poem

This tag is associated with 6 posts

Lessons Found in Unlikely Places – Emily Dickinson 1350

Emily dickinson

Image via Wikipedia

Tired after a long day’s work, I sought a quick distraction before shutting down.  Emily Dickinson came to the rescue.  Here is her short, yet powerful untitled poem 1350

Luck is not chance —
It’s Toil —
Fortune’s expensive smile
Is earned —
The Father of the Mine
Is that old-fashioned Coin
We spurned —

I find it extremely interesting that someone who lived in such extreme isolation can speak so perfectly of  hard work and ambition.  Thank you Emily.  I will make my own fortune, my own luck.

Untitled Poem 1

I did a little free-write last night and here’s the result.  I won’t tell you my motivation but would be very interested in hearing your thoughts.  It’s been years since I’ve attempted something like this.

Dark is the beast of man elect,

Common in all but chance.

The pale of heart bend weakened knee,

Heads the floor of the dance.

With vigor and prowess in youthful despair

Draped in comforting trink

A gift borrowed from heredity

Swift to razor’s brink.

A man, no man, inside a man,

Found himself a fool

Used by those on bended knee

The brute no less a mule.

~ Nick Andrews

Hump Day Inspiration – Poetic Advice from Benjamin Franklin

Happy Hump Day Readers!

Benjamin Franklin

Image via Wikipedia

The poem I found for inspiration today is by an author who I don’t normally look to for this genre.  However, the truth that lies within his humor is widely acclaimed. 

The short of it is this… Sometimes you need to do what makes you happy, no one else.  Let people judge, because you know what – they’d be judging you anyway!

Hope you enjoy…  Cheers!

            The Hatter

He Who’d Please All

Once on a Time it by Chance came to pass,
That a Man and his Son were leading an Ass.
Cries a Passenger, Neighbor, you’re shrewdly put to ‘t,
To lead an Ass empty, and trudge it on foot.
Nay, quoth the old Fellow, if Folk do so mind us
I’ll e’en climb the Ass, and Boy mount behind us:
But as they jogg’d on they were laugh’t and hisse’d,
What, two booby Lubbers on one sorry Beast!
This is such a Figure as never was known;
‘T is a sign that the Ass is none of your own.
Then down gets the Boy, and walks by the Side,
Till another cries, What, you old Fool must you ride?
When you see the poor Child that ‘s weakly and young
Forc’d thro’ thick and thin to trudge it along,
Then down gets the Father, and up gets the Son;
If this cannot please them we ne’er shall have done.
They had not gone far, but a Woman cries out,
O you young graceless Imp, you’ll be hang’d, no doubt!
Must you ride an Ass, and your Father that’s grey
E’en foot it, and pick out the best of his Way?
So now to please all they but one Trick lack,
And that was to carry the Ass a pick pack:
But when that was try’d, it appear’d such a Jest,
It occasioned more Laughter by half than the rest.
Thus he who ‘d please all, and their Good liking gain,
Shows a deal Good Nature, but labours in vain.

                                  ~ Benjamin Franklin c/o Poor Richard’s Almanac

A Broken Ankle – Hymn to Physical Pain by Rudyard Kipling

Readers,

In an unexpected and unfortunate event, I broke my ankle in two places last week.  The biggest lesson learned and learned quickly, pain pills are something to embrace in the early stages of recovery because Pain during recovery can be just as intense as Pain during injury. 

Between the frequent periods of narcotic sleep, and with the thrum of my heartbeat felt in the tips of my toes I tried and tried to remember the author of a poem about Pain I had read in my childhood.  After finally being cognizant of the world around me, I was able to pop open my laptop and finally found it.

For those of you who are willing, I’d love to hear your interpretation of the following poem or your own poetic interpretation of Pain.  You’ll note that I give Pain the honor of capitalization throughout this post; after five days together I can only consider Pain part of my immediate family.

 

Hymn to Physical Pain

DREAD Mother of forgetfulness
Who, when Thy reign begins,
Wipest away the soul’s distress
And memory of her sins.

The trusty Worm that diest not –
The steadfast Fire also,
By thy contrivance are forgot
In a completer woe.

Thine are the lidless eyes of night
That stare upon our tears,
Through certain hours which in our sight
Exceed a thousand years.

Thine is the thickness of the Dark
That presses in our pain,
As Thine the Dawn that bids us mark
Life’s grinning face again.

And when thy tender mercies cease
And life unvexed is due,
Instant upon the false release
The Worm and Fire renew.

Wherefore we praise Thee in the deep,
And on our beds we pray
For Thy return, that Thou may’st keep
The Pains of Hell at bay !

                   ~ Rudyard Kipling

A dark night calls for a classic poem by Bronte

Not in as much of a light-hearted mood tonight.  I often wonder at the tormented souls of writers, previous.  The daily toils and pressures I feel seem light in contrast. 

One of my favorites… begun with one of my favorite stanzas.

The Horrors of Sleep

Sleep brings no joy to me,
Remembrance never dies,
My soul is given to mystery,
And lives in sighs.

Sleep brings no rest to me;
The shadows of the dead
My wakening eyes may never see
Surround my bed.

Sleep bring no hope to me,
In soundest sleep they come,
And with their doleful imag’ry
Deepen the gloom.

Sleep brings no strength to me,
No power renewed to brave
I only sail a wilder sea,
A darker wave.

Sleep brings be friend to me
To soothe and aid to bear;
They all gaze on, how scornfully,
And I despair.

Sleep brings no wish to fret
My harassed heart beneath;
My only wish is to forget
In endless sleep of death.

                   ~ Emily Bronte

Sweet dreams,

The Hatter

Hello world! And so we begin… Jabberwocky

As I fall knowingly into the mystical land of the White Queen, I ask your forgiveness and fortitude.   There will be swirls and swings from post to post but all will be attempts to bring insight to those killing time with me.  Ah yes… and what better way to begin than with a poem

JABBERWOCKY

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wade;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree.
    And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came wiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
    He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

                           ~ Lewis Carroll

The Rabbit Hole

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