Poetry Post

Dear Reader,

It's the first week of November and because I said that I will be posting regularly now (same as before - once a week) I decided it was high time for another blog post. Problem is, I don't really have anything new to say. I've  been trudging through the same, albeit exteremly interesting, book for the past 2 weeks: Cranioklepty: Grave Robbing and the Search for Genius by Colin Dickey. So I'm not even able to write a review yet.  

In the end (which was about exactly 7 minutes ago!) I decided to write about one of the things I'm quite passionate about. Poetry. If you, my dear reader, have not even the tinyest bit of interest in poetry, then I give you premission to not read this post. Don't worry, I won't hate you for it (this is being written with a benevolent smile on my face, just in case you don't believe me).  

As far as hobbies go, I think poetry is a good one to have. Even the Prophet Muhammad (SAW) was a fan. In Women around The Messenger, by Muhammed Ali Qutb, it states that the Prophet (SAW) "did not compose poetry, but as an Arab, naturally loved refined and truthful poetry, the sort that avoided exaggeration and triviality in words and meanings ... [the Prophet (SAW)] appreciated the positive impact that poetry can have on the mind." In fact, one of his (SAW) favourite poets was a women called Al-Khansa, whose best work was a beautiful eulogy that she wrote on the death of her brother, Sakhr. Which reminds me, in an earlier post I mentioned my favourite stanza from Percy Shelley's poem To a Skylark. Again, despite the differences in time and culture, his words seem to speak true, where our "sweetest" poems are those that are derived from the "saddest" thoughts and experiences.

But as far as favourite writers go, there is always Thomas Hardy; better known for novels like Tess of the d'Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge and The Return of the Natives, (all of which I have read, by the way) set in a semi-fictional place called Wessex. But I still like his poetry the best. It's so often depressing but mostly meaningful and exquisite. My favourite is the poem Convergence of the Twain but it's a fairly long poem. The Darkling Thrush is my second favourite and is a much shorter poem:

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware

This poem was written at the turn of the 20th Century: going from 1899 CE to 1900 CE was a big thing at the time! But what I like most about this poem, aside from the vivid and contrasting imagery, is that despite the death of an era, a century, there is still Hope, even for the "old birds".




For a reason I cannot possibly fathom, I'm not much of a fan of modern poetry, but much rather prefer Victorian, 17th and 18th Century poetry. Some of my favourite poets include William Blake (London being my favourite from Songs of Experience), Robert Browning (My Last Duchess and Love Among the Ruins), Sir Walter Scott (Lady of The Lake and some parts of Marmion), Christina Rossetti (Remember),  Mary Ann Evans/George Eliot (In a London Drawingroom), William Wordsworth (Composed upon Westminster Bridge, 1802 and Daffodils)  and John Keats (To Autumn). You know, I've also noticed that I have a tendency to like poems related to the contrasts, especially between the countrysides abundant beauty and cramp city life, but also poems about Nature in general.


One of the few modern poets that I do like, however, is Imtiaz Dharker. I came across her work while doing my GCSE's. And though I've read quite a bit of her poetry now, I still think that the following poem is the best one she's written:


Blessing

The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation : every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.


I've often contemplated over the idea that we privileged humans, more often than not, forget to appreciate the simple but important things/blessings in our lives. There is far too much to discuss on the topic of this modern fanaticism for materialism, too much for this one post. But I think Imtiaz Dharker's poems brilliantly brings a bit of perspective into my everyday equation. That's probably why I find myself repeatedly going back to it.


Nevertheless, fortunately this modern time is not completely lacking in talent. Take Tim McIlrath for example, from the band Rise Against. Though he's not a technically a poet, his lyrics are akin to poetry. Here are some of my favourite lines:

from The Good Left Undone:

In fields where nothing grew but weeds,
I found a flower at my feet,
Bending there in my direction,
I wrapped a hand around its stem,
I pulled until the roots gave in,
Finding there what I'd been missing...

Inside my hands these petals browned,
Dried up, fallen to the ground
But it was already too late now.
I pushed my fingers through the earth,
Returned this flower to the dirt,
So it could live. I walked away now.

from The Dirt Whispered:

She got down on hands and knees,
One ear against the ground,
Holding her breath to hear something,
But the dirt made not a sound tonight.

Echoes of songs still lurk on distant foreign shores,
Where we danced just to please the people that only ask for more,
So it goes
But still we give ourselves to this
We can't spend our lives waiting to live...

The postcard says wish you were here
But I'd rather I was there, 
Holding on to the simple things before they disappear,
That's what I meant
But that was then, and this is now
I'll make it up to you somehow...


You have to agree, there is something simple but explicitly elegiac and graceful about these lyrics.

Since I've been writing about poetry, this post would not be complete without mentioning Shakespeare and John Milton. Rather than go into lengthy odes about these two literature celebrities, which would probably bring back your nightmares from high school English classes, I'm just going to present you with some small sampling of my favourite piece of Shakespeare's work.


Sonnet 130 by Shakespeare


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare   
   As any she belied with false compare. 

I'll leave it to you, my intelligent reader, to make what you want of these two poems. Aside: from of all the Sonnets that I've ever read in my life, these two are my favourite.

Anyway, because I've had a few poems published in anthologies here and there, I consider myself a somewhat amateur poet. So here is a treat for you, dear reader: some of my own poetry that has been deemed worthy of publishing:

Precious Rain 
©2007

Thick pearl grey fluff
hovering above us

outlined by white

where the gold sun dare to shine.

The thousand tears

fall from the saphire sky.

Bitter but sweet

the wind blows by.

Confining others

for me it's no matter.

Pitter-patter

and pitter-patter

the droplets kiss:

the emerald leaves

the gemmed flowers

the paved floors

for hours and hours.

It feels so soft 

upon my skin

the water beads

falling within.

It's all gone

only some remain

nestled on petals

like diamons on a chain.

Age in Laughter 
©2008


Spring are the tears of the newly born

pattering down by passing clouds of morn

with strength to sprout through iced soil

that which remains of Winter’s toil

leaving behind the sound of innocence torn,

Spring are the tears of the newly born

Summer is the speed of sweat trickling

casting a shadow little more than trifling

down the backs of a multitude of flowers

as the days lengthen, hours by hours

rich with youth in melodious giggling,

Summer is the speed of sweat trickling

Autumns are a drop of ripened browns

dew in evenings around cities and towns

there the orange and blazing red of trees

golden honey stolen from laboured bees

where wary chuckles hide knowing frowns,

Autumns are a drop of ripened browns

Winter is a frigid mask of the pool

where night is when we all play fool,

dormant in death nature seems to lie

time passes in the whisper of a sigh

a snigger filled with writhing pain

until Winter gives way to Spring again...


Aside: Age in Laughter was one of my more obscure poems, written in response to a poem written by my friend Codename: Pixie, called Disappearance of Innocence. 

I, the Wind

--> -->
©2006

I am like the cool wind
on a hot summers day

I lift your spirit 

I lighten your heart

I blow off some of your burden

while I seductively stroke 

my finger through your hair

and then

I am gone.

And you try so hard

to grip me in your grasp

only to find you can't

So you try so hard

to dwell upon those memories 

linger upon those feelings

of cool

while you wait for my return.

Yet you seem to ignore

the glass of iced water

right in front of you

which can cool you much better than I?

Like Hamlet 
©2010


Like the sun clinging to the clouded sky

Before it plunges into the earth,

I dither on a horizon

Waiting for my ghost,

Like the tumultuous sea of North,

I’m calm and then I soar

And hidden in my madness

A pain I had not before,

Like the wind wafting over a rose

I kiss my lover’s breath,

Then push it further from me

And see it through to death.


Aside: as you can probably tell, Like Hamlet is one of my more recent poems. I wrote it when I was re-reading Hamlet by Shakespeare. I normally don't re-read plays and much prefer to watch them. But I had just finished reading Ophelia by Lisa Klien, where Klien re-writes the play from Ophelia's perspective (one of the only two female characters in the play). That's why I ended up re-visiting a lot of Shakerspeare's work last year.

Make sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think of my poems, and if by some miracle you like one of them, let me know which one.


Nida