Annals of the Homestarmy - Poetry

This is the Creature

nospam@example.com (Ancient of Days) — Mon, 10 Oct 2005 17:17:30 -0600

Something in one of the recent "Hacking" episodes brought this to my mind. It's a translation from the German, so if it doesn't exactly match your idea of poetry (*cough* Johnny Elbows *cough*), cut it some slack.

This is the Creature, by Ranier Maria Rilke

This is the creature there never has been.
They never knew it, and yet, none-the-less,
they loved the way it moved; its supleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.

Not there, because they loved it, it behaved
as though it were. They always left some space
and in that clear, unpeopled space they saved
it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace

of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,
but with the possibility of being. And that was able to confer
such strength, its brow put forth a horn - one horn.
Whitely, it stole up to a maid to Be within the silver mirror, and in her.

Last poem from me for a while, I promise

nospam@example.com (Ancient of Days) — Thu, 30 Jun 2005 00:25:29 -0600

This is another poem that "Confessions of a Mask" called to mind. I didn't refer to it initally because it's a very tenuous link, but I finally decided to go ahead. I really enjoyed this one when I came across it in High School.

We Wear the Mask

by: Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

And while I'm at it...

nospam@example.com (Daboo) — Wed, 29 Jun 2005 16:16:25 -0600

I'll also post my favorite by ee cummings.

The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things--
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
.... the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

The Hollow Men

nospam@example.com (Daboo) — Wed, 29 Jun 2005 16:07:00 -0600

Your "Emperor of Ice Cream" reminded me really strongly of TS Eliot and ee cummings, which is kind of an interesting combination. I thought I'd post one of my favorite poems of Eliot's, just for fun. Of course, you'll recognize that lots of authors and artists have borrowed from it, including Steven King in "The Stand." Eliot is fascinating to me because he saw the "quiet desperation" of polite society and raved against it in his own odd way. "The Wasteland" is one that still haunts me sometimes...lines will come to mind and I will understand what sort of absolutely meaningless activities Eliot was involved in when he composed them.

The Hollow Men
T.S. Eliot

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Some more poetry for you

nospam@example.com (Ancient of Days) — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 11:40:30 -0600

I found this on Slate, and enjoyed it, so I thought I'd put together a quick analysis. Original here. NB: I wouldn't bother listening to him read. I didn't find him to be an especially talented poetry reader.

I'm interjecting my comments on lines that begin with two dashes (--).

"Confessions of a Mask"
By David Lehman

These are the confessions of a mask.
I looked in the mirror and saw a ghost.
Of all lost causes I miss it the most.
These are the questions you must not ask.

These are the oaks that once stood here.
And shall the earth be all of paradise
-- Milton's Paradise Lost, of course
That we will know? Roll the dice;
These are the nights when praise turns into fear.

These are the memories of a man without a past.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
-- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost (Another obvious one)
Therefore, let us sport us while we may.
-- To His Coy Mistress, Andrew Marvell
-- I have to admit, this one I had to go to google for. I knew I'd heard it before, but it's been a looong time.
-- http://www.akgupta.com/Poems/To%20His%20Coy%20Mistress.htm
These are the reveries of a man who climbed the mast.

These are the reasons the student failed the course.
-- This one rings a dusty bell as well, but google couldn't make sense of it
Some mute inglorious Milton
-- Elegy in a Country Churchyard, Thomas Gray (Ties back to 2nd stanza)
Against windmills did go tilting.
-- Intially an obvious reference to Cervantes. Maybe more (?)
These are the seasons of a girl and her horse.

These are the days of sunlight and high skies.
Did she put on his knowledge with his power?
-- Leda and the Swan, Yeats
Unseal the earth and lift love in her shower.
These are the ways the humble man is wise.

These are the questions you must not ask.
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
-- Keats' Ode to a Nightingale (again, obvious)
Let be be finale of seem.
-- The Emporer of Ice Cream (I forget the author)
These are the confessions of a mask.

I'm sure I missed some. Perhaps those of you with a bit more formal education can point them out.