Moniker wrote:None of us are alone. No matter what it is -- it's not in isolation. All it takes is one brave voice to morph into a crescendo of voices.
I'll have to check out that site. Thanks for sharing it, Doc.
There was a time when I was that "brave voice" (although I'm pretty sure the voice was more-so for my own benefit than for others). Unfortunately (or maybe even fortunately), that voice is somewhat more quiet now; perhaps in an attempt to move on. *shrugs*
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." ~Charles Bukowski
Dr. Shades wrote:METER AND RHYME, FOLKS! METER AND RHYME!
Meter and rhyme are overrated, just like "cunning linguist" jokes and most of the books written by John Grisham.
I agree---for the most part. While I applaud Shades's knowledge of prosody, its not my bag. And yet it does disturb me the few times I've tried to read a Coggins "satire." In that case the lack of attention to meter is simply appalling and ruins whatever humor may have been present.
From the Ernest L. Wilkinson Diaries: "ELW dreams he's spattered w/ grease. Hundreds steal his greasy pants."
Blixa wrote: I'm getting in on this late, but not only am I an Aries, my middle name is April.
I always wished I was an April. I'm afraid to ask the exact day in April, so I won't.
At the top of the month, but not quite the first. I have a remarkable set of birthday twins including Emmylou Harris, Emile Zola, Max Ernst, Sir Alec Guinness, Linda Hunt, Kenneth Tynan, Serge Gainsbourg, Charlemagne, Hans Christian Anderson, Leon Russell, Jack Webb, Marvin Gaye, Penelope Keith, Casanova and Ron Palillo, TV's Horshak. Inexplicably I also share the date with Camile Paglia.
From the Ernest L. Wilkinson Diaries: "ELW dreams he's spattered w/ grease. Hundreds steal his greasy pants."
Doctor Steuss wrote:There was a time when I was that "brave voice" (although I'm pretty sure the voice was more-so for my own benefit than for others). Unfortunately (or maybe even fortunately), that voice is somewhat more quiet now; perhaps in an attempt to move on. *shrugs*
WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature, day and night With dream and thought and feeling interwound And inly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground. This song of soul I struggle to outbear Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole, And utter all myself into the air: But if I did it,--as the thunder-roll Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there, Before that dread apocalypse of soul.
We need some Poe.
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet, if Hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it, therefore, the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
About six years ago, for Halloween I made a T-shirt that said "Poe's Ghost." That was the extent of my constume, and I was slightly dissapointed at how many people came up to me and asked "what does that mean; who's 'Poe'?".
I guess we need a bit of Pope too (this is from "Essay on Man, Epistle II"):
Two principles in human nature reign; Self-love to urge, and reason, to restrain; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, Each works its end, to move or govern all And to their proper operation still, Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill. Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; Reason’s comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that, no action could attend, And but for this, were active to no end: Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, Destroying others, by himself destroyed.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." ~Charles Bukowski
I wonder, should I care what the poetry "means"? Too often, I don't! I know I should, perhaps. I don't know the best way to approach poetry at times. Some just appeals to me -- speaks to me in some way. Yet, I more often than not care not what the poet intended. I enjoy understanding the biographies of the poets and that can certainly give insights into their poetry-- yet I don't enjoy it as much when I think of it in that way.
I know I got into a bit of a buggerboo with a professor once because I was supposed to find the same meaning in a poem (The Lady of Shalott" by Alfred Tennyson) that he prescribed for us. He actually told me I was wrong -- told me what the poem 'meant' and to rewrite my essay. Anyway, that sort of stripped the joy away from the entire process for me.
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."
Doctor Steuss wrote:About six years ago, for Halloween I made a T-shirt that said "Poe's Ghost." That was the extent of my constume, and I was slightly dissapointed at how many people came up to me and asked "what does that mean; who's 'Poe'?".
Cultural illiteracy is rampant in our nation -- it's disappointing.