NaPoWriMo Days 15-17

Whew! Finals and term papers are kicking my tail! But here’s what I’ve written despite them:

For day 15:

Iron Will

You look to stars for light and nothing more
For beauty has no meaning to a brain
That has no mind attached. You stand on shores
And calculate the density of rain
Or gauge the atmosphere without the wind
To gently cool and soothe or stir your soul,
For you have none. All means and never end,
And part is less to you than any whole.
I ache to let you feel the warmth of light
And understand the beauty in a kiss.
But no, there is no soul attached by right
To iron forged in human shape: for this,
This is your lot, and we stand worlds apart
Because your inner working lack a heart.

Continuation of the series of musings on the metaphysical and epistemological consequences of robotics.

For day 16:

Quarrels to Art

I speak
Into voids and hollow trees
In the middle of night.
I speak
And no one hears
My tree falling.
I speak
And nothing comes of rhetoric
But division.
I write
And wars inside come forth
In art.

From this quote by W.B. Yeats: “Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.”

For day 17:

Soul Tanka

I remain empty
Words go in and come out: both.
But those that fall out
Are full of my very soul.
I cannot be replenished.

NaPoWriMo Days 13 + 14

For day 13:

Illuminated

I use odd words
In everyday speech.
Ink runs from my mouth
Indelibly impressed by the ancients and
Imitator of their thought.
Identified proudly with the lovers of wisdom,
Intellect is no obscenity to me.

I don’t mean to say this pridefully. But why are people so often ashamed to admit they love to learn? Especially to my fellow smart ladies: you can be pretty AND smart. 😉
Somewhat inspired by this year’s NaPoWriMo poster: http://www.poets.org/national-poetry-month/form/poster-request-form

For Day 14:

Iron Love

I trace your chiseled jawline with my hand
Enraptured by the cold and steely gaze
Of living death etched sorely on your face.
My breath is caught–I draw back as you stand
And push me sideways. I can only hold
The hope that you know who I am within,
And not just bones and matter, blood and skin.
I see inside you, love you though you’re cold,
But you turn eyes to me which bear no hint
Of feeling, or of being, or of mind.
You know, you act, you speak, but wherein lies
The seed of soul in reason? I imprint
A concept of desire. Your design,
Alas, it fails to bring light to your eyes.

A Petrarchan sonnet modified to flow better in English.
I have always loved science fiction, especially featuring robotics. This stems from another, similar piece called “Son of Iron.”
I might make it into a series. I think studying metaphysics this semester for my philosophy degree probably had a little to do with this too. 😉

NaPoWriMo Day 12

Fragile

Fragility was never truly mine.
The rose I was back then
Was never so much petals, but all thorns
And here I am again;
A shaking stem in storms I can’t define.
It shatters clean like glass:
This thunder overhead from fury borne
Will just as quickly pass
But then my roots, grown deeper, will not move,
Though all the world should quake;
And everything I am grow cold and still
While I am wide awake
And battered by the passing gale of love.
But this is you and I:
Whereas the storms defy the barren thrill
Some roses never die.

Inspired by “Thunder” by Jessie J

NaPoWriMo Days 10 & 11

For day 10:

I Need Not Flee

I fled him down the nights and down the days
But I ran unaware I would be caught.
For love is greater yet than rebel ways
And would that I had known t’was all for naught.
I am too loved to be left free to stray
And he the gracious one my freedom bought.
I need not flee as though a sinner scorned;
For rather, I am sought, loved, and reborn.

From Francis Thompson:
“I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.”

Read the whole thing here: www.bartleby.com/236/239.html

For day 11:

Next

I feel a sense of next
In everything.
“When finally I am able, I will.”

“After this season, I will.”

But there is no hurry
To next.

For time is a measurement of the progression of history through space

And in the present, I can in fact
see and hear and touch and taste and love and move and grow and learn and be

Let now be a moment in which nothing happens
And everything happens.

From:

“Much good happens in the space where nothing is happening.” –Christa Wells

NaPoWriMo Day 9

Still, Still

At times I may forget it in the midst of the mundane
When the sound of your soft breathing, unobtrusive as the rain
Is puncturing the night, soft and slow, full and real
That we once walked in misted evenings, starlight we could feel.
And we surrendered memories beneath the German sky
And felt the bonds of meteors on hearts glad to comply.
I have forgotten, do so still, and will again forget
That the choice to watch the sky fall down with you left no regrets.
And you still have the open wound inflicted by my love
And you still have that power over me that proves enough.
And though the days stroll freely to an uncontested cease,
You still have all it takes to set on fire my inner peace.

NaPoWriMo Days 7 & 8

Day 7:

Nobody Writes Like This

Nobody else writes poems like I do.
The fixed-form poet’s art is old and dry.
It limits creativity? Not true.
But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by.
Oh wait–there are yet writers springing free
On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends.
Alright: nobody writes in verse like we.
We write like madmen, leaving be those trends
In poetry contemporary. This:
The art of the archaic is our love.
And yet we write in newer forms and kiss
The modern in our own way. Read thereof
As I do, and bear witness to myself
That no one writes like anybody else.

Day 8:

Million Ways

A million ways to scatter light
And change the future overnight,
And yet you rest content with one.
Don’t leave your work of art undone.
‘Tis your own breath: ’tis full and real
Of life and beauty. Into dark
Your innovation launches sparks;
Oh art and artist–both revealed.

Form: nove otto

“The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death.” –Steven Pressfield

Don’t be afraid of all the million ways art comes out of you.

NaPoWriMo Day 6

End of Summer

I once beheld dreams as leaves
Green and full of life
Their veins clear against the sunlight
Never to see autumn
Never to let go
Never to crinkle.
But some I behold now as at end of summer
wondering if fall will come
on them
after all.

Crushed to brown powder
And scattered to the wind–
some of them, yes.

But might I gather them into a pile
still shining with orange and red
and, piled high, full of the smell of earth
LEAP and believe
There’s life in them yet.

NaPoWriMo Day Five

A simple terza rima sonnet for a simple truth:

The Hope of Joy

I asked you why I suffered such and such.
It matters not the means; it’s all the same
To suffer little and to suffer much.

For both bespeak a dying world’s worst shame–
That goodness won’t prevail in every sense.
Why won’t you rescue us, defend your name?

For suffering can happen, be dispensed
On good and bad alike–from young to aged.
And will you not speak out in your defense?

You answer that the war’s already waged,
And yours the suffering most of all mankind.
The worst, the gates of death, have been assuaged.

In light of what you suffered, I am free,
And love has wrought the hope of joy in me.

Day Four:

Wisdom’s Call

Wisdom’s house is firmly built; her seven pillars raised.
Her wine and bread on table spread–a feast a king would praise.
And out she sends her servant-maids to call at twilight hour
To those of foolish character to come nigh and devour
The bread of learning, and be drunk on wine of sweet instruction,
Forsaking streets of ignorance and leaving night’s destruction.
“Come walk,” she says, “in insight, and leave the past behind.
My home is open; drink the wine I mixed for all mankind.”
For Wisdom is not hid for sole philosophers to learn;
If ignorance is what we fear, may we to her return.

From Proverbs 9: 1-6:
Wisdom has built her house;
she has hewn her seven pillars.
She has slaughtered her beasts; she has mixed her wine;
she has also set her table.
She has sent out her young women to call
from the highest places in the town,
“Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!”
To him who lacks sense she says,
“Come, eat of my bread
and drink of the wine I have mixed.
Leave your simple ways, and live,
and walk in the way of insight.”

NaPoWriMo Day 3

For Day three:

The Poetics of Space

The corner of the white-walled room
is hung with stair-like stars.
The inches squared where cobwebs dwell
is where the cosmos are.

The cosmos of the my white-walled mind
are brimming with the light
of forces, of creation–
imagining the night.

The white-walled cosmos of the night
my psyche bends to squares
and fits the universe as such
to dwell with cobwebs there.

From the intro to Gaston Bachelard’s “The Poetics of Space”

“For Bachelard the cosmos, no less than the human psyche, is brimming with the force of the imaginary. And… he maintains that the poetic re-imagining of stairs, passageways, porches or dressers brings together powers of memory, perception, and fantasy that criss-cross in all kinds of surprising ways…. Imagination is a laboratory of the possible inviting us… to give a future to the past… a shared reservoir of resonances bequeathed to us by the great poets from Homer and Ovid to Rilke an Valery.”

Now, as a philosopher I have my own ideas of imagination and the creative process, and since I haven’t read “The Poetics of Space” all the way through yet, I don’t know if I recommend this approach to imagination as such. But I liked the thought, and ran with it.