I can live with this.

I write like
Neil Gaiman

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I do take time away from the computer to watch a movie or an episode or two of TV with Marshall.

The thing is, I’m really really bad at just sitting still. I have to do something while I’m watching. As a result I’ve been decorating birdhouses. Not sure what I’m going to do with all of them, but damn, I love doing this.

These are the ones I’ve finished. There are more in progress. More pictures when I get those finished.

Now back to writing. Dinner break is over.

A little over ten years ago now, a friend introduced me to this poem. Prufrock became one of my favorite poems and I go back and read it frequently. Some of the lines, the imagery, in this poem still amaze me.

Believe it or not, I’d never read Eliot before my friend showed this to me. I never assume the rest of the world has either.

And if you have read this before, it’s worth reading a hundred more times.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair –
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin –
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all: –
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all –
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all –
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . tired . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a
platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” –
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor —
And this, and so much more? –
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T. S. Eliot

Due to life and work, and trying to make my writing deadline, I skipped a few days of poetry posts. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it up every single day, but one does what one can.

I went searching for some contemporary poets, at least in the sense of poets writing now. Live poets, not dead poets. This is always a treasure hunt and a bit frustrating at times, at least in terms of literary poetry. I don’t find much I like. (I’ll get to mythic/fantasy/science fiction poetry later in the month. Whole other story.)

But I ultimately I did find some poetry about love and lust and passion to share. Links below. Enjoy.

Boston by Aaron Smith

corydon & alexis, redux by D.A. Powell

Stones by Michael Blumenthal

And my personal favorite, What Do Women Want? by Kim Addonizio

One long poem tonight from Conrad Aiken, written circa 1917-1918.

There are so many reasons I love Aiken’s poetry. His images, the unexpected turn of phrase–but most of all for the emotion.

When I read his poetry, I feel that I’m seeing what he saw, felt what he felt. Aiken was an observer of the world around him, recording his observations of both the internal and external landscape.

As far as I can tell from this far removed time, he never flinched.

NOCTURNE IN A MINOR KEY, by CONRAD AIKEN

I.

I will say: I walked alone in whistling darkness.
Or heard a rush of rain through windless air.
Or stood in dust with yellow leaves around me.
But why recite these things? You will not hear me;
Or if you heard me, would not care.

I will say: I saw a sea-gull crossing water,
Or suddenly in the midnight heard a cry.
Or woke from sleep to hear the green leaves rustle.
I will say, I walked alone, and heard none call me;
You will not care, nor ask me why.

These are the notes whereof my life makes logic.
These are the hurrying notes of pain
That whirl like papers under street-lamps,
Blown through the darkness of my brain.
I will say: these things are trifles, yet they kill me.

Be patient, press your palm against my heartbeats,
Reverse my heart like an hour-glass,
And watch the downward sifting of my minutes
Until the time when I must pass.
You will have heard, at least, a poignant music
And seen futility;
You will know better than to weep for me.

II.

I am the one
Who came too late, and found all windows dark.
I am the one
Who watched the fountain in the deserted park.
I saw the darkness rising like a wall.
I turned to the east and saw it red and grey,
Saw lovely faces blown like leaves away.
I heard slow waves of music lapse to silence,
And wished to speak, yet had no word to say.
I am the one whom ancient spring returning
With sound of leaves could not assuage.
I am the one who found your pity heartless,
Yet could not rail at you, nor rage.
You loved me once, you love me now no longer.
Must I take kindness for my daily wage?

III.

I will say: I walk involved in webs of darkness,
Across my face feel filaments of shadows,
Yet hear you laugh, and seek for you.
Shall I not somewhere find the love I knew?

I will say: I walk at night in crowded places
And search for a perfumed secret in white faces,
And dream by night of faces seen by day.
Or climb dark stairs and in a dark room’s fragrance
Play such a music as pleas of rain might play.
The silver talons tear my heart,
The silver talons flash and tear.
Petals fall to the grass, and in that darkness
I see you passing there,
Smiling at me as if for one behind me,
Smiling at death, perhaps, who waits behind me.

IV.

The green-leaved bough leans down above my head;
The pale green leaves, with the lamplight on them shed,
Twinkle on delicate stems, whisper a little,
Tremble on breathless air.
The green-leaved bough leans down towards its image
Of twinkling leaves in the water there.
And I am a prey to trifles of no moment,
Caught in a snare of circumstance,
I laugh for a foolish laughter, weep for sorrow,
For every whim of the music bow and dance:
Twinkle with leaves, and flow and fall with water,
Lean with the leaning bough in arrested pain;
Die and am born again.
These are the thousand things by which I seek you,
The atoms of dust that fall and break my brain.

V.

Say then: I see too much, and you too little.
You lean and laugh above the applauding music,
While I, apart, hear silence between the tones.
For you, there is no falling, save of petals;
For me, apart, the silences fall like stones.
How could we dance, then, to the self-same music,
Who see so much so little? I do you wrong
If I reproach you, call you too contented,
Too quick to thrill to a sentimental song.
Walk, then, among your tulips, turn your eyes,
Caress with a careful hand your jewelled hair,
Discern the flashing of wings in empty skies,
Pause for effect upon your marble stair.
And I will not reproach you, blaming only
The sinister glittering chaos of our time,
Through which, forever, lonely walks with lonely,—
The lover, ridiculous; the loved, sublime.

Random poems I found or whatever caught my eye.

A Love Song
by William Carlos Williams

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?

When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face
Edna St. Vincent Millay

When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.

Do You Remember Once
Alan Seeger (part II only)

II

You loved me on that moonlit night long since.
You were my queen and I the charming prince
Elected from a world of mortal men.
You loved me once. . . . What pity was it, then,
You loved not Love. . . . Deep in the emerald west,
Like a returning caravel caressed
By breezes that load all the ambient airs
With clinging fragrance of the bales it bears
From harbors where the caravans come down,
I see over the roof-tops of the town
The new moon back again, but shall not see
The joy that once it had in store for me,
Nor know again the voice upon the stair,
The little studio in the candle-glare,
And all that makes in word and touch and glance
The bliss of the first nights of a romance
When will to love and be beloved casts out
The want to question or the will to doubt.
You loved me once. . . . Under the western seas
The pale moon settles and the Pleiades.
The firelight sinks; outside the night-winds moan—
The hour advances, and I sleep alone.

I realized today why I love doing these poetry posts, aside from loving poetry. They remind me that I’m a poet. I think I forget that at times.

Some E.E. Cummings today. He wrote some beautiful poetry, but that isn’t often what gets cited. It is, however, what I like best.

I have to post links to his poems. I can’t get them formatted correctly. With Cummings often the format is part of the enjoyment.

Consider O

And What Were Roses. Perfume?For I Do

As Is The Sea Marvelous

I Have Found What You Are Like

Last one, which I’ve shared other years, but it is my all time favorite E.E. Cummings.

If I Believe

Different poet, different voice.

Festus Claudius McKay was born September 15, 1889, in Clarendon Parish, Jamaica. When Harlem Shadows was published in 1922, it was recognized for introducing a new attitude in African-American writing: an angry and defiant attitude towards racial prejudice in America. But, for all its importance, this attitude characterizes only a few of the poems in this collection. Equally important and also new to poetry of the period is McKay’s attitude of sympathy, compassion, and respect for the lives of the African-American underclass.

A few of his poems.

Flame-Heart

SO much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December.

I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten–strange–but quite remember
The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December.

Claude McKay

Harlem Shadows

I HEAR the halting footsteps of a lass
In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall
Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire’s call.
Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet
Go prowling through the night from street to street!

Through the long night until the silver break
Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake
Has dropped from heaven upon the earth’s white breast,
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.

Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street

Claude McKay

I Shall Return

I SHALL return again; I shall return
To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes
At golden noon the forest fires burn,
Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.
I shall return to loiter by the streams
That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,
And realize once more my thousand dreams
Of waters rushing down the mountain passes.
I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife
Of village dances, dear delicious tunes
That stir the hidden depths of native life,
Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.
I shall return, I shall return again,
To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.

Claude McKay

To A Poet

THERE is a lovely noise about your name,
Above the shoutings of the city clear,
More than a moment’s merriment, whose claim
Will greater grow with every mellowed year.

The people will not bear you down the street,
Dancing to the strong rhythm of your words,
The modern kings will throttle you to greet
The piping voice of artificial birds.

But the rare lonely spirits, even mine,
Who love the immortal music of all days,
Will see the glory of your trailing line,
The bedded beauty of your haunting lays.

Claude McKay