For he whose name was writ in water
" A quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, but the energies displayed in it are fine"
-John Keats
-John Keats
Alas, Grecian urns are forever more cursed
to be fated with the same avaricious consumption
as the Potter himself.
How fickle is man to boast his origins of clay.
And still how radiant that earthen odor is to he who knows
not yet his beast is broken.
Alas, the astral titans grow weary in their chambers
Begging for a banquet of sound to satiate their solar tongues.
The stardust of their gardens blinked their way
and the silence screamed in violent contortions
the void shrieked (with heart of harpy and health of dove)
Through stalwert and stoic labor pains
to be fated with the same avaricious consumption
as the Potter himself.
How fickle is man to boast his origins of clay.
And still how radiant that earthen odor is to he who knows
not yet his beast is broken.
Alas, the astral titans grow weary in their chambers
Begging for a banquet of sound to satiate their solar tongues.
The stardust of their gardens blinked their way
and the silence screamed in violent contortions
the void shrieked (with heart of harpy and health of dove)
Through stalwert and stoic labor pains
14 comments:
truly vivid
Once again, Maverick, I am stunned by clever wordchoice. Stellar.
Alright man, here's my deal, I liked your first thing about dating shadows or something, but then things got less modern and more archaic. Why all the crazy fluctuations?
Who can say
When the pen touches
What noble words shall extend forth
By time the candlelight reaches
It's final hour
"Words are the only bullets in Truth's bandolier, and poets are the snipers."
My main problem with your poetry, as it is, seems to be word choice.
In general, I like the words. I like the first stanza of this poem. Urns are connected to potter... then the boasting of the clay origins is good! However, fickle. Fickle implies that he sometimes doesn't boast his clary origins, or doesn't want to, but now he does? I don't see it, it doesn't speak to me. Explain what you meant, maybe?
His beast is broken. Good enough, fine.
The titans are a new theme, a new stanza, I dig that, I see the tongue silence connection, and like it. I don't get the screaming in contortions. One is sound, the other is sight. When both images are that strong, mixing the senses can be an overload. That's what I got there. Shrieked is good. Still sound. The contortions seem thrown in, -maybe- you were doing it for artistic dischord, but I doubt it. The more I think about that, the more I like the idea, but I don't think you meant to do it.
Stalwart and stoic = good adjectives, and complementary. Kind of Whitman, in a way. I don't get the labor pains, though.
Finally, stardust gardens = good with astral titans. "blinking their way" is weak though. Their, the pronoun. Try maybe inversion here? I dunno, you'd have to fiddle with it a bit.
As for connecting the two stanzas, I think there's something there. Which is admirable.
"For those who writ poetry"
Alack, barbiturate streams of melancholy aptitude
Revel in ribbons this perfunctory night.
The dread bells chime in this hapless void,
Splitting the temporal chiasmas of the deaf damned
---
Forgotten obelisks, oblong and certain
Forsake the tree frog’s shattered might.
Downward fall opaque emo curtains
As the toes of the ancients billow alight.
First wise prescience tempts first wise menders
As haughty silk tones fondle dull spinning orbs
(I am the parsnip that none have foresworn!)
As Truth brings an end to the beach balls and blenders.
Two-Ton velocity, pimpled yet clear
Defies definition in cymbal and flight
A kiss to the coroner, and the gypsies that smear
Cross the skylarks and valleys this crass, jaded night
Alack, fortitude threatens these pallid, gay lessons
And rectitude’s foreign in streetcars unknown
Devolve all my Dockers you damp candied moondrop!
I’m left in this coffee shop, battered…ALONE!
:) Just kidding. You know what they say about imitation and flattery.
Sir, first of all, I would like to thank you for your thorough comment, it is very much appreciated. Any critic who spends more than one minute on something I write I am gracious for.
As for the work. This is a tribute to the Romantic Era poet "John Keats" whose tombstone only reads "Here lies one whose name was writ in water" upon his request. He was a brilliant poet both in imagery and determination despite a VERY diffifult life and died at an early age of 25 from TB.
His works honored are "Ode to a Grecian Urn" hence the first line and the Potter (being a referance to Keats. Throughout this I'm trying to convey his struggle with existance (man's struggle really), thus giving the last line" who knows not yet his beast is broken"
Another major work by Keats was the Hyperion Cantos. These cantos I find to be very engaging due to their subject matter, which regarded the titan Hyperion's fight against Apollo for control of the sun. This spurred the second stanza, trying to move from men to what (or who) is above men and what are their plauges. I thought that if one were in the bowels of space, there would be nothing so terrible as the apathetic silence. One can consider harpy = pagan and dove= JudeoChristian to symbolize the different fractals of how men justify their existance and existance in general. I try to conclude that from these aspects of men and that which defines them (using as much of a Keatian degree of imagery I can) Keats is born.
Ahhhh....Welll....this is missing a last line.
The last line (after labor pains) should read "An infant writes free from his chains"
^ concluding the poem with optimistic resolution (ideally)
That is my synpopsis. I'm glad you wondered. Thank you all again for the comments
Fragipan, I assure you that your next versed entry will be marked by my eyes.
Good! Excellent reasoning!
Your explanation gives me a better appriciation of your poem! Thank you.
So this poem was inspired by Keats...but where do you get the inspiration for your other poems? Ever have writer's block? By the way, I'm a fan.
любовь
Fan:
Inspiration is merely the assimilation life spewed back onto paper as whimsical brainspit. I write what I will when I am moved to. Whether Shakespeare bid my blood run warm or lonliness bid my blood crawl cold. Writer's block is inevitable for anyone. I mean, being out of school today I probably wont sit and write but instead just live some more and see what happens.
Maverick,
you are funny.
Post a Comment