29 June 2009

SoP 6: "Because I could not stop for Death" and For Lily and Ezra

Because I could not stop for Death

~Emily Dickinson ~

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
- - - - -
For Lily and Ezra

These two strong twins, both young and brave, we mourn,
They taken 'fore their time to heav'n above
Unduly tried, but never showing scorn.
Inseprable were they, how much they loved

Each other, and their freedom fight as well,
Ne'er breaking loyalty to their just cause.
They freed the world from tyrany's dark Héll,
But didn't get to hear the world's applause.

Sweet Lily greatly burdened with the pains
Of going deep into the hid'ous fray;
Bold Ezra sought to carry on the strain
And for his sister cared up to that day.

For the Resistance they gave their young lives
So that the people, ideas, might s'rvive.

- - - - -
I borrowed the idea for this poem from Eloosive's Daily Writing prompt the other day. Lily and Ezra were the main protagonists in "Accursed Necklace," my one of my favorite ficlets collaborations with OrangeOreos (who can also be found here), which we transfered to Protagonize as well.

Geez. I can't say I've ever posted that many links in two sentences before. First time for everything, I suppose.

28 June 2009

SoP 5: Ode to The Big Four

I tried, and I tried, but I simply could not find a poem with epicness worthy of The Big Four in time. Ah well. Maybe I'll double up tomorrow.
-----
(Quick author's note: this might be one of those "you just had to be there" sorts of things, but this was written in honor of the four guys, who called themselves The Big Four, in my APUSH class this past year. The group was our in-class legend. As obnoxious as they could get, they made that class. Seriously.)

As much as I want to rebuke
I feel I must make this tribute
So here I am, with poem and lute:
An Ode to the great Big Four.

For I have made The great Connection
Even with all that perplexion
I must admit with slight affection
The greatness of Big Four.

The thoughts of them are quite strong
Winkleman is on the end a long
Way from the rest of the group that's strong,
The one-only Big Four.

Cunningham's stuck in the middle
Of shenanigins far from little
(Hold on a sec, must tune the fiddle
To continue with the Big Four)

Bruning's way out on the far left
Often okay, but I was bereft
When once he couldn't keep'n check
Th'antics of The Big Four.

It's difficult to 'scribe The Bird
Who was their "leader." It's too absurd
To try and 'scribe BirdDog with words
He who founded th'Big Four.

They take dominion of Period Nine
And though they drive me out of my mind
I must admit, they're one-of-a-kind,
The infamous Big Four.

So " 'liver the message" all around
Send it 'round with voice and sound
Of those who impress and confound,
Irreplaceable Big Four.

As much as I've plained, I sing the praises
Of the group of APUSH days-es
All the time the group amazes,
The singular Big Four.

I hope they prize the work I've done
Me and my committee of one
And three books, now don't poke fun
Especially you, Big Four.

For all the 'plaining that I've done,
And all of my poking fun
I just could not remain dead-mum
In extolling the Big Four.

And so, I close this ode of praises
And all that's left I want to say is
"This'll go down through the ages,
The legacy of the Big Four."
- - - - -
Postlude: Yes, The Big Four did see this. How? I wrote it on the front board before class one day. Not only did the class like it, but it had the Four's approval.

27 June 2009

SoP 4: "Common Cold" and Elusive Eloosive

Common Cold
Ogden Nash

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

- - - - -

http://www.thinkgeek.com/images/products/additional/large/bc01_mega_giant_plush_microbes_cold.jpg
- - - - -
Elusive Eloosive,
Why say that you hide?
You show us your talent,
Not keep it inside.

Perhaps it's because
Right after you write,
You go off in seclusion;
But at least you don't bite.
- - - - -
It's not much, not the greatest, but I felt like doing this sort of thing today. Not quite sure why I stuck a poem about 'Loo in with a poem about the (un)common cold.... perhaps because his whole poetry nudge is contageous or something...

Maybe it's not the best idea to crack illness jokes in a time of an international pandemic, and when a late-night host got in a bit of trouble for a joke... then again, procrastination's not a good idea either, so the low-quality joke stays.

26 June 2009

SoP 3: "Waiting for the Birdy" and You Have to Get Used to It

Waiting for the Birdie
~Ogden Nash~

Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
I hate having my picture taken.
How can your family claim to love you
And then demand a picture of you?
The electric chair is a comfortable chair,
But I know an equally comfortless pair;
One is the dentist's, my good sirs,
And the other is the photographer's.
Oh, the fly in all domsetic ointments
Is affectionate people who make appointments
To have your teeth filled left and right,
Or your face reproduced in black and white.
You open the door and you enter the studio,
And you feel less cheerio than nudio.
The hard light shines like seventy suns,
And you know that your features are foolish ones.
The photographer says, Natural, please,
And you cross you knees and uncross your knees.
Like a duke in a high society chronicle
The camera glares at you through its monocle
And you feel ashamed of your best attire,
Your nose itches, your palms perspire,
Your muscles stiffen, and all the while
You smile and smile and smile and smile.
It's over; you weakly grope for the door;
It's not; the photographer wants one more.
And if this experience you survive,
Wait, just wait till the proofs arrive.
You look like a drawing by Thurber or Bab,
Or a gangster stretched on a marble slab.
All your dear ones, including your wife,
Say There he is, that's him to the life!
Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
But I hate having my picture taken.
- - - - -
Current Toy Camera Collection
http://www.flickr.com/photos/slightlynorth/1912696929/
- - - - -
You Have to Get Used to It

When with my fam'ly,
It's extremely vital to
Be used to photos.

Seven cameras,
Half the family's clickin' 'way.
You get used to it.

It's a 'quired skill,
The ability to stand
Hours of pictures.

25 June 2009

SoP 2: "I'm Nobody!" and Why Me?

I'm Nobody!
~Emily Dickinson~

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

- - - - -
Frogs on Wall
- - - - -
~Why Me?~
or, To the Admirer

Why me?
What is it that could
possibly
Endear someone to me
like this,
To cause one to
spiral
Into apparent smitten
bliss?

I might be able to
pinpoint
The qualities that draws
my friends,
But I'm not exactly
certain
That those qualities
translate
Between friends and
admirers.

I can turn a phrase with
decent success,
People tell me I can
sing,
I take to the ivories as a
fish to water.

But there's something not
clicking.
It's not making sense
to me.
Somethimes I need things
spelled out.

You declare how you love
me,
Would you be so
kind
As to count for me
the ways?

24 June 2009

Summer of Poetry 1: "You, Reader," and SoP Introduction

You, Reader
~Billy Collins~

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen -- it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning--
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside--
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time --
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.

- - - - -
Reading in light
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mookio/2705873215/
- - - - -
Poetry's lines I used to not cross,
believing I only had a saccharine boss,

but now with some practice (and prodding from 'Loo)
I'm willing to try it... now, how 'bout you?

I'm taking 'spiration from poems that I read
over the summer, and I'd sure like t'see

what you all think, or take as spark.
Won't you share poems this season-not-dark?

19 June 2009

Peek at Paintings

Alright folks, get ready to tilt your heads in unison and appreciate fine art.


Back in the 50's, some people claimed that some abstract expressionist works, like those of Jackson Pollock, was Communist propaganda or something.


-tilts head slightly, mildly confused-

I don't know about you, but that up there doesn't exactly scream "COMMUNIST" at me.


My friend Watween, on her trip to the National Gallery in Washington, thought this painting looked like a friend of ours.



Because she'd also brought a voice recorder to document her trip, after describing the painting and deciding that this looked like our friend, she tried to talk "her" down from the hill. "While I must compliment you on your lovely hair bow, you're really gonna fall down into the ocean, and probably hit that tree on your way down," she admonished.


I agreed.

I've always liked this one:








It reminds me a bit of Hemingway's short story, "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." Besides, it's just so neat-looking.



Now, here's something I don't get. How is it that this...



...is considered "brilliant," "genius," or even "art"? I think nearly anybody can do something like that. It's like taking a sheet of paper and hanging it in a museum, or composing a piano piece of four minutes, thirty-three seconds of silence (that's true, there's a piece called 4'33". Creative name, no?). Sure, some art can be done by us untalented masses, but... -tilts head until is nearly upside-down- I dunno, that's a bit of a stretch for me.

(This gallery is not liable for any art-appreciation-related neck injuries or discomfort)

14 June 2009

Housekeeping

Alright, just to keep all y'all informed:

- I'm planning a revamped look for this fine blog. Not quite sure what that revamp will entail, so I'm open to suggestions!

- After school gets let out, I'm going to go on another "poetry frenzy." As part of my AP English summer assignment, I'll be finding at least one poem a day. I'll share that poem here, and I'll write a poem of my own* as well. Two poems for the price of one! All summer long! Yay!

- I'm also going to step up my reading this summer, too. If I come across something really good I'll share it with you guys.

*quality not guarenteed.

11 June 2009

The Hopeless Romantic

Hopeless romantic's a bit of an oxymoron
How can a romantic be "hopeless"
If they see beauty in just about everything?
Or can entertain facets of an idea
For hours at a time?
Doesn't sound hopeless to me.

Of course, this attitude may lead
To the fall of these Great Gatsbys,
Pursuing beauty at the price of "reality."
But I think that if beauty is appreciated,
Little and insignificant as it may seem,
It's just worth it.
------
Can I help it if standing in the rain for the sake of standing in the rain inspired philisophical poetry?

10 June 2009

Sonnet III: A Bit of Confusion

I wonder who could this little sprite be,
This shy little creature of 'destine ways
Who wishes to make known esteem to me,
While hiding from me 'dentity, I'd say.

Upon two posts o'th's blog two marks were left
Declaring a kind of affection on me
The first a statement, the second a poem crafted
Will anything else follow? We'll just see.

Who is this Secret 'Mirer? D'like to know
The myst'ry and suspense is startin't wear
me out. I want this personn to self-show
I'd like to know who's showing me their care.

Oh, just a final question for this part:
What soul on earth'd give me their passioned heart?