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Pursue the Horizon: 30-Day Poetry Blogging Challenge Entries |
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It's interesting to see what poetry I read when I was younger and why. I struggled to cope with Bipolar Disorder 1, simply called Manic Depression back then, and spent a good amount of time reading about the sorrows of others. I wasn't alone. Although I was trapped on the carousel of my chemical imbalance, I felt like it would eventually be okay. If the great poets of the world could manage through worse times than I ever knew, surely I would make it out of high school alive. Of course, being an emotionally unbalanced teenager, I didn't attempt to analyze this poem to discover why I enjoyed and responded to it. As an adult, the first thing I noticed is the alliteration. I'm a sucker for it. I wonder now if I realized at 15, the twist of a sad ode instead of the familiar celebratory ones. I've only written a few odes myself, but none were uplifting. And the iambic pentameter! I still haven't harnessed that bitch. Anyways, I guess you could say that my theme for March is rereading some old favorites and comparing my thoughts. |
The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did. Surely I'm not the only person that thinks Ronald Dahl was ahead of the times? It seems that screens are still acting as babysitters and parents years later. Even as a child I'd rather read something, anything, than watch TV. |
A monk sips morning tea, it's quiet, the chrysanthemum's flowering. -Matsuo Basho I wish the world was this peaceful when I step outside with my coffee each morning. I should probably just stay inside. I might be in a better mood that way. |
Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I. So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I am old But you. And one fine morning in a sunny lane Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear That nobody can love their way again While over there You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair. -Charlotte Mary Mew This is just really sweet and touching. |
Matilde, years or days sleeping, feverish, here or there, gazing off, twisting my spine, bleeding true blood, perhaps I awaken or am lost, sleeping: hospital beds, foreign windows, white uniforms of the silent walkers, the clumsiness of feet. And then, these journeys and my sea of renewal: your head on the pillow, your hands floating in the light, in my light, over my earth. It was beautiful to live when you lived! The world is bluer and of the earth at night, when I sleep enormous, within your small hands. -Pablo Neruda Although this poem tends to make me feel sad, it also makes me grateful. |
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) -Sylvia Plath This reminds me of the times I've been in stuck in the darkness of my own mind. Not a great feeling, but it's part of who I am. Thankfully I don't feel this way too often. How can you trust others when you can't trust your own sanity? |
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable, And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy. I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed. A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside, I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring. Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure. Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait. A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet, And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white! Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place: With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage. Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms, I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more. To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it? East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave, Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes. In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless, Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark? At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths: Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down. And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease. I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid, Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous. And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk Things over, little buds ---open delicately, sparingly. Another Du Fu classic. No one can paint a picture like him. The last stanza is my favorite. |
You say I O.K.ed LONG DISTANCE? O.K.ed it when? My goodness, Central That was then! I'm mad and disgusted With that Negro now. I don't pay no REVERSED CHARGES nohow. You say, I will pay it-- Else you'll take out my phone? You better let My phone alone. I didn't ask him To telephone me. Roscoe knows darn well LONG DISTANCE Ain't free. If I ever catch him, Lawd, have pity! Calling me up From Kansas City. Just to say he loves me! I knowed that was so. Why didn't he tell me some'n I don't know? For instance, what can Them other girls do That Alberta K. Johnson Can't do--and more, too? What's that, Central? You say you don't care Nothing about my Private affair? Well, even less about your PHONE BILL, does I care! Un-humm-m! . . . Yes! You say I gave my O.K.? Well, that O.K. you may keep-- But I sure ain't gonna pay! -Langston Huges If you haven't read any of the poems in Langston Hughes Madam to You series, this is what you're missing out on. Go have a look. They're colorful, insightful, and guaranteed to make you think. |
Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the firmament And rested on a beam; And then together bore away Upon a shining sea,-- Though never yet, in any port Their coming mentioned be. If spoken by the distant bird, If met in ether sea By frigate or by merchantman, Report was not to me. -Emily Dickinson My grandmother had a fondness for butterflies. She had a variety of butterfly figurines around the house. One of her bathrooms was decorated with beautiful framed prints of different species. It seemed like wherever we went she would see one flying overhead. My grandfather passed away a year after my grandmother. As we were standing at the cemetery sharing memories with one another, a scarlet butterfly flew around the minister several times. He stopped speaking and we all watched as it seemed to hover over the coffin. The minister continued. The butterfly landed on the coffin and became still. Everyone grew silent, waiting for the small creature to move along. No one knew quite what to do next. You can't really shoo away a butterfly, but we couldn't lower the coffin with it perched on top. The Texas sun was high in the sky and the heat was becoming uncomfortable. As we grew restless and irritable, a larger orange butterfly joined the first. They began to flutter around each other in some type of frenzied ritual, then flew off together. No one knew what to say until the minister cleared his throat and said, "Well ya'll, I think Ruby and Bill are headed home, so I suggest we bring our goodbyes to halt before we melt." |
Veruca Salt, the little brute, Has just gone down the garbage chute, (And as we very rightly thought That in a case like this we ought To see the thing completely through, We've polished off her parents, too.) Down goes Veruca! Down the drain! And here, perhaps, we should explain That she will meet, as she descends, A rather different set of friends To those that she has left behind– These won't be nearly so refined. A fish head, for example, cut This morning from a halibut. 'Hello! Good morning! How d'you do? How nice to meet you! How are you?' And then a little further down A mass of others gather round: A bacon rind, some rancid lard, A loaf of bread gone stale and hard, A steak that nobody could chew, An oyster from an oyster stew, Some liverwurst so old and gray One smelled it from a mile away, A rotten nut, a reeky pear, A thing the cat left on the stair, And lots of other things as well, Each with a rather horrid smell. These are Veruca's new found friends That she will meet as she descends, And this is the price she has to pay For going so very far astray. But now, my dears, we think you might Be wondering–is it really right That every single bit of blame And all the scolding and the shame Should fall upon Veruca Salt? Is she the only one at fault? For though she's spoiled, and dreadfully so, A girl can't spoil herself, you know. Who spoiled her, then? Ah, who indeed? Who pandered to her every need? Who turned her into such a brat? Who are the culprits? Who did that? Alas! You needen't look so far To find out who these sinners are. They are (and this is very sad) Her loving parents, MUM and DAD. And that is why we're glad they fell Into the garbage chute as well. It's scary that I hear these words in my head every damn time I'm at the store. It doesn't matter which store- there's always a Veruca Salt throwing a fit for something. Now when my kids got the "Veruca Look" in their eye, I hoisted them over my shoulder and promptly left the store. Or soccer field. Or church. Yes, I carried a screaming and crying kid out of the church to the parking lot, where we had a Come To Jesus talk about manners. And after church, she did not get a cookie like the other ones. But now it seems like parents are afraid to let the kid throw a fit. They just give in. What the hell is it going to be like in 50 years? |