A Humbling

A humbling is fermenting nearby
Growing richer with potentiation
A humbling can prevent stagnation
A bald ego does not intensify
When you receive a humbling.

May 31

The Patterns

Once
all
things have
passed away
still the patterns will
continue on and on and on

May 31

In the Raindrops

Them dripping from the silent trees
Like fingers tapping on my coat
And dampening all that I wrote
Upon this elevated frieze

That stretched upon the damping bark
In which I scratched awry arrays
Of jagged lines, crooked displays
Immortalizing my remark:

"Thou who may crouch atop this stone
To dry his self beneath the rain
Accepts his fate, attempts to gain
That which he only finds alone

A muse, a drop, a watered rush
Of thoughts that open and collide
And splatter deep upon the ride
From templed head to fingers flushed

As they move as mine own do now,
Endangering this good tree's health
To spread my knowledgeable wealth
With any who may wipe his brow

And squat beneath this arbor as
I did while writing this." I find
The continuity's not kind
With these muses. At times they pass

And I am left with no fodder
For lyric, song, or passioned verse
To offer up, which becomes worse
When I have walked in the water

And only had for show, some soaked
And ambivalent, drooping, sagged
And once dried up, completely ragged
That never should have been provoked.

May 30

Museday

Silent rains, or drizzles
Or thundering, I find in all of them
A certain kind of comfort
And a mental stimulation.

May 29

I Wrote a Poem I Could Not Share

I wrote a poem I could not share
It was too strong, too lithe and fair
Too accurate to be read anywhere
But where it had been born.

May 28

A Solemn Soul

I have to tell some solemn soul
But who is the one to be told?
A tree is set inground too deep
And lacking caution I may trip
On all the upturned roots that creep
Or become wet when rains will drip.
A whipping wind is fairweather
And so often a cold mistress
For which no earthly tether
Can control or try to oppress.
The river rolls too slow to think
To act, respond, to offer drink
Or serve a purpose past its own
It gives no solace, crawls on by
And though may comfort when alone,
With company, is occupied.
The animals take to their chatter,
Sharing voices, hugging complaints
And talk of things that little matter:
I avoid them, and don't acquaint.
Above them is the long-gone sun:
Too far removed, too far devoid,
And so unlike, to be annoyed
With all the vital knots I have undone.

I fear not that I have not found
A solemn soul within my life
But that the solemn soul that I
Have found will not communicate
In some return: I wish to talk
This kindred spirit of itself -
For in my eyes, to be with one
In harmony's to never have
To turn to any other.

May 22, 26

Musings Courtesy Harold Bloom

From The Best Poems of the English Language by Harold Bloom:

There is a benign haunting in poetic tradition, one that transcends the sorrows of influence, particularly the new poet's fear that there is little left for her or him to do. In truth, there is everything remaining to be thought and sung, provided an individual voice is attained.

 Having suffered several crises on this very subject, I have managed to pull myself from complete, ridiculous despair by different means. When I read this quote, I a, comforted, and I feel that developing a distinct style and facility is more important than having original ideas. The old maxim, "nothing original is good, and nothing good is original," seems to apply, but I feel that this is an oversimplification/derogatory saying that can't be applied to every work. I hope that sometime in the future I may be able to develop my own distinct style and be able to write with a facility that will allow me to speak on any subject, contrived or fresh, in a new shade of light.

There Comes A Snowflake

There comes a snowflake buzzing in your ear,
A whistling wind although you are indoors,
Or perhaps snow falls piling to obscure
Your view outside the window's glass frontier.
The plains, remember, still are dark and clear
But they are out of reach, though with allure
Remaining. You will find your tracks no more:
That fateful blizzards blows, they persevere
No longer. Despite this, there are others
Who will wake up in the morning and stand
To step, who will put on their coats, cover
Their health and walk throughout the fields that spanned
Your time, and shovel up your memory,
And like the salt upon their boots carry it always.

May 26

The Wrong Word

In my past I was too bitter,
But now am sweet and too recluse
More so, I've never meant to wander
Test, explore, or to intrude

No matter what, I've always felt
I embody the Wrong Word
A shade of feeling
Off or
With the wrong feeling of shade.

Or maybe just not put in the right place.

May 25

Sonnet #5

So - what does this sad world have left of love?
It ran its course too soon, before my day.
Now, selfishly, I curse the gods above
As if that rage could burn my fault away.
As recent as the bard's bucolic age
The musk of sweet affection did abound
And though that all was scribed, page after page,
The written word cannot capture the sound.
Yet I - within my times of strangled doubt -
Do wearily admit I may be cause
For others surely have not gone without
And do not, given choice, leave room to pause
And do not question love they may receive.
There's not much love left for me, I believe.

Written March, Revised May 23

Vignettes - New York City

I.
"Some cemeteries are almost beautiful."
There was a grey lump of dirt gated off,
It was the earth displaced each time
Someone new arrived.

II.
There was a disturbance somewhere
There always are at times like these
But you must stay from all affairs
The lightest folds still show a crease.
I'm not afraid to die, or show
Some fear of that disturbance in
The world. If I would fold I'd know
I'd leave a crease but there'd be peace
Within.

III.
It's so much darker back up north
And nowhere near as green:
The ground is cold and sleeping
Rather than warm and vibrant.
But only one of these worlds fits me
Much better than the other.

Fragments collected from a continuous poem written April 19 - 22 during a school trip to New York City.

Grow -

Grow - You whimpered flower -
Don't burrow deeper in the ground
And mull about considering the things to carry forward
Take me as the sun, and open up your face
Towards the sound of my voice.

Grow, and prove to this world that
You are a thing to obsessed over,
And to be coddled, to be lauded, to be revered
Let the morning's shower radiate
In its prismatic ways about your body.

Grow - You whimpered flower -
And prove to me my work was not in vain.

May 17, 23

Faith in the Sand

Israel was carried into Egypt
And was delivering blessings unto
First his sons, and then their sons, and so on
But there was probably a wary child
Who thought, "This is all for nothing at all
It's like my fathers say: That we are dust,
But when we pass away, we become dust
In this desert and stay as dust. There are
No other deserts we can journey to,
So why do we bless dust? We're nothing more."

May 22

There Is No Belle Epoque For Me

There is no Belle Époque for me:
I don't see, can't imagine, cities in lights casting shadows before me
As I walk away from them, turned

Or a world filtered through Kodak cameras,
Bleached in basements or faded into the attics
Of our brains,

I see a blinding, resplendent sun instead
And I approach, wrestling shadow until it falls behind
And I never deny that I have whimpered, on occasion
Complained and maligned my path
For to stare into the face of the future is a frightening prospect
And to have him glare back, beard bristling,
Or to have her burn your eyes inside-out, from within their not yet settled sockets
But we all must overtake and let these images lead the way
And follow them rather than be tempted to turn
And breathe the soot that curls from the ashen past,

Someday we may ourselves be part of another lover's ashen past
But Not because we wish to, it naturally falls
And settles, and collects
Only if we turn the time to come into our own
And say, "I have my own beautiful, golden time
That I shall grow from the earth,
And that shall be the way I am remembered."

May 19

Dry Thunderstorm

The sky was bloated but for gentle
Eruptings - those without noise
Elegant, and furious, a thunderstorm
Like those Beethoven envisioned

It was nice to see explosions without rain,
A painful collapsing in spasmodic flashes
Somewhere other than within myself.

May 16, 20

Someone Told Me I Was Awfully Lovely Once

Someone told me I was awfully lovely
Once, I confess I don't know what was meant:
Was I exquisite, terrible torment
Or was I splendid to a poor degree
So that to beauty I was mockery?
And was I like this Once, before descent
Into my current state? Was the intent
To say I was lovely one time only?
Now, at the very least, I must return
The compliment to that astute someone:
It was some awfully lovely praise to earn
And surely you gifted on me chosen
Words, and I was in your first concern.
Still - I hunger every commendation.

May 14-15, May 19

Musings Courtesy Oscar Wilde

From The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde (1890):

"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize."

 I read this novel in the fall of last year, but as with any good book, some of the ideas keep rattling around in my head. The idea from this quote in particular stuck in my brain because I consider myself somewhat of an artist (not that I give myself the label of "Artist", but that I make things that could be considered "Art" such as paintings, music, and poetry). I wonder which I might be - the poor artist, living the work that I wish I could make? Or am I living such a boring life because I am putting my everything into my work?
Of course, Dorian Gray's character may be completely wrong, and there could exist some sort of middle ground, where neither the artist or the art is very interesting. At this point in my life, I am most likely somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.

Something in the Past

Something in the Past and done
is Perfect: Complete even when
not a thing went beyond ideals
or went past practical limitations.

Something that was happening
is Imperfect: But you never feel
that way when you are Present
and you are alive and living but
still everything is in the Past
and nothing's there, you passively
Remember all the things done to you
but nothing that you've done.

May 14

Might As Well Have Not Clouded At All

It's difficult to discern if a drizzle's dripping
Checking inside puddles to confirm -
Mirror worlds that offer new reflections
Of a world that offers nothing that is new.

Or maybe glimpse outside the window's view
Though the mist hanging can look as rain
It doesn't matter at this point today
The sun claws through the clouds and
Burns the afternoon into oblivion.

May 15

You're Some Pathetic Fallacy

You're some pathetic fallacy -
Telling me all my logic's wrong!
And that although I argue long
I'll never earn a victory

That's based upon coherent thought
But who needs that - I'm far too loud
To make debate where I'm not proud
About whatever thing we've overfought.

May 15

Just One Eye

With just one eye,
The world would not become a darker place.

With just one hand,
The world would not become less sensitive.

Without a mouth,
The world would not become a quiet place.

Yet still
(After I've earned the Hammurabi Code)
The world is different with just a single eye

 May 8/May 15

Labor of the Most Determined Mind

Labor of the most determined mind
Does not produce results that always please
Yet still there must be some sort of release
For thoughts you wish to dump and leave behind.

Labor in a relaxed, leisured state
Does not often result in guarantees
That what you've written is more than a tease
Of all potential things you could create.

Written April to May 14

Watching From the Ground

When I was a child
I let go of a red balloon
I knew, of course, I'd want it back
But I didn't tell that to the balloon

And it floated away.

May 13

More Flowers

There are more flowers on this stubborn grave

Than when we came around just this morning,
Cleaning up your life into an article.
We failed for now, but there's no late warning

About that sort of thing. Your heart is full
The most when there is nothing on your tongue.
There's someone else who cares enough to pull

The weeds from up around where they have sprung
They lampoon you in their obstinate waves
As when you said, "I cannot die, for I am young."

There are more flowers on this stubborn grave.

May 12

My Brothers

My brothers did not cast me down the well
And never asked for more than I could do
Or sold me off, as far as I can tell,
To persons most unscrupulously shrewd.
I never dreamed that I would Lord above
These men or make them orbit in my wake,
I did not carry coats with colors of
Some land beyond desire, that would take
A bargaining of worlds to have outbid.
But in my time away I hardened still:
Buried as if a rock modestly hid
Within a tiny garden growing, filled
With passionate ideas, wrath unsurpassed
Yet with the fate of any stone: cragfast.

May 10, Revised May 12

A Dichotomy

My dear, there's a dichotomy
That has appeared 'tween you and me
A simple crack, hardly the worst
That doubled back until it burst
And let the floodgates open wide.

This type of thing's begun before
It wipes out pain, then washes more
Over the necks of those who float
And could correct, if they devote,
The way they swim - Until the tide

Pulls stronger yet, and you and I
No longer wade 'neath purpled sky:
We bubble as we're pulled away
And feel troubled as neither say,
"Good God, we're drowning in our pride."

May 12

A Horoscope

I put my jacket on my shoulders
And I walked away.
I should have left the door open -
Not to leave a way back in
But so others could enter.

I should have tied my shoes
Or had the foresight to predict
I would have tripped trying to leave the steps.

I should have used a horoscope,
A weatherman's attempt to cope
With how he never knows to say
"I don't know how you'll feel today."

But when he leaves his door
He has the key to get back in
So what can he say on the matter?

Revised May 10

I Am Not an Artist

I am not an artist.

I am glad that is not me:
I've had no times of inspiration
Where some bitter tragedy
Gave me a morbid animation.

I am not an artist.

I cannot be found up late,
I've not been robbed of dreams,
Enslaved by prophet thoughts, prostrate
By visions, floods and streams.

I am not an artist - I deny because
There is no proof I ever was.

Written April 21-May 10

The Cradle

We rose too soon from it, with little rest
We had no time to gently sway.

We cut our grain with it, the harvest best
Enjoyed when all work's squared away.

The rivers ran through it, the fertile crest
We all must pilgrim to some day.

But all will curl in it, who holds fears, lest
They lose eternal sleep, or meet delay

In the cradle.

Written May 3, Revised May 6

Inspiration

I guess the most important thing about a poem (or really, any creative work) is that it really shouldn't be forced or contrived. Slamming your head into a desk and willing inspiration is not a good way for natural inspiration to arrive unless you want to write a natural poem about slamming your head into a desk. The nice thing is that inspiration usually comes when you start to walk about or even do something as simple as take a walk outside. Experience is the greatest fodder for inspiration: Even if you haven't learned anything new, sometimes seeing something in a new light unlocks new connections in the brain.
In any event, inspiration is also a learning process, as the things you think of as inspiration increase the more inspiration you get. One thought leads to another, sometimes leading to three or four ideas at one time. When inspiration runs low, there may be more ideas left waiting around from previous brainstorming sessions.

Perhaps

I am to be trusted, perhaps

At times when all others cannot
Speak freely, and so give to me
Foul secrets and their vulgar thoughts

And then expect fraternity!
Somehow with those they'd mocked profane
Or wasted time so liberally

In a perpetual complaint
Aye, the question offered has got
To be can I trust you, again?

I've done far worse with better chaps,
And gone off course with better maps.

Written May 7

A Habit Saunters In

A habit saunters in, perpetually
Engendering himself with good intents
You shake his hand - again - eternally.

You may design you rule your property
But there is no honest, potent defense:
A habit saunters in, perpetually.

You grit your teeth and think of liberty
And wish there was reason behind your sense
You shake his hand - again - eternally.

It was conceived in innocence, simply
A thing mindless, without a strong conscience
A habit saunters in, perpetually.

And now compulsion drives all that you see
No glimpse beyond, because he stands, a fence
You shake his hand - again - eternally.

And how your mind yearns only to be free!
But no person cares for your sad laments
A habit saunters in, perpetually
You shake his hand - again - eternally.

Written May 1, Revised May 7

On Writers

People write about the things they know
(Like writing, places, hobbies, love, and death)
Or they will write about the things they cannot know
(Like God, themselves, the future, love, and death)
But why they do not turn the things
That they could learn into more things to know
I cannot fathom.

So in this way writers betray their limitations,
Or their ingenious ways of covering them up.

Written May 5/6

This Cannot Be Spoken

This cannot be spoken.
It cannot be shouted over hills
Or heard reflected in the caves
Where shadows dance upon the walls.

This cannot be spoken.
You will not find a man who has the nerve
Or a woman with the same
No voice has ever been that brave.

This cannot be spoken.
Not even in a fervent dream
It shall consume you beyond your will
But that is no reason for shame.

No, this cannot be spoken, or screamed, or whispered,
Or smuggled away in the dead of night
Or anything of the sort.

Written April, Revised May 5, 2012

A Poem a Day in May

My general plan for the month of May is a poem a day - This may not be a realistic goal due to my business but it's certainly always fun to give yourself a challenge. I may post multiple poems in a day, but at the end of the month I would like to have at the very least thirty-one poems published in May.

NB: I already missed May 4, but I posted that day's poem at 12:30 AM the next day, and I will be uploading another poem for the actual May 5.

Lot's Wife and Eurydice

She, the mortal woman, looked away -
The rain should rinse away the salt -
She turned, a consequence although
No single person held the fault.

Or - did the man look back too eager
When she could not yet feel the sun
And after all his work brought doubt
Withal, without - What had they done?

So, it matters not if she was Lot's wife or Eurydice
It takes just One in love to turn and beget misery.

Revised May 4, 2012

i

If i write a poem about myself
But only use the little i
Will i accomplish this:
Annihilation of my ego
(As this i has no capital interest)
To draw away from my own life
And let the reader use their "I"
Set in its place, to fill the socket.

Can you imagine that i
Am not really writing these words:
These are now all of your thoughts as well.
We each have our own little i,
But we share all share this I together.

Written May 1, Revised May 3

I Was as a Flower

I was as a Flower, when it blooms,
Tender white, a sapling light
Upon green branches.

I was sweet (yet Hardy), enticing
And curling with an April
Spray, a gentle sway -

Until the winter
Licked its lips -
The northern winds crept back
And ruined me.

Written May 1

Raccoons

Last night, there was a raccoon on the porch
Invading what we thought was ours alone.
Her groping claws, more grotesque under torch;
Abysmal eyes, less empathic than stone.
And only yesterday, in that back yard
We hated those more harmless than the thing
That rustles through the trash, picks scabs that scarred,
And leaves the feeder (like our conscience) ringing -
Tonight, I saw not one raccoon but two.
  My palms grew sweat - my eyes drew tears -
  They could have been most anyone -
And so I pulled the shade, and I withdrew.

Revised April 30, 2012

Along the Path that Embodies My Time

Along the path that embodies my time,
  I’ve long since left where I had once passed through,
  And all aside the road, rank swamp and slime
  From present and from past is plain in view.
Those noxious fumes crawl up and foul the air,
  At other times, the flora masks their sight
  But when all buds are gone, all trees laid bare,
  Flat honesty: Nothing obscures such blight.
And how I wish I still could hold your hand
  A steady, vivid pulse to thwart the chill…
  The sun could follow us and our command
  The swamp would dry and drain under my will.
But our two paths may not converge again –
Such atmosphere compels all good to end.

Written March, Revised April 29/May 1, 2012