National Poetry Month

My friend G recently blogged, mentioning that April is National Poetry Month. Last year, I did a month dedicated to it, this month it completely got away from me. So today, I'm giving you a poem written my a formerly very much disliked by me poet who is seemingly becoming my favorite, ee cummings. Enjoy: in time of daffodils:

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

Waiting

(click on the picture to open it and make the poem easier to read)

6/6/2008

Unknown

My coworker Leah's dad wrote poetry. He was an unknown poet to anyone other than his family (and now you!). He was born in June of 1921 and probably wrote this poem sometime in the 40's. She said he also wrote a poem about what would have happened if World War II was fought by the super hero's from comic strips in that day. EPIC! She doesn't have that poem, or I would have begged to share it, but enjoy this instead =o)

Sometimes, oh pal, in the morning,
  When the dawn is cold and grey;
I lay in perfumed feathers,
  Think thoughts, I dare not say.
When I think of the stunts,
  Of the night before…
And smile a feeble smile.
I say to myself for the hundredth time,
  “Was it really worth the while?”
Then I pick up the morning paper
  And see where some saintly man,
Who was never soused in all his life
  Or never said, hell or damn,
  Or never stayed out in the wee small hours,
  Nor jollied the gay brunette;
But always preached on evil thoughts,
  Such as drinks and cigarettes.
But the saintly man is forgotten soon,
  The same as you and I.
They bury him deep,
  While few friends weep,
And the world goes on with a sigh.
So, I say drink, oh pal, be merry,
  For tomorrow you may die
                   
                -George R. Asbury (circa 1940)

Wordless Wednesday

Ode to Dr. Seuss Books

I'm going to cheat this week. It's the last week of Natioanl Poetry Month and I think I've done a good job of posting *most* days. This week I'm going to do some re-posting of old poetry I've written. =o) This was an ode to Dr. Seuss on his birthday... enjoy!

Ode to Dr. Seuss Books

I could read them

In a chair

Or right next to

A big old bear

I could read them

near a tree

while listening to

a buzzing bee

I could read them

laying down

and on my face

never a frown

I could read them

in a zoo

next to a monkey

or striped kangaroo

I have put down

my ball and bat

and read tales of

a mischievous cat

fun stories filled

with turtles named yertle

and all about pockets

filled with wockets

of places you go

and things you'll see

and I'll never forget

that book about me

of Horton and who's

and lorax and sneetches

of sam I am's

and foxes in sockses

of all Dr. Seuss's

creative mind benders

and ram shackled thoughts

flim-foozeled with splendors

I'm thankful each day

since the time I could listen

for his brilliant prose

that make memories glisten

-Joy Kaczmarek
3/2/2009

Hotel Room

Looking out my window
Seeing the cloudy rain gloom
Hoping tornado's won't happen.
I'm on the third floor.

The Blindside

I was watching The Blindside (again) recently. It's a great movie and my friends and I agree that Sandra Bullock plays a great 'Southern Mama'. But while watching it, I was struck by the acted out passion for Alfred, Lord Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade; and I thought I'd share it here...

1.

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.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Someone had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and 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.

4.

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 and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

5.

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 and 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.

6.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred. 

Wordless Wednesday

Lyrical Poetry

Have you ever had a song touch your heart? So poetic that it was moving? I never understood the lyrics, but Complainte de la Butte did that for me the first time I heard it on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack... Rufus Wainright sings it and I think it's beautiful. You can watch it here, and while they lyrics aren't the same as I thought they might mean, I still think there is very much a beauty to them. I have them listed below with their translation... Enjoy!




Complainte de la Butte Lyrics
Artist(Band):Rufus Wainwright

La lune, trop bleme, (the moon, too white)
pose un diadème (puts a tiara)
sur tes cheveux roux. (on your red hair)
La lune, trop rousse, (the moon, too red)
de gloire éclabousse (with glory splashes)
ton jupon plein de trous. (your ragged underskirt)
La lune, trop pâle, (the moon, too pale)
caresse l'opale (caress the opal)
de tes yeux blasés. (of your indifferent eyes)
Princesse de la rue, (princess of the street)
sois la bienvenue (be welcome)
dans mon coeur brisé. (in my broken heart)

The stairways up to la butte
can make the wretched sigh.
While windmill wings of the Moulin
shelter you and I.

Ma petite mandigotte, (my little beggar)
je sens ta menotte (I feel your hand)
qui cherche ma main. (searching for mine)
Je sens ta poitrine (I feel your chest)
et ta taille fine, (and your slim waist)
j'oublie mon chagrin. (I forget my sorrow)
Je sens sous tes lèvres (I smell on your lips)
une odeur de fièvre, (a scent of fever)
de gosse mal nourrie, (of an underfed kid)
et sous ta caresse, (and under your caress)
je sens une ivresse (I feel a drunkeness)
qui m'anéantit. (that kills me)

The stairways up to la butte
Can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the Moulin
Shelter you and I

et voilà qu'elle trotte, (and there she goes strutting about)
la lune qui flotte, (the floating moon)
la princesse aussi. (along with the princess)

lalala....

Mes rêves épanouis. (my thriving dreams)

Les escaliers de la butte (The stairways up to la butte)
sont durs aux miséreux. (are tough on the poor)
Les ailes du Moulin (the wings of the Moulin)
protègent les amoureux. (shelter those who love)

Stephen Crane

I have outlived the poet I'm sharing with you today. He was only 28 years old when he died. You've probably heard of him… He is the author of The Red Badge of Courage.

He had articles published by the age of 16, quit school at the age of 20 (school just wasn't for him… I totally get that! ha) and had a novel published at 22. He was a war correspondent for the Spanish-American War, was ship wrecked off the coast for Florida at the age of 25 where he was stuck in a dinghy for a several days. He wrote about it in a short story called 'The Open Boat'. He spent a couple of years living in England and covering conflicts in Greece and Cuba. It's been said that Stephen Crane's writing inspired the writings of many authors including Ernest Hemmingway.

But I remember him for a short, perceptive and kind of silly poem we read in high school:



"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."

 And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."

• Stephen Crane
  The Black Riders and Other Lines (1895)

ee day 7

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

ee day 6

ee day 6! getting close to the finish... i think for today a quite famous poem that at one point was put to song. i know. i have friends that had to sing it in choir in high school. so with no further ado; dominic and his doll.

dominic has

a doll wired
to the radiator of his
ZOOM DOOM

icecoalwood truck a

wistful little
clown
whom somebody buried

upsidedown in an ashbarrel so

of course dominic
took him
home

& mrs dominic washed his sweet

dirty
face & mended
his bright torn trousers(quite

as if he were really her &

she
but)& so
that

’s how dominic has a doll

& every now & then my
wonderful
friend dominic depaola

gives me a most tremendous hug

knowing
i feel
that

we & worlds

are
less alive
than dolls &

dream

ee day 5

a loving ee cummings poem:


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee day 4

for day four of ee cummings week, i am going to do a repost of a poem i wrote in 2008. it was a movie review for speed racer and i wrote it on very little sleep. i hope you enjoy it... or re-enjoy it...



longing

     for
         my
             bed

almost sleeping still

(wish i)

        could go home
    to
            sleep
         in
                        comfort
while
         dreams
                     visions
of

vivid tangerine
       mutated reds
                electric blues
                          ecstatic yellows
race through my brain

to the

thump
         thumpier
                   thumpiest
                    thumping beat

of  techno    !surprise!

thinking of
     unique autos
  that          spin
           and               twist

unrealistically
fighting
evil

*almost* Wordless Wednesday: ee day 3: self portrait

Self-Portrait, Oil Painting. Cummings in the 1950s. Courtesy of Nancy T. Andrews

from the Modern American Poetry website

ee day 2

i'm getting annoyed at blogger as i try to post this for the fourth time today. i don't know why but for some reason i'm being blocked from it! so here i try again. for day two, i bring you a lovely imagery laden barely punctuated highly spaced ee cummings poem i enjoy… once i was able to figure out the actual words…


the
     sky
           was
can     dy    lu
minous
                  edible
spry
              pinks shy
lemons
greens       coo      l   choc
olate
s.


un    der,
a    lo
co
mo
       tive         s     pout
                                         ing
                                               vi
                                               o
                                               lets

ee

have you ever studied ee cummings? i had to in high school:only for a week or so. i'm writing this post in all lowercase and added' punctuation in honor of this celebrated american author/artist/playwright butmostlyknownas poet.

he confused me.confounded me.concerned me.

i did not like having to read and understand and recite his poems.

so isnt' it funny that in spite of my utter dislike;; a few of my very favorite [poems] were written by him and everytime i start to write poems they're almost inspired by him!?

because of that, I am dedicating this week of my national poetry month blogging to ee.

i hope you are confused confounded concerned enough to enjoy appreciate




!


i'll start with a favorite:


may i be gay

like every lark
who lifts his life

from all the dark


who wings his why

beyond because
and sings and if

of day to yes

A Spring Haiku

Inside Looking Out
Trees and Flowers are Blooming
Spring Through A Peephole

Spoken Word Poetry: You

I heard this years ago. Amena J. Brown. I had it on a CD. The CD is long gone, but the memory of the power of the poetry in her made me search for her to show you all. Her poem is heartfelt truth. It made me crave more of myself belonging to God. Listen and search yourself.

You.
By: Amena J. Brown


2002 Amena J. Brown. All rights reserved.

It won't happen every month...

...but this month is National Poetry Month! I know I blogged my way through National Crafting Month and I'm going to try it again. Only this time I have an accountability partner in A! She and I are going to spend the month blogging out own poetry and our favorite poetry and we'll see how we do! You can check her out here! So wish us luck in our presumptuous endeavor...