that hunter wrack
It’s prey as I my own?
“For Nimrod is the hunter king,
And full the Hunter’s Moon!
Good portents for what day will bring
When I will clip a godly wing
And make the heavens swoon!”
Anon that night commotion throws
The kingdom into fear –
The moon falls dark, yet faintly glows
With bloody hue, as if it knows
The morrow’s doom is near.
King Nimrod sees the moon as well
And shivers in his nerves,
But shouts, “Tomorrow I shall dwell
In heaven and the gods in hell,
As this false moon deserves!”
And so the night is spent by all
Beneath a fearsome moon
That lours with its bloody pall,
While time moves onward at a crawl;
All pray that dawn comes soon.
When light arises on the tower
The armies rouse and arm,
While Nimrod waits the proper hour
To launch his host, and heaven shower
With arrows, spears and harm.
Proud Semiramis rushes in
And falls before her lord:
“I dreamt this bastion strong wherein
We stand, that pierces heaven’s skin,
Collapsed as heaven roared!”
“My Queen, this omen, seeming ill,
Bodes well our victory!
For when I triumph, I shall spill
This spire and whatever hill
Might brave our regency!
“Now arm yourself – we go to war,
And make our doom today;
And either we the Elysian shore
Must win or suffer evermore;
All’s risked in one fell play.”
The trumpets blast the battle cry,
And Nimrod’s golden host
Uplift their standards in reply,
Their gallant banners waving high,
And ready for their boast.
The army glitters in the sun
Like waves upon the sea,
This army, never once outdone,
Which ever forced the foe to run,
Awaits the king’s decree.
A hundred thousand thousand spears
Unleash their furious sound,
Their mighty, conquering king appears,
A hundred thousand thousand cheers
Explode and shake the ground!
Then up and up and up they stride
With Nimrod and his queen
In front of all and full of pride;
Up, up and up and up they guide
Beyond the cloudy screen.
Up, up and up and up the tower
The mighty host does climb;
The ether shakes at such a power
While lightning shrieks and brimstones shower
To mark so great a crime.
Up, up and up they rashly march
Unto bright heaven’s gate,
And halt before a blazing arch
That makes their sin and hubris parch,
Despite their brimming hate.
Now Nimrod lifts his mighty sword
To signal the assault,
But silent dread overcomes the horde,
As groanings strange first stun their lord
And shake the lofty vault;
The groans increase, the air grows thick
And wailings start to rise
From out the soldiers, fallen sick
With terror as the mortared brick
Turns bloody to their eyes!
Then blasts rip upward from the plain,
A screaming, grinding squall:
“What’s that? That jolt!” “Explosions!” – “again!”
“Our weight –” “Our weight!” “It can’t sustain–”
“The tower – it breaks!” “The wall!”
And mighty was their fall!
With spires great and proud;
Its shadow far and wide it throws,
By people’s fear and awe it rose,
Who stand below and cowed.
Up, up and up, it reaches higher,
Until it seems the sky
Is pierced in two by bricks and fire,
By bitumen, and one’s desire
Against the heavens to try.
The axis of a total power,
An empire of the world;
And never realm does it devour
Can quench the famine of that tower;
More conquest must be hurled.
Behold an army marching out;
Behold the slaves that army brings,
Enchained and wailing from the rout;
Now hear those slaughterous warriors shout,
“Hail Nimrod, king of kings!”
And Nimrod, high atop his walls,
Great hunter of the earth,
Looks on his armies, golden halls,
His toiling mass of nameless thralls,
And cannot sum their worth.
Beside him stands, with midnight sheen,
Dark onyx of his crown,
Proud Semiramis, orient queen,
Whose thirsting eyes will never glean
Enough to let them drown.
“My queen, this world is in my fist
And every nation quails
Against my armies to resist,
Such might is in this mortal wrist
That none alive curtails!
“And yet I am not satisfied,
My heart must still be fed;
It thunders with a godlike pride
And wails, ‘what god has ever died?’
What god has known the dread
“Of such an empire in his grip?
And yet no god will be
A banquet for the worms which slip
Within our tombs with eager lip
To taste nobility!”
Thus Nimrod cried with fearsome gaze
And loathed his feeble realm,
But hated more the sun’s free rays,
Which taunted him into a craze
By lighting every helm.
“Dread lord of earth and sea and air,
Have no more doubts and fears.
No god with you shall long compare;
We’ll make the very heavens despair
And break the celestial spheres!
“Behold this tower, spiralling,
Built up by countless hands
Subdued by you: it is your spring
To give the gods a mortal sting,
And vanquish heaven’s bands!
“Then all the universe must fall
Beneath your awful might;
The gods before your feet will crawl
And beg your mercy, but the pall
Of death shall steal their light!
“Then I shall be your ceaseless queen
And rule throughout the night,
As you the day will rule serene;
We’ll torment all who would demean
Our glory and our right!”
So Semiramis spoke her bent,
And all the heavens shook,
Foreboding some most ill event;
For heaven and earth, each malcontent,
The other cannot brook.
Then Nimrod, from his mighty tower,
Looks up and fiercely cries,
“Yes! God himself will fear my power!
I’ll tear him down, his heart devour,
And throw him from the skies!
“The sun will set within my crown,
And shine on whom I may;
I’ll sear the airs, the fields I’ll brown,
This world will fear my scorching frown
And death itself obey!”
The king sends forth his bold command
To muster all his force,
As numberless as grains of sand,
Their marching shakes the very land
With chariot, man and horse.
Arriving with the Hunter’s Moon,
The earth his armies hide,
Unto the edge of vision strewn,
Such gold and jewels all festoon
And boast their deadly pride.
The eve before the king’s great war
He gazes over the plain,
And sees a falcon upward soar
As if to strike at heaven’s door –
Him nothing can contain!
But lo! On silent wings there sweeps
The hooting bird of death,
And strikes the falcon as it steeps,
Then plummets with it to the deeps
While screeching out its breath!
Astonished, Nimrod staggers back
And stumbles on his throne,
A fear arises dim and black –
“And yet did not that hunter wrack
It’s prey as I my own?
“For Nimrod is the hunter king,
And full the Hunter’s Moon!
Good portents for what day will bring
When I will clip a godly wing
And make the heavens swoon!”
Anon that night commotion throws
The kingdom into fear –
The moon falls dark, yet faintly glows
With bloody hue, as if it knows
The morrow’s doom is near.
King Nimrod sees the moon as well
And shivers in his nerves,
But shouts, “Tomorrow I shall dwell
In heaven and the gods in hell,
As this false moon deserves!”
And so the night is spent by all
Beneath a fearsome moon
That lours with its bloody pall,
While time moves onward at a crawl;
All pray that dawn comes soon.
When light arises on the tower
The armies rouse and arm,
While Nimrod waits the proper hour
To launch his host, and heaven shower
With arrows, spears and harm.
Proud Semiramis rushes in
And falls before her lord:
“I dreamt this bastion strong wherein
We stand, that pierces heaven’s skin,
Collapsed as heaven roared!”
“My Queen, this omen, seeming ill,
Bodes well our victory!
For when I triumph, I shall spill
This spire and whatever hill
Might brave our regency!
“Now arm yourself – we go to war,
And make our doom today;
And either we the Elysian shore
Must win or suffer evermore;
All’s risked in one fell play.”
The trumpets blast the battle cry,
And Nimrod’s golden host
Uplift their standards in reply,
Their gallant banners waving high,
And ready for their boast.
The army glitters in the sun
Like waves upon the sea,
This army, never once outdone,
Which ever forced the foe to run,
Awaits the king’s decree.
A hundred thousand thousand spears
Unleash their furious sound,
Their mighty, conquering king appears,
A hundred thousand thousand cheers
Explode and shake the ground!
Then up and up and up they stride
With Nimrod and his queen
In front of all and full of pride;
Up, up and up and up they guide
Beyond the cloudy screen.
Up, up and up and up the tower
The mighty host does climb;
The ether shakes at such a power
While lightning shrieks and brimstones shower
To mark so great a crime.
Up, up and up they rashly march
Unto bright heaven’s gate,
And halt before a blazing arch
That makes their sin and hubris parch,
Despite their brimming hate.
Now Nimrod lifts his mighty sword
To signal the assault,
But silent dread overcomes the horde,
As groanings strange first stun their lord
And shake the lofty vault;
The groans increase, the air grows thick
And wailings start to rise
From out the soldiers, fallen sick
With terror as the mortared brick
Turns bloody to their eyes!
Then blasts rip upward from the plain,
A screaming, grinding squall:
“What’s that? That jolt!” “Explosions!” – “again!”
“Our weight –” “Our weight!” “It can’t sustain–”
“The tower – it breaks!” “The wall!”
And mighty was their fall!
Monday, February 1, 2010
On Pomposity (2010)
There once was a youth known as Slick,
A pompous and genuine prick;
With ambition the size of a planet
And an ego to easily span it,
The world would be his in a trick!
Although Slick was the head of his class
And his grin was like well-polished brass,
His friends would complain
He was galactically vain,
And they secretly thought him an ass.
A pompous and genuine prick;
With ambition the size of a planet
And an ego to easily span it,
The world would be his in a trick!
Although Slick was the head of his class
And his grin was like well-polished brass,
His friends would complain
He was galactically vain,
And they secretly thought him an ass.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
To Obama, Upon His Election (2008)
Senator of the self-consuming eye,
Ever conscious of your every pose,
Elegant elongations of your neck, you ply
Your deeply-felt horizons. What high repose
Graces your brow, you glory of the day!
You are the change which you have waited for,
Redeeming king for which your masses pray:
The One to shower all with heaven’s store!
Senator of the self-afflicting eye,
Blinded by your desire to seize the crown:
You fool! Your nation threatens swift to die
Beneath its massy debts, and tear you down,
A human wreck of vanity and pride,
Where naught but your own ruin shall preside.
Ever conscious of your every pose,
Elegant elongations of your neck, you ply
Your deeply-felt horizons. What high repose
Graces your brow, you glory of the day!
You are the change which you have waited for,
Redeeming king for which your masses pray:
The One to shower all with heaven’s store!
Senator of the self-afflicting eye,
Blinded by your desire to seize the crown:
You fool! Your nation threatens swift to die
Beneath its massy debts, and tear you down,
A human wreck of vanity and pride,
Where naught but your own ruin shall preside.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Britannia (2009)
“Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves
Britons never shall be slaves”
~James Thomson, circa 1740
Britannia: the last and greatest Rome,
The Empire of the never-setting sun,
The envy of the world; the starry dome
Could scarcely contain the glory that you won.
Britannia: yoke of nations, one in four
Of all earth’s people knelt beneath your sun;
Merchant and Warrior sailing from your shore
To conquer all, and conquered be by none.
Britannia, though you never be the slave
Of others, still, I gaze behind your coasts
And spot a mound, a long-forgotten grave,
For England’s free, sublime and sovereign ghosts.
Living, they filled your nation’s happy eye,
But for the imperial slaughter, had to die.
Britons never shall be slaves”
~James Thomson, circa 1740
Britannia: the last and greatest Rome,
The Empire of the never-setting sun,
The envy of the world; the starry dome
Could scarcely contain the glory that you won.
Britannia: yoke of nations, one in four
Of all earth’s people knelt beneath your sun;
Merchant and Warrior sailing from your shore
To conquer all, and conquered be by none.
Britannia, though you never be the slave
Of others, still, I gaze behind your coasts
And spot a mound, a long-forgotten grave,
For England’s free, sublime and sovereign ghosts.
Living, they filled your nation’s happy eye,
But for the imperial slaughter, had to die.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Mistakes (2006)
It's true I've made mistakes along the way,
As often as directly looked askance;
Or wandered here and there and then astray,
Pulled everywhere by unreflecting chance.
And I suspect that you have known the same
Experience in this confusing wood,
This wilderness that none shall ever tame
Nor, not for lack of trying, understood.
I could lament the troubles that we shared,
The wasted time, the traps we should have seen;
But foresight is to hindsight incompared,
And in the end 'tis for the best what's been.
For all these wending ways, which wayward drew,
Have drawn me back more lovingly to you.
As often as directly looked askance;
Or wandered here and there and then astray,
Pulled everywhere by unreflecting chance.
And I suspect that you have known the same
Experience in this confusing wood,
This wilderness that none shall ever tame
Nor, not for lack of trying, understood.
I could lament the troubles that we shared,
The wasted time, the traps we should have seen;
But foresight is to hindsight incompared,
And in the end 'tis for the best what's been.
For all these wending ways, which wayward drew,
Have drawn me back more lovingly to you.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Grow Old With Me (2009)
Grow old with me, my lovely girl,
Grow old along with me;
The flower does not bud but for
The poet and the bee!
Come home with me, my lovely girl,
Come fill my empty home;
For girls cannot forever bloom,
Nor boys forever roam.
To you alone, my lovely girl,
To you I promise this:
That you shall not be loveless while
These lips are warm to kiss!
So take my hand, my lovely girl,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And though we creak and totter on
Our eyes will keep their glow.
Grow old with me, my lovely girl,
And there shall be no end:
As one we’ll slip beneath the earth,
As one we shall ascend.
Grow old along with me;
The flower does not bud but for
The poet and the bee!
Come home with me, my lovely girl,
Come fill my empty home;
For girls cannot forever bloom,
Nor boys forever roam.
To you alone, my lovely girl,
To you I promise this:
That you shall not be loveless while
These lips are warm to kiss!
So take my hand, my lovely girl,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And though we creak and totter on
Our eyes will keep their glow.
Grow old with me, my lovely girl,
And there shall be no end:
As one we’ll slip beneath the earth,
As one we shall ascend.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Sonnet to Keats (2005)
Sleep on Adonis, peace is your abode:
No critics slander, naught disturbs your rest;
The laurel wreath that crowns your gentle breast
Thrives rich and green, as always it bestowed
Its leafy luxury, and ever glowed
A 'welcome all' that all might be your guest,
And toast to all the beautiful and best
That from the fount of Helicon has flowed.
Dream on Adonis, whom the world did bear
So crudely; fear not that you wrote in vain:
Your name, though writ in water, feeds the grain
That ripens and becomes the future's fare;
Though you had none, your word shall seed an heir,
And through his voice shall yours resound again.
No critics slander, naught disturbs your rest;
The laurel wreath that crowns your gentle breast
Thrives rich and green, as always it bestowed
Its leafy luxury, and ever glowed
A 'welcome all' that all might be your guest,
And toast to all the beautiful and best
That from the fount of Helicon has flowed.
Dream on Adonis, whom the world did bear
So crudely; fear not that you wrote in vain:
Your name, though writ in water, feeds the grain
That ripens and becomes the future's fare;
Though you had none, your word shall seed an heir,
And through his voice shall yours resound again.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Ottawa (2010)
1
The river slides beneath me, ponderously,
Inexorably into the east, the west
Pours out its heart in rapids, floods and calms,
Emptying into the confluence farther on.
This river, elder highway of the land,
Still churns with echoes heard for centuries:
Of splashing paddles, droplets, sleek canoes,
Laden grunts, and sighs, and river songs.
Then chugs of steamships pushing up the shores,
Of settlers awed to whispers by the wastes,
The shouts of men, the primal scrapes and groans
Of a million logs’ slow journey to the sea.
The river’s current holds it all within:
The history of the people who have come,
Of those who left and those who still endure –
The vast migrations of millennia.
This place, this channel cutting through the rock,
This highway of the north, and east and west,
Still visits with its people in our dreams,
And grants us visions, calls us in our bones
To movement, on and on, to leap across
Geographies of distance in the mind:
Across the hills and lakes, the golden sea,
And the Rockies, to a far-off, ocean shore.
2
Into the wilds he went, the first, the Fleuve,
Up, up the Ottawa, up the Mattawa,
Across Lake Nipissing, and down French River,
Then Georgian Bay - a thousand mile leap!
There on an island of an inland sea,
“La mer douce” they called it, upon it rests
A monument, worn by waves and winds and rains;
Yet still upon its weathered face it reads:
“Samuel de Champlain by Canoe
A.D. Sixteen hundred and fifteen.
As for me, I labour always to prepare
A way for those willing to follow it.”
Four centuries later, and here I stand
In Ottawa, gazing out towards the east;
I think of those who westward went before,
Who followed Champlain into the wilderness.
The Coureurs-de-bois, The Voyageurs; the men
Who followed the rivers across a continent,
And married in the west with Native girls;
The Métis who arose for a time to rule the plains.
Their echoes rise and spill with liquid ease
Beyond the boundaries that we construct
To separate ourselves in solitudes,
The prisons that we build within our minds.
3
Beyond the wilds he looked, across the west,
While standing by the stone-wrought citadel,
Quebec, the eldest daughter of the Fleuve,
And Cartier dreamt a river crossed it all,
Of wood and steel, a precious, slender band
Of promise to a people far away,
To men whose tongue was not his own,
Who lived upon a far-off ocean shore.
And Laurier too, he gazed on the golden sea,
The vastness of the spaces in the west,
Where sky was blue infinity, where land
Rolled on forever, its soil rich and black.
Beneath the ripples of the shimmering grass
He saw the future cities and the towns,
The numberless farms, the wealth that would be grown
To feed the world; he saw it from Quebec.
And soon the millions came to Montreal,
And docking on the continental verge,
Began their arduous voyage to the west
Like waves, slow-moving over the rolling land.
4
The river’s current runs on steadily
And deep, beneath the din of spume and spray;
The storms sweep in and bluster, but they leave,
And still the waters flow unto the sea.
For the river has a way of moving on
Like history, like the motions of the heart,
Which call to us in dreams to leap across
Geographies of separate solitudes.
It calls us all to movement, on and on,
To seek the ancient highways of the mind,
Which cross the hills and lakes, the golden sea,
And the Rockies, to a far-off, ocean shore.
The river slides beneath me, ponderously,
Inexorably into the east, the west
Pours out its heart in rapids, floods and calms,
Emptying into the confluence farther on.
This river, elder highway of the land,
Still churns with echoes heard for centuries:
Of splashing paddles, droplets, sleek canoes,
Laden grunts, and sighs, and river songs.
Then chugs of steamships pushing up the shores,
Of settlers awed to whispers by the wastes,
The shouts of men, the primal scrapes and groans
Of a million logs’ slow journey to the sea.
The river’s current holds it all within:
The history of the people who have come,
Of those who left and those who still endure –
The vast migrations of millennia.
This place, this channel cutting through the rock,
This highway of the north, and east and west,
Still visits with its people in our dreams,
And grants us visions, calls us in our bones
To movement, on and on, to leap across
Geographies of distance in the mind:
Across the hills and lakes, the golden sea,
And the Rockies, to a far-off, ocean shore.
2
Into the wilds he went, the first, the Fleuve,
Up, up the Ottawa, up the Mattawa,
Across Lake Nipissing, and down French River,
Then Georgian Bay - a thousand mile leap!
There on an island of an inland sea,
“La mer douce” they called it, upon it rests
A monument, worn by waves and winds and rains;
Yet still upon its weathered face it reads:
“Samuel de Champlain by Canoe
A.D. Sixteen hundred and fifteen.
As for me, I labour always to prepare
A way for those willing to follow it.”
Four centuries later, and here I stand
In Ottawa, gazing out towards the east;
I think of those who westward went before,
Who followed Champlain into the wilderness.
The Coureurs-de-bois, The Voyageurs; the men
Who followed the rivers across a continent,
And married in the west with Native girls;
The Métis who arose for a time to rule the plains.
Their echoes rise and spill with liquid ease
Beyond the boundaries that we construct
To separate ourselves in solitudes,
The prisons that we build within our minds.
3
Beyond the wilds he looked, across the west,
While standing by the stone-wrought citadel,
Quebec, the eldest daughter of the Fleuve,
And Cartier dreamt a river crossed it all,
Of wood and steel, a precious, slender band
Of promise to a people far away,
To men whose tongue was not his own,
Who lived upon a far-off ocean shore.
And Laurier too, he gazed on the golden sea,
The vastness of the spaces in the west,
Where sky was blue infinity, where land
Rolled on forever, its soil rich and black.
Beneath the ripples of the shimmering grass
He saw the future cities and the towns,
The numberless farms, the wealth that would be grown
To feed the world; he saw it from Quebec.
And soon the millions came to Montreal,
And docking on the continental verge,
Began their arduous voyage to the west
Like waves, slow-moving over the rolling land.
4
The river’s current runs on steadily
And deep, beneath the din of spume and spray;
The storms sweep in and bluster, but they leave,
And still the waters flow unto the sea.
For the river has a way of moving on
Like history, like the motions of the heart,
Which call to us in dreams to leap across
Geographies of separate solitudes.
It calls us all to movement, on and on,
To seek the ancient highways of the mind,
Which cross the hills and lakes, the golden sea,
And the Rockies, to a far-off, ocean shore.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ye Cloud-Wreathed Peaks (2006)
Ye cloud-wreathed peaks, ye children of an age
Beyond the names of men and memory,
Who stand austere and still. Born of the rage
Of the deep-set earth, half-clothed now verdantly
In forests of pine; your upthrust layers speak
Of cataclysmic forces far beneath
And high above this place; a world could break
Upon your granite armor, adamant teeth,
To move you not. High on your brows are laid
Glacial-fired crowns, which silent blaze
Like beacons forth: eternity displayed
For all who lift their eyes and upward gaze.
O happy, ye impregnables of stone,
Ye incorruptibles; you are a light
For all of us who yearn to be our own,
To stand against the accumulated might
Of mankind's cruel oppressors. Pinnacles bold,
As you've withstood an elemental fray
Of aeons - foemen of a tougher mold -
We too will overcome our baneful day.
Beyond the names of men and memory,
Who stand austere and still. Born of the rage
Of the deep-set earth, half-clothed now verdantly
In forests of pine; your upthrust layers speak
Of cataclysmic forces far beneath
And high above this place; a world could break
Upon your granite armor, adamant teeth,
To move you not. High on your brows are laid
Glacial-fired crowns, which silent blaze
Like beacons forth: eternity displayed
For all who lift their eyes and upward gaze.
O happy, ye impregnables of stone,
Ye incorruptibles; you are a light
For all of us who yearn to be our own,
To stand against the accumulated might
Of mankind's cruel oppressors. Pinnacles bold,
As you've withstood an elemental fray
Of aeons - foemen of a tougher mold -
We too will overcome our baneful day.
Farewell Vancouver (2006)
Farewell Vancouver, mistress of the western sea,
Farewell Rocky Mountains of the lofty spires:
To muse on you, my mind, it never tires;
Though I'm bound to leave, with you my thoughts are free.
I love these plains which roll towards infinity,
The eastern hills where my voyage fast retires;
But I'll stay not overlong, my heart aspires
To return to you, for with you my heart is free.
Farewell Vancouver, mistress of the western sea,
Farewell Rocky Mountains of the lofty spires:
Fond memories I'll keep - Promethean fires
For my muse, so with you, I'll be forever free.
Farewell Rocky Mountains of the lofty spires:
To muse on you, my mind, it never tires;
Though I'm bound to leave, with you my thoughts are free.
I love these plains which roll towards infinity,
The eastern hills where my voyage fast retires;
But I'll stay not overlong, my heart aspires
To return to you, for with you my heart is free.
Farewell Vancouver, mistress of the western sea,
Farewell Rocky Mountains of the lofty spires:
Fond memories I'll keep - Promethean fires
For my muse, so with you, I'll be forever free.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
For Whom Do You Sing (2007)
For whom do you sing this lovely morn
When spring is fresh on every bough,
In every waft of air up-born;
O little sparrow, piping from your bough?
With greater gladness than most hearts allow!
Perhaps you sing for your chicks unhatched,
The coming joys of parenthood,
Perhaps you sing of friends unmatched,
Who chirp their gay replies across the wood,
In tongues which, long ago, I understood.
But sing of distant cherished places,
And I'll attend your cheerful tune,
Until my cares your charm erases;
That moment will not – cannot come too soon!
Good spirit, grant this solitary boon!
Alas, that we are bound to wander
Far from our homes and friendships old;
Yet since it makes the memory fonder,
Sing spirit! Thoughts are never cold
Nor love, when you with music all enfold.
When spring is fresh on every bough,
In every waft of air up-born;
O little sparrow, piping from your bough?
With greater gladness than most hearts allow!
Perhaps you sing for your chicks unhatched,
The coming joys of parenthood,
Perhaps you sing of friends unmatched,
Who chirp their gay replies across the wood,
In tongues which, long ago, I understood.
But sing of distant cherished places,
And I'll attend your cheerful tune,
Until my cares your charm erases;
That moment will not – cannot come too soon!
Good spirit, grant this solitary boon!
Alas, that we are bound to wander
Far from our homes and friendships old;
Yet since it makes the memory fonder,
Sing spirit! Thoughts are never cold
Nor love, when you with music all enfold.
On Poets (2007)
Though poets sing of many things:
The wild and the free,
The most sublime of humankind
And human misery,
The novel and the commonplace,
The greatest and the least;
They always seek that single grace
Ashine in night's bejewelled face,
Whose light has never ceased.
If ever you have watched them close
When they have been inspired:
Now blowing gently on a spark
Imagination fired,
Now guarding it with memory,
Then with it they will play,
Yet trace its meaning earnestly
For like the pale anemone
Too soon it fades away.
Despite their many frailties
And consequent mistakes,
When inspiration catches them
And poetry awakes,
These mortals just a moment past
Shake off their mortal skin;
With beamy spirits unsurpassed
Become as stars, whose beams outlast
Life's transitory din.
To each a solitary soul,
To each a melody;
To each an ear with witch to hear
A timeless harmony;
To modulate their voice among
The many come before;
To sing a part as yet unsung
That cheers the old, and stirs the young
Their genius to outpour.
These sons and daughters of the light
Blaze forth eternally;
Each steals a Promethean spark,
Defying Jove's decree.
Each stands before his own demise
And finds his courage near,
For if he gaze across the skies,
How many of his brethren's eyes
And works to him appear?
Exemplars of what man can be
They live all times at once;
They dream for those as yet unborn:
All generations hence.
They even breach those ages cold
When tongues have fallen dumb;
The while they sing no thought is old,
Then Beauty's tale is freshly told,
For Beauty they've become.
The wild and the free,
The most sublime of humankind
And human misery,
The novel and the commonplace,
The greatest and the least;
They always seek that single grace
Ashine in night's bejewelled face,
Whose light has never ceased.
If ever you have watched them close
When they have been inspired:
Now blowing gently on a spark
Imagination fired,
Now guarding it with memory,
Then with it they will play,
Yet trace its meaning earnestly
For like the pale anemone
Too soon it fades away.
Despite their many frailties
And consequent mistakes,
When inspiration catches them
And poetry awakes,
These mortals just a moment past
Shake off their mortal skin;
With beamy spirits unsurpassed
Become as stars, whose beams outlast
Life's transitory din.
To each a solitary soul,
To each a melody;
To each an ear with witch to hear
A timeless harmony;
To modulate their voice among
The many come before;
To sing a part as yet unsung
That cheers the old, and stirs the young
Their genius to outpour.
These sons and daughters of the light
Blaze forth eternally;
Each steals a Promethean spark,
Defying Jove's decree.
Each stands before his own demise
And finds his courage near,
For if he gaze across the skies,
How many of his brethren's eyes
And works to him appear?
Exemplars of what man can be
They live all times at once;
They dream for those as yet unborn:
All generations hence.
They even breach those ages cold
When tongues have fallen dumb;
The while they sing no thought is old,
Then Beauty's tale is freshly told,
For Beauty they've become.
In a Lawless World (2010)
In a lawless world the thief is also lord,
And murderers wear the clothes of righteousness;
In a lawless world the wicked know success
And scraps are all that goodness can afford.
I’ve seen the way that people have adored
A bloated leech with claims to some noblesse,
Who doled out pious crumbs of his excess
While billions of starving people were ignored.
In a lawless world injustice works the scales
And sets all riches in the killer’s hands,
Then balances his money with the wails
Of children, dying in desolated lands.
But there is yet some justice: for he will die,
His riches will betray him, and none will cry.
And murderers wear the clothes of righteousness;
In a lawless world the wicked know success
And scraps are all that goodness can afford.
I’ve seen the way that people have adored
A bloated leech with claims to some noblesse,
Who doled out pious crumbs of his excess
While billions of starving people were ignored.
In a lawless world injustice works the scales
And sets all riches in the killer’s hands,
Then balances his money with the wails
Of children, dying in desolated lands.
But there is yet some justice: for he will die,
His riches will betray him, and none will cry.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Greatest Mystery (2005)
When I marvel at the greatest mystery,
The greatest miracle; I often think
These eyes, which countless pleasant sights will drink,
Were formed so I be seen and also see;
These words that flow so sweet and lightsomely
Between us should, like ghosts, to nothing sink,
If we merely spoke and sang because we speak.
In each of us there is a melody
That must be sung in chorus: every voice,
So perfectly unique, is from its place
A mirror to the rest. Yet why rejoice
At the song and soul behind a smiling face –
Why love? Why have we this eternal Power,
If we do not transcend the mortal hour?
The greatest miracle; I often think
These eyes, which countless pleasant sights will drink,
Were formed so I be seen and also see;
These words that flow so sweet and lightsomely
Between us should, like ghosts, to nothing sink,
If we merely spoke and sang because we speak.
In each of us there is a melody
That must be sung in chorus: every voice,
So perfectly unique, is from its place
A mirror to the rest. Yet why rejoice
At the song and soul behind a smiling face –
Why love? Why have we this eternal Power,
If we do not transcend the mortal hour?
To The Youth of Today (2007)
A madman, would-be king, a world aflame,
A generation from their duty flies,
Who, elders only in their graying shame,
Will damn you all, your future they despise.
Ill-fated youth, what hope do you expect,
What words of kind sagacity, what boon?
Not this: that Fortune does your star reject,
The golden hour passes swift, and soon
Night falls – such is the poison you are fed.
No happy labor, systems in distress,
Impossible debts: all weigh upon your head;
But even so, with nothing, on you press,
As Fortune kneels before courageous deeds,
The future yours – it's all your spirit needs.
A generation from their duty flies,
Who, elders only in their graying shame,
Will damn you all, your future they despise.
Ill-fated youth, what hope do you expect,
What words of kind sagacity, what boon?
Not this: that Fortune does your star reject,
The golden hour passes swift, and soon
Night falls – such is the poison you are fed.
No happy labor, systems in distress,
Impossible debts: all weigh upon your head;
But even so, with nothing, on you press,
As Fortune kneels before courageous deeds,
The future yours – it's all your spirit needs.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
On Old Age (2007)
Another autumn evening sets; the breath
Of winter settles swiftly on the lips
With mortal epithets; the season of death,
Of ice and stillness, dreamlessness, that slips
Upon us almost unexpectedly.
In spring there is no word for cold,
The summer dreams in green and gold,
But now in autumn grip we find ourselves grown old!
And winter rushes in relentlessly!
Then old age, blunter of passion’s edge,
Usurps the throne of youth’s virility,
He ruins beauty, steals her privilege,
And dulls the palate’s pleasure for the bold.
Old age – death’s captain – he whom many fear,
Whose eyes, they whisper, prophesy the end is near.
But why should we fear old age? There is a place
For every season and human pleasure.
First there is spring, when the farmer’s plough will trace
Deep furrows, black and rich, and later measure
The tiny grains that soon push up their stalks.
Then with the rains on which they feed,
Up spring the shoots with frantic speed,
Hoping to grow more swiftly than the stifling weed!
Later, his field the farmer tends and walks,
The sun attains the summit of his course;
Beneath this heat and care the earth unlocks
Her hidden wealth; the stalk of wheat out-pours
Its laden fruit, it trails and then it leads
In the last breeze of August. The time to reap
Draws near, the end to which the spring and summer sweep.
Here at the close of life’s checkered journey
In the cool calm of autumn’s rich embrace,
The traveler, wearied by the day’s hurly burly,
Finds quiet repose in the evening’s grace.
Long is the voyage and far, far afield
We wander, beholding many things:
The relics of statesmen, priests and kings,
The instruments of history, which through them sings!
The journey’s end approaches, what does it yield?
Is memory doomed to die with the dying day?
What was it for, when the funeral bells have pealed,
And the dust of our living has winnowed away?
Life begets life, the past in the future rings:
Each human, good or evil, foul or fair,
Comes to this, fed by hope or fed on by despair.
Abundantly teeming autumn! The year’s
Proud banquet, its celebration of the soil.
The wealth is heaped, no centimeter clear,
At last it is covered, this table of our toil,
With fresh delights: fruit of the vanished petal.
And though the boisterous summer’s gone,
Still, something of it lingers on,
Within the young, who dash about the leaf-strewn lawn.
Now, at the dusk of the year, the aged settle
Into the soft-voiced realm of memory;
The tumultuousness of life’s great kettle,
Boiling and screeching, now murmurs distantly.
They follow their unruly youth; a dawn,
New hope, they see at which their hearts excite,
Though they are doomed to pass into the longest night.
Youth! The worship of all who ever live,
The crest of life, the regent of desire,
So fleeting, like the hind whom chase we give,
Which speeds the swifter as our bodies tire.
Insatiate king, these are your sacrifice,
Who think to slake your quenchless thirst,
Who prize your whimsy as the first:
These are the souls most harried and most cursed!
Wisdom and youth – like fire they are, and ice;
Like Furies, pleasures drive our minds to madness,
Good sense becomes a whipping boy, and dice
The tyrants of contentment and of sadness.
Happy is he whose age denies this worst
Enslaver; master of himself, he’ll be
The incessant friend of truth and harmony.
This temperor of o’er-exuberant mettle,
Age brings us strength of a different kind:
The body fails, but thought is in best fettle,
Which culminates when all else has declined.
And what could be better when the mind is free
Than scores of youngsters thronging round,
Whose thirst for knowledge has no bound,
Who love the dignity with which they each are crowned?
In us there shines a fine nobility,
A beauty higher than the outward show;
As present, past and future are not three,
But one, a beauty which may ceaseless grow
And what of can perish when thoughts compound
With thoughts and thoughts? Most happy is the one
Who in those upturned looks beholds the good he’s done.
At last the autumn dwindles into frost,
The fields lay bare, the harvest hour ends,
The motions of life decline and then are lost;
Yet to his work the farmer still attends.
For though the outside world must seem a tomb
While winter rests upon the soil,
He will within the garner toil
In wise anticipation of the coming moil.
How proper that the seed of winter’s womb
Is autumn’s gift for vernal promises,
And summer purposed by the dying bloom
Of autumn! Life is made of kindnesses,
Not cruelties – these are but a fragile foil;
We make them what they are. Be happy: live,
That when you’re old you’ll have your greatest gifts to give.
Of winter settles swiftly on the lips
With mortal epithets; the season of death,
Of ice and stillness, dreamlessness, that slips
Upon us almost unexpectedly.
In spring there is no word for cold,
The summer dreams in green and gold,
But now in autumn grip we find ourselves grown old!
And winter rushes in relentlessly!
Then old age, blunter of passion’s edge,
Usurps the throne of youth’s virility,
He ruins beauty, steals her privilege,
And dulls the palate’s pleasure for the bold.
Old age – death’s captain – he whom many fear,
Whose eyes, they whisper, prophesy the end is near.
But why should we fear old age? There is a place
For every season and human pleasure.
First there is spring, when the farmer’s plough will trace
Deep furrows, black and rich, and later measure
The tiny grains that soon push up their stalks.
Then with the rains on which they feed,
Up spring the shoots with frantic speed,
Hoping to grow more swiftly than the stifling weed!
Later, his field the farmer tends and walks,
The sun attains the summit of his course;
Beneath this heat and care the earth unlocks
Her hidden wealth; the stalk of wheat out-pours
Its laden fruit, it trails and then it leads
In the last breeze of August. The time to reap
Draws near, the end to which the spring and summer sweep.
Here at the close of life’s checkered journey
In the cool calm of autumn’s rich embrace,
The traveler, wearied by the day’s hurly burly,
Finds quiet repose in the evening’s grace.
Long is the voyage and far, far afield
We wander, beholding many things:
The relics of statesmen, priests and kings,
The instruments of history, which through them sings!
The journey’s end approaches, what does it yield?
Is memory doomed to die with the dying day?
What was it for, when the funeral bells have pealed,
And the dust of our living has winnowed away?
Life begets life, the past in the future rings:
Each human, good or evil, foul or fair,
Comes to this, fed by hope or fed on by despair.
Abundantly teeming autumn! The year’s
Proud banquet, its celebration of the soil.
The wealth is heaped, no centimeter clear,
At last it is covered, this table of our toil,
With fresh delights: fruit of the vanished petal.
And though the boisterous summer’s gone,
Still, something of it lingers on,
Within the young, who dash about the leaf-strewn lawn.
Now, at the dusk of the year, the aged settle
Into the soft-voiced realm of memory;
The tumultuousness of life’s great kettle,
Boiling and screeching, now murmurs distantly.
They follow their unruly youth; a dawn,
New hope, they see at which their hearts excite,
Though they are doomed to pass into the longest night.
Youth! The worship of all who ever live,
The crest of life, the regent of desire,
So fleeting, like the hind whom chase we give,
Which speeds the swifter as our bodies tire.
Insatiate king, these are your sacrifice,
Who think to slake your quenchless thirst,
Who prize your whimsy as the first:
These are the souls most harried and most cursed!
Wisdom and youth – like fire they are, and ice;
Like Furies, pleasures drive our minds to madness,
Good sense becomes a whipping boy, and dice
The tyrants of contentment and of sadness.
Happy is he whose age denies this worst
Enslaver; master of himself, he’ll be
The incessant friend of truth and harmony.
This temperor of o’er-exuberant mettle,
Age brings us strength of a different kind:
The body fails, but thought is in best fettle,
Which culminates when all else has declined.
And what could be better when the mind is free
Than scores of youngsters thronging round,
Whose thirst for knowledge has no bound,
Who love the dignity with which they each are crowned?
In us there shines a fine nobility,
A beauty higher than the outward show;
As present, past and future are not three,
But one, a beauty which may ceaseless grow
And what of can perish when thoughts compound
With thoughts and thoughts? Most happy is the one
Who in those upturned looks beholds the good he’s done.
At last the autumn dwindles into frost,
The fields lay bare, the harvest hour ends,
The motions of life decline and then are lost;
Yet to his work the farmer still attends.
For though the outside world must seem a tomb
While winter rests upon the soil,
He will within the garner toil
In wise anticipation of the coming moil.
How proper that the seed of winter’s womb
Is autumn’s gift for vernal promises,
And summer purposed by the dying bloom
Of autumn! Life is made of kindnesses,
Not cruelties – these are but a fragile foil;
We make them what they are. Be happy: live,
That when you’re old you’ll have your greatest gifts to give.
Thoughts on Poetry
Poetry is inseparable from human thought; it is essential to how we express and understand ourselves, and to how we exercise our creative faculties. It is to be lamented that poetry has become marginalized by today's popular culture, since any improvement in our societies requires new ideas, and new ideas require us to rework our languages, expanding our capacity to express complex concepts not previously possible.
Nevertheless, I do have faith that poetry will eventually regain its rightful place, because as long as there are humans beings on this earth there will be poetry as well. Just as no tyrant or calamity can quench the natural capacity and desire for human beings to love, neither can the spirit of creativity so central to human nature ever be crushed.
As Percy B. Shelley once wrote, the poet is like a nightingale, singing alone in the forest shadows, unaware and unconcerned if anyone is listening. He sings because it is his nature to do so, and if history is changed because of him, he is even more delighted. But most poets will never see the changes their poetry will effect, and so they must have faith and hope that human decency and love will persevere over the course of time.
Meanwhile they will continue to sing.
Nevertheless, I do have faith that poetry will eventually regain its rightful place, because as long as there are humans beings on this earth there will be poetry as well. Just as no tyrant or calamity can quench the natural capacity and desire for human beings to love, neither can the spirit of creativity so central to human nature ever be crushed.
As Percy B. Shelley once wrote, the poet is like a nightingale, singing alone in the forest shadows, unaware and unconcerned if anyone is listening. He sings because it is his nature to do so, and if history is changed because of him, he is even more delighted. But most poets will never see the changes their poetry will effect, and so they must have faith and hope that human decency and love will persevere over the course of time.
Meanwhile they will continue to sing.
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