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A Valediction: Of Weeping
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.
On a round ball
A workman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all;
So doth each tear
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix’d with mine do overflow
This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another’s breath,
Whoe’er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other’s death.
Author: John Donne
Beautiful poem written by Mr. John Donne, during the seventeenth century in England. For thoe of you who cannot understand it, it depicts how a man asks his love not to cry while he leaves, because her crying will kill him. Hope you enjoy it people! And have a nice Sunday!
Meadows Of Heaven
A-I I-A E-O U-E O-E
‘Apoyándose contra un farol, levantó la cara y dejó que la lluvia lo empapara del todo. Así nadie podría darse cuenta, con la cara cubierta de agua nadie podría darse cuenta.’ Rayuela, 23.
Meadows of Heaven
Under the rain my pain should be fair,
My face will be hidden from the eyes of my friend.
Might this be pain, or simply a lapse of cold rage?
Under the rain I will be writing in flames…
I should keep it for myself.
This poem says nothing about me.
It is all about you,
But you are not the one I mean,
No, no, anyone but you, my dear Blue.
I don’t want to sleep only…
Dreaming is what I want to do!
Dreaming on a reality, lonely,
And not to suffer when I get up
Surrounded by gloom…
Under the fire my life is desired,
My heart will be hidden from the face of you, liar!
Might this be life, or a searing lapse of dying?
Under the fire I will be writing and crying…
You might give all these words away.
These words swear something about love,
It is not about me,
Since you are singing a song
That might lead me to an ocean of sins.
Cover my mind with a miracle, God.
Don’t let my memory hear that melody of madness.
Why mesmerize the moments in a mirror, Sweet Lord,
If that Mermaid might be under a moonbeam
Of melancholy, lying there heartless…
Covered by smoke my thorn can’t be torn
Apart by any wrong word of any sad love,
Apart from that core where my heart does belong,
Covered by smoke I won’t be telling my song.
We should keep the tenderness for ourselves.
Covered by freeze my glee cannot gleam,
Ah! Muse please do come and save me from ruin.
Alone is the sole way in which I can feel…
Covered by freeze I’m awaiting for thee.
EVEN GOD IS IN LOVE
AUTHOR: Ix Ikoki Armenta
A poem written by my talented and beloved friend Ixi. She’s been sort of inspiration and a kind of mentor for me, so I asked her if I could publish this beautiful poem she wrote in here. Now, it is done. For those of you who get interested, here’s a link to her website and a direct link to the poem. By the way, the quotation made at the beginning is from a famous novel written by the Argentine writer Julio Cortázar. The novel is called: Rayuela. As always, feel free to comment. Have a nice week people!
Evenstar Falls Again:
http://ixithefirst.wordpress.com/
Muse Or Siren: Meados Of Heaven:
Shakespeare’s Sonnet LV
Not marble, nor the gilded movements
Of princes, shall out-live this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contènts
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
‘Gainst death and all oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,
you live in this, and dwell in lover’s eyes.
AUTHOR: William Shakespeare
Written by Shakespeare to a man, this sonnet deals with the idea that the subject will be made immortal in these verses, though everything else will be lost through war, “sluttish” time, or other violent forces. Shakespeare elevates poetry as superior, and the only assurance of immortality in this world, but lowers this particular sonnet itself as being unworthy of his subject. Shakespeare seems to consider the subject so lovely that he is a personification of Love, which cannot be conquered and to which no poetry can do justice.
Nevertheless, I dedicate this poem to my lovely princess.
I love you.
Moon Has Found Her Sun
Every night, the Moon rises alone,
wondering if she will ever meet the one.
She has heard of him before,
has never saw him, neither touched him,
but she has felt his warm touch during some moments,
when the sunlights touch the snow
and colour it red.
Oh, red, the colour of love,
the colour of blood,
of passion, fury and heart.
The Moon already knows its taste
and won’t let it go.
Poor Sun, so warm,
so cold.
Loneliness is the only company in every journey;
every single turn around the world
is accompanied by the fiery and hot presence
of this mystical Lord.
But something happens,
unexpectedly,
she touches him, he touches her.
There’s a spark,
full of violets and red horizons,
with the water falling around the blossomed flowers
blue combining green,
like the lake where Ophelia fell,
when the prince of Elsinor forgot her.
Oh Moon.
Oh, Sun.
Magical appearance, and eclipse,
a storm.
Passion is not a secret anymore.
Let the stars enjoy the union,
with the power of a gun.
But still words cannot describe this,
how the Moon has found her Sun.
AUTHOR: Charles Ryder
Dedicated to my beloved friend, Luna Rose Draconis. May the moon be with you always.
Insomnia
I tried to sleep. Really, I tried.
But now, it is worthless.
Crazy, painful, fantastic,
scary, and stupid.
I woke up in the middle of the night
holding to my pillow, soothing a lullaby.
I gazed at the window and saw the moon
watching me like a white cocoon
hiding a butterfly.
She was the witness of my agony
and the lover of my sorrow.
I stood up and wandered between memories,
good ones, old ones, bad ones,
and infinite list with infinite boundaries.
Too many feelings expressed by the same look,
which burned me like the sun burns the eyes.
I was not falling. Not even crawling.
I was just asking for a bit of sense and reason.
Went to the kitchen,
got a coffee.
Then drank it.
Simple behaviour,
but quite extreme.
Was I wrong?
Was I… lost?
I think I was disorientated.
The pace of the world sometimes goes too fast
and too many things come to my mind
without advice of how I’m supposed to deal with them.
At the end it is all about me
but I am not selfish.
The problem is inside of my head,
trapped like the fly that has been ambushed by a web
and has no escape from Death.
Cannot think of it, cannot talk about it,
cannot break it, stab it, burn it,
forget it, lose it, or forgive it.
Forgive?
My lonely steps sound throughout the rooms
while I wonder about forgiveness.
It’s a word that sounds kind of messy,
but at the same time offers some hope.
For what?
For me?
Already in bed, I close my eyes.
I see shadowy pictures running from the door to the window,
from the bed to the bathroom,
from my hands to my toes,
from my heart… to nowhere else.
There, they stay.
And my eyes do not see anything.
Just black.
Black, black, black, black.
I’m asleep again.
Author: Charles Ryder
Sonnet CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments: love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no! It is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
AUTHOR: William Shakespeare.
Sonnet CXVI by the famous playwright William Shakespeare is said to be one of the most beautiful sonnets and poems ever written. Personally talking, I would not consider to dedicate the poem to a woman (not even my loved one) because it has a strange and bizarre manner of defining love. The first 126 sonnets by Shakespeare are believed to be dedicated to a man, which suggests the author’s homosexual orientation, and if you read some of them, you can easily say they are written for a man, not a woman. I’ll just write some notes for you to understand the poem’s meaning:
- The first line, refers to marriage’s service, and the “impediments” are a change of circumstance and inconstancy.
- “an ever fixèd mark”: is a beacon.
- “height be taken”: means, altitude be known.
- “bending”: means, bent.
- “bears it out”: endures.
I hope you like the poem. I do not consider it it beautifully written, but its meaning is well hidden. Feel free to comment as always, share with us which is your favourite sonnet by this author, and have a nice Friday people!
The Long Love That In My Thought Doth Harbour
The long love that in my thought doth harbour,
And in my heart doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretense
And there encampeth, spreading his banner.
She that me learns to love and suffer
And wills that my trust and lust’s negligence
Be reined by reason, shame and reverence
With his hardiness takes displeasure.
Wherewithal unto the heart’s forest he flieth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth, and not appeareth.
What may I do, when my master feareth,
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life ending faithfully.
AUTHOR: Sir Thomas Wyatt
I have to admit, I’m in love with English Literature and poetry. That’s why I’ve posted here this poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt (watch The Tudors to learn a little more about him). Here, he compares love to a boat that has stayed for a long time in his harbour. He is in love with a woman, who turns on his passions. This woman has taught him how to love and suffer, but when he wants to show his passion to her, she contains and restrains him. His love hides then inisde his heart, and surrender to the his feelings for this woman. Hope you like it, and as always, feel free to comment!
Seasons
Hope arrived the day spring began,
I felt its wings and the wind’s lullaby.
Through its meadows and its forests I ran
Searching for the early spring where you cried.
And a storm brought to my eyes your presence
Hidden in the summer’s rainy shadow;
Every little breeze tastes your esence
And it stabs my heart just like an arrow.
You are like the autumn’s sweet addiction,
With its golden stones hitting me softly;
Then winter creates my cold suspicion
Because you’re the one I love, the only
Who conquered me that day when I knew,
That my heart had been stolen only by you.
AUTHOR: Charles Ryder
Hello again readers!!! Sorry for the delay on my posts, it’s been a busy week and I’ll try to post as much as I can during these following days. I’ve been through a lot of stress by now, but at last, My Oxford Anthologies of English Literature have arrived!!! This is the second sonnet I’ve ever written in my entire life (the first one I wrote was in Spanish) and I think it is not that bad, although it is quite corny (I used Sir Thomas Wyatt’s sonnets as an inspiration). This one, I wrote it also for one of my classes and it is dedicated to my beautiful girlfriend. I know I had already used the “seasons” topic in another poem I posted here but… it’s something that I like to use when I write.
There are also a few interesting posts coming soon. One of them is my Percy Jackson‘s review, as well as some other weird stuff I’ve been preparing. I’m sure you’ll like them all! Once again, I apologize for my absence and wish you a good day fot tomorrow and a good night for today! Feel free to comment, as always!
,
The servant girl, in a hurry to break the news gasps
as she races along the path, nearly falling on a tree root:
The queen has gone, sir.
Later, she lies in Menelau’s bed (after he talks, weeps,
lays his head in a willing lap) curled small as a comma
against his back, a hook that catches on something recalled:
the flicker of Helen’s skirt seen from a window, at night,
a man’s hand, dark against white cloth, on her hip.
.~.~.
Situated in the pause between one thing
and the next. The particulars of absence:
Gone, gone, gone, gone. Menelaus wakes, bitterly
gazing at a girl who is not Helen. No other woman
could be Helen, with her golden sheen, loose hair,
limbs like water. How could she take a lover,
leave? She belonged to him, paid in full (oxen and horses,
not to mention slaves) to her father. He’d been the one
to win her. Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
Comma’s sharp point sinks into the place between words,
deep in that flesh; nothing moves forward without pain.
AUTHOR: Anne Simpson, from the Usual Devices set of poems.
Usual Devices: >
Well, the first half of the first month of the year (man, that sounds weird… ¬¬) has already passed, and 2010 has already given us some surprises. I think the worst thing that has happened during the past few days is the Haiti Earthquake… I’m speechless about it, but: God Bless Haiti and its people.
Now, let’s get to our post. Since I got into college, I’ve learned a lot about Literature, more than I had ever known in my entire life. Certainly, I love it. I’ve discovered thousands of books, authors, essays, that I hadn’t read or heard of, and now that I have, I like them more. Anne Simpson has an interesting and ingenious set of poems which she titled Usual Devices. At a first glance, this doesn’t say too much, but as you read them, you realize her poems talk about the Trojan War. There are not too many poems based on this topic and certainly, it is not an usual topic for female writers (I’m not trying to offend any girl reading this, so if I do, I beg your pardon). Mrs. Simpson does an excellent and entertaining job in here, and I think this set of poems is an easy start point for those who are not familiar with poetry. Pay attention to the titles of the poems and the way she plays with them, that’s quite clever too. They are also written in chronological order, so this first poem begins with the Apple Of Discord. I’ll be posting the whole set during the next days. Feel free to comment, and once again, thanks to all the people who has already commented on other posts!
Aphrodite > Hera and Athena.
Paris is only a boy,
chossing between them. What he really wants
is the apple shining in his hand, but they won’t let him
keep it. Anyway, it’s all based on first impressions.
Hera has power and Athena’s got brains. But who sees
these things? Aphrodite has perfect legs,
gilded hair, and blue eyes that open and shut
just like a mortal. He considers, marks each one-
| Hera smiled
tricked brought gave desired took turned decided |
Aphrodite is all warm smiles
and small tricks bringing her little myths of love, she gives kisses like petals, desiring him, taking whatever is needed to turn the tables and decide the outcome |
Athena will smile
will trick will bring will give will desire will take will turn will decide |
-and declares Aphrodite the winner. She laughs,
disappears. The other two pause, gazing at him.
It begins with an apple: heaven’s usual device.
AUTHOR: Anne Simpson
I Want To Live
I want to leave.
I want to leave the wood box,
and the soft bed where I sleep.
I want to be lost.
I want to feel the rain on my skin,
and the wind surfing through my face.
I want to be my own king,
then I will erase every kind of trace.
I want to be in a forest,
want to become a dolphin.
I want to crash against the Earth,
I want to be the moon who follows.
I want to be the Heart’s lover.
I want to be the lover’s heart.
I want to stand up in a risk,
and want to fail and then begin.
I’ll be the leaves falling,
and the house full of snow.
I know I’ll be the spirit,
when the aurora burns.
I want to be the storm,
the lightning of your soul.
I want to be the dreamer,
whose dreams will dream all.
I want to be ghost of every photo,
the taste of every kiss,
someday I will be living,
so another day I can be able to leave.
AUTHOR: Charles Ryder
My F. F.
Oh, just look at the happy group.
Everyone has a tale to tell.
She’s so shallow and empty, the Queen of
consumption and fake fairytales.
He’s so irregular and stubborn,
doen’s have authorityover his life.
The next “She” is probably the better one,
but still… stubborn and she
doesn’t understand the game if you explain the rules.
The next “He” is probably the one who never knows anything,
nobody tells him the news so, he doesn’t speak.
He’s supposed to be the jewel.
Then comes the manipulator. Old and cunning.
It’s annoying how she wants everything in a circle.
A lady talks, once again ignoring me,
but she’s more than happy to prove that she
is the better with the best life.
She thinks she knows everything,
when she doesn’ even know a thing.
Then it’s me.
As I look at them,
one by one,
I realize,
I don’t know them,
and
that they don’t really know me at all.
AUTHOR: Charles Ryder
It’s been a weird day people… greetings, and feel free to comment.
Charles Ryder
