Little Poems

I sat down to sharpen a pencil, because I was depressed and couldn’t fathom anything more. I ended up with 12 lines of iambic pentameter and two little poems. There might be something to this. Seriously, these poems are not great or amazing, but I am so happy right now, in a depressed sort of way. Without further ado…

The Bills

The bills are stacked some ten or twenty high
they must be paid today or soon or else
someone may come to take away my funds
and leave me high and dry without much fun

 

Albatross

But you cannot take ‘way the sky from me
it is my home my life my everything

my little albatross is fair and wise
beyond her years she flies with me for luck
she reads the minds of lesser folk its true
but freak or not my River is my crew

 

The second poem is inspired by the TV show Firefly, and once I figured out that albatross had enough syllables to scan into iambic pentameter the rest of the poem kinda flowed. But like I said, these are rough and simple, but they make me smile because of reasons.

 

The Poet Within

Previously today I wrote about wanting to write more poetry. Today I went to Barnes and Noble and bought a notebook for my poetical playings. On the cover it says “In the midst of our lives, we must find the magic that makes our souls soar.” This for me is the perfect quote. It is exactly what I want to do: in the midst of my depression, find something that can make my soul soar and make me able to be creative and maybe, just maybe, a little bit happy.

Today I was able to do this. I found my notebook, bought it, and then found a quiet corner of B&N and sat down and worked through the first chapter of Ode Less Traveled. Fry, the author, introduced meter and iambic pentameter in particular. The exercises involved identifying iambic pentameter and the stresses in each line and then writing some iambs of my own. It was a little difficult as I am a bit rusty and unused to writing in formal meter, but I had fun. As a result, I even wrote a couple little poems. They aren’t spectacular or amazing, but they are written in iambic pentameter, an accomplishment for me. Enjoy!

The Books All Sit

The books all sit upon the shelves in rows
and wait for some to come and buy their souls
they speak with many words and some with songs
of joy or sorrowful they weep and cry
the words all run and wash away today
oh please, won’t you buy one to save its life?

Down and Out

My pencil is not full of lead or ink
but it is running out of writing steam
eraser is a nub and now I need
a new pencil to write, unwrite these lines
of poetry and nonsensical lines

That, as they say, is That. The Poet Within is coming free. 

The Ode Less Travelled

Recently I have been floundering, awash in a sea of self-doubt, self-loathing, and self-not-going-anywhereness. These are symptoms of depression and part and parcel with a life lived with anxiety. The depressed individual often finds simple tasks difficult, and finds it difficult to do anything of any import. That has certainly been me.

But lately I have wanted to break free, to really lurch forward, and make a road for myself. I wrote previously about Joss Whedon, and that somehow he found the time while filming the Avengers 2 to write a simple little folk song called “Big Giant Me”, and is collaborating with the artist who performed it to produce an EP. If Whedon can find time and energy like that, surely I, in the midst of my depression and social anxiety, can find time to make my own road.

To that end I have blown the dust off a book I picked up in college entitled The Ode Less Traveled: Unlocking the Poet Within by Stephen Fry (and yes, the Stephen Fry of staggering Twitter celebrity, of Jeeves and Wooster, of A Bit of Fry and Laurie, and of V for Vendetta and the Hobbit trilogy). In this book, Fry helps the gentle novice explore the world of poetry from beginning to villanelle.

I consider myself more than a novice in the poetical world, but the truth is, I write mainly free verse, and I’ve never labored to master meter or many poetical forms. This is something that I would like to remedy. I would like to explore and push myself to learn and to obey the rules as the masters of the craft have done. Maybe I will still mainly write free verse, but I would like to know that I have done what I can to learn the ropes, as it were.

To that end, I will work through the Ode Less Travelled with Stephen Fry and learn what I can. When I am depressed and anxious, hopefully I can push myself to create just a little. Having a guide and a path easily marked usually helps the depressed individual move along, and the Ode Less Travelled should be such a guide and a path for me. Whatever else I may be, I want to be a poet. Perhaps I can unlock my Poet Within.

I tell you about it because I have a need to share most things, and because I want this to be real. I will be sharing what I write with the world, and I am starting at the beginning. Thus far I have mastered the introduction and end user agreement of the book. Well, almost. Mr. Fry wants his readers to have a notebook to keep with them always, as well as writing utensils, and I think buying a new notebook and new pencils will make this somewhat more real to me. To that end I must do something else I am loathe to do: enter the world of men and move around, but I think I will head to Barnes and Noble, a place certain to have what I need, and also a quieter place in the wide loudness of the world.

So pray with me, as I pray to the universe, to allow me this small breakthrough of my depression, that it may lead to greater and bigger things, or a least a little poetry.

War Machine

I’ve grown weary of this war machine
grinds up the bones of the young
spitting out dust for ages
a stamping, crushing wine press
splitting skulls and spilling blood
o’re the rim

takes youths
spits back broken teeth
still the rich sorcerers call
more!
more bullets
more guns
more death
satisfy the war machine

God weeps o’re the dead
decaying bodies of the children
the war machine has obliterated

ghouls call the war machine
beautiful
each shapely bolt
pulled back to cuddle rounds
into chamber’s steaming embrace
caress seductive trigger
pump hot, sexy lead
into another soul

a child
a woman
a man
a brother
a mother
a sister
a son
another innocent angel falls

prey to the war machine
pray to the war machine

for mercy

Inspired by “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath

On: “Black Mass”

or Why I Write Dark Poetry

I just wrote a poem entitled “Black Mass” (read it here). And I know that one or two people might be slightly disturbed at the subject matter of said poem. After all, it is an evil ceremony, a wicked rite or a black mass. Some witches spatter blood on some animal corpses, demons come forth to eat those corpses and an angel is sacrificed. A sorceress works some magic and boom! something evil happens.

First of all, the idea came to me as I finished watching 300: Rise of an Empire, specifically the end credits when the soundtrack riffs on Black Sabbath’s song “War Pigs” (which you can read here). Specifically, the second line of the song which goes “just like witches at black masses” and I wondered: what would a witches’ black mass look like?

As is halfway usual, I got more of a feeling than a full formed poem. (The rest of the time I get a full formed poem). I didn’t want to exactly reproduce the words of the song, but I did want to reproduce the black mass. So I started playing, started finding rhyming words and built the poem. The three word lines kept it compact and punchy (I wanted this to be a visceral experience reading it); I didn’t want it to be melodic. I wanted the poem to be full of blackness and creepiness and all manner of unseemly elements. Then I got the idea that the animals are not the main sacrifice: that is an angel. I mean, what could be more evil than sacrificing an angel (besides like a baby or something).

The poem then ends with the rite as something is accomplished. What exactly that is I leave up to the audience*, the reader, but something is definitely manifested as a result of this black mass.

So that is the what. Now for the why. One, the song lyric is “witches at black masses”. The evil, occult setting is right there in the inspiring line. Cause: effect. Two, I like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff show Angel. Both deal with the darker elements of occult mythology, i.e. vampires and demons and magic. I like that subject matter for the world it evokes: something primeval, something of prime evil.

I am not a Satan worshipper, I don’t even think Satan exists. I don’t love evil. I don’t condone sacrificing angels. But I do like the imagery and the metaphor of such things. What is so necessary that something luminous and bright must be sacrificed? What is a witch, in this context? What are the demons? What is “Satan” in this particular story? I don’t mean the accepted definitions of these things, but say what is brought forth is war, as the original song talks about. How then do we interpret the images, the metaphors? I am not saying war is the result of the black mass, but it certainly could be. The point is, whatever the result of the black mass, that informs how the rest of the poem is interpreted. I just use occult imagery as the vehicle to describe something that is occurring. So why occult and not puppies and sunshine? Well, puppies and sunshine tend to evoke happy, carefree, live for the moment types of things and I needed images that stood for dark, heavy, decidedly ambiguous (at best) types of things. That is really all there is to it.

 

*By the way, the ending: I hate to spoil the seeming grand design of it all, but originally I couldn’t think of something poignant enough to be the end result of the rite. At the exact same time, I thought “wouldn’t it be cool if this were a ‘choose your own adventure’ type of poem? Why not let the reader decide what is brought forth by the angel sacrifice?” so I ran with it and specifically engineered the poem to build to an abrupt end. Ultimately, you decide what it is about. Certainly the inspiring song is about the Vietnam War, and I have my own personal ideas what the poem is about, but your idea is just as valid. It might even be more so. What do you think it is about?

Black Mass

Hands dripping red
blood splatt’ring dead
carcasses with incantations.
Rotten evil incubations
birth black incarnations.
Shrieking witches laughing
bring forth gnashing
demons eager feasting.
Twisted smoke seething
across dark’ning mass.
Angel’s growing wrath
restrained in chains.
Satan’s red domain’s
full brimming veins
with bile, blood
full drooling flood.
White sacrifice burning
wings smoking churning.
Black magic making
oppressed earth quaking
all foundations shaking
beneath wicked sorceress.
Spoken spell coalesces:

 

*inspired by War Pigs by Black Sabbath

Silver Halide Dreams

All my tears will fade away
and dry will be
when I am dead and cold
and bones and dust
down in the ground
wafting on another
universe’s breeze

I will forget about you
when my brain clouds
over with silver halide
And all I see is another face
for eternity and anon
I won’t weep all night
and sleep all day

It don’t matter where you lay
my ashes: the ocean,
or an old rusty can
I’ll finally be free of you
and your love that I crave
there’s no earthly grave
can hold my soul

I want you now, my heart
is a fool and a clown
laughing at another’s jokes
face painted in smiles
like a moon reflecting sun
lighting up the night sky
death ends the longing

gold and silver won’t you buy
not all the foods in the world
they’d choke and end you
I can’t lure you nor woo you
I am home and I am free
I just don’t see my freedom
apart from a ceasing to be

a low chanting and calling
ancient majiks and dark sorcery
somewhere a priest prays for me
and my soul longs to escape your chains
don’t cry for me, I’ll be free
once upon a ghost getting
and a new horizon

blind eyes and temporary riches
these I have, all in store,
my friend take these coins and cash
toss them across the burial grounds
find me another to share my wealth
of life and love and seeing eyes
so I might not die today

it don’t matter what you say
what you do or where you stay
my release lies in the hands of another
an other soul to mate with mine
together deathless we’ll be
rampaging through eternity
wounded and whole

 

**inspired by life and “All My Tears” by Jars of Clay

Morning Walk

I walk the dog, leading her
through a dainty dance of steps
around that tree, sniff that leaf
deposit an odiferous offering to the morning
elsewhere a woodpecker rat-a-tat-tats
a sapling upturns fresh wounds to the sky
soaking up falling rain, stumps fresh
with chainsaw burns
we finish our circuit, both wet and refreshed
and empty of our troubles
my pup and I, we rejoin
the quiet dark of the apartment