tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52428286887735487952024-02-20T01:45:53.522-08:00With Faith, there is no DoubtCDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-46583740990209349542012-12-20T14:22:00.000-08:002012-12-20T14:22:03.671-08:00The ABCs of Romanticism: An Essay from One Poet to Another
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<b>A</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">ctors</span></div>
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The performance of Shakespeare has fascinated me for years. The
writing of Shakespeare, being several centuries old, has several
grammatical differences with contemporary English, despite being
considered the same language. It is difficult for some people to
understand what the characters in a Shakespeare play are saying
unless the acting is done well enough to convey or suggest the
meaning where the audience's book-knowledge of renaissance grammar
falls short. Shakespeare gives actors a gift, though, when it comes
to memorization: many of his characters' speeches are unrhymed verse
written in iambic pentameter.</div>
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<b>B</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">ackstage</span></div>
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Of course, being an actor isn't all fun and games. You do have to
spend a lot of time silent backstage, waiting for your cue. And with
Shakespeare, my experience reminds me of a lot of people missing
their cues.</div>
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<b>C</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">aesar's
</span><b>C</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">orpse</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"> How
a director handles corpses is a tricky question. It is not always
practical to the story to drag a corpse offstage, and if the
character was slain onstage, a dummy will not work either. When I
played the title character in the Palouse Highland Players' 2011
production of </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Julius
Caesar</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
I learned firsthand how it is required of the actor playing that
role, after the stabbing scene, to lie on stage stone-cold dead for
fifteen minutes, as the conspirators bathe their hands and swords in
the fallen dictator's blood and discuss their next plan of action. I
got an itchy nose after a while.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">D</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ancing</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> At
the cast party for </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Macbeth</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
I learned swing dancing from some actresses there who knew it. Swing
dancing is an artful social activity, and my knowledge of it has
proved a good skill to have ever since.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">E</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">pic</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> An
oft forgotten form of poetry is the heroic epic. It is tragic that
modern writers no longer treat the epic as a form of art for the
ages, a type of story meant to be a masterpiece. Some of the finest
writing in the English language comes from Milton's </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Paradise
Lost</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
and Homer's tales of the Trojan War served as the founding mythos of
the ancient Greeks and Romans. It was G.K.Chesterton, the great
British writer, who wrote the Ballad of the White Horse in modern
times, the epic of Alfred the Great, the famed English king who
battled against the Danes. The epic combines the beauty of verse with
the recounting of a tale of inspiration and virtue, and stretches to
the length of a full novel. The bards, in times where literacy was
rare, certainly spent much effort into remembering the words of epic
poetry, that it might be remembered by future generations.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">F</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">orest</span></span></div>
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The forest of the Kaniksu country, the Selkirk Crest, in the far
north of Idaho is vast and wondrous. It is that sort of place that
creates a budding romanticism in the writer, a longing for a lost
beauty. It is there that one can peer into and see a little of that
which is truly wild, can smell the dust and the dew on the leaves.
Mushrooms grow, brown and white, along the forest floor, while the
soft needles of fallen spruces are squelched by the feet of
travelers. All is silent, the wind the only song to which the birches
dance.</div>
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A small pond lies in the hills, a fishing hole, where small trout
are caught by campers. The leaf-bedecked path leads to the muddy
banks, where the bushes spread above the shallows. Dragonflies and
water-striders skim across the surface of the pool, while beyond a
miniature island stands, completely covered in gnarled trees. Beyond
it lies a fallen log, a bridge under which the fishes swim, and near
it a tiny trickle of water pours into the pond. Around the pond lie
cold swamps of sorts, pools here and there guarded by the pillars of
mossy stumps. It is truly a peaceful place.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">G</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">lory</span></span></div>
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But it is not merely nature that inspires the romanticist. It is the
glory of the deeds of great men, the tales of those who came before.
What sort of inspiration can be drawn from this? There is a
philosophy to this, which one might weigh and consider before
venturing too far into romanticism's realm.</div>
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For there are some wish for their thoughts of wonder to be founded
upon emotion, that their minds might dwell in emotion and be guided
by it. It is often such feelings that lead to rash decisions, the
weaknesses that caused the great heroes of the past to fall: the
wrath of Achilles, the sorrow of Alexander. But for the poet who does
not merely feel, but thinks, and strengthens his thinking through his
emotion, the heroism of the past creates inspiration to not falter or
let one's spirit be spoiled by the affluence of modern society. It is
to look past illusions of civilization and to see the indisputable
hardships of life that no amount of technology can hold back, but not
to give up, but rather to endure and still have joy. For those who
truly understand the inevitable troubles of the world, and have a
path to greatness laid before them, for them there is a chance at
glory, to live up to and repeat the deeds of the hero.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">H</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ero</span></span></div>
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What is a hero, one may ask? Many people are called “heroes” for
being willing to sacrifice themselves for others. But is that all
there is to heroism? Or is there more to it than that? Who is it from
times long past that are still remembered in our age as heroes? Great
men who shaped the future with their actions. Figures whose lives
played out as well-written epics, who formed their own legends in
their time, and many myths sprang up around them in future
generations. George Washington is a Hero; a farmer, warrior, and
philosopher, a king even in the first modern republic. Napoleon,
although an enemy to the rest of the world, was certainly a hero to
his people. The life of Alexander the Great was a life of victory,
yet filled with the same longing held by the romanticist, the
ineffable yearning for something lost. “Pothos” the Greeks called
it. Alexander united all the known world in his youth, but fell so
far into the depths of his own sorrow that he died too young to rule
what he had conquered. It is this that was one of the classical
definitions of tragedy held by the Greeks and by many later
playwrights, the fall of the hero not by the hands of others, but
rather by his own moral failings and weakness.</div>
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<b>I</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">ambic
Pentameter</span></div>
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Iambic Pentameter is a poetic form consisting of ten-syllable lines.
It is used by Shakespeare in his plays and sonnets. It has just
enough space to squeeze a thought into a line or two, while retaining
a poetic, easily memorizable rhythm. Indeed, some Shakespearean
actors are said to have learned this meter so well that should one of
them fail to remember their lines or cue, they are able to continue
impromptu while allowing their language to completely imitate that of
Shakespeare's own writing: a slight modification of sorts to the
script.
</div>
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A more natural sounding form of poetry, closer to the rhythm of
prosaic speech, is the traditional Ballad form: eight syllables in
the first line, and then six more syllables in the second. Or all
fourteen at once: then it is called Iambic Heptameter.</div>
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<b>J</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">azz
Festival</span></div>
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Theatre and writing were not my only experiences with the arts. I
have also over time learned various forms of music, a type of
entertainment which I enjoy watching and partaking in, although I am
by no means an expert in its performance. I can play classical piano
with reasonable proficiency, and sang for two years in Bella Jazz
Ensemble while in High School. We competed in the Lionel Hampton Jazz
Festival at the University of Idaho, but did not win in our division
in either of those years.
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It was around this time that I began to appreciate the older styles
of jazz music. Swing dancing is quite easy and natural when one is a
fan of the music being danced to. Singing, of course, is very similar
to poetry: each relies on rhyme and meter, and many poems are sung as
songs, or songs recited as poetry. Although many more modern
musicians do not always indulge in the art of their lyrics, the epic
poems were often sung or accompanied by instruments in their rhymes.
Singing can be a form of poetry given twice the life through twice
the beauty.</div>
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<b>K</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">aniksu</span></div>
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I was raised in Idaho. It is a unique place, a corner of the world
often unthought of, between the rich and rainy coast and the Great
Plains. It is the West of the West, an eternal frontier. It is here
that rugged individualism still remains in the hearts of many. The
mountains are high and dotted with trees, an untold number of lakes
and streams nestled away in their heights. Atop the Selkirk Crest,
gazing down from Mount Roothaan, a vast canyon lies below, elk
country, filled with little creeks and marsh-ponds, yellow grass all
around. Across the expanse lies Idaho's own Chimney Rock, a hundred
yards high, a landmark visible for miles around. In the other
direction, downwards along the mountain slope, the deep blue of
Priest Lake is visible in the distance. It is these sorts of reveries
that have often sparked the Muse within me, urging me to write poems
and legends.</div>
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<b>L</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">imerick</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"> I wrote a limerick for a poetry
competition once, while I was in 6</span><sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">
grade. I actually didn't even realize it would be entered in a
competition. It didn't win.</span></div>
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<b>M</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">acbeth</span></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"> The
legends of Shakespeare say that </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Macbeth</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
is a cursed play. To speak the word “Macbeth” aloud in a theatre,
other than when reciting one's lines, is to invite sure calamity upon
the performance. Many superstitious actors speak of Macbeth and Lady
Macbeth only as “Mr. and Mrs. M.,” and the play itself as the
“Scottish Play,” lest they invite the curse upon themselves. If
“Macbeth” is spoken aloud by accident, one must perform strange
rituals, often involving reciting quotes from </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hamlet</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and spitting over one's shoulder, before it is too late.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">N</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">orth</span></span></div>
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The romantic image of “North” is a powerful one. It is from the
North that the Vikings come to pillage, clad in furs and steel helms,
bringing war and legend with them as their footprints. Wild beasts
stalk the woods, and it is difficult to grow the best crops. The
North is a frozen place, of snow, where one must endure through
strength and perseverance. Hardship, with glory to those who
overcome, are the meaning of the North. The United States has its own
North: Alaska, and the heights of northern Idaho and western Montana.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">O</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">nstage</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “Stage
Fright” has always been something I've gotten over easily. Having
to speak in front of an audience is a part of life that everyone will
have to get used to, be it for class presentations, political
speeches, or discussions and proposals at one's job. Of course,
there's plenty of bad things that can happen onstage other than stage
fright. I remember being onstage in the final scene of </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Taming of the Shrew</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
when an actress forgot her cue entirely, leaving the entire scene
drowned in a rather awkward silence for at least a minute, before
someone finally remembered the order of events in the scene and
covered for her. I've had my own blunders, too. Second performances
of plays that last three nights in a row tend to be the weakest, due
to overconfidence from the first night, yet no motivation to do
things perfectly for a final time. The second performance of </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Julius
Caesar</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
was no exception to this rule. As Caesar's ghost, haunting Brutus, I
walked backwards at one point to drift off the stage. My incorporeal
form collided into a Greco-Roman column with a solid thud. </span></span>
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It is a good thing that the third and final performance went better.
While the middle performances are usually riddled with incompetence,
the final performances tend to be the best of all, where actors dive
into their roles with all their vim and vigor. If lines are said
wrong, they are covered up immediately with extempore phrases or
extrapolations. All the mistakes of previous nights are watched for,
and actors tend to stretch themselves to their limits to give the
audience as great a show as they can hope to grant them. The final
performances of plays are often the ones where the actors have the
most fun, and which come across to the audience as the most
entertaining. It is therefore recommended for anyone wishing to see
an amateur theatre production to make a point of going to watch it on
its final night.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">P</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ilgrim's
Regress</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> C.S.
Lewis' </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Pilgrim's Regress
</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">describes
the journey of the romanticist, and in a way, Lewis' own journey,
towards the lost beauty that is always sought. He represents this
beauty in a wondrous island that can always just be seen through the
trees, but always at the rarest and most precious of times, and only
when it is not chased after through illicit means. In the manner of
Bunyan's </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Pilgrim's
Progress</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
the protagonist searches across a land of allegory to find this
island, to grasp fully this lost loveliness of life. At the end of
this weary journey, after trying to have many false things become
that beauty and failing, he finds that the beauty is an aspect of God
to be sought by all mortals. The longing of the romanticist, the </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Pilgrim's Regress
</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">suggests
through its allegories, is to be cherished, and fulfilled by the
happiness of the trials and triumphs of a life physically fading
away, a life yet still made eternal with good faith. The beauty
sought by the romanticist is the perfect essence of the place God has
given us in the cosmos.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">Q</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">uill</span></span></div>
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In the olden days, before the invention of the pen, quills dipped in
ink were used for handwriting. Many famous poems, plays and other
literary works must certainly have been originally written by quill.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">R</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">isks</span></span></div>
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Is it strange to fear failure? One must take risks in life, learning
from mistakes while rejoicing in successes. To be a hero, or even to
write of the heroism of others with proper honor and longing, to
embrace one's potential and one's place in the cosmos, to become a
chapter in the beauteous tale longed after but never found: what if
one fails at this? Then that is that person's tale, however meager it
may be. But a life lived well is still worth continuing by all means;
for although one may falter, if he cannot be a hero, do not other
contentments still remain? So let each and every man who would aspire
to greatness never despair in his failure, but rather fight on, being
all that he can be.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">S</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">onnet</span></span></div>
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Shakespeare wrote over a hundred sonnets in his day. The Elizabethan
Sonnet, the style that he wrote, is often considered a stringent form
of poetry. It is written in Iambic Pentameter, with fourteen lines
each and a specific rhyme scheme.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">T</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">roubles</span></span></div>
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How often have myself and others felt great anger over tiny things?
This is certainly a flaw of character. Why should one give note to a
mere inconvenience? In former centuries, there was true hardship in
life; death and suffering were commonplace. Now we feel sorrow at the
slightest nuisance, and pure shock and horror at greater things. For
how long can such a society endure, a people who do not know pain
until it is too late?</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">U</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ndefeated</span></span></div>
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It is said the Alexander the Great never lost a battle. He is truly
a tragic figure in the poetic sense; a brilliant man, whose deeds
changed the world forever, yet who died sorrowful in the prime of his
years.</div>
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<b><span style="font-style: normal;">V</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ast</span></span></div>
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The world is unimaginably vast. And one man is but a tiny sliver of
all that exists. It is this burden that is placed on the shoulders of
the aspiring hero; to alter a cosmos far greater than himself. This
task is grave to the degree that it is attempted; if Alexander seeks
to rule the world, than every threat in the world may come at him. To
die is the fate of every human being; only a fool believes himself
invincible in the face of all that exists. The successful hero must
therefore acquire true strength to master the threats that come his
way, and not be swayed along the way by the temptations and
weaknesses of character that hammer away at the rock of his spirit.</div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-style: normal;">W</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">rath</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> In
the </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Iliad</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
it is the wrath of Achilles that is his undoing. His anger at
Agamemnon's slighting of him leads him to fight no longer, and invoke
the gods themselves in treachery against his own brothers in arms.
The Greeks come within a hair's breadth of defeat, and Achilles'
closest friend Patroklos even falls in battle while fighting in
Achilles' place. It is only then that Achilles arises, and with great
fury battles the Trojans, slaying the great prince Hektor to avenge
Patroklos.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is wise to master one's flaws. The classical means by which a
hero enters a state of tragedy, the sins of wrath and hubris, will
bring about the fall of every great figure who keeps them too long.
Indeed, should one carry such flaws before their time of greatness
even comes, they may even burden themselves down, living a life of
misery and never accomplishing that which they sought in the first
place. Those who would seek to carry heroism of similar gravity must
cast aside the trivial worries of contemporary life and embrace
personal strength.</div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-style: normal;">X</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">enophon</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Greek hero Xenophon wrote down a long and true story of his
adventures: trapped in a distant land with his army, he fought back,
tooth and nail, for years, to make his return. Though his name is not
well known, his strength was very real.</div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-style: normal;">Y</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ear</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is strange to think that as I write this, I am a quarter of the
way, at the most, through my life on this earth. I have been given
this time; how will I spend it?</div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-style: normal;">Z</span></b><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ephyr</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The whirls of the wind are a music in their own way. Even they can
inspire the poet.</div>
CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-22915563662749741232012-05-30T15:46:00.001-07:002012-05-30T15:46:33.765-07:00PoemThe golden sun droops low, the evening sky grows dim,<br />
But yet the final blazing rays gleam from the lake:<br />
The waters ashen blue reflect the firmament<br />
While by the shore turned verdant, patterned on the trees.<br />
<br />
Within the fading glades and bubbling, roaring streams<br />
There seems a certain peace, a thousand thoughts quite strange:<br />
The endless mountains vast, intangible in range,<br />
The stars that pierce the gloom, all glowing from beyond.<br />
<br />
But every mount's yet real, it's peak capped with white snow<br />
While ponds and creeks burst forth with splashing fish below.<br />
The heart desires to soar, these mysteries to scry,<br />
Arcadian valleys lost, where not but birds yet fly.<br />
<br />
But beauty is oft scorned; this realm is scars and weeds.<br />
For broken mortal souls, good things are held as naught.<br />
As darkness spreads its grip, all men who live are caught:<br />
'Tis but alone the dead who 'scape the tyrant's fold.<br />
But through the pain of life, through toil and trivial deeds<br />
God's mark remains e'er grand, eternal to behold.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-73211420324919127512012-03-14T13:54:00.002-07:002012-03-14T14:22:15.775-07:00Ode to ShakespeareO muse-kissed poet, buried long, beneath green English hills,<br />A headstone, curse inscribed, within a church, 'twixt windswept rills.<br />You lie there, centuries dead, and yet your words undying live:<br />Now made immortal for mankind, this humble gift you give.<br /><br />These phrases that address you now, your phrases far outshine:<br />'Midst all your plain-bread dialogues, are finest meats and wine.<br />What is the essence of your glories, penned so long ago?<br />Is it perfection? Nay, 'tis not, though many words be so.<br /><br />For countless truths, ideals eternal, in your dramas dwell:<br />An essence 'neath your words, a meaning on them you compel.<br />For though a man may languish dead within a gaping grave,<br />His words live on, eternal, constant, every age to have.<br /><br />Shall then ideas, truths and lies, once born, not ever die?<br />Do thoughts live on past thinker's deaths, eternal as the sky?<br />For though what's passed is gone, what made it so yet still remains:<br />Remember then, each man to thank his fathers for their pains.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-58962181448387106342012-01-18T19:21:00.000-08:002012-01-18T21:06:19.154-08:00A PoemThere was a certain Poet with much rhymery by verse,<br />And his poor mocking Rival had procrastination's curse.<br />Full witty was this poet, yea, his words rang so grammatical,<br />His topics dull were but absorbed by rhyme-schemes mathematical.<br /><br />Did he, when writing poesy, perhaps the wrong Muse smooch?<br />To College Rhymeschemelogical for him mayhap we'll vouch,<br />His brilliantly clunky words no human meter bear,<br />But as a Poet excellent his rhymes are always fair.<br /><br />And having mastered th'only part of poetry e'er mattering,<br />He gazes at his Rivals work- his laughter's sound is shattering.<br />The Poet is superior, and blogs so very frequently,<br />He nags and scorns his Rival for not writing thus subsequently.<br /><br />For after all, at every call, on every single day,<br />Of every week and month, the Poet writes his heart away,<br />While his benighted Rival, coward! makes verse with great caution:<br />Ha! Knowing Complex Rhymes, the Poet heeds no such fool's notion.<br /><br />The Poet stands in Triumph, Rival dragged behind in chains:<br />To write, the Poet laughs- he will not take such silly pains:<br />He's mastered all there is to know of all poetic skill,<br />And now's content to mock his foe for not writing his fill.<br /><br />And thus, stood straight, not writing, high above, with jeering tongue,<br />He fails to read his Rival's blog when a new poem's strung.<br />The Poet writes a ton each day, and therefore he is Better,<br />Which is wherefore he ne'er again need write a single letter.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-40898233215001766332012-01-14T16:02:00.000-08:002012-01-14T16:46:24.739-08:00GloryWithin a coffee-shop I think:<br />Upon a bench of crafted wood,<br />As I imbibe my sweetened drink<br />I dream of noble things and good:<br /><br />The shelves of books rise high above.<br />What dwells within their written lines?<br />The whisper in each paper glove<br />The wists of former times refines.<br /><br />Within each dwells great words of old,<br />Scribed down in past days long forgot,<br />And relics they stand, stories told:<br />But what was each its writer's thought?<br /><br />These texts recount of glories vast,<br />Of deeds, adventures, scholar's tomes:<br />As real as now, 'twas real the past,<br />And each these legends reached their doomes.<br /><br />Both foundations and monuments<br />They stand to their posterity:<br />Displaying glorious excellence,<br />While built on with austerity.<br /><br />But pray, what remains presently<br />But dusty shelves? Parchment and mold.<br />The ancients see their children's pageantry;<br />But souls are cold, no heart is bold.<br /><br />Old weeping wisdoms stand so high,<br />With all their glory scarred and frayed.<br />Immortal words are asked to die,<br />By heirs who have from fathers strayed.<br /><br />But shall this glory pass away,<br />Heroic aeons last no more?<br />Let it not be- let each man pray<br />A hero's heart to have at core.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-27202557373634119632011-11-27T17:49:00.000-08:002011-11-27T17:55:33.041-08:00A Tobacco ThanksgivingAt harvest's end, we thank the Lord, at winter's dawn<br />For granting Man a myriad gifts, Tobacco one.<br />As howling winds and snow grasp cold this world below<br />We, grateful, smoke our pipes beside the red hearth's glow.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-64747224434317731602011-08-25T19:55:00.000-07:002011-08-25T20:43:53.715-07:00A Tobacco PoemTo Smoke!
<br />To puff each stroke,
<br />A pipe in hand to stoke;
<br />Sweet tastes betwixt my jaws provoke
<br />To thoughts and proofs my mind. Whiles I am woke
<br />I drift in dreams of streams of silky smoke, I soak
<br />My flying whims, to all philosophies: can words evoke
<br />Those selfsame schemes as swim in bounteous clouds of smoke, tall tales of folk,
<br />Those epics, sonnets, ballads long of yore when men were strong, without revoke?
<br />What spacious power, expressed in silvery wisps, can cause a soul to glimpse the essence spoke
<br />By his own words, and sung by his own chords? What clarity of will dost he convoke?
<br />Forgotten fancies candid made, of rushes stirred, of wildest bullfrog's croak
<br />The Muse's ancient kiss revived dwells full alive, without a yoke-
<br />Received while to the pipe-stem press my lips- I feel a poke
<br />I rest, armchair ornate, as if I had awoke
<br />From slumber, taking sips of bottled coke.
<br />Strength I now wield, a heart not broke
<br />To write what Muses voke.
<br />Tragic or joke,
<br />I Smoke.
<br />CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-69229652407477813792011-08-17T15:48:00.000-07:002011-08-17T16:23:46.804-07:00Quatrains of Love<div style="text-align: center;">To Vicky
<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">O mountains high and spacious, how far do ye span?
<br />O rivers dry, be gracious; quench this thirsty man!
<br />I wander, mad, I weep, I scream "Set this heart free!"
<br />O sweetest maiden, hear my endless love for thee!
<br />
<br />The ever-humble worshipper of your Beauty,
<br />Stu
<br />
<br />
<br />To Vicky
<br />
<br />While journeying through toils, each challenging my strength,
<br />I gaze down towards the soil, I stare the trees at length.
<br />Within the whirling leaves I see your curling hair
<br />Though distant run my feet, my thoughts take refuge there.
<br />
<br />Always lovingly yours,
<br />Steve
<br /></div></div>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-38439715994378030172011-08-11T12:43:00.000-07:002011-08-11T12:59:07.314-07:00Summer's EndThe August sun shines high above the trees,
<br />While bees for nectar search the warming breeze.
<br />The flowers fade, dark green's the tint of leaves
<br />Awhiles this scene, the grey-cloaked dove soft grieves.
<br />
<br />The trees and leaves hear not its mournful note
<br />For earless do they grow, bedecked in barken coat.
<br />The bees hear not the call, for they but live
<br />Unto their hive their each-sworn lives to give.
<br />
<br />And as the autumn comes, these fade away;
<br />The leaves and bees approach their final day.
<br />But prayers remain within the grey dove's heart
<br />That one day, far away, new spring will start.
<br />CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-15044425545361662442011-06-22T20:48:00.000-07:002011-06-22T22:44:44.735-07:00The Ballad of Cassandros, Master of ArgumentSo fine and eloquent the master quoth his argument<br />His foes were instant swept away, their phrases torn and rent.<br />Heap praises endless unto him- what title beareth he?<br />Heir to title Oracle- such great AUTHORITY!<br /><br />But what opinions hold this noble modern Solomon?<br />What wisdom, what ecclesiast's dwell deep within his dome?<br />A list of little things of common life that irketh him<br />He writes for all to read, upon a wisest little whim.<br /><br />The first and foremost of these irrelevant things reads thus:<br />(Drawn from his Bottom Ten, that is, the bottom-most) "Primus-<br />BULVERISMS". For indeed, to flee these 'tis good votive:<br />For low must one descend to change debate from Fact to Motive.<br /><br />Now being right concerning everything, Cassandros shall we call him-<br />But why? What secrets doth he bear? What tragedy befalls him?<br />No-one believes him, even though he knows that he is right!<br />And enemies charge unto him, in argument to fight!<br /><br />One dreams up strange theologies, defends them with insistence:<br />A dreadful foe, spawned from his nightmares, Bain of His Existence.<br />The other's but his Nemesis- of statecraft waxes he:<br />Of politics, the natures of both Law and Liberty.<br /><br />The Oracle-in-training speaks of Hierarchic Pyramids,<br />Indeed he speaks the truth, rising above each of us hearing this!<br />The lady sitting next to him, he asks to be his Queen:<br />Each every glorious word he speaks is confident in mien.<br /><br />His nemesis- oh horrors! doth believe in Rule of Law!<br />He searches through our hero's arguments to find a flaw!<br />The foe spies logic-circular, deep at its very root-<br />Our hero, though is always right- why ought he move his foot?<br /><br />"But EVERYBODY uses Circle-logic!" whineth he,<br />"Now Bulverisms, how I hate those! O so verily!"<br />And so the villain asks him, "What gives you thine firm opinions?<br />If 'tis still true, what truths around it form its binding pinions?"<br /><br />A trap! The wise Cassandros, Oracle-forsaken,<br />Considers his escape, lest his dear words be fried like bacon.<br />A secret weapon dost the anti-Bulverist pull forth-<br />What is this last resort of his? 'Tis Bulver'sm, of course!<br /><br />Indeed, lest it be forgot, it must now be repeated,<br />Our hero's words are always true! He cannot be defeated!<br />With skill and eloquence and being-right his foe is pulverized:<br />How gloriously is his flimsy, poor argument now Bulverized!<br /><br />Indeed Cassandros reigns victorious, shouts it to the crowd!<br />The Master of all Argument, O chant his praises loud!<br />The audience 'round the ring speak in an loud and echoed fluster-<br />That on this day he Bulverized- best tactic he could muster!<br /><br />Indeed he did his best, this Bulverist, best words e'er spoken!<br />For he was right, and Bulverized, and thus his foe is broken!<br />Such great integrity is held within Cassandros' heart-<br />The anti-Bulverist, however, now deigns to depart.<br /><br />For he is humble 'fore the crowd, his man of endless fame:<br />For humbly doth he say he's right- none can put him to shame!<br />His words are all immune, indeed, to insult or to satire,<br />For he is always right, and so why do others' words matter?<br /><br />And thus he humbly states that he is right 'bout everything,<br />And shouts it to the throngs, and in the streets it he doth sing.<br />Why is he right? He Bulverizes, winning every fight:<br />Bulverisms, of course, justified, because he knows he's right.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-61313210572365102932011-04-16T14:19:00.000-07:002011-04-16T16:29:53.151-07:00The RuinsI<br /><br />The biting winds and scattered dust-clouds cross the plain<br />Their endless whirls begin a wretched grey refrain.<br />Wide streets, tall arches, scaffolds, spires all reaching high<br />All empty, lifeless, rotting 'neath a blood-red sky.<br />One solitary soul, in nearby lonely hills<br />At day's end, tolled in mind, feels night's cruel coiling chills.<br />He sees this desolation, barren fruit of toil,<br />Untimely ended, lost to pillage and turmoil.<br /><br />II<br /><br />A great barbarian horde doth lay tremendous waste<br />Unto the city's streets, with merciless swift haste.<br />Their chieftains cry aloud, an order new to bring.<br />Their praises do they force their captives all to sing;<br />They swear that this new age is greatest of all times.<br />They burn all relics of the past, they melt the chimes,<br />Lay fire to tomes and letters, tear great bridges down:<br />By morning they shall forge a wretched Babylon.<br /><br />III<br /><br />The wanderer above reveals his face- a child!<br />His eyes are bruis'd and downcast, and his hair is wild.<br />He wonders at these conquerors who rule the land<br />A rusted locket doth he hold within his hand.<br />A portrait lies within, of tow'ring gilded spires<br />The ruined city's streets, before the gnawing fires.<br />Two warriors seize him now, and drag him back in pain<br />Unto the city's ruin, to serve for others' gain.<br /><br />IV<br /><br />The child now holds fast to his mother's tender arm;<br />His father's eight years gone; his mem'ries are but harm.<br />Within a putrid place, with others do they dwell<br />They hear the tyrant's roars, they see his armies swell.<br />For every day, another swears a mighty oath<br />To purge the past away, forgotten deeds to loathe.<br />Beneath the ancient spires, a brutal order keep<br />Of every older loyalty, away these warriors sweep.<br /><br />V<br /><br />Inside the hovel, do the children gather 'round<br />These slaves supposed at rest, their hands and feet unbound.<br />They look upon the locket, and smell the filthy air.<br />They look upon an apple tree, withered yet fair.<br />None can remember days 'fore tyrants raped the land;<br />They scrape for scraps of food midst piles of ash and sand.<br />An elder lies nearby, his ancient heart lies broke<br />A little tinder-fire he aims to try to stoke.<br /><br />VI<br /><br />He tells unto the children tales of days gone by<br />Of bustling city walks, of bird up in the sky<br />Destruction has been brought by this new conqu'ring foe:<br />No greatness as before, but only ash and woe.<br />A few wise men remain, rulers survived from old,<br />They flee in fear and pain, they fight but are not bold.<br />Mere losing struggles are their battles, weak in will:<br />They lack morale, and half-believe the lies they kill.<br /><br />VII<br /><br />As crushing boot-steps near, as morning nears its dawn,<br />The foes seize up each wretch to be a slave and pawn.<br />The wild-hair'd lad hides deep within his frown one thought:<br />A question without answers, a soul's war ever fought.<br />Within his beaten scalp, this sacred task he takes:<br />When those who tell the truth bittersweet life forsakes<br />He shall alone preserve whate'er few truths remain<br />When there is naught to lose, there's everything to gain.<br /><br />VIII<br /><br />If none are strong whose hearts and souls are full of light,<br />The weak they could protect would perish in the night.<br />The tyrant's words, constructed with deceptive mind,<br />Replace true sense and fact, strike innocent men blind.<br />Proud banners wave from ruins where proud tyrants dwell;<br />All right is wrong, all wrong is right, the decadent would tell.<br />Proud orgies of new lunacies shroud all in gloom,<br />And the old man, the dying slave, crawls to his tomb.<br />Last words he speaks, with rasp, and bitter weeping grin:<br />"These foes are of our blood- they conquered from within."CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-29579887590662999342011-02-10T16:13:00.000-08:002011-02-10T18:08:33.308-08:00The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas VI-XIBehold! On new adventures doth our Hero swift embark.<br />To sail the seven seas, or maybe just to stroll the park?<br />His myriad crushing arguments, for Might-makes-Right's True Cause<br />In former times serv'd as his cymbals, clashing without pause.<br /><br />But now, he chooses a new task, a most amusing chore:<br />He gives his challenge, whipping up a witty Poet's War.<br />Perhaps he entertains certain fresh subjects for this duel?<br />Indeed! For his old arguments, this duel's his brand-new tool!<br /><br />And thus he hurls his javelins, his Monarchistic jabs!<br />Twice swinging at the Constitution, stumbling as he stabs,<br />While throngs of weeping flatterers adore his rival's verse,<br />Each begging on their knees "Mock Me! O! Mock me too!" 'til hoarse.<br /><br />A third blow, now, the Monarchist brings down with vicious clamor,<br />And those around him tremble at this stroke's resounding tremor.<br />These new-spun stanzas show his creativity; his best!<br />He rhymes with eloquence, then writes it oth'rwise like the rest.<br /><br />In Riotous effort to advance his point through rants and wits<br />In Tantrum urges 'gainst his foe, t'abstain from "Kicking Fits".<br />He who would freely break the Constitution for some cause<br />Accuses his vile rival of now posing 'bove the laws.<br /><br />How public, bravely, fiercely, does he give his foe hortation<br />To "Lay Low and Enjoy" it all when evil chokes our Nation.<br />If only he'd believe in freedom- Paragon he'd be:<br />He puts such pain and effort toward the cause of Apathy.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-74900590223431322762011-02-04T16:49:00.000-08:002011-02-04T18:12:31.737-08:00The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas II through V'Twas God ordained Authorities, of all shapes, over men,<br />Ordaining o'er America the sovereign Constitution.<br />"This law is illegitimate!" the Monarchist doth stammer-<br />"MY only law is law of might, of shotgun and steel hammer!"<br /><br />In order to save countless helpless fools lost in deception,<br />He mocks the Constitution with his brilliant new perception;<br />That great enlightened Monarchist gives us a wise perspective:<br />"It is the will of God for us to follow this directive:<br /><br />Against what certain is God-given power, our Rule of Law-<br />Rebel! For thus God wills it ever, fore and even now!<br />Let government throw off all limits, let the nation tremble-<br />And him opposing this rebellion is the real rebel!"<br /><br />"Obey the laws, obey them all!" is what he recommends-<br />And when unto the nation's throne he mightily ascends:<br />"No law shall bind me, though I've sworn an oath to law uphold!"<br />And soon, corrupted by such pow'r, he takes a tyrant's mold.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-74150890452773826562011-01-31T12:47:00.000-08:002011-01-31T12:51:25.771-08:00Quatrain: The Rebel Monarchist"Might makes right!" he fiercely cries, with rhetoric and quoting,<br />"The Constitution wields no gun- so therefore it is nothing!"<br />"Republic is Rebelliousness"- this thought he's oft promoting,<br />And afterwards goes to the polls to take his part in voting.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-16516541963204539032011-01-27T16:39:00.000-08:002011-01-27T16:52:53.325-08:00For Those who were InterestedThe following link contains a copy of Raphael's <em>School of Athens</em>, with all the major figures identified.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.newbanner.com/AboutPic/athena/raphael/nbi_ath4.html">http://www.newbanner.com/AboutPic/athena/raphael/nbi_ath4.html</a>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-73113200871622694552010-08-22T17:41:00.000-07:002010-08-22T17:46:42.654-07:00A Haiku on FishingFlowing waters whirl<br />Trout swims in weeds 'round grey rocks<br />Setting sun glistensCDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-88163913647068989032010-07-05T11:40:00.000-07:002010-07-05T12:03:48.811-07:00Teaser Scene, from The Two Brothers<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">[Scene: A bedchamber, where Lord Royksar, a sickly old man, lies bedridden. Zashaznon, the court enchanter, Prince Nornivvus, heir to the throne, his wife Elzera, a doctor, the lady Grenella, and a few others stand round him.]<br /><br />Nornivvus:<br />I heartily have hopes that you will get well as soon as possible, Lord Royksar.<br /><br />Royksar:<br />Thank you, Nornivvus. But I fear I am going cold. I am weak. It is a curse upon me.<br /><br />Nornivvus: A curse, you say?<br /><br />[Enter Prince Razagos, brother of Nornivvus, husband of Grenella]<br /><br />Razagos:<br />My lady, I greet you.[kisses Grenella's hand] Royksar, are you feeling better?<br /><br />Royksar:<br />No. I am still in pain. [Razagos walks over to Royksar's bed]<br /><br />Razagos:<br />Have you discovered the nature of the ailment yet, doctor?<br /><br />Doctor:<br />It is a wicked curse. It is wretched witchery.<br /><br />Royksar:<br />I feel weaker. Listen to me! If I die now-<br /><br />Doctor:<br />You will not die, my lord.<br /><br />Grenella:<br />You can't!<br /><br />Royksar[moaning]:<br />Please! Help!<br /><br />Zashaznon:<br />Wait, doctor! He needs our help, quickly!<br /><br />Doctor[examining Royksar again]:<br />What- no! How can this be?<br /><br />Royksar:<br />What is it?<br /><br />Doctor[panicking]:<br />I am afraid that I was wrong. He is going, fast. I am sorry.<br /><br />Royksar[coughing, voice fading]:<br />Let me speak. I have lived a long life. I have had my failures. But listen- please!<br /><br />Nornivvus:<br />What is it?<br /><br />Royksar[very weakly]:<br />My young prince, there is a plot.<br /><br />Nornivvus:<br />A plot? What? Don't go! Don't go!<br /><br />Royksar[fading,coughing]:<br />A plot to betray us all. The darkness..... demons..... tell your father.... danger....<br /><br />Nornivvus:<br />Royksar? What! Pull yourself together!<br /><br />Zashaznon:<br />It is too late. He is dead.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-88631853278370325432009-12-14T20:10:00.000-08:002009-12-14T20:11:59.632-08:00A Limerick I Found, Concerning Hamlet<div class="indent"><em>Did Ophelia ask Hamlet to bed?</em><br /><em>Was Gertrude incestuously wed?</em><br /><em>Is anything certain?</em><br /><em>By the fall of the curtain</em><br /><em><a class="twikilink" href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/KillEmAll" title="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/KillEmAll"></a></em> <div class="indent"><span style="font-style: italic;">Almost everyone's certainly dead.</span><br />— <strong>A. Cinna</strong>, found in <em>The Penguin Book of Limericks</em> </div></div>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-9215859872028776482009-11-25T18:43:00.000-08:002009-11-25T19:21:59.414-08:00The Remainder of the Poetic Cycle<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">It may seem somewhat late to post the autumn poem, as it has already snowed, and may seem somewhat early to post the winter poem, as it is not yet December. However, I have decided to conclude this poetic cycle at this time, and move to a differently themed series of posts, perhaps one whose subject matter can be reasonably updated more frequently.<br /><br />Autumn<br /><br />But as this year's life drags along its path,<br />A gloomy darkness transfixes the clouds.<br />The golden wheat is reaped for toil's reward,<br />But its grey stalks soon crumple in cold dirt.<br />The sorrowed oak trees drop their brownish leaves<br />And willows wilt, casting long umbral shades.<br />The sable ravens croak forth requiems<br />As everything with life withers away.<br />The trees are each laid bare, the aster-plants<br />Turn grey, a sadness to the weathered eyes.<br />As pumpkins, deathly fruit, grow in night's grasp<br />The final show of colour's glory dims<br />As sorrow's heart strikes its dark twilight beat.<br /><br />Winter<br /><br />The elder year is crippled, dying fast-<br />Cold enters bones and nerves of every thing.<br />Dead grasses fade into black dusty grime,<br />And limp and leafless trees stand towering high<br />As sable beacons of this futile age,<br />While silver clouds are clustered in the sky.<br />From these white heavens come down an alban shroud<br />Of snow, a final resting beauteous touch<br />That glazes the vast world in stabbing cold's<br />Cruel knives, and wreathes every dark bough.<br />The old year smiles as its new heir is born<br />And breathes its last, is buried in soft snow,<br />And then departs forever to the heights.<br /></span></span>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-66510290266570253972009-08-23T08:39:00.000-07:002009-08-23T08:46:04.343-07:00Ode to Summer<span style="font-family: times new roman;">I apologize for not posting much over the summer. Here is the next poem in the cycle:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">The year grows older, to a blazing peak,</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">A pinnacle, a stony-mountain-height.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">The shining sun beams down across the vale,</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Its daylight rays bestowing full comfort<span style="font-family: times new roman;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">A glorious warmth envelopes every rock</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">And tree, burning each touching mortal hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Long, endless fields of grain-stalks grow- tall wheat</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">And barley grass, as purple cicadas</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Sing heat-born songs from towering maple-trees.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">That blinding fire, that great laborious sweat</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Is placed, as the worlds weight, upon the ground.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Throughout the rufous meadows, golden larks</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Seal this fierce season with heroic cries.</span><br /></span>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-66435672362794038312009-04-22T16:23:00.000-07:002009-04-22T16:29:57.716-07:00An Ode to Spring<span style="font-family: verdana;">The newborn year shoots up in youthful growth,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">With it, the golden tulip-petals sprout-</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Each one a beauteous, lively spectacle.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">On every tree-twig leaves bud, blossoms flower-</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fair-featured life comes unto everything.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The water-lilies in the wet mill-pond</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bloom as white lanterns, glowing o'er the night,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Their verdant stalks and leaves the thrones of frogs</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">That hum vivacious, sanguine melodies.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ambrosial winds of bright new nectar- scents</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Blow lightly through euphoric warming air.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The merry year grows fast, the trees grow tall</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And bud out forth their sylvan leafy hair.</span>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-37247507598437773942009-03-25T20:48:00.000-07:002009-03-25T20:49:44.160-07:00A Quote from Aristotle's Poetics"...Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life." <h4><br /></h4>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-53117925189858573272009-02-26T21:18:00.000-08:002009-02-26T21:31:07.849-08:00Watch This<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euJ0gBaUGAw&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euJ0gBaUGAw&feature=related</a>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-23636107967313995432009-02-10T07:24:00.000-08:002009-02-10T12:41:30.232-08:00The Futility of Money<span style="font-family:times new roman;">One never knows when he is about to be robbed. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I decided to go down to the local supermarket yesterday as I normally do on Mondays to buy soda. Unfortunately, the Coca-Cola machine there has a record for criminal behavior. Fifty cents may be cheap for a can of soda, but one might never know how much he is actually spending until it is too late. In this particular incident, the machine refused my dollar bill five times before accepting it. It finally gave me my soda, which was obviously two months old, due to the fact that it had a Santa Claus picture on it, and then only gave twenty-five cents as change. My remaining twenty-five somehow remained inside. I put my change back in, hoping that with fifty cents in the machine I could get a second soda, but it would not give me one. It would not give me the fifty cents back either. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br />Money is indeed a thing that can disappear just as quickly as one earns it. One can survive without money, however, as money is merely a representation of one's labor. Money can buy luxury, but if life denies me luxury, so be it.<br /></span>CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5242828688773548795.post-61413769085033875152009-01-23T20:33:00.000-08:002009-01-23T21:05:24.602-08:00Predictions for the Conclusion of The OfficeThis week's episode of The Office seemed uneventful compared to the previous one. It simply consisted of two gags being drawn out for a long time. The episode becomes serious where it should be funny when Michael begins to regret spying on a family business, and the argument concerning whether Hilary Swank is hot seems silly compared to the raucous slapstick of the duel over Angela.<br />I do, however, understand, that this episode is merely an ordinary episode in the season, and not one of the major ones. The finale for the show will be worth looking forward to. I predict that Jim will definitely marry Pam, and Angela will most likely become reunited with Dwight. Although she has earned her current state of being rejected by both Dwight and Andy, if the series is to end this season, all conflicts will be resolved. Dwight will most likely take an interest in her again, for whatever reason, because that will be the most fulfilling ending for the major struggle in Season 5. I think that Michael, though, who has had a different girlfriend every season, will remain single, and end the finale giving an awkward remark to the camera.CDJThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08660318862691448677noreply@blogger.com1