5 posts tagged “poetry”

It's been ages since I finished a book in under two days, so finis hing Jonathan Carroll's The Marriage of Sticks was a treat.  And as usual, after finishing a good book, I gave myself an extended stretch, like I would do in the mornings when I wake up from a good night's sleep.

I don't even know how to describe the story, other than it starts out like there's nothing extraordinary going on, and somewhere in the middle things start going weird until you get to the end where everything's totally bizarre.  That's what I love about Jonathan Carroll, you never really know where you're going to end up, and you always end up somewhere fantastic but oddly familiar.  (Props to my friend Ces who initiated me into the cult, and huge apologies for my having lost her copy of Sleeping in Flame during the move.)

Finding this poem in the book was sweet, too.

If I get to love you, please leave without knocking,
but think it over well:
my straw mattress will be yours, the dusty straw,
the rustling sighs.

Into the pitcher fresh water I'll pour,
your shoes, before you leave, I'll wipe clean,
no one will disturb us here,
hunched over, you could mend our clothes in peace.

If the silence is great, I will talk to you,
If you are tired, take my only chair,
If it's warm here, loosen your collar, take off your tie,
if you are hungry, there's a clean sheet of paper
as your plate if there's food,
but leave some for me—I, too, am forever hungry.

If I get to love you, enter without knocking,
but think it over well:
it would hurt if you stayed away for too long.

All in all, a very satisfying read and totally recommended.

Instructions
by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.

W.H. Auden is one of my most favorite poets ever and hearing this recited while watching Four Weddings and a Funeral was a treat.  I always liked how straightforward his poetry was; somehow it was that exactly that made his poems memorable.  Even his most sentimental works always left me with this impression that he was trying to hold back this tidal wave of emotion.  There's always that restraint that oddly makes everything concise and crystal clear.  I'd say he's a man of few words, but how weighty and well-chosen those words are.

Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I'm terza rima, and I talk and smile. Where others lock their rhymes and thoughts away I let mine out, and chatter all the while. I'm rarely on my own - a wasted day Is any day that's spent without a friend, With nothing much to do or hear or say. I like to be with people, and depend On company for being entertained; Which seems a good solution, in the end. (If you were not Terza Rima you would be a Lai.) What Poetry Form Are You?

Thanks for the link, jenny!