Romantic Poetry

I just read and enjoyed all of these for the first time. bon appetit.



Go, Lovely Rose" by Edmund Waller

Go, lovely Rose,—
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
     That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

     Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
     That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

     Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd:
     Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.

     Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
     May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.


"A Noiseless Patient Spider" by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


"Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae" by Ernest Dowson

"I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara"—Horace

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

"True Detective" Is The Best Television Since "Deadwood"

HBO knocked another one out of the park with True Detective.

POSSIBLE SPOILERS TO FOLLOW - just my thoughts and theories on S1 to date.

Just watched S1E3 and I'm all a jumble. This work speaks to me on so many levels. I know that's cheezy to say, but it's true.

Having lived in the Southeast US for quite a spell, I've never been really interested in romanticizing it. Not a lot to get nostalgic about, I thought. But then I started seeing interpretations of the South and Southern culture in media. I visited different places, developed an appreciation for the for the feel of each place. Even with my limited experience, I could pick up on some themes, some similarities.

(It probably all started with a trip to Savannah, but that's another story. It might even be another lifetime).

True Detective is capturing something true about the South. There's lots of facets, lots of modes to the region. This is the one about desert without sand, scrublands, rigs in the distance and squalor all around. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. How the empty highway at night haunts you, even during the day.

But it's not arid. It's a humid, fecund environment. So when it's not breeding green, what is it growing?

Casting Harrelson and McConaughey in these parts is genius. Dead bang on. They sell every moment, every line. They are not just inhabiting these characters, they are the dreams these characters have about themselves.  They are simulteneously inside the character and standing outside the character, offering subtle critiques, hints, and clues.

The dialogue is superb. It's melodic and lyrical without being oratory or intonated. There's speechifying, but the kind you do when you want to hear yourself talk, maybe trying to convince yourself of something. Maybe it's the soundtrack of the constant conversation in your mind that you never reveal to others. It does not strike one false note.

Presented with Cohle and Hart, two seemingly disparate men, I can't help but feel they are the same man. This whole series could be one man's existential crisis in reconciling his two natures. In their personal philosophies, neither man is wrong. Neither one is entirely right. But I adore that they haven't made Hart a thoughtless rube to Cohle's moody nihilism. Pessimism, while rational, does not equal higher intellectual capability. Outlook is a choice you make based on the information you ingest.

And back to the dialogue again. It's technical in all the right places, but there's plenty of context that allows for interpretation and understanding. Took me most of the episode to realize that "DBs" stood for "dead bodies." But when they rattled off putting out an APB and looking for "KAs", I instantly knew that meant "known associates." It takes really good writing to go into lingo without losing your audience. 

And tonight's episode. The tent revival preacher who sounds almost Buddhist in his sermon. The fact that you knew, you just knew, that Cohle had braced the suspect and caused him to shit his pants. Before he even said those almost exact words, the line had already popped in your mind.

McM was fantastic in the date/dance scene. Look at his hands as he's leading, he even holds his fingers rigid in an attempt to avoid contact, intimacy. His whole body is screaming that he wants to be far, far away. He can't even hold eye contact with anyone.

Except Mrs. Hart, played by the fearless and awesome Michelle Monaghan. I called it first ep---Cohle and Mrs. H are gonna have an interesting relationship, if not a straight up affair. It won't end well. But nothing in Cohle's universe ever does.

And they got the wrong guy for the murders. I'm pretty sure they put down a pretty bad man, but he wasn't the one. And Cohle knows it. I suspect Hart does too, but has lied to himself for so long that he might have forgotten.

I could ramble on for quite some time. If you are not watching it, you should be.

In Hart and Cohle's exchanges I find myself cleaved perfectly in two, feeling that each character is speaking for me. How often does that happen?

"We know what we want. And we don't mind being alone."

My Oh My, You Sure Know How To Arrange Things

You set it up so well, so carefully

Auld Lang Syne
--Bobby Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d i' the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
and gie's a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
for auld lang syne.

    For auld lang syne, my jo,
    for auld lang syne,
    we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
    for auld lang syne

And as I turned to make my way back home
The snow turned into rain

I Have Loved The Stars Too Fondly To Be Fearful Of The Night

Sometimes a person's life is just full of shite. But that doesn't mean you have to spread it around.


The Old Astronomer
Sarah Williams

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, -- I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?

Well then, kiss me, -- since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, -- that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife,--
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,--
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

Othello, Act II Scene I

Reading this for the first time (I know, I know. I'm scandalously undereducated and uncouth).

I am beginning to suspect that Iago may replace Mercutio as my favorite Shakesperean word slinger.

Hmmm.

Because Who Wants to Sleep?

ME. THAT'S WHO.

But noooooooooooooooooooooo. No rest for the wicked.

BRAINZ!! Y U NO ACK RITE??

And may I just add, what really sucks is not being able to sleep, but still feeling all tired and low energy and not getting shit done anydamnway.

What's the point of all the extra free time if I just lay there? What?

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?

Universe: I am so dissapoint.

***********************************

But here's something worth your while--actors and musicians reading poetry.

http://speakcelebrity.tumblr.com/

This is an interesting experiment for me, since I generally hate hearing poetry read. Nothing (not even my own vocalizations), ever match what I hear in my head.

Though I must say, John Hannah reading of "Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden nearly brings tears to my eyes. I venture that the especially emotional tone of that rendition is due to it being pulled from a movie.

Also, John Hannah. Duh.

Billy Collins, Firefly, Nathan Fillion, Moments of Lucidity, and Other Distractions (Beautiful and Not, Per Your Personal Interpretations)

The capacity for self distraction is both a boon and a detriment, in some cases a probable cause of significant self harm, even. However, when finding oneself on what could best be described as the bipolar version of a narcoleptic insomniac's sleep schedule, it's good to be able to find things to do.

Things that don't wake the neighbors or require leaving the house at odd hours. Cabin activities.

Speaking of neighbors, I'm pretty convinced my across the way cohabitant has installed a small sun as the lighting source for his porch. A bright white luminescence now fills my front windows. I awoke from one of my lepto-nods today and the it was so bright in the windows I wondered if the 10:00 on my cable box was actually a.m. 

******
So, my honest reaction to reading this was just to actually say outloud, "Goddamn, Billy Collins." He's just that good.

Flames

Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.

--Billy Collins

*****
I didn't get into Buffy the Vampire Slayer until the last few seasons, then at the urging of my roomate. My dood roommate. He's usually pretty spot on about good tv, had some discs, and he got me hooked.

As much as I enjoyed the series overall, one of my favorite and enduring personal memories comes near the very end. A new bad guy shows up on the scene, strutting around in a priest's outfit, and looking very, very familiar to me. It takes a bit, but my traitorous brain finally makes the connection and I reveal my shameful viewing habits:

OMG! IT'S FATHER JOEY BUCHANAN!

Do you think Father Joey took vows because of the whole affair with Dorian? Is she really the First Evil? Does Viki know?

I guess things got weird after he left Llanview. Maybe he went back and freaked because Randos were constantly walking around, claiming to be his brother and stuff (though, srsly, anything would have been an upgrade from the Kevin Buchanan model they were running at that time--that hair, and those blazers, and that freaking Cassie storyline, oy vey!) and that's what turned him to a life of pure evil?

No one knew what I was yelling about then, and probably still don't now. But Nathan Fillion, who has gone on to do many cool things since, will always be Father Joey Buchanan to me. And that always makes me laugh inside.

Interestingly enough, Father Joey Buchanan went on to play a priest yet again, though this time much less diabolical and much more yellow.

Dracula 2000: Father David is totes getting ready to skip town, thereby denying fans a hot makeout scene with him and Gerry Butler. Selfish. Also, I believe he was up for the Jonny Lee Miller role, and the directors liked him so much they revamped this part just so they could give it to him. 

And lest we ever forget, the you know what is his you know what:

*****
So, through the magic of Netflix and continued unemployment, I've started watching Firefly. Don't even try to geek-shame me, bitches. I do things on me own schedule. I'm just now getting to some filing from the Mesozoic era. Stone slabs be heavy, y'all.

So it's a space western, which is nice. And they based Mal Reynolds' outfit on Han Solo. Which won't get a peep of complaint outta me. I could do without the outmoded sexist attitudes and very pointed use of the word "whore" that gets tossed about A WHOLE FRIGGING LOT. I keep hoping this is leading to some type of character revelation like ZOMG Mal's mom was a ho or sumjunk.

But then they have a scene where everybody gets their panties in a twist because two chicks are going to have sex. REALLY? Because that's still a cause for comment in a future filled with a sect of people who roam the galaxy cannibalizing, raping, and murdering (not in that exact order) everything they come across? I remember this from ST: TNG. Some lame ass episode where Dr. Crusher is all hot for this alien who switches hosts and when he switches into a female host, BLAMMO, then her Twu Wuv is Wuined. She even says some bs line about "Our species hasn't learned to deal with that."

It's not that I expect or even want to see omnisexuality or whatever. It's just that in the context of sci fi/fantasy these moments like that can really take you out of a work and highlight the obvious hang ups of either the writers or the society you live in.

Whatever. Let's be shallow. FX are good. The ship reminds me of some animal or protozoa or sea creature....I can't put my finger on it. Some kind of thing I learned about long ago, a water horse or something. Damn...that's not quite it. Cute Whedon-y dialogue. Nice acting. Suspiciously skinny girl who will no doubt kick ass despite clear lack of any visible muscle. Fun show.

Are they speaking Chinese sometimes on this show? Sure sounds like it, doggerel Chinese, perhaps. If so, awesome choice for a common language of the future. Very nice touch.


*****
Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift
But most of the time it does
When I get to the place where I'm begging for a lift
Or I'll drown in the wonders and the was
...Cos I'm tired of whys choking on whys
Just need a little because because. . . 

When my brain does work, it sometimes works like this:

I'm reading a description of a character practicing on a cello. They start out playing pianissimo. Then they progress to piano-forte. The author says this literally means soft-hard. As I keep reading, I think that this means that piano must mean soft in Italian, which is very interesting. And in English forte is used to mean specialty. But that doesn't really make sense. A person doesn't announce that diplomatic negotiations is their business hardness. So, in addition to being your specialty, your forte could be your niche, or your. . . strength. Strength is the same as strong. So, like in English, strong and hard can have similar meanings. You strike the key or the string gently/softly or strongly/hard.

I find the conclusion of a thought process like this very satisfying. I imagine it's what people who understand math must feel, when they see a problem and solve for a solution. I don't understand math--I have to work very hard at it and I am never sure of the solution, I can never see the answer within the question. But little word puzzles like this, simple as they are, amuse me to no end.

*****

Well, I've been trying to write this thing for near on 4 hours now. Guess a writer I'll never make, as I couldn't account for quite what happened there. But filling out this last part damn near took me out.

I tried to do find a live version of this one, but fookin L---knowing what I know I just can't watch that boy, it's too damn painful. I can't praise every aspect of this piece of musical brilliance enough.

i'm here today and expected to stay on and on and on
i'm tired
i'm tired
looking out on the substitute scene
still going strong
xo, mom
it's ok, it's alright, nothing's wrong

You don't really follow that up. You just put something beside it. I love this un-ironically. It curls around what passes for my heart, and and it's almost like the slowing, almost stuttering tempo in the outro is reminding that organ to sync up and that everything is broken or breaking, and don't forget to lock the door on your way out.

PS....Also, mostly Radiohead just fills the world with Amazing, but today Thom's Basement version of Last Flowers made me burst into tears within the first four lines. Fucking Radiohead. I will Not put them on heavy rotation today. *hides new Radiohead CD*

Rando

On the way to work this came on my player. It's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes. There's a haunting sweetness to this, and it's worth clicking on the link and giving it 3 minutes of your time.

Do you carry every sadness with you

Every hour your heart was broken

Every night the fear and darkness

Lay down with you

http://www.playlist.com/searchbeta/tracks#half%20acre/all/1

Then there is this.

"This fall I think you're riding for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environement couldn't suppply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started."--J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

My cousin sends me a lot of emails with little sayings and prayers and some terrible chain letters. But there was a line in one the other day:

Life is a coin, you can spend it anyway you wish, but you can only spend it once.

We talk about spending our lives all the time, but I never thought of it in that way before. How am I spending the coin of my life?

And finally, a little Bobby Burns. Is it just me, or are all his poems really songs?:

Coming Thro' The Rye

O Jenny's a' weet, poor body,


Jenny's seldom dry: 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye! 


Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 


Comin thro' the rye, 


She draigl't a' her petticoatie, 


Comin thro' the rye!

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the rye, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the glen, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


Need the warld ken? 


Gin a body meet a body 


Comin thro' the grain, 


Gin a body kiss a body, 


The thing's a body's ain.

Translation of a sorts at http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/coming_through_the_rye.htm