So, I figured that it has been a long time since I've last posted...which was about my poetry obsession. Well, this one, in contrast, will be short and sweet. May I introduce you to my new, personal blog? No.

MAIDENSTAR'S BLOG

Please note that this is my personal blog in which I express myself. If you don't agree with me in what I say there, that's fine. It really is. But please, let's keep this polite civility, m'kay? xP


And again, MaidenStar, signing out--until next time! ^^

So, I've been writing a lot of free verse poetry these past few days. Like a maniac, I would even dare say. It all began from a book I found at the library. I would highly recommend you to read it if you've always wanted to write poetry, but don't know where to start. Lyne encourages you to not try to rhyme, but to just go ahead and put yours words down.

A shocker for you (and for me, as well): In just four days, I've written 103 short poems! But they're just 'poem-sketches', the book will explain what it is. Basically, they're the raw material that still needs the rewriting and refining. :)
[Yes, I do feel quite accomplished, indeed!]

So, here's the book that has gotten me into such a frenzy:


"Writing poetry from the inside out: finding your voice through the craft of poetry"
by Sandford (Sandy) Lyne


I should warn you, though, reading this is dangerous! So be careful! 


 

And here ends the post of MaidenStar...
Till next time, tot tot, my lovelies!

Last Saturday


Washing the morning dishes,
Just minding my own business,
(A bit grudging, I must add),
When down it rained, beauty-clad.

Strains of pleasing melody,
Triads in sweet harmony,
I cast eyes outward, wonder!
The music did not flounder.

Down it wafted from above,
Gently, gently, like a dove;
Master fingers undisclosed,
As they played the highs and lows.

I hurried with the washing,
No sign of tuneless humming.
Finally done, I grabbed the leash
As excuse of remedy.

With my dog, hasted to sidewalk
And slowed my pace to a walk.
Ears now alert, eyes akin,
For the music was now dim.

Now my gaze is on high grounds,
Still the rapturous effects sounds.
With a sudden jolt, I knew,
Keys I used to play so true.

Oh, joy! One of my Bach piece!
Now the skillful play has ceased
Fleeting time, I'm back at home
The piano's where I roam.



This all really happened, although the “my Bach piece” wasn't. Inspired by the incident, I decided to write it down. This was my best in-one-hour poem I've ever written. ^^


Critiques and comments welcomed!

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;
And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;
And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth --
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth --
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

by Amy Lowell

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

by Amy Lowell

Cold, wet leaves

Floating on moss-coloured water   

And the croaking of frogs—

Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

by Gertrude Stein

A cool red rose and a pink cut pink, a collapse and a sold hole, a little less hot.

by Gertrude Stein

A purse was not green, it was not straw color, it was hardly seen and it had a use a long use and the chain, the chain was never missing, it was not misplaced, it showed that it was open, that is all that it showed.

by Carl Sandburg

Chatter of birds two by two raises a night song joining a litany of running water--sheer waters
showing the russet of old stones remembering many rains.

And the long willows drowse on the shoulders of the running water, and sleep from much music;
joined songs of day-end, feathery throats and stony waters, in a choir chanting new psalms.

It is too much for the long willows when low laughter of a red moon comes down; and the willows
drowse and sleep on the shoulders of the running water.

by Wallace Stevens

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadows of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

by Hilda Doolittle

 

Whirl up, sea—

Whirl your pointed pines,

Splash your great pines

On our rocks,

Hurl your green over us—

Cover us with your pools of fir.

Hey all! Sorry, I haven't been on in forever, but I think I might have some more time nowadays. There are so many new members! Welcome, and I hope you enjoy participating in Blog for Joy!

My choir just got music for our fall concert. Among these include a SSA (Soprano 1, Soprano 2, Alto) piece called Life Has Loveliness to Sell. It's a beautiful song, and the lyrics are from the poem (also called Life Has Loveliness to Sell) by Sara Teasdale. Here it is!

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things;
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children’s faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell;
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And, for the Spirit’s still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Give all you have for loveliness;
Buy it, and never count the cost!
For one white, singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost;
And for a breath of ecstasy,
Give all you have been, or could be.

Here's the link for the song:
http://www.lorenz.com/med/sample/15_2702H.mp3
Please listen! 

Anyway, I'm glad to be back!
Vale, amici!

This was a real experience by me; it all truly happened just a couple nights ago. Don't you think the whole thing is somewhat ironic? xD

Can you “see” the picture I'm trying to portray here through the usage of few words? I've always known that little words, when used correctly and fittingly, is powerful, but I know know how powerful. Hence my trying my hand at it. How well it came out, I don't know.

Please comment on what you think about this free verse, and how I can improve on my writing! ^^ (I promise I won't bite!)

---

How This Came To Be

End of day

Morales low

Tired

Stressed

Tensions high

Stomachache

Pain

Inquiries

Scolded

Rebuked

Guilty

Misty eyes

Blurred vision

Breaks down

Quiet weeping

Pauses

Runs upstairs

Collapses on bed

Sobbing

Wailing

Brokenness

Not comforted

None understands

Forgotten bedtime hug

Sorrowful

Depressed

Self-pity

Trickling wetness

Damp pillow

Once more

Awake

Thinking

Midnight

Slow motions

Bed creaking

Flipped switch

Blinding light

Still

Blinking

Adjusting

Rummaging

Paper

Pen

Starts

Writing

THIS

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses?........What do you see?
What are you thinking..............when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man....................not very wise,
Uncertain of habit....................with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food..............and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice...'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice..........the things that you do.
And forever is losing................a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not................lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding..........the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?.....Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse.....you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am.................as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding.............as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten.............with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters................who love one another
A young boy of sixteen............with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now...........a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty...........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows...........that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five, now..................I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide.............and a secure happy home.
A man of thirty........................my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other................with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons...........have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me....to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more...................babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children...........my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me............my wife is now dead.
I look at the future....................I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing......young of their own.
And I think of the years.............and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man...................and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age.............look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles................grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone..................where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass.........a young man still dwells,
And now and again....................my battered heart swells
I remember the joys...................I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living..........life over again.
I think of the years, all too few..gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact...........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people.........open and see.
Not a cranky old man.................look closer
See..............................................ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They must be felt by the heart!

Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?

A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,

she can ill afford the chances she must take

in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.

Her track is graceless, like dragging

a packing-case places, and almost any slope

defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,

she's often stuck up to the axle on her way

to something edible. With everything optimal,

she skirts the ditch which would convert

her shell into a serving dish. She lives

below luck-level, never imagining some lottery

will change her load of pottery to wings.

Her only levity is patience,

the sport of truly chastened things.

And what can I do to improve it?

For all you superstitious folks, it's Friday the thirteenth! Boo!

Anyway, I'm going to add my favorite excerpts of Dylan Thomas 's poem, Poem in October, since the original is too long:

      "My birthday began with the water-

Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name   

      Above the farms and the white horses

                  And I rose   

            In rainy autumn

And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

High tide and the heron dived when I took the road

            Over the border

                  And the gates

      Of the town closed as the town awoke.

      "A springful of larks in a rolling

Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling   

      Blackbirds and the sun of October

                  Summery

            On the hill’s shoulder,

Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly   

Come in the morning where I wandered and listened   

            To the rain wringing

                  Wind blow cold

      In the wood faraway under me.

     " Pale rain over the dwindling harbour

And over the sea wet church the size of a snail   

      With its horns through mist and the castle   

                  Brown as owls

            But all the gardens

Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales   

Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.   

            There could I marvel

                  My birthday

      Away but the weather turned around.

      "It turned away from the blithe country

And down the other air and the blue altered sky   

      Streamed again a wonder of summer

                  With apples

            Pears and red currants

And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s

Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother   

            Through the parables

                  Of sun light

      And the legends of the green chapels "

Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold. 
Her early leaf's a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay. 

Sara Tesdale

If you have forgotten water lilies floating
On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade,
If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance,
Then you can return and not be afraid.

But if you remember, then turn away forever
To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart,
There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies,
And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.