Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Art Fags and Emo Kids Unite!
I stayed home from work today because I was feeling pretty much like shit. However, I wasn't feeling good enough to actually leave the house, but I was feeling restless and a bit too plagued by my own morose thoughts so I decided to do some organizational stuff that I had been putting off for a long time now...almost the better part of a year!
In any case, going through my things, I found several things of value. Probably not much value to anyone else, but a lot to me, but such is the way sentimental value works, I suppose. A lot of it was hilarious, which I'll put up over the next few days, some of it was serious and thoughtful. Its the serious and thoughtful things I'll post today. Get out your art fag caps, its poetry!
These 3 poems are probably 3 of my favorite of all time, all for different reasons. This first is "She Walks in Beauty" by George Gordon Byron. Its my favorite romantic poem, mostly because its written so beautifully, with an easy sort of rhythm and cadence, and partially because I think its cliche to think of Shakespeare when you think of romantic poetry. There's no doubt that Shakespeare wrote A LOT of romantic poetry, such as his collection of sonnets, but being as contrarian as I am, I like to be different.
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
The second poem is more modern, and one I loved the moment I read it. "Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou. It's very rhythmic, and its a poem I feel was written to be spoken aloud. Many feminist and femi-nazis have made this into their little "anthem" but its a poem I feel isn't about how great women are, or how they're better than me, or even the power they hold over men, but more of the power of a woman who truly knows herself, loves herself, and is comfortable in her own skin. It's something I've always aspired to be.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
And the last poem is "Curiosity" by Alastair Reid. It's truly my favorite poem of all time, and I think those that understand and relate will know why I've always felt a wee bit more of a cat person than a dog person.
may have killed the cat;more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again, each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.