A day of more, a song of meeker noise
that gently weaves upon my inner ear,
a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.
Against the strain, to falter skulking ploys
and bring down towers of encroaching fear,
a day of more, a song of meeker noise.
By tender touch, affable vaster joys
and bosky groves so still - and drawing near,
a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.
That day I'll pass the plays of girls and boys,
pursuing inklings far from savage drear,
a day of more, a song of meeker noise.
The blasting gale that graven stone destroys
will never rake this image I hold dear,
a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.
Redemptive notes from trumps of dream envoys
in velvet dawn will find my vision clear,
a day of more, a song of meeker noise,
a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.
A villanelle! Hypnotic! I like the tension between the archaism of the form and contemporary bizarreness and difficulty of some of the images. (If the whisper is bailed, is it emptied of water, like a sinking ship? But this bailing doesn't keep the whisper-ship afloat; rather, it makes the whisper-ship sink into the deep waters of poise...Hmm...)
ReplyDeleteHere's my most recent villanelle (I wrote it about a year ago):
Lines Written on the Brink of a Precipice
Gulls whirl in the asylum of the sky;
Shadow brims the passionflower's chalice.
Now more than ever seems it rich to die.
Seraphic in the shimmering scrim of a sigh,
Vertigonous as my futile quest for solace,
Gulls whirl in the asylum of the sky.
Were I to dive now, would the gulls descry
My plunging into Wonderland like Alice?
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
Now that the world has turned a blind mind's-eye
To those impaled on the spires of Pluto's palace.
Gulls whorl in the asylum of the sky;
Their corkscrewing skywrites a goodbye
To iron-eyed impalers drunk with malice.
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To plummet toward the sea, to drown, to lie
Forever on the seabed while the callous
Gulls whirl in the asylum of the sky.
Now more than ever seems it rich to die.
That steals a line from John Keats.
Beautifully dark! "Shadow brims the passionflower's chalice.", yes. Also I enjoy the modification of words for more striking power, like "vertigonous" or the subtlety of the "whirl"/"whorl" division. But which is the Keats line?
ReplyDeleteAlso, since we're here, belated congrats on your poem "i just don't know what i want", superbly written, I can most definitely empathize with its sentiment. Seems like the lyric of a song that's yet to be written.
On the "bailed" thing, I meant to use it in the judicial sense, sort of, as in freedom obtained with a price, and the implications of that particular term seemed fitting. That particular line is a vague nod to a couple of lines from one of my favorite poems in Romanian, translated they're something along the lines of "... things I've placed sufficiently / to understand the fall from sleep towards equilibrium" (the rhythm is lost in translation, unfortunately).
奕希紋謙: true, only the absent in death are exempted.
ReplyDeleteThanks, g. It never occurred to me that you might mean "bailed" in the judicial sense. That sense lends the line ramifications one could explore for quite some time. The whisper obtains--at some cost--freedom, only to slip into depths. But these depths aren't to be shunned; they're equilibrium, poise, balance. Motionless suspension. "a consummation devoutly to be wished"?
ReplyDeleteThe only Romanian poet I know--other than you--is Tristan Tzara. I should do something about that.
When I started "i just don't know what i want" I was trying to sound like François Villon--like 15th century French! But it started to sound rock 'n roll, so I made it a song. It has no melody. I just recite it while strumming whatever chord progression pops into my head.
"Now more than ever seems it rich to die" comes from Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale." Using it as a repeated line made the poem suicidal. (I intend to live as long as I can.) And about a year ago I was reading Thomas James, who wrote a book of brilliant, suicidal poems called Letters to a Stranger shortly before blowing his brains out. He was only 27. His book became an underground classic, and he became a cult hero--the Ian Curtis of contemporary American poetry.
Thank you very much for your nice words and yes, very well said, that would be the feeling I aimed to catch, probably as positive as I can get right now. Good call on the Shakespeare quote (I had to google that one, need to read more :D), because, to my mind, a consummation must occur to justify the burning out.
ReplyDeleteThe guy who wrote the poem I mentioned is a journalist and TV personality, Mircea Dinescu, well known in Romania, I don't know much about his poetic endeavors, though. I was surprised to find out he wrote it. I heard that particular poem recited by an artist (again, famous in my country; sadly he passed away relatively recently) on a live recording; since he was also an actor (and radio/TV personality too), he delivered a majestically emotional performance, and thus I fell in love with that poem (by the way, it's called "I'm young, Madam").
Well, other romanian poets I like would be Nichita Stanescu (pretty hermetical/surreal, he was nominated for the Nobel prize for literature), George Bacovia (very nice but very, very depressing), Tudor Argezi and Mihai Eminescu (our national poet).
And just now it struck me that "i just don't know what i want" would definitely work on a Noir Desir song of the punkier ilk, like "Comme elle vient".
I often heard of François Villon, but haven't read much anything by him yet, as I said, I need a lot of catching up (I do have a tendency towards laziness sometimes, with not-so-good long term effects).
And speaking of cathing up, I'll look for "Ode to a Nightingale" and also for Thomas James (the name rings familiar, but I can't say where from). He sounds like one I'd most likely appreciate. Also, it seems that a lot of artists who've made a mark died at that age (Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain), the great must burn out quickly? I remember having this morbid joke with a great friend of mine - she's younger than me - that if I want to do something with my life I'd best kick the bucket before I turn 28, but just as you said, while I'm fascinated by the beauty of despondency and the great things people create that stem from it, I intend to carry on for as long as I can, there's still too much to see and to do.