I've never seen so much pain. I've never seen so much despair on the faces of people I love, and I've never known before how much sorrow there can be in one place. I've never seen so many people united in one memory and one strength.
It's devastating to see someone cut down before they flower, and it's a reminder of just how fragile life can be. And it's the sort of thing that makes you remember why you live and all of the things that are less important in life.
But if I have learned anything from all this pain, it is this. It is how great an impact one person has on all those around him. It is how central to the lives of those he loves and those who love him, and even those he only touches with a smile or a word, one person is. It is how great the consequences of your actions are. But it is more than that. It is that we can unite in the face of the darkness and make a tower of brave strength together. It is that within all of us there is faith and caring, the ability to love and the ability to grieve that gives meaning to this world. It is how beautiful the embrace of what small solace can be and what empathy there is in the linking of arms to guide us out of the darkest times of our lives is.
And it is how beautiful the strength of those that strive through grief is, to honor and remember, to live better lives, to take up the torch and live with the flame of the love that was and shall ever be to guide and strengthen them is.
There will never be a time when all the pain is forgotten. There will never be a day when there is not a place in the heart of everyone that honors that memory. But there will come a time when all of the meaning is there—when the memory of the arms of others that hold and bolster now lead the way for a better, wiser, more caring awareness of life, when the memories of goodness are a beacon to light the way, and when the bitter and the desperate stand with the sweet and the strengthening and are smiles through tears.
That day may not be today. That day may not be today, or next week, or next month, or next year. But there is honor always of a life that was well and fully lived as a guiding light. And there is healing that remains, the wholesome knowledge of love that is everlasting even until the end of days, that transcends the mortal coils of the bodies and world we live in, that reaches through all planes and across eternity.
For such love exists. And it is here.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
For A Fallen Star
This is for Andrew. May he rest in peace now and forever. We will never forget.
Today
A flaming star dawning in the east
Ready to throw its rays out in warmth to all
Was struck down by the uncaring hand
Of a bigger giant
Who didn't care to know the flame of promise that was snuffed out in one swift stroke
Laden with the brazen, hollow, false joys of self-absorbance.
And now
The light is gone
And all of the growth the light would have fueled
Urged, encouraged, supported
Everything beautiful, everything right
Never existed—razed before birth
By the blight of inattention
The corruption of carelessness
That took one star today
And dimmed a thousand more.
Today
A flaming star dawning in the east
Ready to throw its rays out in warmth to all
Was struck down by the uncaring hand
Of a bigger giant
Who didn't care to know the flame of promise that was snuffed out in one swift stroke
Laden with the brazen, hollow, false joys of self-absorbance.
And now
The light is gone
And all of the growth the light would have fueled
Urged, encouraged, supported
Everything beautiful, everything right
Never existed—razed before birth
By the blight of inattention
The corruption of carelessness
That took one star today
And dimmed a thousand more.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
90 Seconds
The raucous crowd piles in,
Chatting, laughing,
Laden with the types of spoils
A few cents at a garishly decorated stand can buy.
Brassy embossing boldly proclaims
“The 90-second circus. $2 for admission.
The finest show ever seen
Here one instant, gone the next.”
Perhaps it is the draw of the idea—90 seconds—
Instant gratification for so paltry a sum!
Money—what is money?
Here one day, gone the next
Money buys pleasure, that’s what.
Out steps the performer: slim, dainty,
Walking like he knows his thing
Beautiful in a strange sort of away,
In the unabashed smile and clean white lines.
Everyone roars in anticipation—
After all, who
Would not cheer for a bright young hero
A new star on center stage?
The ringmaster shouts,
Cracks a whip.
The chaos starts.
Here! A clap of thunder, and a burst of fire
Golden sparkles in the air
He strides with purpose, mounts the ladder
Fine acrobatics over it all
Fearless! What’s to fear?
Ten seconds and they lean forward, realizing
He seems uncertain, falters—
A cloud of doubt passes over his face—
He stops in wonder, stares around
Creeping indecision—what to do?
Steps here, steps back
Turns right—no—here! A tentative experiment—
Something new he tries.
That’s not fine—
Not the way that it should go—
No, it’s this way!
How dare he change?
“Farce!”
And an audience so expectant frowns
The eyebrows crease, the mutters start
And there he is, just realizing
That all the world is watching.
A leap, a bound,
Heady determination
Through hoops of fire, on the high trapeze
Dashing now, to make up for time
Ah, yes—here’s what they waited to see!
That’s what he should do.
Smiles again on the fickle people
This is proper.
This is right.
Thirty seconds—fifty—sixty
He seems to start to flag
Mouth working, sweat streaming,
He stops at last
Sudden comprehension—but he can’t run now
It’s eighty seconds in and there is scoffing from the crowd—
No one else saw the fatal error
The time he should have turned right, not left
But he knows.
But he knows.
And the knowledge stains his suit of white.
Through smoke and fire,
High and low,
An instant captures a year, a century
Pictures flash—what should have been—
How could he have been
So careless?
Let his haste, the moment
Get to him—
Best to keep mum—
Put on a face—
On the stage, no one knows—
Best to keep mum about the mistakes he made
If they knew, he’d be ridiculed!
Maybe—
If—
A final leap—
A final turn—
The ringmaster cracks his whip again.
The moment is gone.
He’s left with his undying regret
The knowledge of what he failed to do
And they have long since forgotten
Everything they saw.
**********************************************************
This is life, and these are choices, indelible marks on your page; you can't turn back the clock--and who's to know, anyway, in the rat race of a life?
Chatting, laughing,
Laden with the types of spoils
A few cents at a garishly decorated stand can buy.
Brassy embossing boldly proclaims
“The 90-second circus. $2 for admission.
The finest show ever seen
Here one instant, gone the next.”
Perhaps it is the draw of the idea—90 seconds—
Instant gratification for so paltry a sum!
Money—what is money?
Here one day, gone the next
Money buys pleasure, that’s what.
Out steps the performer: slim, dainty,
Walking like he knows his thing
Beautiful in a strange sort of away,
In the unabashed smile and clean white lines.
Everyone roars in anticipation—
After all, who
Would not cheer for a bright young hero
A new star on center stage?
The ringmaster shouts,
Cracks a whip.
The chaos starts.
Here! A clap of thunder, and a burst of fire
Golden sparkles in the air
He strides with purpose, mounts the ladder
Fine acrobatics over it all
Fearless! What’s to fear?
Ten seconds and they lean forward, realizing
He seems uncertain, falters—
A cloud of doubt passes over his face—
He stops in wonder, stares around
Creeping indecision—what to do?
Steps here, steps back
Turns right—no—here! A tentative experiment—
Something new he tries.
That’s not fine—
Not the way that it should go—
No, it’s this way!
How dare he change?
“Farce!”
And an audience so expectant frowns
The eyebrows crease, the mutters start
And there he is, just realizing
That all the world is watching.
A leap, a bound,
Heady determination
Through hoops of fire, on the high trapeze
Dashing now, to make up for time
Ah, yes—here’s what they waited to see!
That’s what he should do.
Smiles again on the fickle people
This is proper.
This is right.
Thirty seconds—fifty—sixty
He seems to start to flag
Mouth working, sweat streaming,
He stops at last
Sudden comprehension—but he can’t run now
It’s eighty seconds in and there is scoffing from the crowd—
No one else saw the fatal error
The time he should have turned right, not left
But he knows.
But he knows.
And the knowledge stains his suit of white.
Through smoke and fire,
High and low,
An instant captures a year, a century
Pictures flash—what should have been—
How could he have been
So careless?
Let his haste, the moment
Get to him—
Best to keep mum—
Put on a face—
On the stage, no one knows—
Best to keep mum about the mistakes he made
If they knew, he’d be ridiculed!
Maybe—
If—
A final leap—
A final turn—
The ringmaster cracks his whip again.
The moment is gone.
He’s left with his undying regret
The knowledge of what he failed to do
And they have long since forgotten
Everything they saw.
**********************************************************
This is life, and these are choices, indelible marks on your page; you can't turn back the clock--and who's to know, anyway, in the rat race of a life?
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Memoriam for Death
Troy Davis case inspired this:
Mournful bells toll a dreadful tone
For one who was killed in vain—
Where doubt pursues, is life so small
It may yet be thrown away?
Silent watchers dare not weep
For the loss of the symbol proud,
Unjustly slain on so little ground,
Yet remember he was yet a man—
With life and strength, his loves, his shames,
More than the worth of the deadly syringe,
Yea, though we deem it just, is it right
To kill one man for the death of another?
Too happy with our feigned ideals of justice,
Too quick to mete out punishment—
Let mankind not forget his power
Is not in death, but life.
Mournful bells toll a dreadful tone
For one who was killed in vain—
Where doubt pursues, is life so small
It may yet be thrown away?
Silent watchers dare not weep
For the loss of the symbol proud,
Unjustly slain on so little ground,
Yet remember he was yet a man—
With life and strength, his loves, his shames,
More than the worth of the deadly syringe,
Yea, though we deem it just, is it right
To kill one man for the death of another?
Too happy with our feigned ideals of justice,
Too quick to mete out punishment—
Let mankind not forget his power
Is not in death, but life.
Crystallization
And a sheen of gems, of crystal grows
Upon an imperfect figure
Encrusting the reality in radiance—
As if some silver tide had washed over
And turned all dark to light—
Has ever a blemish still looked unfair
When thrown into a million little rays
To delight the unsuspecting, all-unknowing eye?
And daily grows the fascination
As imperfection becomes more than paragon.
Upon an imperfect figure
Encrusting the reality in radiance—
As if some silver tide had washed over
And turned all dark to light—
Has ever a blemish still looked unfair
When thrown into a million little rays
To delight the unsuspecting, all-unknowing eye?
And daily grows the fascination
As imperfection becomes more than paragon.
Natural Poetry
Inspired by nature.
******************************************
Bold rider of the dawn,
On flaming hooves, with flaring eyes—
She lances forth with tongue of fire
And burns the veil away.
Grey, secretive mists turn to silver blaze—
All things come to light
Under the eyes of truth.
*******************************************
Hail to King Winter. Solemn face
and wise eyes, gnarled
scepter in his hand—palm
raised for justice, glowing with
the cool light of snow.
Frost trails in his wake,
from silver-white flowing robes.
Do not hate him. He is the king of Justice—
All are equal in the eyes of the storm.
*******************************************
White-crowned misty swathes thrown o’er lofty peaks!
The wind-god was careless in your flighty deposition.
A dancing blaze of silver in an endless puppet show
Tickles the bold fancy of the children of the earth.
Sunlight spinning above and within your gauzy folds,
A passion-play of light reflects and plays upon your cap—
Would that you could carry man the way you carry wind and light!
Forever then we’d journey in the silent world of ever-blue.
*******************************************
The mountains are burning.
Gold and green can’t disguise
The flaming boughs,
Colors blazing
In high symphony to the eyes.
The fire rolls across the canvas
Of greening trees, enraging them,
Draping them in burning raiment
And laughing as a wild storm
That has breached the summer calm.
Nature’s painter has arrived
And, in perverse fancy,
Has found the motif of flame
To spray across the hills.
*******************************************
The sun fell into the pond,
and threw up ripples at its entrance,
careless diver that he is.
The water turned all red and gold when he came—
No doubt it was glad of the warmth
after so many days of silvery cool.
I wondered if he might have gotten lost in his play,
as a long dark curtain stretched above our heads,
and the hours dragged on without his return.
But he rose again bright and blazing the next day,
refreshed, I imagine, from the journey.
I think I’ve found the passageway from the earth to the sky.
******************************************
Bold rider of the dawn,
On flaming hooves, with flaring eyes—
She lances forth with tongue of fire
And burns the veil away.
Grey, secretive mists turn to silver blaze—
All things come to light
Under the eyes of truth.
*******************************************
Hail to King Winter. Solemn face
and wise eyes, gnarled
scepter in his hand—palm
raised for justice, glowing with
the cool light of snow.
Frost trails in his wake,
from silver-white flowing robes.
Do not hate him. He is the king of Justice—
All are equal in the eyes of the storm.
*******************************************
White-crowned misty swathes thrown o’er lofty peaks!
The wind-god was careless in your flighty deposition.
A dancing blaze of silver in an endless puppet show
Tickles the bold fancy of the children of the earth.
Sunlight spinning above and within your gauzy folds,
A passion-play of light reflects and plays upon your cap—
Would that you could carry man the way you carry wind and light!
Forever then we’d journey in the silent world of ever-blue.
*******************************************
The mountains are burning.
Gold and green can’t disguise
The flaming boughs,
Colors blazing
In high symphony to the eyes.
The fire rolls across the canvas
Of greening trees, enraging them,
Draping them in burning raiment
And laughing as a wild storm
That has breached the summer calm.
Nature’s painter has arrived
And, in perverse fancy,
Has found the motif of flame
To spray across the hills.
*******************************************
The sun fell into the pond,
and threw up ripples at its entrance,
careless diver that he is.
The water turned all red and gold when he came—
No doubt it was glad of the warmth
after so many days of silvery cool.
I wondered if he might have gotten lost in his play,
as a long dark curtain stretched above our heads,
and the hours dragged on without his return.
But he rose again bright and blazing the next day,
refreshed, I imagine, from the journey.
I think I’ve found the passageway from the earth to the sky.
Beyond the Midnight Shore
In the style of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.
1 Within the night that falls so darkly, well the recollections rise,
2 The faintly glowing memories I cannot bear yet must adore,
3 The memories of love and fortune lost and thence forgotten.
4 Lost all hope of anything this love and fortune to restore—
5 Hope too lost beyond the pow’r of even angels to restore—
6 Hope, t’was lost beyond the midnight shore.
7 The velvet night stretched ‘cross the sky, the stars gleamed in their brilliant light,
8 Our love was sweet and true beyond all loves the earth once bore.
9 She took my hand in tender care and high my heart did leap,
10 Well did my heart leap, did fly, in ecstasy did soar—
11 The moment there was perfect as my spirit high did soar—
12 Then all was lost beyond the midnight shore.
13 In love’s sweet arms we had no care and nothing did we fear.
14 Of sparkling dreams and golden days I will not venture more,
15 Yet they were there, and radiant as my love’s own gentle form,
16 Which still illuminates my mind, and will forever more—
17 Locked inside my memory she is forever more—
18 Yet she is lost beyond that midnight shore.
19 The wind is howling louder now, as here I sit in wretched pain,
20 Vainly trying to drown my sorrow in some tome of learnèd lore,
21 Yet all I see, and all I hear, is her voice from the far beyond,
22 Her angel’s voice repeating soft the oath we both once swore:
23 That promise for each other made and that we both once swore
24 Before I lost her beyond that midnight shore.
25 Closing now my weary lids, the sight that greets me faint begins,
26 Yet darkens quickly—well I know the misery in store,
27 For the fever-dreams that come are now remembered nightly friends,
28 Since the night that we did wander far beside the ocean’s roar—
29 Since the night of darkness crashing down on us beside the ocean’s roar!
30 Then I lost her beyond that midnight shore.
31 My eyes behold now, in the fire, flames that flicker now to life,
32 And show the visions that I hesitate to see no more,
33 And there I see her standing, face so pale yet eyes so bright!
34 Hear I too the words she spoke—from her anguished throat they tore—
35 The words that in the bond between us a gaping chasm tore—
36 Sign that I would lose her beyond the midnight shore.
37 She told me how our love was doomed, how circumstance now ripped her free
38 Of the precious life that she and I so fervently were striving for,
39 She told me of the olden pact from long ago that bound her now
40 Of a pact that forced her now all worldly things—all life abhor!
41 To don the cold black gown and all that’s true in life abhor—
42 And I thought I’d lost her there upon the midnight shore.
43 But that was not the darkest of the torment I would meet,
44 For rapidly with kindled eye she told me how this burden wore,
45 And how she was now, in her heart, committed to an end,
46 An end that if not joy would bring some peace from all the horror—
47 So unbearable she found this pain—she called this lot horror!
48 Nothing to my loss on that midnight shore.
49 Evermore I’ll see her eyes gleam brightly there in that dim light,
50 Like the brightest stars—stars the task of illumination bore,
51 As my love told me all that soon would make my spirit break,
52 As hope began to falter, as the ocean loud did roar—
53 As the pounding sea loud and terrible in its wrath did roar—
54 The waves crashed on the midnight shore.
55 I strove with her with all my soul, I pleaded valiantly,
56 Her words, within that tone so sweet, struck me to the core,
57 I spoke of love, of hope, of dreams, of heaven lending aid,
58 I told her how the best of men such acts they must deplore—
59 How the hosts of heaven such dire acts as these deplore!
60 But she heard me not, on the midnight shore.
61 And it would betide, that scarce did I but utter these few words,
62 But dark the stormclouds rolled, o’er my heart forever more,
63 Flash of lightning o’er iron sea showed a world of storm.
64 Ah, well I know the angels saw the chasm our words tore,
65 And in anger or in sympathy a gaping hole in heaven tore,
66 All was still then on the midnight shore.
67 If it was anger t’was hardly wrought, that killed this hope of mine,
68 If sympathy I know not how this was better than before,
69 A flash and night rolled over me, oblivion sank deeply in,
70 Nothing could I fathom then, I knew then nothing more,
71 Nothing from then on could pierce the darkness more,
72 Darkness fell upon the midnight shore.
73 The storm has not abated e’en where I sit and brood today,
74 The darkness it still clings to me like gloom of days of yore,
75 I cannot help but wonder how this pattern came to be,
76 But here I know that for me now no light is left in store,
77 For nothing after hope is gone is left—for men—in store—
78 A boundary is drawn along the midnight shore.
79 The veil is drawn twixt dawn and dusk, and cannot be reclaimed,
80 Two halves that cannot reconcile, and yet cannot ignore.
81 The veil is drawn between the realms of hope and of despair,
82 And nothing now will join them, though long we may implore—
83 Though long and hard the men of earth may for this implore.
84 There is no bridge across the midnight shore.
85 And so the death of hope is knelled, with an iron bell,
86 And love is lost, is lost forever beyond the darkened shore,
87 Wise men say this makes it precious, yet I cannot perceive,
88 How so desolate and desperate a thing could be desired more,
89 More than perfect happiness until we are no more—
90 Why choose endings on the midnight shore?
91 For hope is strength, the strength of man—without it we are naught,
92 And hope is what we spend our days in search and longing for.
93 And beauty’s not in what we see, and not in what we hear,
94 But in these moments cherished, these moments we adore—
95 Without these golden moments in the gleam that we adore,
96 There’s nothing to hold us from the midnight shore.
97 The night is black, the wind still howls, and I am near undone,
98 Forgiveness nigh impossible with steel within my core.
99 I ask not for the light again but sweet release from pain,
100 For life in black despair is nothing else but—true horror,
101 Life without the hope of love is nothing else but horror.
102 I have reached already the midnight shore.
103 Despair, oblivion, utter blindness, loss of love and beauty,
104 The ending of all things—this I’ve known and more
105 And now I do not know what else to do but find relief,
106 The lines of light and dark have blurred upon the midnight shore,
107 And well I know the pain of parting on the midnight shore,
108 Blackness, then, and nothing, on the midnight shore.
1 Within the night that falls so darkly, well the recollections rise,
2 The faintly glowing memories I cannot bear yet must adore,
3 The memories of love and fortune lost and thence forgotten.
4 Lost all hope of anything this love and fortune to restore—
5 Hope too lost beyond the pow’r of even angels to restore—
6 Hope, t’was lost beyond the midnight shore.
7 The velvet night stretched ‘cross the sky, the stars gleamed in their brilliant light,
8 Our love was sweet and true beyond all loves the earth once bore.
9 She took my hand in tender care and high my heart did leap,
10 Well did my heart leap, did fly, in ecstasy did soar—
11 The moment there was perfect as my spirit high did soar—
12 Then all was lost beyond the midnight shore.
13 In love’s sweet arms we had no care and nothing did we fear.
14 Of sparkling dreams and golden days I will not venture more,
15 Yet they were there, and radiant as my love’s own gentle form,
16 Which still illuminates my mind, and will forever more—
17 Locked inside my memory she is forever more—
18 Yet she is lost beyond that midnight shore.
19 The wind is howling louder now, as here I sit in wretched pain,
20 Vainly trying to drown my sorrow in some tome of learnèd lore,
21 Yet all I see, and all I hear, is her voice from the far beyond,
22 Her angel’s voice repeating soft the oath we both once swore:
23 That promise for each other made and that we both once swore
24 Before I lost her beyond that midnight shore.
25 Closing now my weary lids, the sight that greets me faint begins,
26 Yet darkens quickly—well I know the misery in store,
27 For the fever-dreams that come are now remembered nightly friends,
28 Since the night that we did wander far beside the ocean’s roar—
29 Since the night of darkness crashing down on us beside the ocean’s roar!
30 Then I lost her beyond that midnight shore.
31 My eyes behold now, in the fire, flames that flicker now to life,
32 And show the visions that I hesitate to see no more,
33 And there I see her standing, face so pale yet eyes so bright!
34 Hear I too the words she spoke—from her anguished throat they tore—
35 The words that in the bond between us a gaping chasm tore—
36 Sign that I would lose her beyond the midnight shore.
37 She told me how our love was doomed, how circumstance now ripped her free
38 Of the precious life that she and I so fervently were striving for,
39 She told me of the olden pact from long ago that bound her now
40 Of a pact that forced her now all worldly things—all life abhor!
41 To don the cold black gown and all that’s true in life abhor—
42 And I thought I’d lost her there upon the midnight shore.
43 But that was not the darkest of the torment I would meet,
44 For rapidly with kindled eye she told me how this burden wore,
45 And how she was now, in her heart, committed to an end,
46 An end that if not joy would bring some peace from all the horror—
47 So unbearable she found this pain—she called this lot horror!
48 Nothing to my loss on that midnight shore.
49 Evermore I’ll see her eyes gleam brightly there in that dim light,
50 Like the brightest stars—stars the task of illumination bore,
51 As my love told me all that soon would make my spirit break,
52 As hope began to falter, as the ocean loud did roar—
53 As the pounding sea loud and terrible in its wrath did roar—
54 The waves crashed on the midnight shore.
55 I strove with her with all my soul, I pleaded valiantly,
56 Her words, within that tone so sweet, struck me to the core,
57 I spoke of love, of hope, of dreams, of heaven lending aid,
58 I told her how the best of men such acts they must deplore—
59 How the hosts of heaven such dire acts as these deplore!
60 But she heard me not, on the midnight shore.
61 And it would betide, that scarce did I but utter these few words,
62 But dark the stormclouds rolled, o’er my heart forever more,
63 Flash of lightning o’er iron sea showed a world of storm.
64 Ah, well I know the angels saw the chasm our words tore,
65 And in anger or in sympathy a gaping hole in heaven tore,
66 All was still then on the midnight shore.
67 If it was anger t’was hardly wrought, that killed this hope of mine,
68 If sympathy I know not how this was better than before,
69 A flash and night rolled over me, oblivion sank deeply in,
70 Nothing could I fathom then, I knew then nothing more,
71 Nothing from then on could pierce the darkness more,
72 Darkness fell upon the midnight shore.
73 The storm has not abated e’en where I sit and brood today,
74 The darkness it still clings to me like gloom of days of yore,
75 I cannot help but wonder how this pattern came to be,
76 But here I know that for me now no light is left in store,
77 For nothing after hope is gone is left—for men—in store—
78 A boundary is drawn along the midnight shore.
79 The veil is drawn twixt dawn and dusk, and cannot be reclaimed,
80 Two halves that cannot reconcile, and yet cannot ignore.
81 The veil is drawn between the realms of hope and of despair,
82 And nothing now will join them, though long we may implore—
83 Though long and hard the men of earth may for this implore.
84 There is no bridge across the midnight shore.
85 And so the death of hope is knelled, with an iron bell,
86 And love is lost, is lost forever beyond the darkened shore,
87 Wise men say this makes it precious, yet I cannot perceive,
88 How so desolate and desperate a thing could be desired more,
89 More than perfect happiness until we are no more—
90 Why choose endings on the midnight shore?
91 For hope is strength, the strength of man—without it we are naught,
92 And hope is what we spend our days in search and longing for.
93 And beauty’s not in what we see, and not in what we hear,
94 But in these moments cherished, these moments we adore—
95 Without these golden moments in the gleam that we adore,
96 There’s nothing to hold us from the midnight shore.
97 The night is black, the wind still howls, and I am near undone,
98 Forgiveness nigh impossible with steel within my core.
99 I ask not for the light again but sweet release from pain,
100 For life in black despair is nothing else but—true horror,
101 Life without the hope of love is nothing else but horror.
102 I have reached already the midnight shore.
103 Despair, oblivion, utter blindness, loss of love and beauty,
104 The ending of all things—this I’ve known and more
105 And now I do not know what else to do but find relief,
106 The lines of light and dark have blurred upon the midnight shore,
107 And well I know the pain of parting on the midnight shore,
108 Blackness, then, and nothing, on the midnight shore.
False Divide
Slam poetry.
They call it a divide, the great divide,
Between the murky “this” and “that”
Shadows only,
Undefined
They throw the umbral differences up on the wall
Make them out to be specters of the night
Haunting, creeping, the monsters under the bed—
Walk straight, walk true
They’ll set up hedges but run on through
They’ll tell you things but it’s all deceit
The dark reflection they’d run from too
Walk on, walk through
A shadow can only break you
If you let it have its phantom grip.
You see there’s no divide, there’s no absolute
And if there’s a law that splits us all
It’s between those who think and go alone
And those who follow meekly, the vast herd of sheep
Don’t believe all they say—they’re just as scared
That abyss is illusion—step off the ledge—
You’ll find you can cross it all just fine
And maybe from the middle in no-man’s land
You’ll see both sides and no divide.
After all isn’t it all one earth?
After all aren’t we all just human?
Maybe as lost and struggling, but we’re all just as bright
After all isn’t it one galaxy?
Does the universe fracture itself in splinters?
The stars they dance, but it’s in tandem
It’s a symphony all together
There’s no limit to the music
You’re unlimited
And a divide only makes you weaker—
United we stand, divided we fall
So rip off the blinders and pierce the veil
Get over your fear of the dark
You’ll see
What one paints a shadow another calls light
You can’t have one without the other
Chiaroscuro, complements
You’ve gotta have it all to live
So step over the divide and then wipe it out
Scrawl every man’s story everywhere
I’d like to see them try and shatter
What everyone knows is whole.
They call it a divide, the great divide,
Between the murky “this” and “that”
Shadows only,
Undefined
They throw the umbral differences up on the wall
Make them out to be specters of the night
Haunting, creeping, the monsters under the bed—
Walk straight, walk true
They’ll set up hedges but run on through
They’ll tell you things but it’s all deceit
The dark reflection they’d run from too
Walk on, walk through
A shadow can only break you
If you let it have its phantom grip.
You see there’s no divide, there’s no absolute
And if there’s a law that splits us all
It’s between those who think and go alone
And those who follow meekly, the vast herd of sheep
Don’t believe all they say—they’re just as scared
That abyss is illusion—step off the ledge—
You’ll find you can cross it all just fine
And maybe from the middle in no-man’s land
You’ll see both sides and no divide.
After all isn’t it all one earth?
After all aren’t we all just human?
Maybe as lost and struggling, but we’re all just as bright
After all isn’t it one galaxy?
Does the universe fracture itself in splinters?
The stars they dance, but it’s in tandem
It’s a symphony all together
There’s no limit to the music
You’re unlimited
And a divide only makes you weaker—
United we stand, divided we fall
So rip off the blinders and pierce the veil
Get over your fear of the dark
You’ll see
What one paints a shadow another calls light
You can’t have one without the other
Chiaroscuro, complements
You’ve gotta have it all to live
So step over the divide and then wipe it out
Scrawl every man’s story everywhere
I’d like to see them try and shatter
What everyone knows is whole.
Poetic Vision
I love poetry! This was also an assignment, but...ignore the bit about Emerson and Spider Crystal Ascension and this is still me.
A poet stands at a crossroads of sorts. Caught in between the universe and his mind, he has to be able to take both of them into account and integrate them somehow, making sense out of madness. A true poet can take feelings and capture them in words and images, and he comes to understand himself through the process. However, the act of writing pure poetry is not the answer to all things, nor are the poems themselves the answer. When people can take a poetic spirit and view of the world and live by the understanding and perspective they engender, then poetry becomes what Emerson esteemed it to be.
Through poetry, a writer can record a feeling just as it comes—fleeting and difficult to explain. Whereas in prose ideas that aren’t set out neatly and connected well are somewhat deplored, in poetry an immense feeling may be captured in just a slice of intuition embodied in a few words. In “Spider Crystal Ascension”, the crystal spider is a condensed concept that hints at a far greater idea. These sixty-six words, not a large number by any means, invoke an all-encompassing image of humanity: small and grounded and content to be floating in a tiny pool as compared to the universe that hangs above. Bursts of intuition like this are sometimes the only way that human beings can make sense or understanding out of vast concepts like the universe and existence.
Something as limitless as the horizon cannot be dissected and categorized the way many other things and disciplines can. Questions dealing with who we are and what the purpose of the world is, for instance, cannot be answered systematically—there would never be enough “data” and there would always be too much controversy. In addition, the world can be seen through many different eyes that influence understanding. In this way, a poet’s intuition and ability to capture ideas through metaphor and concepts that are less concrete is crucial to the way that we understand things. By viewing the world with an eye that can relate ink to lifeblood, Fate to a harpist, and, in the case of “Spider Crystal Ascension”, the watching universe to a spider, a poet can reach out and make some kind of sense of the world: not by separating and examining it, but by unifying it all and displaying it as a whole. And as the same poem can be interpreted many different ways, it takes on particular meaning to each person who reads it, making poetry potentially a more powerful tool than even the poet could have imagined.
If poetry itself is to succeed in imparting messages, though, it needs to have power that is at least rooted in, if not focused on, reality, the world as it is, and ideally science and other concrete ideas. Otherwise poetry has little application and nothing that can speak to the people. In the public eye, poetry is often viewed as “fluff” or completely useless. It needs to include connection to the audience and make a lasting impression, in addition to having evocative imagery, in order to have the impact that it has the potential to have. In that way, poetry can be a key to unification and the recording of the transcendent—but not unless it has been grounded in something more earthly. And even when this combination of connection and meaning and impression does happen, it isn’t often noticed, because many don’t even spare a second glance for poetry.
Poetry is an appeal to the pathos and the senses, and a way to comprehend things, but it cannot be the answer to all problems, especially ones that need real change. Typically, stronger appeals must be used to motivate action. Historically, poetry has often been written to commemorate an event, but it has much less often been used to spur one. The reason for this lies in this idea that people rarely read poetry and they rarely learn from it. If, then, poetry is rarely read, does that mean that its value is reduced? Hardly. Reading and writing poetry helps people understand themselves, who they are, and what they believe. It helps them make sense of their feelings and it helps them draw conclusions about the world. For the poet himself, and the few who read it, poetry can still be invaluable.
However, if poetry was the only means of understanding the universe, comprehension of the abstract would be strictly limited to a few people. Not everyone has the affinity for wordsmithing or the art of poetry, as is often shown when assignments are given to a class and performance on them varies greatly. This does not necessarily mean that those who are less apt for writing poetry cannot comprehend the vastness of the horizon or the universe. On the contrary, it is not necessarily the act but the spirit of poetry that engenders this integration and comprehension. If a person can watch, can take the time to think, can take the time to feel emotions fully and to try and understand them, that person is a poet, and can use the way they see the world to make disparate parts whole.
Living life through the perspective of a poet is a rewarding experience, and that’s where the esteem that Emerson has of the poet is truly validated. The same eye that can step back and realize the transient nature of the world, as in “Spider Crystal Ascension”, is one that can take the ups and downs of life in stride. Being able to see the beauty in the smallest things lends great meaning to everyday life, and contemplation of the abstract lends a strange sense of peace. When you can make some sense out of yourself, learning about who you are, then you can accept yourself—and understand others as well. This poetic spirit is the key to a life of wisdom.
Emerson’s esteem of the poet is not unfounded. The essence of poetry, of taking in life, making connections, and handling it with an intuitive eye, is a necessity for the understanding of things too large for us to examine in parts. Being able to take the large and the small and put it all together, the way that “Spider Crystal Ascension” makes the universe a small picture with big implications, is the way that people can understand themselves and hopefully learn the empathy to understand others—no matter if poetry seems at first to be far from practical. Poetic vision leads to a perspective through which people can better learn to accept themselves and the world. The real key to the power of poetry is to make it something to live by. What a person truly gains through self-realization or insight in reading other works are lessons and ideas to take with them all their lives. Once a person has recognized the great spider up above, he can ascend to its height and find that meaning and significance he seeks.
A poet stands at a crossroads of sorts. Caught in between the universe and his mind, he has to be able to take both of them into account and integrate them somehow, making sense out of madness. A true poet can take feelings and capture them in words and images, and he comes to understand himself through the process. However, the act of writing pure poetry is not the answer to all things, nor are the poems themselves the answer. When people can take a poetic spirit and view of the world and live by the understanding and perspective they engender, then poetry becomes what Emerson esteemed it to be.
Through poetry, a writer can record a feeling just as it comes—fleeting and difficult to explain. Whereas in prose ideas that aren’t set out neatly and connected well are somewhat deplored, in poetry an immense feeling may be captured in just a slice of intuition embodied in a few words. In “Spider Crystal Ascension”, the crystal spider is a condensed concept that hints at a far greater idea. These sixty-six words, not a large number by any means, invoke an all-encompassing image of humanity: small and grounded and content to be floating in a tiny pool as compared to the universe that hangs above. Bursts of intuition like this are sometimes the only way that human beings can make sense or understanding out of vast concepts like the universe and existence.
Something as limitless as the horizon cannot be dissected and categorized the way many other things and disciplines can. Questions dealing with who we are and what the purpose of the world is, for instance, cannot be answered systematically—there would never be enough “data” and there would always be too much controversy. In addition, the world can be seen through many different eyes that influence understanding. In this way, a poet’s intuition and ability to capture ideas through metaphor and concepts that are less concrete is crucial to the way that we understand things. By viewing the world with an eye that can relate ink to lifeblood, Fate to a harpist, and, in the case of “Spider Crystal Ascension”, the watching universe to a spider, a poet can reach out and make some kind of sense of the world: not by separating and examining it, but by unifying it all and displaying it as a whole. And as the same poem can be interpreted many different ways, it takes on particular meaning to each person who reads it, making poetry potentially a more powerful tool than even the poet could have imagined.
If poetry itself is to succeed in imparting messages, though, it needs to have power that is at least rooted in, if not focused on, reality, the world as it is, and ideally science and other concrete ideas. Otherwise poetry has little application and nothing that can speak to the people. In the public eye, poetry is often viewed as “fluff” or completely useless. It needs to include connection to the audience and make a lasting impression, in addition to having evocative imagery, in order to have the impact that it has the potential to have. In that way, poetry can be a key to unification and the recording of the transcendent—but not unless it has been grounded in something more earthly. And even when this combination of connection and meaning and impression does happen, it isn’t often noticed, because many don’t even spare a second glance for poetry.
Poetry is an appeal to the pathos and the senses, and a way to comprehend things, but it cannot be the answer to all problems, especially ones that need real change. Typically, stronger appeals must be used to motivate action. Historically, poetry has often been written to commemorate an event, but it has much less often been used to spur one. The reason for this lies in this idea that people rarely read poetry and they rarely learn from it. If, then, poetry is rarely read, does that mean that its value is reduced? Hardly. Reading and writing poetry helps people understand themselves, who they are, and what they believe. It helps them make sense of their feelings and it helps them draw conclusions about the world. For the poet himself, and the few who read it, poetry can still be invaluable.
However, if poetry was the only means of understanding the universe, comprehension of the abstract would be strictly limited to a few people. Not everyone has the affinity for wordsmithing or the art of poetry, as is often shown when assignments are given to a class and performance on them varies greatly. This does not necessarily mean that those who are less apt for writing poetry cannot comprehend the vastness of the horizon or the universe. On the contrary, it is not necessarily the act but the spirit of poetry that engenders this integration and comprehension. If a person can watch, can take the time to think, can take the time to feel emotions fully and to try and understand them, that person is a poet, and can use the way they see the world to make disparate parts whole.
Living life through the perspective of a poet is a rewarding experience, and that’s where the esteem that Emerson has of the poet is truly validated. The same eye that can step back and realize the transient nature of the world, as in “Spider Crystal Ascension”, is one that can take the ups and downs of life in stride. Being able to see the beauty in the smallest things lends great meaning to everyday life, and contemplation of the abstract lends a strange sense of peace. When you can make some sense out of yourself, learning about who you are, then you can accept yourself—and understand others as well. This poetic spirit is the key to a life of wisdom.
Emerson’s esteem of the poet is not unfounded. The essence of poetry, of taking in life, making connections, and handling it with an intuitive eye, is a necessity for the understanding of things too large for us to examine in parts. Being able to take the large and the small and put it all together, the way that “Spider Crystal Ascension” makes the universe a small picture with big implications, is the way that people can understand themselves and hopefully learn the empathy to understand others—no matter if poetry seems at first to be far from practical. Poetic vision leads to a perspective through which people can better learn to accept themselves and the world. The real key to the power of poetry is to make it something to live by. What a person truly gains through self-realization or insight in reading other works are lessons and ideas to take with them all their lives. Once a person has recognized the great spider up above, he can ascend to its height and find that meaning and significance he seeks.
Response to a Disturbance
We read History of a Disturbance about a man who decides to give up words in English...two responses.
My response: (Warning: Unedited Stream of Consciousness ensuing)
I’ve been here. It’s that moment when you’re asked a question, but you shrug, because it’s not worth responding to, and your mother presses you with more questions because she’s frightened that you don’t talk and maybe you’re ignoring her and what kind of child does that? It’s that moment when your friends all stare at you and wonder what’s wrong, but they learn to leave you alone when you get that look in your eyes because maybe you’re searching for the real meaning of something or the silence and your thoughts are all you want or need. It’s that moment when you feel a concept or an idea just sitting there, like a box that you just can’t open, and your mind wraps around it, like little silver tendrils around a great light nothingness, trying to penetrate it, but it can’t. It’s when you try to capture an essence, and so you write poetry, because maybe the juxtaposition of a few words, and the white spaces, can convey that essence in a way that a description or an explanation can’t. And it’s when you’re wholly alone—but you don’t want to leave others in the dark, because you can’t communicate with thoughts and even if you try so hard maybe your eyes and your smile can’t…maybe your thoughts can’t push all the way through to the look in your eyes and the person you’re with, but you love them, you want to know what they’re thinking, you want them to know how you feel, but it’s all a twisted game anyway as you dance around with the words because you know you can’t break the conventions, the societal norms, even if you want them to know the truth, the real truth, whole and untarnished with all the good and the bad, so desperately that it’s making you crazy…
Elena's Response:
I would that I were anything other than desperately unhappy. I would that I could be anything other than frightened, confused, abandoned, angry, indeed, all of the things you perceive in me. And perceive them you do—understandably, as you say, because you believe that your silence allows you to understand all as it is.
Your description, your narrative, your not-explanation, is clear. Logical, rational, easily followed. But you who were once my loving husband, you who have been successful in nearly everything you have wanted to do, you see so clearly with an eye trained on your objective and yet turn blind to all other things. You believe yourself empowered, and perhaps you are. For you.
But as for me, I am set adrift. In you I hoped to find a partner I could trust forever, a person I could love forever, a man that would support me and love me all the same. To love and to cherish always—did we not vow this upon our marriage? And you believe, perhaps, in some strange way, that you still do.
They always speak of love as something more than words. But how can I connect to you when I do not know what you are thinking? When I am not reminded of you in everything I do? You have left your work, and the burden is on me to support us. Yet I am holding up nothing but thin air, because for you it is us no longer, but you. I do not even know what you see when you look at me—you who have left words behind. Do you even see your wife? Someone you love? What does love even mean for you, if you cannot speak of it in words?
For we are human, and we cannot communicate in rushes of sound and essence. Flawed as they may be, words are powerful. Words can move, if you are willing to go beyond the bare minimum. It has never been about exactly what they say, but what they mean. It has always been about what they mean. And if you knew me anymore, you would have known exactly what I meant when I asked, “Do you love me?” at that time, in that place.
But you don’t, because you have become so caught up in what is on the face of things, in the inconsequential details that are not the details that make life worth living, and I cannot touch you there. You have made a vow deceiving yourself that it will make things better, when you have willfully dropped out of the realm of things I and those close to you know. What you have called a stammer is that in truth. You believe you are sure. I know that you are, and falling because of it.
My strength of feeling is not any less because I speak to you in words. Can I feel in words? It is an impossibility—therefore know that my feelings are not dead, but yours have altered, altered beyond recognition. I say all this now because I loved you. I love the man that you were, and the man that you could have been, perhaps could still be. And now—now, you are changed, and it is a type of madness so rational and so lucid and yet so frightening and alien that I do not even know what to say. All I know is that you have left me behind.
Maybe you will come back one day, come back to the place I will have kept for you in honor of the vows I made and the love I had, come back from the white solitude you have left me for and free me from the black solitude that you have caused. I write this as if you may, but my heart is empty of the hope. What you call patience, I call despair. I am past waiting, waiting for my heart to be full again. I can only dream in the white hours of the morning, and then face the darkness waiting in the day.
My response: (Warning: Unedited Stream of Consciousness ensuing)
I’ve been here. It’s that moment when you’re asked a question, but you shrug, because it’s not worth responding to, and your mother presses you with more questions because she’s frightened that you don’t talk and maybe you’re ignoring her and what kind of child does that? It’s that moment when your friends all stare at you and wonder what’s wrong, but they learn to leave you alone when you get that look in your eyes because maybe you’re searching for the real meaning of something or the silence and your thoughts are all you want or need. It’s that moment when you feel a concept or an idea just sitting there, like a box that you just can’t open, and your mind wraps around it, like little silver tendrils around a great light nothingness, trying to penetrate it, but it can’t. It’s when you try to capture an essence, and so you write poetry, because maybe the juxtaposition of a few words, and the white spaces, can convey that essence in a way that a description or an explanation can’t. And it’s when you’re wholly alone—but you don’t want to leave others in the dark, because you can’t communicate with thoughts and even if you try so hard maybe your eyes and your smile can’t…maybe your thoughts can’t push all the way through to the look in your eyes and the person you’re with, but you love them, you want to know what they’re thinking, you want them to know how you feel, but it’s all a twisted game anyway as you dance around with the words because you know you can’t break the conventions, the societal norms, even if you want them to know the truth, the real truth, whole and untarnished with all the good and the bad, so desperately that it’s making you crazy…
Elena's Response:
I would that I were anything other than desperately unhappy. I would that I could be anything other than frightened, confused, abandoned, angry, indeed, all of the things you perceive in me. And perceive them you do—understandably, as you say, because you believe that your silence allows you to understand all as it is.
Your description, your narrative, your not-explanation, is clear. Logical, rational, easily followed. But you who were once my loving husband, you who have been successful in nearly everything you have wanted to do, you see so clearly with an eye trained on your objective and yet turn blind to all other things. You believe yourself empowered, and perhaps you are. For you.
But as for me, I am set adrift. In you I hoped to find a partner I could trust forever, a person I could love forever, a man that would support me and love me all the same. To love and to cherish always—did we not vow this upon our marriage? And you believe, perhaps, in some strange way, that you still do.
They always speak of love as something more than words. But how can I connect to you when I do not know what you are thinking? When I am not reminded of you in everything I do? You have left your work, and the burden is on me to support us. Yet I am holding up nothing but thin air, because for you it is us no longer, but you. I do not even know what you see when you look at me—you who have left words behind. Do you even see your wife? Someone you love? What does love even mean for you, if you cannot speak of it in words?
For we are human, and we cannot communicate in rushes of sound and essence. Flawed as they may be, words are powerful. Words can move, if you are willing to go beyond the bare minimum. It has never been about exactly what they say, but what they mean. It has always been about what they mean. And if you knew me anymore, you would have known exactly what I meant when I asked, “Do you love me?” at that time, in that place.
But you don’t, because you have become so caught up in what is on the face of things, in the inconsequential details that are not the details that make life worth living, and I cannot touch you there. You have made a vow deceiving yourself that it will make things better, when you have willfully dropped out of the realm of things I and those close to you know. What you have called a stammer is that in truth. You believe you are sure. I know that you are, and falling because of it.
My strength of feeling is not any less because I speak to you in words. Can I feel in words? It is an impossibility—therefore know that my feelings are not dead, but yours have altered, altered beyond recognition. I say all this now because I loved you. I love the man that you were, and the man that you could have been, perhaps could still be. And now—now, you are changed, and it is a type of madness so rational and so lucid and yet so frightening and alien that I do not even know what to say. All I know is that you have left me behind.
Maybe you will come back one day, come back to the place I will have kept for you in honor of the vows I made and the love I had, come back from the white solitude you have left me for and free me from the black solitude that you have caused. I write this as if you may, but my heart is empty of the hope. What you call patience, I call despair. I am past waiting, waiting for my heart to be full again. I can only dream in the white hours of the morning, and then face the darkness waiting in the day.
Philosophy
So...it's been forever, but I figure I might as well have a repository for ideas anyway. Philosophy I'm playing with:
**********************************************
People have always wanted to pioneer things. Originally maybe you could be the first to eat some fruit, or build your house in a certain sort of way. Then, like the conquistadors, it was glory, gold, and God; go to a new place, be the first to build a community; there was the Westward Expansion later in American history. Eventually that led to space, although that is now known to be less hospitable than any West Coast.
What does that mean now, in a day where there are no lands to explore, where it seems every song has been written and every idea has a book to its name already—and where there are so many people that to make oneself unique and stand out seems nearly impossible? Only a lucky few can partake in that.
Is this search an innate instinct? Perhaps that is part of what makes us human.
************************************************
Humanity is driven by a fear of the unknown; we cling to the past, fear death, and are driven by curiosity. They feared the minister’s black veil (Hawthorne) because they did not understand it; and we have discrimination by religion and race because it is different and not that which we know.
************************************************
Life is about stepping into as many roles as you can. It’s about tasting every experience and building an understanding, through experience, of other people and their hopes and dreams. If you’ve been there, maybe you can help them, but if not, it’ll never be more than a thin idea, an abstract concept that could and should be concrete but isn’t. If you don’t remember the people that you say you do things for, how can you benefit them? Shared experience is how we can reach out to others.
************************************************
Be in and of yourself, and be a part of the grander scheme of the world as well as privy to the small parts of life: love the little things, appreciate the forgotten aids that get you to where you are, pay attention to every sunrise and every sunset and every white flower on the side of the road; find power in life and cheer, not in death and punishment; take people as they are, choose the battles that you fight, do not let the gift of time pass you by; remember the people you profess to help, keep promises you make, always recall the world that you fight for; step freely into many roles to better understand the whole, make judgments after deliberate thought; dream your dreams to their fullest extent, contemplate the abstract, ask yourself questions so you may find the answers, do not accept what others say with nothing but blind faith, appreciate the universe in all its wonder that you are but a part of; in doing so, you will fulfill yourself and the life that you have strived to build, and the world will be not a prison, but a symphony in which you are a worthy voice; your song will be clear and harmonious, and you will have no need to fear to open your soul to the world.
**************************************************
**********************************************
People have always wanted to pioneer things. Originally maybe you could be the first to eat some fruit, or build your house in a certain sort of way. Then, like the conquistadors, it was glory, gold, and God; go to a new place, be the first to build a community; there was the Westward Expansion later in American history. Eventually that led to space, although that is now known to be less hospitable than any West Coast.
What does that mean now, in a day where there are no lands to explore, where it seems every song has been written and every idea has a book to its name already—and where there are so many people that to make oneself unique and stand out seems nearly impossible? Only a lucky few can partake in that.
Is this search an innate instinct? Perhaps that is part of what makes us human.
************************************************
Humanity is driven by a fear of the unknown; we cling to the past, fear death, and are driven by curiosity. They feared the minister’s black veil (Hawthorne) because they did not understand it; and we have discrimination by religion and race because it is different and not that which we know.
************************************************
Life is about stepping into as many roles as you can. It’s about tasting every experience and building an understanding, through experience, of other people and their hopes and dreams. If you’ve been there, maybe you can help them, but if not, it’ll never be more than a thin idea, an abstract concept that could and should be concrete but isn’t. If you don’t remember the people that you say you do things for, how can you benefit them? Shared experience is how we can reach out to others.
************************************************
Be in and of yourself, and be a part of the grander scheme of the world as well as privy to the small parts of life: love the little things, appreciate the forgotten aids that get you to where you are, pay attention to every sunrise and every sunset and every white flower on the side of the road; find power in life and cheer, not in death and punishment; take people as they are, choose the battles that you fight, do not let the gift of time pass you by; remember the people you profess to help, keep promises you make, always recall the world that you fight for; step freely into many roles to better understand the whole, make judgments after deliberate thought; dream your dreams to their fullest extent, contemplate the abstract, ask yourself questions so you may find the answers, do not accept what others say with nothing but blind faith, appreciate the universe in all its wonder that you are but a part of; in doing so, you will fulfill yourself and the life that you have strived to build, and the world will be not a prison, but a symphony in which you are a worthy voice; your song will be clear and harmonious, and you will have no need to fear to open your soul to the world.
**************************************************
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