confidimus

I've spent an hour now--
though it was years in my mind--
contemplating,
needing to talk, but
so afraid to open my mouth
and let you in.

I've been running circles through my head,
chasing after something and hoping
it will amount to anything.
But mostly just taking memory walks
through dark corridors I thought I'd abandoned
years ago.

Where is this going?
Straight to the shelf again,
to be dealt with alone--
the same way I always have--
by not dealing with it at all,
and hoping the scars just fade.

But
perhaps we'll dig it up
and talk.

Still, I feel like I'm just
throwing garbage at you,
like I do so often.
Really I just need someone on my side,
who knows what is going on...
Sorry that I'm burdening you.

I hope, though.
That it's not awful.
That you'll give me
some of you to carry in return.
I can't expect you to carry us both
all on your own.

I can't believe it's this hard
to let you in, to let myself out-
but you listen and feel, and it turns out
there was much more of my struggle
already inside you than I
ever would have thought.

So
we dig ourselves up
and talk.

narro

I am being productive and writing things!

Mostly this is a brief public service announcement that even though the blog doesn't get the authorial attention it deserves, that doesn't mean that I'm not writing things.

Although those of you who know me know that I can get dreadfully behind on my writing...

Here is a quick poem because it's still National poetry month. It details how I actually write a lot of stuff without actually writing it.

Recording

For the most part I fail to record.
Which explains why so little reward
comes from poems I may put out,
whatever lyrics I may shout,
whatever reason or rhyme I am without.

communico

So, in case you're not already getting the vibe, I'll be posting less frequently than I formerly was here.
But hey, relative to the last 18 months, its a huge improvement!

Today we get a rare weekday post because I just finished a week full of tests and therefore have no homework due tomorrow. :D  Ah, the engineering life...

So in my momentary fit of freedom, I attended an event with the English department.

...
I guess we can all accept that I have English tendencies, seeing as I keep this blog (which was originally about writing) but I still felt like I had entered a whole different world.  I didn't really feel at home like I do in the engineering building, or in the shop.

It's probably just been a long time since I've embraced the side of me that wants to write things and break the rules.  Since there is far more rule-breaking done by English majors than by engineers.  And that is why your world operates safely.

Anyway, on my way home,  I decided to take the opportunity to reflect on my eye-opening experiences with the word nerds via some poetry.  Aww yeee.
Since I was walking at the time, it came out very raw, with no writing to interrupt or help its structure.
It came out a lot more honest that way, perhaps.
I liked it.  It reminded me of when I used to think in poetry, to some extent.

Here's a bit of a combo of what I didn't write on the way home, and what I did write a couple hours later.  Less raw, more polished, and....not quite as good.
I guess I should have recorded myself.
Ah well. Here it is.  First poem in a long while:


Communications


So, I came in late
which didn't quite help
to participate
or really get what was going on.

I took a seat at the back,
looked around at the pack
of strangers--
pens and paper at the ready,
scribbles across the pages,
and they were all prepared.

I really had nothing.
Woops.

But one by one
each had their turn
to rise to the front,
and open their mouth
--their world--
to the audience.

We began to communicate--
in a one-direction way--
as I sat and received
what began to illuminate
my rusty old mind.

It still isn't clear
but now that I'm here
don't y'all find it queer
to be here;
so many of you,
and just one engineer.

So I sit, look around
at this new world, new ground,
and wonder what makes you all think
in that way that is paper
and ink.

For me, it's all numbers,
diagrams, forces.
The bottom line is whether it works.

My head's made all different
and though I might share,
I don't think my math
will resonate
so you could appreciate
just how I communicate.

But be it in words or numbers,
diagrams, paintings, or graphs,
there's got to be some grand idea
that, no matter the head that you have,
gets those cogs turning.


It's a structural mess, I know (definitely not a structural engineer's ideal)...originally it was more rhythmically driven than anything else.  I think putting it on paper kindof botched it in a way.
But...if you liked any of it, say so.
If not, just go back to your regularly-scheduled life.  Wait for the next post, it will be better.

aurum

So, to offset my guilt at not making a poetry post during National Poetry Month until yesterday (I recognized it was Poetry Month, I just didn't...do anything about it D: ) I've decided to put up another poem I wrote just under a year ago.  I still like it, though there are some things I might tweak...not sure yet though.

Anyway.  Here's another poem:

Midas

Touch me.

Let me glitter,

Gold for you.

Give me worth,

Your admiration.

Turn me from myself:

Commonplace, dull;

To something far prettier

Treasured, longed for by so many

And worthy of your notice.

Kill me.

Stop my heart,

Gold for you.

I mean nothing

Without your attention,

I am foul, worthless

Not just to myself.

I know that you do not love me

As you love those false trinkets,

For you’ve never bothered enough

To say otherwise.

Unfortunately, I couldn't get the formatting on the blog to work out the way I originally wrote it...:\ But this isn't so far off.

onus

So.  A long time ago, I promised a snow poem.

And seeing as National Poetry Month is almost over, I finally got around to writing it.

Part of this delay is due to other things in life (read: the life of an engineer is not conducive to poetry) and also, you really have to be in a particular mood to write a poem.  I tried a few times unsuccessfully to get this down.  But today in statics class, it slipped out onto the paper. :)

Here goes:

Perfection

Snow falls overnight

And we awaken

To a new perfection.

The flawless landscape shivers

And bows

Deep beneath this new burden.

The morning sun arrives to bare the world,

The snow begins to melt

And the trees begin to weep-

drip. drip. drip.

As their sweet burden of perfection

Is lifted.

So...there you are. :)

videre

I did something the other day that I haven't done for quite some time. 

I was talking to a boy (oooooOOOooooo...that's not what it was, though.  I've done that often :P) and the conversation turned to what his favorite poet was.  I was expecting some answer along the lines of Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson, or if I was lucky, Langston Hughes.  Instead the response was "Billy Collins".  I was like "Who is that?"

Turns out he's a contemporary poet.  He has this book called Horoscopes for the Dead.  I read the book in its entirety in about half an hour (a terrible pace to be reading poetry, I know, but I prefer to read poetry with a pen in hand...and I don't think my friend would have appreciated it if I marked up his book...)

It had been a while since I had read poetry, especially the contemporary stuff.  So it was refreshing yet slightly alien to read it then.  There were a few poems that stood out to me, although I must admit that on the whole, I don't think Billy Collins will really become one of my favorites.

Something remarkable, though, was the way that Collins was able to point out the seemingly arbitrary things in life and make them something new and thoughtful.  Like lawn chairs, perpetually unused.

Two of the poems that illustrated this awareness of life quite diligently were "Thieves" and "As Usual" (look them up, if you want)

Here are excerpts:

The magnolia will flower,

and the bee, the noble bee--

I saw one earlier on my walk--

will shoulder his way into the bud.

(from "As Usual")

I considered myself lucky to notice

on my walk a mouse ducking like a culprit

into an opening in a stone wall,

a bit of fern draped over his disappearance,

(from "Thieves")

I found myself wondering what motivated Collins to mention, in the middle of his discourse on the bee, the fact that he had seen one earlier.  I mean, we all see bees, probably on most of our walks. (Although winter walks maybe not..) So why bring it up, like some noteworthy event?

Especially in a poem titled, "As Usual".  Mmmm....good stuff right there.

But it got me thinking about all the things that we see on a daily basis--the noble things, even--that go completely unnoticed to us.

As Sherlock Holmes would say, "You see, but you do not observe!"

Observe: Benedict Yumberbatch

This idea was then reinforced in the opening line of "Thieves": "I considered myself lucky to notice".  How many things are we so fortunate to witness that are completely trivial to us?  I saw a bird die once, and I considered myself lucky to be there, and I've considered myself to notice dragonflies battling the wind, but I've never before considered myself lucky to witness birds taking flight, or grasses bending in the breeze.  Or even the delicious snow that has been falling so bountifully lately.

Why not take some time and notice things, then?  And then consider just how lucky you are to have shared that moment with the universe.

And if you're feeling like it, write a poem about it.

I currently have one under construction concerning the snow.  I'll be sure to post it when it's ready to meet you. :)

campanis

And now for a Christmas poem:

...but first, some history.

The Civil War started in 1861. Hopefully many of you are aware of this already. What you may not be aware of, though is this: that was the same year that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's wife, Fanny died.  It was July and the Massachusetts air was stifling and stale. In hope of relief, every house had its windows open to invite whatever breeze there may be.  Mrs. Longfellow had just finished trimming her girls' hair in an effort to cool them, and had decided to keep a lock or two.  She lit a candle to melt some sealing wax, just as the first breeze of the day entered the window she stood next to.  Unfortunately this drought brought none of the long-awaited relief Fanny was desperate for, as it led the  light summer dress she was wearing into the flame of her candle.  She was soon engulfed in flames, and in an effort to protect her young girls nearby, Fanny fled to her husband in the next room.  There, Henry tried to smother the flames with a throw rug that proved too small to be effective.  In desperation, he flung himself at her, using his arms and body to extinguish the fire.  Fanny died the next day, suffering severely from her burns. Ill from grief, Henry was unable to attend her funeral, also suffering from burns on his face, arms, and hands.

Longfellow's characteristic beard is a result of his
difficulty shaving after sustaining burns on his face. 

That first Christmas following Fanny's death, Longfellow wrote:
"How inexpressibly sad are all holidays."

The ensuing year offered little comfort, and the Christmas of 1862 was marked in Longfellow's journal with:
"'A merry Christmas', say the children, but that is no more for me." 

The year of 1863 was a difficult one on the nation as the Civil War continued without promise of ending, and it brought further tragedy to the Longfellow household, as Henry received news that his eldest son Charles, a Lieutenant in the Union Army, had been severely wounded by a bullet taken under the shoulder blade and damaging the spine. In his journal that year, Longfellow silently offered no insight to the weight of his grief.

The Christmas of 1864, Longfellow penned the following:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And mild and sweet 

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

And made forlorn

The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth," I said;

"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

You will likely recognize this as a popular Christmas carol.  Indeed, it is one of my favorite Christmas hymns. It was set to music in 1872 and Longfellow's healing resolution has been resounded ever since.

Happy Christmas.

cuniculum

It's been a while since my thoughts have been organized enough to compose poetry from them.

But I was arbitrarily not sleeping last night, and decided to push one out.  I don't think it's necessarily my best poem, and I'm not really sure whether I want to revisit this later and polish it, or just leave it raw, but I figured perhaps I would share some poetry today.

---

"I am Tunnelling."

I have entered a tunnel,

Which I am creating.

Both to find, and to hide.

It takes not much to find.

Only enter the tunnel,

Barely beginning to dig,

And there you are. Found.

But to hide,

I must go deeper.

An hundred miles-

But not quite,

Before another found finds me.

I cannot give my findings away any longer.

Just as I have entered the tunnel to hide,

You must enter my tunnel to find.

I am no longer your gift,

Until you come to me

And we are both found.

But isn't it peculiar,

How we turn to those we hope to love

And bury those we love already.

We make gods of men, and they leave us

Alone in the dirt,

Where all we can do is tunnel

And return to being found.

---

There you are.  By far, my favorite stanza is the last one.

And if you notice the Oscar Wilde quote, congratulations!  I was reading Lady Windermere's Fan last night and finished it shortly before deciding to write this.
(Very good play, I definitely recommend it.)

suspiria

It has just come to my knowledge that there exists a bridge in Venice called "The Bridge of Sighs".
This is rather enchanting to me.  A bridge of sighs.

Here is a photograph:

It's made of white limestone.  How perfect is that?  It's an enclosed bridge, and it has windows, but those windows have bars on them.

The bridge connects the state interrogation rooms to the prison, and this is why Lord Byron gave it its name, because it was supposedly the last light of day that convicted prisoners would see for quite some time, if not forever.

Unfortunately, by the time the bridge was built in 1602, the days of interrogations and swift executions were past, and really most of the prisoners who traversed the bridge were being held for petty crimes.  But still, the bridge's name had been something ordinary for nearly two centuries before Lord Byron came around and upgraded it.  What a kind poet.

Here is the view of Venice from inside the bridge:

As you can see, the "last view" of Venice really isn't that visible...I doubt many convicts really had time to peek through the holes while they were being escorted to their fates.

So really, the magnanimously named Bridge of Sighs is a disappointment, because the crossing of it is less dramatic than we wanted, and the view is less present than we imagined, so it's actually a bridge of sighs because it's not what we hoped Lord Byron meant.

That dastardly poet.  Leading us on like that.

But that's what poets are here for.  They make ordinary things seem terribly romantic.  We fall in love with the idea of a Bridge of Sighs, only to be devastated when it's just a normal bridge that you can't even see out of, stretching between two civic buildings.  So if we just ignore reality and stick to poetry, then things are magnificent again.  Or at least...not ordinary.  Which is what we want, in a silly way.  We want meaning to be assigned to arbitrary things so that we feel a little more special, perhaps a little more human.  So we have poets to assign those meanings, and we revel in them because of their break from reality.

"Poet" is such a title, don't you think?