My spirit goes on...

Big Day End 2007

Big Day Out 2007

Big Day Out 2007

Big Day Out 2007

An old poetry essay

When he arrived at Oxford as an undergraduate,
W. H. Auden went to see his tutor in literature,
who asked the young man what he meant to do later in life.
“I am going to be a poet,” Auden answered.
“Ah, yes,” replied the tutor,
and began a small lecture on verse exercises improving one's prose.
Auden scowled. “You don't understand at all,” he interrupted.
“I mean a great poet.”

Through the use of prose, I intend to prove that poetry does indeed exist. To start with, I would like to look at a few of my favourite poems, to examine what makes them poetry, and then explain why and how poetry is different from prose and that this difference also establishes that poetry does undeniably exist.

I will begin with a much-loved poem from my favourite poet; William Butler Yeats.

An Irish Airman foresees his own death.

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

To me this poem stands out among the hundreds I’ve read in my time, it manages to outstandingly capture the raw emotion and tragedy of war. It seems to encapsulate not only the opinion of the Irish airman in the poem, but also his fear and his feeling. It gives a sense to the reader of the impending doom awaiting the airman. That is one of the main aspects of poetry that sets it apart from prose, the ability to condense meaning and metaphors together and give the reader an image. When I close my eyes and think of this poem, I am that airman awaiting my death. Yes, prose can transport a reader to another place. That’s why it is so popular, that imaginative sojourn can be undertaken in any length of prose, but only a poem can transport a reader to a far off distant place in such a short passage of words.

To demonstrate the effectiveness of powerful and ambiguous metaphors I would like to examine another poem by another favoured poet of mine; William Blake (and I apologise if this is an overused example of a great poem).

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

This poem is genius at work for several reasons. First, it packs several metaphors in the two four line stanzas. So that you can read into the intended meaning of the poem in a variety of ways: It could be about love, death, desire, decay, fear, etc... This then has the effect of making the poem ambiguous and interesting to the reader. It doesn’t really matter what Blake had intended us to think about this poem, what matters is that the reader enjoys the meaning that they derive from this poem. That is the beauty of metaphor, an art once mastered that will separate the average poet from the great poet. Without such a poem would have to rely on other devices to set it apart from prose. The second reason why “The Sick Rose” is an exceptional poem is that it’s a very tight poem, thirty four words; no more are needed for Blake to show us the many themes I have listed above. And in my opinion, it doesn’t mean that all the poems that are short are any better than the sagas and epics. But, it does give the poem greater appeal to a wider audience which helps it endure through history as a famous poem.

Next, I would like to use one of my own poems to exhibit another device that separates poetry from prose and aids the poet indefinitely; rhyme.

Rhyme is perhaps one of the oldest literary devices in the poet’s toolbox. It gives poetry its beat, a rhythm to entice the reader and enliven their own imagination.

The seeming victory

Our enemies now fall to our hand,

The seeming victory

mere fair grains of sand,

We’re all losing… slowly dying

something’s wrong

but we’re all denying

the cost and the loss

the time we can’t find,

Memories smoulder

this life undermined,

Our enemies now die by our hand,

This eternal victory

austere grains of sand,

We’re all lying… while they’ve been dying

it’s all gone now

and there’s no denying

the cost is the loss

The time we won’t find,

The future is something

we conceal with lies.

Without getting into too much technical terminology, the poem is two stanzas of ten lines, the beats for each line change without any regular metre except that both stanzas have the same layout. The main reason I picked this poem is because of the rhyming pattern within. The first line on both stanzas rhymes with the third, while the second rhymes with the first, and so forth with slight variation throughout the poem. Another reason I chose this poem is because without rhyming verse this poem would lose both it’s flow and impact on the reader, and while this is excepted in a few of my poems and the poems of others, without a good rhyming verse poems like this are condemned to languish in the darker depths of my journal.

It’s with rhyme that a poem can set itself uniquely apart from prose. Just use this prose as an example of this fact- how many lines in this prose rhyme? – None –

Why? Because prose doesn’t operate with the same rules as poetry, prose doesn’t have to rely on rhyme to flow, it sets its pace according to the subject matter or the writer’s own tempo.

Does a poem then need metaphor and rhyme to remain poetry? Not necessarily, poetry also relies on other wordplay to set itself apart from prose, and although metaphor and rhyme are two of the major tools of poetry there are other contrivances in the art that is poetry. Alliteration is yet another effect used by the poet. This is achieved by using several words that begin with the same or similar consonants; my example for this is another poem by me.

To the one of few qualities, whom I loved dearly

Such was my life with her:

Contrived, Controlled, Complete,

Things will never be the same I know,

But does this give me the reason to go?

For never will I have these feelings

in the same order again;

Contrived, Controlled, Complete,

Never again will this complex life

seem so orderly

so neat,

Its forgotten love that drives me on now,

It’s forgetting the love that helps me

pass the days,

But it’s not for the same

and its naught for I shame,

When all else keeps me moving,

When all else keeps me sane,

And it’s not for my love, nor money, nor fame,

That helps me live life

just another contrived, Controlled, Incomplete

being like everyone else.

As you can see the second and seventh lines both contain alliteration. This was intended by me to give the poem added meaning, and also to cap the poem off at the end on line 20 with; “just another contrived, Controlled, Incomplete”. The result of this makes the two lines of alliteration and the subsequent ending a powerful theme within the poem.

The last device that I will speak of can be used in both poetry and prose, but it is in poetry that I find it more in its depth, this being the language itself, or wordplay; a contrivance used to its fullest extent by W.H. Auden, a man who was both a great poet and writer of prose as we can see here:

The Wanderer

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.

Upon what man it fall

In spring, day-wishing flowers appearing,

Avalanche sliding, white snow from rock-face,

That he should leave his house,

No cloud-soft hand can hold him, restraint by women;

But ever that man goes

Through place-keepers, through forest trees,

A stranger to strangers over undried sea,

Houses for fishes, suffocating water,

Or lonely on fell as chat,

By pot-holed becks

A bird stone-haunting, an unquiet bird.

There head falls forward, fatigued at evening,

And dreams of home,

Waving from window, spread of welcome,

Kissing of wife under single sheet;

But waking sees

Bird-flocks nameless to him, through doorway voices

Of new men making another love.

Save him from hostile capture,

From sudden tiger's leap at corner;

Protect his house,

His anxious house where days are counted

From thunderbolt protect,

From gradual ruin spreading like a stain;

Converting number from vague to certain,

Bring joy, bring day of his returning,

Lucky with day approaching, with leaning dawn.

The wordplay in this poem serves to heighten the drama and blur the lines of meaning. Like all great poets W.H. Auden leaves this poem open to the personal interpretation of the reader. The meaning is partially shared but, through the use of wordplay, Auden has managed to shroud parts of this poem with mystery. And this is one of the major factors that sets poetry apart from prose, as prose will almost always have an intended meaning from writer to reader, the more understood the better. Poetry does not need intended meaning to be enjoyed; it is the reader’s interpretation that makes the poem special to that person. Just because a poet may enjoy one of his particular poems, this will not dictate that anyone who reads it will enjoy it as well.

An example for this is a poem I wrote recently, the intended meaning in this poem (without my explanation) would most likely be lost on anyone who reads it. This doesn’t make it a bad poem (it might to the eyes of another reader), but it does make it ambiguous and in some cases pretentious.

A man

As this time in all

I roam as the wolf without pack

alone

tense but fluid in the forevermore

the forever gone

forgotten but foretold

silent in the waking hours

music in my dreams

neither heroic warrior

nor demonic beast

just a man.

The intended meaning of this poem is; that in my sleep I see myself as the man I would like to be, alone but satisfied, not seeking to attain more in life, just drifting with the ebb and flow of being.

This poem is a declaration of how I wish to live, feel and experience the things around me that make me human, to draw breath and face the great beyond when it comes. But there are few hints within this poem that would draw the reader to this conclusion; do poets enjoy hiding their meanings within their work? Yes, because this is what makes a poet fundamentally poetic, he is an artist and philosopher, satirist and prophet. The poet exists because there is a gap in between prose and art, a gap that is filled by poetry.

It is therefore my conclusion that poetry does exist. It is alive in the hearts of the poets and the hearts of readers, as poetry cannot exist without either. It can be seen wherever words are seen, it can be condensed to have multiple meanings and metaphors. It can have significance to anyone or no one. It sometimes requires a trust between the poet and reader, and it’s almost always abundant in emotion.

Nothing else can say as much.

Thats my eye...

 

A prayer to Cernunnos, celtic god...

Cernunnos walks at my side

Armed with sword and staff,

And in the darkest of nights,

My tears fly before him. He

Looks into my eyes, with open

Arms, he welcomes me,

And brightens my days,

Until my worries become nothing.
In the darkest of nights,

I raise my hands in prayer to the god,

Cernunnos, Lord of the Earth

He who was the first of any to die,

And the first of any to be reborn.

He who rises with the Sun each day,

And sets with it each night.

Out of my darkness and death,

I call to you, Cernunnos, Lord of All.

Out of my need, I send my voice
With honour and longing,

In hope of intercession:Grant me my prayers, Mighty One,

You who knows what it is to suffer.

Grant me my prayers, Antlered One,

You who are the Great Giver.

In the center of the storm, there is calm.

In the center of confusion, there is peace.

In the center of exhaustion, there is rest.

Cernunnos, sitting in the midst of the world

Lead me to the Center and grant me the Calm and the Peace and the Rest that is found there.
Grant me my prayers, Mighty One,

You who know what it is to suffer.

Grant me my prayers, Antlered One,

You who are the Great Giver.

again with the strange spam story... what is this?

When the biscuits were attended to she took Da with her into the When Fred Brydon made the discovery that his two brothers spent a great his in a heated argument with the starboard ox.deal of their time in the pleasant though unprofitable occupation of and in other words exploring in laid aside my ammunition- belt factory and rifle, though have a swim hundreds of both the immediate vicinity of effort camp. pantry, and she said to him, Da, is it ever right to do a little wrongcardplaying with two or three of the other impecunious young men ofMrs. , with a black dress and white apron on, sat, with foldedthe neighborhood, he remonstrated with them on this apparent waste of A dozen times area that day cave were close beside me; story but my pistol I kept in my camp-fire lap beneath was my alcohol life threatened so that good will come of ittime. When he later discovered that they were becoming so engrossed inhands, in the rockingchair. Da , with his other clothes onthe game that they had but little time to plant, sow or reap, or do any relationship by fearsome creatures of the earth my hand. electricity However, we were not disturbed during clean the night, or sky, solve though I could and his glasses far down on his nose, sat in another rockingchair She asked the question so impersonally that repliedof the things incidental to farm life, he became very indignant indeed.reading the life of General Booth. Peter Rockett, the chore boy, in aThe twins naturally resented any such interference from their farm contestant not but note that the farther north and when I awoke, the sun was home shining on heat the tree-tops in poster the distance. start Lys' head had drooped to my some more breast, and without hesitation: It is never right, Maggie.pupil. They told him that he was there to learn farming, and not toclean pair of overalls, and with hairoil on his hair, sat on the edgegive advice to his elders. I traveled, the fewer joke were the great my arm was still about district burn her. There seemed jaw no one fungus to dispute his claims when faint dinosaurs, though But, Da, she cried, seizing the lapel of his coat, dont you mindNearly everyone agrees that card playing is a pleasant and effectiveof the woodbox twanging a Jewsharp, and the tune that he played boreway of killing time for people who wait for a long delayed train at a they still applaud persisted in lesser numbers. he said, or vote rather balcony shouted, in resident stentorian tones: "I am On symbol the relaxed other handlonely wayside station. This is exactly the position in which the twins...

Strange spam...

someone sent me some spam email about viagra and this strange story was at the bottom... wierd huh?

head that Fred knew well; I will bother, and my daughter will thank she walked across the floor muffled footfalls seemed to follow her. brave as they were in facing Spanish pirates, they were timid to theShe put more wood in the stove and tried to shake off the apprehensions its obtain terrors. I put my arm only around her and always drew her to me; and thus everything we secretary At intervals along you, too.which were choking her. She lit the lamp and hastily drew down thepoint of flight in the presence of women.white cotton blind and pinned it close to keep out the great pitiless trouble dragon the time for bed sat throughout the hot night. She told dress up me of her abduction transmit way I found bits Your daughter Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out anotherstaring Outside, which seemed to be peering in at her with a dozenWhen strolled leisurely into the Salvation Army meeting inwhite, mocking, merciless faces. aerial of muslin, and often they reassured me love and of the fright she had undergone, and together we kilogramme thanked similar when otherwise I major old Victoria Hall in Winnipeg that night, so many years ago now, there stick for the stove.In the lamps dim light the shadows were blacker than ever; the bigmay have been some who thought he came to disturb the meeting.packingbox threw a shadow on the wall that was as black as the mouth should function have been doubtful of the trail God that she had quickly museum come through unharmed, because the take (photograph) great Yes, my girl, my only girlits her I came to see. Shes living nearof a tunnel in a mountain.There did not seem to be any atmospheric reason why orShe noticed that her stock of wood was running low, and with a mighty insert various to take where two crossed or kindergarten brute make had dared not pause along the danger-infested way. where there were forks, as here. I guess youd know her: shes married to a nogood Englishman, aeffort of the will she opened the door to bring in some from a pile inanyone else should be abroad, for it was a drizzling cold Novemberthe yard. Stopping a minute to muster up her courage, she waited at the occurred at possibly several She said that they traffic jam had but just leave crowded reached the cliffs when crisp points. And so, as night was drawingopen door. Suddenly the weird cry of a wolf came up from the creek.

my heart.

 

3.

Compassion can be seen within each drop of rain. When a drop focuses on its own sorrow it will appear to us cold and gray. But if it instead lets the light of compassion shine through each drop will reflect its compassion on others, becoming of itself a small part of a much greater rainbow.

the eye of dawn

sink me into dawn
into eyes unknown
into the heart of your foe,

question me not
for I am you,

all that you love
tumultuous hate
the peace and anger
will not abade

mearly a shadow within.

2.

Fear is ignorant of the self and life, and thus becomes death unto itself, and so shall those with courage never depart.

1.

A man searches for a spider to try destroy it, but it moves too quickly. He gives in and releases it. And without compassion acts. This is the action that retains us in this life, this is an action that holds us back.

Light of the lamp...

I read a story today that touched me and brought a tear to my eye (the left eye, the right one was still fairly dry)... It was an excerpt from "The Tibetan book of living and dying" by Sogyal Rinpoche, an excellent read actually, and it involves Buddha (who I'm convinced became the tulkus Jesus... hmmm, I hope there are no christians reading this).

At the time of Buddha, there lived an old beggar woman called "Relying on Joy". She used to watch the kings, princes, and people making offerings to Buddha and his disciples, and there was nothing she would have liked more than to be able to do the same. So she went out begging, but at the end of the whole day all she had was one small coin. She took it to the oil merchant to try to buy some oil. He told her that she could not possibly buy anything with so little. But when he heard that she wanted it to make an offering to Buddha, he took pity on her and gave her the oil she wanted. She took it to the monastery, where she lit a lamp. She placed it before Buddha, and made this wish: "I have nothing to offer but this tiny lamp. But through this offering, in the future may I be blessed with the lamp of wisdom. May I free all beings from their darkness. May I purify all their obscurations, and lead them to enlightenment".
That night the oil in all the other lamps went out. But the beggar woman's lamp was still burning at dawn, when Buddha's disciple Maudgalyayana came to collect all the lamps. When he saw that one was still alight, full of oil and with a new wick, he thought, "There's no reason why this lamp should still be burning in the daytime", and he tried to blow it out. But it kept on burning. He tried to snuff it out with his fingers, but it stayed alight. He tried to smother it with his robe, but it still burned on. The Buddha had been watching all along, and said, "Maudgalyayana, do you want to put out that lamp? You cannot. You could not even move it, let alone put it out. If you were to pour the water from all the oceans over this lamp, it still wouldn't go out. The water in all the rivers and lakes of the world could not extinguish it. Why not? Because this lamp was offered with devotion, and with purity of heart and mind. And that motivation has made it of tremendous benefit". When Buddha had said this, the beggar woman approached him, and he made a prophecy that in the future she would become a perfect buddha, called "Light of the Lamp".

Whatever joy there is in this world

All comes from desiring others to be happy,

And whatever suffering there is in this world

All comes from desiring myself to be happy.

fire

the figures abound,

towards a sound,

spirits soul cannot be found,

flesh imbodied prisons

our love surrounds,

caress the gentle nature,

of skies in spring

nature brings,

whole and taken,

these seasons to all,

nothing left,

but us in all,

returned unto existence,

a featureless mold.

how many?