It's all in the eyes. or "I" as the case my be

These next two posts are two that I wrote a bit ago, but I managed to hit the save button instead of the post button.


Hatred and Vengeance, My Eternal Portion

By William Cowper


Hatred and Vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my
Soul in a moment.

Damn'd below Judas: more abhorr'd than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.
Twice betrayed, Jesus me, the last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore hell keeps her ever hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.


Hard lot! encompass'd with a thousand dangers;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors;
I'm called, if vanquish'd, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram's.

Him the vindictive rod of angry justice
Sent quick, and howling to the centre headlong;
I, fed with judgement, in a fleshly tomb, am
Buried above ground.



Where to start?

We reviewed this poem in class today, and it is probably a good thing because I wouldn't have paid much attention to it other wise. I never would have read it with enough care and consideration to find the understated italicized "I" in the last line; The one word the entire poem rests on.



The topic of religion seems to be a particularly touchy one for this class, an interesting point considering that we're studying poetry, an art form that supposedly transcends boundaries, speaks truth, and connects the varying existences of those who read it. I think the concept of listening without judgement and with the intent to understand can go along way in alleviating the perceived offences on this subject.

The interesting thing about this poem is the perspective it is written from. Whether you believe the Bible is just a story or the absolute truth, you have to admit that there's some very interesting concepts in their, like someone willing to sacrifice their self for the good of everyone, and this is the first thing I've read that explores this particular angle. The speaker in the poem is Jesus and he is very clearly articulating this concept from his side. Not as martyr, but as man facing a painful fate from which he will not turn away in order to give the gift of life to those who will never understand him, in fact to those who are destined to betray him.

Real or not, it's still a very powerful idea.

Chap Books

Ok. I found three that I hadn't published.

When we first got the chapbook assignment, I wasn't exactly looking forward to it. The idea of handing in a book of my poems wasn't high on my list of fun things to do. However, when I got around to putting it together, I actually enjoyed the experiance. I'm not sure if it was the being creative part that piqued my interest or if it was presenting my written work in a new format that made the assignment a good one, but I do know that next time I see that on a to-do list, I won't cringe quite so much.

Critics

People

who analyze poems

word

for word

Should be awakened some

Thursday morning

to the sound of a chainsaw

cutting through their left leg



I really had no reason

to pick

a Thursday

or a chainsaw

or a left leg



But someone will

undoubtedly

think one up.



Richard Lees

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Well, as expected the "what makes a good poem" discussion is quite complicated, and mostly intuitive. This subjectivity means that you could say pretty much anything you want and make an argument that you are absolutely correct. So, without further ado, my meaningless opinions on what makes a good poem.

- a rhythm of some sort, a melody that is carried by the poem, one that the poem has the strength to carry.

-words that fit into each other. Or else ones that don't ,but that make a statement or complete an image with their disclosure.

-the capturing of a captivating moment or twist of fate, or a state or statement laid bare for all to see

and last but not least ...
-that certain something that catches your eye or your heart, that can never quite be described in words or form.

For Your Enjoyment

Since I had an awesome time fishing yesterday, I thought I'd try to find a couple of poems on the subject.



This one's kind of funny:


Renda Writer - The Other Line

I saw a man
Fishing
Off the side of the pier



Fishing for a fish
And then...
His cell phone rang



He picked it up
And began talking



Cell phone in one hand
Fishing pole in the other



And then...
The tip of his pole
Started bending



He got a bite



And then...



He said
To the person on the phone



'Let me call you back,
I've got someone on the other line'



Childhood Photo
At one time my father and I
would rise long before dawn
and travel
in through dream-dark woods
as night whispered,
on and on, pathless,
to a lion-legended spot
to fish.

Once settled we would watch
the bobbing floats and in half-light
I sometimes caught
with early eyes,
no fish, but the glimpse
dancing in the shovelled surface
of something quicker than currents,
something impossibly sad
and oh so empty:
my own face adrift in water…

Years after, my father's cast line
was fouled forever in reeds,
the reeds that bend in cold winds,
the reeds...

I then looked in the family album
and there
with all the suns that have
ever gone under, was this
man and boy who had simply
gone fishing….

Yes now I recall.
There were two drifting faces
lost in water.


I ended up finding a lot of not so good poems during his pursuit, and it begs the question what makes a good poem?

to be continued...

Guess What I Found

So, when I wrote my blog about Ray Bagley I realized that Air Canada had so kindly disposed of my copy of "Those Better Days" along with the rest of my luggage on my last long distance trip. This realization sent me to the depths of the world wide web in pursuit of another copy. Luckily I found one and it has since arrived with a little bit extra. Inside one of the pages I found a hand written poem from the author, which almost replaces my old copy which included an obituary.


I guess that's the way things go.

An Old Favourite

Star-gazer
By Louis MacNeice

Forty-two years ago ( to me if to no one else
The number is of some interest) it was a brilliant starry night
And the westward train was empty and had no corridors
So darting from side to side I could catch the unwonted sight
Of those almost intolerably bright
Holes, punched in the sky, which excited me partly because
Of their Latin names and partly because I had read in the textbooks
How very far off they were, it seemed their light
Had left them (some at least) long years before I was.

And this remembering now I mark that what
Light was leaving some of them at least then,
Forty-two years ago, will never arrive
In time for me to catch it, which light when
It does get here may find that there is not
Anyone left alive
To run from side to side in a late night train Admiring it and adding noughts in vain.

(from The Norton Anthology of Poetry - Shorter Fourth Edition)

First just to get it out of the way- Yes, I am one of those people who collect poetry in any form I can, even if it is a Norton Anthology.


I think it's interesting how the author plays with the line lengths to paint pictures and emphasize points, but what I really love are the images created. It is completely possible for me to picture myself doing and thinking the same things, as the lone passenger in a solitary train rumbleing through the mountains under a cloudless star-filled sky.