6.4

an epitaph is usually the text inscribed on a gravestone. however this often takes the form of verse and some poets have written particularly appealing epitaphs for themselves. today i post one from don blanding:

Do not carve on stone or wood,
"He was honest" or "He was good."
Write in smoke on a passing breeze
Seven words… and the words are these,
Telling all that a volume could,
"He lived, he laughed and… he understood."

6.3

Troubled heart meets troubled soul
Hate and angst have taken their toll
Intuitively reaching for the other’s pain,
Searching old memories soaked in rain.
Elemental sadness pervades the air
Xenocrysts of hope in grey despair
Every dream dry and old
Rueful remembrances remain untold.
Catharsis needed but not found
Increases desperation unbound
Seeking seeking an outlet or vent
Eroding inside of discontent.
Islands of peace difficult to find
Strange, considering it’s all in the mind
Frustration grows day by day
Ultimately it will have its way.

Non est vivere sed valere vita est.

this is an acrostic i made up. an acrostic is a kind of poem where the first letter of each line when read together has some meaning in itself. like the letter arnold schwarzenegger wrote to his lawmakers.

6.2

a clerihew is a four-line poem usually humourous and always biographical. in fact, it takes its name from a person too, edmund clerihew bentley. oh and the rhyme scheme is always a-a-b-b.

here's an example i liked

Martin Luther King was not a king.
He did not have horses, a crown, or anything.
He preached a lot and had a dream
Of everybody eating ice cream.
-ben gieske

6.1

a sonnet is a poem with fourteen lines which originated as a form in europe. typically english poets have written sonnets in the iambic pentameter [which i don't much about, but i do love to day the words]. while there have been many poets who wrote sonnets, shakespeare's sonnets are probably some of the best known. he wrote almost all of them to a specific rhyme scheme too; they follow a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g structure.

i am in no way a big shakespeare fan but here's one of his that i particularly like:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose Worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

-William Shakespeare [Sonnet 116]

6. types of poetry

the new 30 is poetry again - but the poems will be of different types, sonnets, couplets, epitaphs, haiku, and so on.

5.11

thinking of romance. of poetry. of the romance in poetry and the poetry of romance. since i read this poem yesterday.

When you find a man
Who transforms
Every part of you
Into poetry,
Who makes each one of your hairs
Into a poem,
When you find a man,
Capable,
As I am
Of bathing and adorning you
With poetry,
I will beg you
To follow him without hesitation,
It is not important
That you belong to me or him
But that you belong to poetry.

by nizar qabbani
translated by bassam k. frangieh and clementina r. brown

4.4

i cannot imagine how i never even heard of this guy before. you can check out the video here


the text is below. outstanding. and every word full of conviction.



What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school
By Taylor Mali [www.taylormali.com ]


He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a goddamn difference! What about you?

2.23

last day of my month of english poetry that i like. so over the weekend i shall think about my next thirty and hopefully get started from monday.
enjoy ogden nash once again. and again. i have picked his brilliant pieces on animals.

The Cow
The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other, milk.

The Guppy
Whales have calves,
Cats have kittens,
Bears have cubs,
Bats have bittens,
Swans have cygnets,
Seals have puppies,
But guppies just have little guppies.

The Termite
Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.

The Firefly
The firefly's flame
Is something for which science has no name
I can think of nothing eerier
Than flying around with an unidentified glow on a person's posteerier.

The Shrimp
A shrimp who sought his lady shrimp
Could catch no glimpse
Not even a glimp.
At times, translucence
Is rather a nuisance.

The Wasp
The wasp and all his numerous family
I look upon as a major calamity.
He throws open his nest with prodigality,
But I distrust his waspitality.


and my personal favourite:
The Ant
The ant has made himself illustrious
Through constant industry industrious.
So what?
Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?
-Ogden Nash

2.22

how well i love this poem. how well i related to it once upon a time. philip larkin on the naturalness of solitude.

Best Society

When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
Not specially right or specially wrong,
A plentiful and obvious thing
Not at all hard to understand.

Then, after twenty, it became
At once more difficult to get
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.

Much better stay in company!
To love you must have someone else,
Giving requires a legatee,
Good neighbours need whole parishfuls
Of folk to do it on - in short,
Our virtues are all social; if,
Deprived of solitude, you chafe,
It's clear you're not the virtuous sort.

Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Uncontradicting solitude
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

-Philip Larkin

2.21

this is the other tennyson poem that i like. it's well-known of course, and was written in 1854 memorializing events in the battle of balaclava. the famous words ' theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die' come from this poem. i always found the choice of words interesting. why not 'do OR die?' why the guaranteed death....do AND die? in any case, here's the poem.

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

2.20

i don't think tennyson requires an introduction. though he's never been on the list of my favourite poets, there are two of his works that i am inordinately fond of. one of them is this.

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead


Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

2.19

ben jonson was a brick-layer, a soldier and a writer in england [1572-1637]. he was an extremely talented writer who faced charges of sedition and treason because of a play he wrote. he actually went to prison for that! jonson also got into a duel with an actor and killed the other guy. he got out of that one by pleading 'benefit of clergy' which is the olde worlde equivalent of 'diplomatic immunity' that diplomats today have.
the poem i've picked here is gentle and almost delicate in its romantic requests. can't imagine how the 'bricklayer, soldier, actor, writer, duellist, prisoner' came up with such sublime sweetness.

by Ben Jonson
Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did'st onely breath,
And sent'st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

-Ben Jonson

2.18

another of my favourites by dorothy parker. succinct, pointed and crystal clear advice to anyone contemplating suicide. pricelessly pithy.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

-Dorothy Parker

2.17

the famous one by dorothy parker.

One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

-Dorothy Parker

2.16

a very unusual one by ogden nash. i thought he only ever wrote humour but when i read this one i thought if i were ever to get a love letter, this is how it should be.

Geniuses of countless nations
Have told their love for generations
Till all their memorable phrases
Are common as goldenrod or daisies.
Their girls have glimmered like the moon,
Or shimmered like a summer moon,
Stood like a lily, fled like a fawn,
Now the sunset, now the dawn,
Here the princess in the tower
There the sweet forbidden flower.
Darling, when I look at you
Every aged phrase is new,
And there are moments when it seems
I've married one of Shakespeare's dreams.

-Ogden Nash

2.15

i present a long time favourite poem by an all-time favourite poet ogden nash. i love his poetry, i love the humour in them, i love the wit and cleverness in the words.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

-Ogden Nash

2.14

dorothy parker was an american writer and poet very well-known for her acerbic remarks and caustic wit. she was the one who said 'men seldom make passes at women who wear glasses' and in a review of some unfortunate book "this not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. it should be thrown with great force"
in comparison, the little verse i've chosen is positively mellow. i generally don't do year-end reviews or new-year resolutions, this is probably the closest i can get to either.

Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I’d been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

- Dorothy Parker

2.13

starting off the new year on a happy note, here's a funny one from spike milligan.

Contagion
Elephants are contagious!
Be careful how you tread.
An Elephant that's been trodden on
Should be confined to bed!

Leopards are contagious too.
Be careful tiny tots.
They don't give you a temperature
But lots and lots - of spots.

The Herring is a lucky fish
From all disease inured.
Should he be ill when caught at sea;
Immediately - he's cured!

-Spike Milligan

2.12

edna st.vincent millay was an american poet in the early 1900’s. i read her poetry while i was in college [well, that is the time when i read a lot of poetry] and i enjoyed her poetry. she also apparently wrote prose under the pseudonym nancy boyd, but i have not read any of her prose work. st.vincent millay had an unconventional [in those days] lifestyle and had an open marriage as well as relationships with both men and women. she died the year after her young lover met his death from lung cancer.

Ebb
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.


First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

2.11

we had this poem in our class eleven english textbook i think. it reminds me of this depressingly true qawwali which i heard ages ago "chadhata sooraj dheere dheere dhalata hai, dhal jaayeeega..."

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

- Percy Bysshe Shelley