@biancalovecraft In Thomas Hardy’s classic novel Jude the Obscure one of the couple’s children hangs all the other children from closet hooks then hangs himself with a note attached saying “Done because we are too menny.” It is one of the most chilling scenes in a story depicting poverty, hunger and elusive dreams.
Thankfully the bathtub children only had to contend with boundary pushing.
The Empty Glass BY LOUISE GLÜCK
I asked for much; I received much. I asked for much; I received little, I received next to nothing.
And between? A few umbrellas opened indoors. A pair of shoes by mistake on the kitchen table.
O wrong, wrong—it was my nature. I was hard-hearted, remote. I was selfish, rigid to the point of tyranny.
But I was always that person, even in early childhood. Small, dark-haired, dreaded by the other children. I never changed. Inside the glass, the abstract tide of fortune turned from high to low overnight.
Was it the sea? Responding, maybe, to celestial force? To be safe, I prayed. I tried to be a better person. Soon it seemed to me that what began as terror and matured into moral narcissism might have become in fact actual human growth. Maybe this is what my friends meant, taking my hand, telling me they understood the abuse, the incredible shit I accepted, implying (so I once thought) I was a little sick to give so much for so little. Whereas they meant I was good (clasping my hand intensely)— a good friend and person, not a creature of pathos.
I was not pathetic! I was writ large, like a queen or a saint.
Well, it all makes for interesting conjecture. And it occurs to me that what is crucial is to believe in effort, to believe some good will come of simply trying, a good completely untainted by the corrupt initiating impulse to persuade or seduce—
What are we without this? Whirling in the dark universe, alone, afraid, unable to influence fate—
What do we have really? Sad tricks with ladders and shoes, tricks with salt, impurely motivated recurring attempts to build character. What do we have to appease the great forces?
And I think in the end this was the question that destroyed Agamemnon, there on the beach, the Greek ships at the ready, the sea invisible beyond the serene harbor, the future lethal, unstable: he was a fool, thinking it could be controlled. He should have said I have nothing, I am at your mercy.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
If a kiss was a raindrop I’d send you showers, If a hug was a second I’d send you hours.
If a smile was water I’d send you the sea And if love was a person I’d send you ME.
I was thinking about this thread! Thank you all for reviving it. I'd written something last month that I wanted to share. I'm big on rhymes, but the form is a little chopped.
Acid Pain Drops of water savoured Many months clamoured Fate of a dying and desperate flower And the carnal blood lips You came back to water
You spoke oh-so-often Of bouquets you admired I picked at my petals I grinned, but perspired And fear filled me with the most awful of strain What fell from the sky I felt wasn't rain
I stared in your dark eyes Looked down at my leaves Saw poison tear holes where my body should be Reality sprouted when you pierced me then shrugged And then were your words screaming absence of love
Today is a tree, aged in grace and grown wise Which easily sees through a predator's disguise I no longer sunbathe under clouds greyed in vain For what falls from the sky is surely not rain
It's an interesting poem, Catloaf, although somewhat opaque. The main interpretative question it raises for me is, Who is the speaker? Perhaps it is a young girl who has suffered a great deal of abuse (perhaps unspeakable abuse that can only be expressed through metaphor) from a male figure but has grown "sadder and wiser" as a result, even though she still has to live in a world that is strangely and disturbingly unnatural ("for what falls from the sky is surely not rain").
Thanks for your thoughts @sebastian23! I'll offer some input.
The main interpretative question it raises for me is, Who is the speaker?
It could be about anybody, but as far as who the speaker is, there are references made to them possibly being female. The poem is about a toxic friendship or relationship between two people, but hints at an unrequited love as well.
In the first verse, the speaker has been no-contact with a friend for some months and has chalked it up to fate that they won't see this person again. They hang onto the bits of breadcrumbs that this friend has thrown them (symbolised by "drops of water savoured") and they pine after them for a while. The speaker is desperate for human contact and is wishing things could be different. In the throes of this desperation, the friend returns under the pretense that they pretend to care about the speaker's "dying flower" state. In reality, the friend has come back only to water the "carnal blood lips", which is somewhat an innuendo and can refer to two places on the body. The friend (who is symbolised by the rain), has come back for their own hedonistic desires.
The second verse opens with the speaker explaining that their friend often goes on and on about the people he finds attractive ("bouquets") in comparison to the speaker who is described as a lone, dying flower. The speaker pretends not to care, but still picks themselves apart over the fact that the friend will not ever see them as a "bouquet". It ramps up their anxiety. When it "rains", at some point the speaker realises something doesn't feel... right.
The third verse is the speaker's realisation that this friend is not what they seem. A good friend, in the speaker's mind, seems akin to rain for a dying flower. But in fact, this particular friend appears to be acid rain which "tears holes" in the speaker... specifically their body, which has been used (or "pierced" without emotion) to satisfy the carnal lust of the friend. The last two lines can also just be interpreted as general hurt rather than being used for sexual purposes, but it is made clear in either case that the friend is making it obvious and known that they don't have the same feelings as the speaker, or doesn't love them period.
The last verse is another realisation by the speaker after the toxic friendship has ended. The speaker now envisions himself or herself as a tree rather than as a dying flower. When "predators" pass by, the speaker feels they are only people who wear a mask to conceal what they really are. A tree does not rely on rain from the sky, but water soaked up from the soil...which, yes, is still watered by rain. The speaker is not actively seeking or hoping for happiness anymore ("I no longer sunbathe...") when it comes to other people who are devoid of the ability to emotionally reciprocate ("clouds greyed in vain"). In the end, this experience has indeed somewhat coloured the speaker's perception of friendships and relationships. Even as a tree which is much more resilient than a small flower, it still relies on rain indirectly via the soil. While the reader might be aware of this contradiction, the speaker's perception is that healthy rain (or a healthy relationship) is not a thing that exists, and all of it must be acid.
That's very interesting, Ms. Catloaf. "Acid Pain" is not the first poem you have written. I do have one suggestion for it, unless you regard it as a finished piece. I will offer it if you are interested.
Please feel free to PM me! I'm working on a personal anthology so any improvements or suggestions you have, they're welcome!
MOD: Comment removed - inappropriate. Banned. [SoulcuddlerZ]
Babeba Baderoon, “Old Photographs”
On my desk is a photograph of you taken by the woman who loved you then.
In some photos her shadow falls in the foreground. In this one, her body is not that far from yours.
Did you hold your head that way because she loved it?
@checkingthings - that one by Robert Frost is great. I don't think anyone will come close to the classic poets of the past. The world was a simpler, less distracting place back then, and people had more time and inclination for introspective thoughts.
Time Does Not Bring Relief
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountainside, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear to go, so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Very nice. I guessed it was Edna St. Vincent Millay, although I have never read this poem before. As I read it, I find myself substituting "her" for "him".
They did not lie to her. She just has to wait longer. It's only been a year.
At least that is what I am assuming.
I too have many memories, after losing a dear lover (to death) just one year ago, so this poem touched me.
Lines 3 and 4 reminded me of this verse from Tennyson's "In Memoriam":
Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women There's a shoulder where Death comes to cry There's a lobby with nine hundred windows There's a tree where the doves go to die There's a piece that was torn from the morning And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost Aey, aey, aey, aey Take this waltz, take this waltz Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws Oh, I want you, I want you, I want you On a chair with a dead magazine In the cave at the tip of the lilly In some hallway where love's never been On a bed where the moon has been sweating In a cry filled with footsteps and sand Aey, aey, aey, aey Take this waltz, take this waltz Take its broken waist in your hand This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz With its very own breath of brandy and Death Dragging its tail in the sea There's a concert hall in Vienna Where your mouth had a thousand reviews There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking They've been sentenced to death by the blues Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture With a garland of freshly cut tears? Aey, aey, aey, aey Take this waltz, take this waltz Take this waltz, it's been dying for years There's an attic where children are playing Where I've got to lie down with you soon In a dream of Hungarian lanterns In the mist of some sweet afternoon And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow All your sheep and your lillies of snow Aey, aey, aey, aey Take this waltz, take this waltz With its "I'll never forget you, you know" This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz With its very own breath of brandy and Death Dragging its tail in the sea And I'll dance with you in Vienna I'll be wearing a river's disguise The hyacinth wild on my shoulder My mouth on the dew of your thighs And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook With the photographs there, and the moss And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty My cheap violin and my cross And you'll carry me down on your dancing To the pools that you lift on your wrist Oh my love, oh my love Take this waltz, take this waltz It's yours now, it's all that there is
Underface By Shel Silverstein
Underneath my outside face There's a face that none can see. A little less smiley, A little less sure, But a whole lot more like me.
Anais Nin “Risk”
And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
I sway like a tree on the riverbank. Roots pull and tear Will I be here in a year or will I be floating in the river of life? Will I provide refuge to bird and fish, alike? Will I be waterlogged, hiding just below the surface, ready to snag, drag and claw at people floating by? The willow holds firm.
“Our Origins Quickly Summarized, and the Unfortunate Death of Nescience”, by yours truly.
There once was a creature born of the sea
That slinked landward and looked upward to see
Pinpricks of light—the starry night, and thought:
“Just how can I make this all about me?”
Lol @hogboblin. Love it. Human Darwinism summarized in four lines.
She Walks in Beauty BY LORD BYRON
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Lady Lazarus By Sylvia Plath
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—
A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot
A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut
As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout:
'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart— It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
“Rebel”, by Hogboblin
The man wore a symbol, a patch: An encircled capital “A”. Some quaint anarchist merchandise To light his fire for the day.
A Color of the Sky
BY Tony Hoagland
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant, driving over the hills from work. There are the dark parts on the road when you pass through clumps of wood and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean, but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize for being so boring at dinner last night, but can I really promise not to be that way again? And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail; the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves are full of infant chlorophyll, the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio, and on the highway overpass, the only metaphysical vandal in America has written MEMORY LOVES TIME in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again. She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets. Years ago she penetrated me but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I never got her out, but now I’m glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle. What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel. What I thought was an injustice turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store and the police station, a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam, like a sudsy mug of beer; like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene. It’s been doing that all week: making beauty, and throwing it away, and making more.
The Art of Drowning by Billy Collins
I wonder how it all got started, this business about seeing your life flash before your eyes while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence, could startle time into such compression, crushing decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.
After falling off a steamship or being swept away in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand turning the pages of an album of photographs- you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.
How about a short animated film, a slide presentation? Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph? Wouldn't any form be better than this sudden flash? Your whole existence going off in your face in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography- nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.
Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance here, some bolt of truth forking across the water, an ultimate Light before all the lights go out, dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage. But if something does flash before your eyes as you go under, it will probably be a fish,
a quick blur of curved silver darting away, having nothing to do with your life or your death. The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom, leaving behind what you have already forgotten, the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.
One of the ridiculous aspects of being a poet is the huge gulf between how seriously we take ourselves and how generally we are ignored by everybody else. - Billy Collins, "NY Times"
The City in the Sea
by Edgar Allan Poe (published 1831)
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently- Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls- Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls- Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye- Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass- No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea- No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave- there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide- As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow- The hours are breathing faint and low- And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.
Yet Do I Marvel By Countee Cullen
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!
—Emily Dickinson