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this year

onetwothreefour

onetwothreefour

Bluelight Crew
Joined
Oct 13, 2002
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14,382
Location
Melbourne, Australia
i feel sorta bad posting when i haven't been reading anything else here, but i just haven't been feeling like it...

The sun should not behave as it does
Yet its obstinance is a virtue,
Despite my reservations

Without sun there is no moon
(no down - no up)
But one must wonder at the inordinate presence of the moon:
Where is this sun of joy always hiding?

I wait patiently
Perhaps a glimpse of my own invisible yew tree?
Of course it hides under its moon
Its leaves decipher the light

Clouds form like
Movies filled with drama and shadows
Scowling babbling essence:
They stare fierce, ego-full, heaving, spitting

But they are easy to avoid,
All winds and aggrandising and wooly bluff
They cannot really hurt you
(Even when they think they've won you dance joyous and mocking in their dull angry rains)

But clouds that pass
Days, weeks, months - with the moon - are cycles
(The dark clouds will come back)
New pages are not turned in a story already written

A story read many times before
Boisterous seasons march on
Oblivious; consequences? Trifling!
 
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saw this on your LJ but thought i'd reply here as it's kinda well, the place for it :)

i like this poem because of its narrative...it showed a lot of you in it, as well as being well paced.

you take a simple analogy for moods and really take possession of it by imbuing it with your own distinct personality and interwining specific parts of you.

i especially liked the last line...its flippancy really finishes the piece with a very endearing hopeful determination (i hope i'm reading it right). :)

the sun'll come out tomorrow, eh? ;)
 
cheers. god it's good when people can actually give real comments (and by that i don't mean that a simple 'i liked it' isn't still great - i just mean that it's really helpful and encouraging to get analysis too) on a poem. i haven't been writing much at all, so it's good to see some :)

what's funny about that is that *no* that's not how i meant the last line. but i think you've made a good point. i was playing with perspectives a little and went with the cloud's perspective ('cause ya know they're always writing so much poetry ;)) - the cloud will rain down on us with no thought of consequence.

but...

i was also going back and forth between positive and negative perspective, because it started off as just totally depressive, which is the cliche of my writing. so i moved away from it, so perhaps i was even letting it out there too. god, i'm so wanky :D
 
This reminded me of a poem I read recently:

The Moon and the Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my ffet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumey, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a facee in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after iti like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of coomplete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberely bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a gothic shape.
The eys loift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believee in tenderness----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness--blackness and silence.

-Sylvia Plath
 
I don't know whether you were referring to this poem specifically, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

The cool/creepy thing is that Sylvia Plath went to my highschool, had classes in the same room I do. When someone I knew committed suicide the administration wanted to take the plaque for Sylvia Plath down...I was ready to protest, but they decided not to.
 
all things come in threes?
so many directions but no wrong turns.
Big ups dude, I like.
 
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