Ma' Favorite Poem of the Day

Snake
by D. H. Lawrence

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
 
1923

Poetry of the Past

Joy is made up of all colors, like a prism of feelings
sometimes it can travel at the speed of light, flooding the mind
others it will slowly wander through one's subconscious
It is the chameleon of all feeling always changing
shape

color

texture

This poem was the product of a 7th grade language arts class. I found it while going through my family's old desktop computer and decided I'd post it here. In my class (I can't remember the teacher's name) we were supposed to follow a form. It was really dumb, like, "Pick an emotion. Blank is color. It reminds me of insert memory." Or something like that. 

I remember being passionately irritated that we were supposed to follow this equation and end up with a "poem" so I decided that I'd completely disregard the form and write my own poem about an emotion. So I ended up writing about joy. I specifically said that joy was made up of all colors because you were supposed to pick only one. And I said that it was always changing shape, color, and texture, because you were supposed to describe those thing. 

Consequently, this poem was entered into a poetry competition and won 2nd place. (5 bucks ahoy!)

So SUCK IT form poetry from 7th grade!

lol jk but srsly

I got knocked out of the Last Poet Standing.

The reading went pretty well, I felt like I did in my delivery but I felt that I was one of the only poets who didn't go for pop culture references and humor. I was hoping that since it was a poetry competition I would be rewarded for writing poetry rather than putting together a rhyming stand-up routine. (that being said, there were some good, thought-provoking poems that were read)

I was actually feeling pretty down about the whole thing, mostly because I can't seem to force myself to write poetry unless I have some sort of deadline hanging over my head, and now I don't have that any more.

I did run into a few students today who had seen me read and said it was a travesty that I didn't make it to the next round. Because the audience ballot said to vote for the two worst poems and the best, one student even suggested that the voting had become political and some voted to eliminate competition rather than voting honestly (certainly never an allegation I would make, but I still find it to be a comforting thought :)

In any case, it's over and done, and I think I'm glad I did it. I really wish that I could force myself to write poetry without a deadline (I wish even more that I just couldn't keep myself from writing poetry) but I guess that's life.

Thanks to anyone who at least wished they could be there. :)

I'm gonna drown my sorrows in my newest obsession. Which I guess I should mention is rated "M" for Mature. And blood. Lots of blood.

*Note* I honestly didn't mean for that to sound as creepy as it does...

The Muse

The Muse

Somewhere, deep within my innermost sanctum, lives the Muse.

At least—I think that she lives there.

I hired Her a long time ago, and the details of Her contract are…

Fuzzy.

She was supposed to work only part-time,

For Her rates are almost too much to bear,

No matter how impressive Her credentials.

She does Her job very well,

Though I sometimes worry I don’t keep Her busy. 

I once happened in upon Her,

Thinking to request help with something trivial—I forget.

I was captivated by the airy gown she wore so easily

Like a shaggy lawn wears dew on a misty morning.

But I was shocked by the fact that

She was on hands and knees, scrubbing the floors.

I do my best to keep an orderly inner sanctum,

But it’s true that I don’t get enough chances to escape there,

Like a cabin in the woods deteriorates after years of neglect,

With business meetings and dirty dishes displacing every weekend getaway,

I guess I let it get away from me.

But there was the Muse, scrubbing a cerebral spot on the floor

As fiercely as the Lady Macbeth had ever scrubbed her own bloody hands.

…I decided to come back later.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

I spend a lot more time in my inner sanctum lately—truth be told,

I sometimes can’t seem to pull myself away,

For after having cleaned the room, she proceeded to redecorate.

White walls transformed into forest borders, protected by thick underbrush.

Faded linoleum gave way to lush, living carpet

Ideal for napping in or simply resting tired feet,

the green down peeking out between my toes.

A perpetual snowfall of purple petals tumbles through the air,

sometimes as a blizzard and other times lazily forming piles

that bruise when you step on them and eventually vanish.

I haven’t seen the Muse lately.

I’m afraid she wasn’t under a lifetime contract.

But should the petals turn to dust and my inner sanctum collapse into a blasted waste,

I think she’ll show up, business card in hand, ready to discuss Her rates.

In Case You Were Wondering...

No, I have not started writing the poem that I have to read tonight. :)

*Update* It's nearly finished and I'll post it before the reading tonight!
**Update** Done!

I Made it to Round Two!!!

I made it to Round Two of Last Poet Standing!!!

The next round will take place on Tuesday at 8 (I'm

assuming) at the Crossroads.

For this round, I have to write a poem to this prompt:

Take a character from mythology, history, or pop culture, and place him, her or it in an unusual situation.

At this point in my life, I'm really not sure what I want to write about, but I will say that the first thought that popped into my head was "Gaga in my dreams..."

Hmmmmmmmmmmm...

The State of Things

So, I've been considering the feedback that I've gotten about what I should do with my blog. (I would still appreciate more feedback, and I'd especially like it if people would vote on the spiffy poll I added to the sidebar!)

I've also been considering what I would like to get from my blog. And I've made a few decisions. Some I'll tell you about and some that I won't.

• I'm going to learn how to draw.
• I'm going to focus on making tutorials and sharing information
• I'm going to focus on presentation, especially writing

I'll keep you up to date not only on my attempts to learn drawing (when I can fit it in) but I also plan to revisit my past drawings, y'know, just for fun.

I'm planning on talking more about my now-somewhat-dormant love of furniture refinishing and general craftiness.

“Easy reading is damn hard writing.”

-Nathaniel Hawthorne

Finally, I'm going to try to improve my writing and find my voice as a blogger.

So there you have it.

From your (the reader's) end, I'd greatly appreciate comments and feedback. Heck, even give me a little criticism. How can I improve the site?

Please make use of my nifty little funny, interesting, and cool squares at the bottom of the posts. (Not too difficult, just check the box if you think the post was funny, interesting, or cool.)

And COMMENT! Please?

Oh, and if you aren't yet, feel free to publicly “Follow” me.

–hearts,

Jeffrey

PS–Last Poet Standing is tonight at the Crossroads @8. If you're in Rexburg and you like poetry, BE THERE! And if you happen to be there, vote me into the next round! :)

Last Poet Standing

BYU–Idaho is staging a competition called Last Poet Standing. I submitted this poem. And I made it to the first round. 


Each poet reads his or her poem and the crowd and some judges decide which poets will advance to the next round. A prompt is given and the poets have a week-ish to write a new poem, which is read and the process continues until the "last poet standing" wins an Amazon Kindle. 


I would absolutely appreciate the support of anyone who'd like to come! It will take place (at least I'll be presenting on)  Tuesday January 25, 2011 on the Crossroads stage in the Manwaring Center. In any case, I'm just happy that I made it and I'm looking forward to a fun time!

Dreams

I lie awake, sometimes at night
tracing patterns on the ceiling.
Drowsy mind starts taking flight,
clumsy movement—awkward, reeling.

As my sleepy head goes under,
body twitching carelessly,
mind induces worlds of wonder—
alternate reality.

Stilted dances of my mind turn
graceful, swans on feathered wing.
Hollow darkness rages; nocturne
melodies of color sing.

In this state of fertile stasis,
body locked in mime of death,
eyes are closed, life’s only trace is
even, deep and flaming breath.

Dreams I dream while deep in sleep are
echoes of my waking days:
To wake— to shuffle off this coil
of sleep, and let awareness blaze.

Into the Woods with I and Myself

I went with Myself for a walk,
into the woods far from our home.
We trekked up the road ‘til it became a dirt path and followed it to the forest.

The woods have always sang its siren song to us,
But I had always been too afraid to go with me.
Until now.

These woods are haunted you know?
With wolves and witches and goblins and ghosts…
I’ve always been told that monsters live there.

After years of waiting, fearfully denying our need to go,
we had finally resolved to brave the skeletal wall of the lifeless trees,
which seemed to have no openings in its crooked embattlements.
And we forced our way inside.

We had never been in the woods before.
As children, every time we had ever approached that dark, misty forest, thinking to do some exploring,
we’d gotten into trouble.

Decorated with scratches and scrapes,
we forced our way through the thorny underbrush.
I seemed to shiver with fear and excitement.

Myself seemed distant with anticipation of the forbidden.
The branches seized at our clothes and skin—emaciated claws defending their home.
I could feel hot blood trickling off the tip of my nose.

The fading sunshine lazily painted dizzying designs on the forest floor,
which shifted from yellow to red to black to luminescent silver.

I don’t know why we didn’t go in the morning—
The woods are creepy at night.

We walked.

And we walked.

It was difficult.
Always the branches snagged, scratched, and clawed.
We were bloody and bruised and I managed to trip on every stump that he could find,
but my footing never faltered.

I hated these woods.
I hated every stump, branch, and tree.
We were exhausted and filthy and I kept falling on my face,
But I didn’t once see Myself lose his footing.

I had expected to find ancient ruined castles or legendary treasure
within the vaulting trees.

I found nothing but bruises and scrapes.

I had expected to stumble into a fairy toadstool ring or observe a witch’s Sabbath.

I saw nothing but the hateful trees.

I got lost.
Where could he have gone?

I lost Myself.
Why would he leave me?

If I had been with me, he would have
seen visions.
Dreamed dreams.
He would have witnessed the fabric of reality wrest itself from his eyes
and quiver, as drapes before a storm-battered, open window.
He would have beheld realms of permafrost gold and molten diamond.
He would have floated as dust into the sun.
He would have roared with the tempest.
He would have felt the uttermost reaches of the universe as his fingers and toes.

David

In old Firenze, I looked upon
David.
His marble form forever frozen; perfection
embodied in the strokes of a chisel wielded in the hands of a master.

Walking within the walls of the Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze,
one cannot help but be awed by the resplendent anxiety of
flawless humanity.


Silence.
Except for the hushed yells of security guards molesting
camera-wielding tourists.
Or the prattle of field-tripping school-children.
Or the dim buzz of mind-flies, perpetually obscuring the
silence.


The statue gazes through the wall, flaunting the nakedness of his birth
which resounds from wall to wall to wall to wall—
—a deafening roar, perhaps only to me, who has ears to hear.
Michelangelo and seraphim must have wept inwardly when he conceived
David.

And there the monolith still stands, sling in unblemished hand,
contemplating the conquering of a giant and his invading army.
His famous feat not yet blotted out by the failures of his future.
His ivory skin not yet marred by his repentance in sackcloth and ash.
He is a pinnacle of potential, preaching thunderously to mankind what
we may become.

Who wordlessly reminds me that I may never be such an one as
David.

Seasons

Seasons
The frozen sunshine falls on lifeless leaves,
Their once bright faces carved with aged lines.
Brown, orange, red, and yellow paper sheaves,
That twist and dance away from wood confines.
It is as if a plague has swept the trees.
The casualties are mounting in the streets.
The wand’ring wind exhales a shallow wheeze,
The branches sway, a death knell slowly beats.
An icy vice will seize life in embrace,
And frost will paint a wasted countryside.
A stasis, void of mercy and of grace,
Whose spun-glass prison walls are vast and wide.
But death will itself, die down to a grave;
The roles up-turned, the master now a slave.

Just an Orange

Just an orange.


A lopsided ball of citrus juice suspended in a fleshy matrix of stringy pulp,

Sitting in a bowl on my counter.

In my fingers, the heavy fruit dimly stirs up recollections, like sleepy bats startled into noonday sun.

Recollections of gently calloused hands.

Thoughts of blinding lights.

Glimmering jewels of warmth and voices muffled by heartbeat in forte.



Almost tenderly, my thumbnail pierces the thick carapace—

Resilient orange flesh wedges almost painfully into the tender pink flesh residing under the translucent shell of my thumbnail.

Tiny bursts of citrus oil flash into the air, refracting in the humming yellow kitchen light.

A sickening sound of membrane tearing away from membrane crawls in to my cognizance.



My tiny kitchen brims with the scent of pulsating life and the imagined smell of Minute Maid® commercials.



Naked, resting in the palm of my hand—leathery jerkin crumpled, discarded—

I stare into the white webbing weaving around each segmented piece—

—Almost quivering... And think I see the face of God.



Half, half, and half again, until eight segments bleed upon a paper floral napkin.



Brilliant colors blaze

Taste, texture, scent; senses glow

Orange awareness.

Poetry

Because of a few issues with registration I have had this semester, I am taking a block English 318 class--which translates into Advanced Creative Writing - Poetry MTWThF 3:15-4:20. I was pretty seriously annoyed with the fact that I had to take this class. However, now that it has started, I'm actually looking forward to seeing where it takes me. (Hopefully to more discoveries like this one.)



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB, first published in 1815

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

by Lord Byron

Seasons

The bloodless leaves lie stale in the chilled air,
the once bright faces carved with aged lines.
Their sightless eyes can now but blankly stare
at the proud sun who brightly, coldly shines.

It is as though a plague has swept the trees.
The casualties are mounting in the streets.
The pulsing wind, it breathes a shallow wheeze
the branches sway, a death knell slowly beats.

An icy vice will soon crush out the life,
and frost will paint a wasted countryside.
A frozen stasis, void of love or strife.
The spun-glass prison bars are thick and wide.

But death itself will die down to a grave.
Its bonds will melt a path for life to pave.