A Response to Carpe Diem

The purpose of a carpe diem poem is to procure the affections of a beloved by reminding her that life is short. As I was writing a poem this evening, it evolved into an imagined woman's response to the sentiment.

To His Coy Mistress

Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime

We would sit down and think which way

To walk and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the Flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song: then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust:

The grave 's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

I'll Give You "Carpe Diem"!

Don't tell me again that I'm "desperate"

Don't think that you know what I need.

By saying you "know" that I'm lonely

You're only revealing your greed.

Are you just afraid of rejection?

Is that why you say, "Seize the day?"

Threats of old age are pathetic.

Can't you woo me in some other way?

Perhaps you need women's approval,

Or you're worried you won't find romance

Lest you tell me that I'm growing older

And assume you're my very last chance

Please realize my candor will help you.

When you meet a cute girl in her prime,

Don't say she's a spinster without you

And your luck might be better next time.

I'm not sure how I feel about the final result--it changed a lot while I was writing it. It was very acerbic at first, but I mellowed it as I wrote. I'm thinking of writing another similarly themed poem, but using more elevated language. It is definitely fun, though, to write a poem with a less mature tone occasionally. Plus, this proves that you can write poems with dactylic feet!

Free Verse

I don't like the free verse I write very much, so I'm thinking of giving this one meter and maybe rhyme. I'm also thinking of changing the title. Let me know if you think I should or shouldn't do either of those things.

From His Perspective

True, she may have wit and eloquence

But to be esteemed by me, she must enchant

She must possess the sensuous figure all girls want

Her movements must be lithe, each step a dance

Does she read? Does she care?

Is she wise? What does she love and hate?

Can she make good conversation when we meet?

These are not the kind of questions that prevail.

Are her lips full? And can her eyes beguile?

Can she turn heads with one toss of her hair?

The girl I want is one who can make men concur

With what she says by giving them a smile

No matter her intelligence, she'll suit me ill

Unless her looks fill me with longing

A good mind is worth nothing

Without a pretty face in front of it.

Television: Musings on the Plane

Right now I'm on the plane to Seattle, with nothing to do… I plan to write a post and publish it when I am able to connect to the internet. I finished my Psychology review and cannot get up to ask my mom for a book or magazine because the seatbelt light is on--turbulence I think, although I haven't felt much. On the way to the airport, Stuart didn't have anything to do, and I had just finished reading "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" in my book of the top 500 poems, so I read him three Lewis Caroll poems, "The Jabberwocky," "The Walrus and the Carpenter," and "You are Old, Father William" and then had him read "The Owl and the Pussycat" by Edward Lear, and "The Raven" by Poe. I felt like I should help him become a bit more cultured. :)

In psych right now we're learning about learning, and I just finished reading about observational learning, so I'm going to talk a little about the disadvantages of television, NOT because I am a TV hater or condemn those who watch it, but because I think it is interesting. In Freakonomics, there was a study done about TV and violence, and it compared the violence rates of different cities as they were introduced to television. When I get home (Tuesday) I'll revise this post to explain all the controls that were in place, because I don't have Freakonomics with me. Essentially, the study compared the crime rate as television was introduced to different cities and found that in each city there was an increase in crime once the invention of the television became popular there. Those of you familiar with Bandura's Bobo doll experiment will know that observational learning could have contributed to some of this, but Freakonomics hypothesizes that perhaps (because TV shows when television was first introduced were not very violent) this occurred because children were spending time in front of the TV instead of studying, reading, or interacting socially--this could have stunted slightly their intellectual growth and made them more likely to commit crime. No one really knows why this happened, but it is an interesting little correlational study :D

I haven't written another poem yet, but I'll give you one, by one of the funniest British authors ever.

Television

Roald Dahl

The most important thing we've learned,

So far as children are concerned,

Is never, NEVER, NEVER let

Them near your television set --

Or better still, just don't install

The idiotic thing at all.

In almost every house we've been,

We've watched them gaping at the screen.

They loll and slop and lounge about,

And stare until their eyes pop out.

(Last week in someone's place we saw

A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)

They sit and stare and stare and sit

Until they're hypnotised by it,

Until they're absolutely drunk

With all that shocking ghastly junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,

They don't climb out the window sill,

They never fight or kick or punch,

They leave you free to cook the lunch

And wash the dishes in the sink --

But did you ever stop to think,

To wonder just exactly what

This does to your beloved tot?

IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!

IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!

IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!

IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND

HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND

A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!

HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!

HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!

HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!

'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,

'But if we take the set away,

What shall we do to entertain

Our darling children? Please explain!'

We'll answer this by asking you,

'What used the darling ones to do?

'How used they keep themselves contented

Before this monster was invented?'

Have you forgotten? Don't you know?

We'll say it very loud and slow:

THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,

AND READ and READ, and then proceed

To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!

One half their lives was reading books!

The nursery shelves held books galore!

Books cluttered up the nursery floor!

And in the bedroom, by the bed,

More books were waiting to be read!

Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales

Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales

And treasure isles, and distant shores

Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,

And pirates wearing purple pants,

And sailing ships and elephants,

And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,

Stirring away at something hot.

(It smells so good, what can it be?

Good gracious, it's Penelope.)

The younger ones had Beatrix Potter

With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,

And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,

And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-

Just How The Camel Got His Hump,

And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,

And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,

There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-

Oh, books, what books they used to know,

Those children living long ago!

So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,

Go throw your TV set away,

And in its place you can install

A lovely bookshelf on the wall.

Then fill the shelves with lots of books,

Ignoring all the dirty looks,

The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,

And children hitting you with sticks-

Fear not, because we promise you

That, in about a week or two

Of having nothing else to do,

They'll now begin to feel the need

Of having something to read.

And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!

You watch the slowly growing joy

That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen

They'll wonder what they'd ever seen

In that ridiculous machine,

That nauseating, foul, unclean,

Repulsive television screen!

And later, each and every kid

Will love you more for what you did.

Fat-head poet

Today's form is the triolet, which is sort of like a baby form of the villanelle. It is only eight lines long, but three of those eight are repetitions of the first two. It is a relatively unknown and little used form. I'll give you a rather impolite example. Incidentally, it was written by Charles Darwin's granddaughter.

To a Fat Lady Seen From the Train

Frances Cornwell

O why do you walk though the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

O fat white woman whom nobody loves,

Why do you walk though the fields in gloves,

When the grass is soft as the breast of doves

And shivering sweet to the touch?

O why do you walk though the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

What makes this triolet even better is that someone wrote a retort to it. Although it is not a triolet, I had to post the reply that G.K. Chesterton wrote to Frances Cornwell, because it is hilarious (and gave my blog post its title).

The Fat White Woman Speaks

G. K. Chesterton

Why do you rush through the field in trains,

Guessing so much and so much?

Why do you flash though the flowery meads,

Fat-head poet that nobody reads;

And why do you you know such a frightful lot

About people in gloves as such?

And how the devil can you be sure,

Guessing so much and so much,

How do you know but what someone who loves

Always to see me in nice white gloves

At the end of the field you are rushing by,

Is waiting for his Old Dutch?

(Old Dutch means wife.) Now it is time for my triolet. I actually wrote this one rather quickly. I started it in photography class and finished it when I got home from drama rehearsal.

A Sarcastic Triolet

Since feeling is first and all impulse is true,
Of course you must follow your heart.
Even when reason tells you what to do,
Since feeling is first and all impulse is true,
You must must not commit any crime against art.

So ignore all advice from those wiser than you

Since feeling is first and all impulse is true,

Of course you must follow your heart.

Let me know what authors or poem forms you think I should try next. I was thinking (besides the ones I mention in my previous post) of doing a Rondeau poem or following the style of T. S. Eliot. Tell me what you think!

Pantoum (A poetry form)

This time, instead of choosing a poet's style, I chose a strict form: the pantoum. A pantoum is a poem in which every line is used twice. The second and fourth line of every quatrain become the first and third of the next. In the last quatrain, the third line of the first quatrain becomes the second line, and the first line of the poem is repeated as the last. It sounds complicated, but it is really quite simple once you read an example or two. Some pantoums have an abab rhyme scheme, but most that I have read are unrhymed, and I was unable to enforce a rhyme scheme in mine. However, I did decide to use tetrameter (predominantly iambic) in order to give the lines more structure.

I found one pantoum that I really like that I'll share with you. It was the best of all the ones I read. If you're interested, look them up.

Stillbirth
Laure Anne Bosselaar

On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.

But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two.

No one in that car could have been you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen.
No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two:
I sometimes go months without remembering you.

Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen:
I was told not to look. Not to get attached—
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.

I was told not to look. Not to get attached.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
On a platform, I heard someone calling your name.

Pantoum for a lost Love

We were not meant to stay in love
You know I deeply care for you.
I knew we had to break it off.
Something drove us two apart

You know I deeply care for you
We spent our time together 'till
Something drove us two apart:
I realize now 'twas jealousy.

We spent our time together 'till
You met her. I assumed too much.
I realize now 'twas jealousy
That drove me to be so unkind.

You met her. I assumed too much,
But you should have thought more of me.
That drove me to be so unkind,
That I weep now, rememb'ring it

But you should have thought more of me.
You acted so unfeelingly,
That I weep now, rememb'ring it.
Your thoughtlessness caused my rash deeds

You acted so unfeelingly
After I told you how I felt.
Your thoughtlessness caused my rash deeds;
The fault belongs to both of us.

After I told you how I felt,
I knew we had to break it off.
The fault belongs to both of us--
We were not meant to stay in love.

I'm thinking of doing Emily Dickinson, Lewis Carrol, a sonnet, or a villanelle next. I will probably end up doing a sonnet or Carrol, because I've already struggled with the villanelle form and Dickinson's style and have not come up with anything I liked. We'll see...

William Carlos Williams

First, I must say that I love the name William Carlos Williams. It hints at the type of poetry he writes. He belongs to the imagist school of poetry, which we learned about last year in English III. Here are the two poems that were featured in our literature book

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

This Is Just to Say

William Carlos Williams

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Forgotten

Serena

The piano, its

eighty-eight keys

old and chipped

and faded

could still make

beautiful music

if skilled hands

would caress it

e. e. cummings

My first poet is e. e. cummings. While I don't agree with the messages of some of his poems, (i.e. "since feeling is first") I think he expresses his ideas in a beautifully poetic manner. I've actually written two poems in his style. I'll give you two e. e. cummings pieces, and then the two I've written.

since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

i carry your heart with me
e.e. cummings

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)

Now for my poems. You should know enough about me to recognize that neither of these poems are based on my personal experiences. I used an e. e. cummings' subject matter (love).

presently, i see you and understand

presently, i see you and understand

more secrets hide within me than a spring (hides bubbling

beneath the earth) deepness puddles in my soul

brimming:less than the pools in your eyes which are

holding the meaning of that first kiss, powerfully transient

drink deeply—my mind knows you

are part of the color rising in my cheeks.

your hand in mine (no raindrop knows the cloud or sea)

this moment time recognizes;but does not know

before and behind:which is not, our need

only the smile on my lips, my head resting (herenow)

in the familiar place on your shoulder.

after the rain when the sky is silent

after the rain when the sky is silent

and i am brave enough to walk outside i think of you--remember

when our minds conversed(and sang in harmony)

i used to waltz through stormy weather with

you(bright jewel)hung in my heart;i thought

i knew all i needed about;the bright sea of stars:

we named at night smiled(because you

played counterpoint to their phrygian melody)

but this is all whatusedtobe

and

not

what

is

the harmony between us soured and diminished:and then

all you left me was your echo and i

learned that the blackemptiness that separates the stars can

muffle(entirely) their song;with a silence louder than memory.

i think of you and try to weep, but i

cannot even recall the taste of your smile

My Poetry Project

I've decided to give myself a challenge. Every day, or more likely every few days, I will post a couple poems by a poet I enjoy, and then a poem that I will write in his or her style.

If necessary, I'll fall back on poems I've already written and edit them for the blog, but what I'm trying to do is get in the habit of writing poetry more frequently. I think giving myself a project like this will be helpful.

"Ink runs from the corners of my mouth

There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry."
~Mark Strand

"Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry." ~W.B. Yeats

"Poetry: the best words in the best order" ~Samuel Coleridge