TiaTalk











{Tue 6 March 2007}   The Nameless Thing
The Nameless Thing

What is this great horror?
I pad around it silently,
Catfelt in the dark.
It is not nervous.
Nor am I.
But it sits.
And I pace.
And that’s the way things are.
For now.



{Mon 5 March 2007}   The Ageless Call

I’ve been thinking a lot over this weekend about goals (or, more specifically, about my lack of clearly described, time-limited, achievable goals). I have wanted so many things over my life time, and many of those desires still remain, and yet it seems that I settle so easily for less than fulfilment, or for situations that are almost guaranteed to prevent fulfilment.

This morning I’m wondering about the (as yet unfulfilled) passion that I see in another childhood poem of mine, The Ageless Call (see below), which I wrote when I was thirteen. It speaks of my desire to go to Scotland, a land I knew only through my imagination and the very many Scottish activities I was exposed to in South Africa. Blood-wise, Scotland has no greater claim on me than the other strands of my origins, which include Irish, English, Lithuanian Jewish and others not explored. However, my parents met at Scottish Country Dancing in Johannesburg. My father used to teach (he developed several innovative new dances of his own), and had also done a bit of Highland Dancing while younger. As a family, we went often to weekly dance sessions and dancing holidays (although my brothers felt this was distinctly uncool and were rather reluctant participants). While at high school, I danced in competitions and demonstrations for a Scottish Country Dance group. I had also taken up Highland Dancing very young and competed in Highland Gatherings several times over the years. Although I did receive medals for exams and competitions, I never developed the dedication of two of my cousins who were South African champion dancers.

I also started bagpiping (to the consternation of almost everyone at the very prim girls’ boarding school I attended, and the fascinated incomprehension of the boys’ pipe band whose Band Master reluctantly allowed me to practise—but not to march officially—with them). After high school, I spent a brief period with the Transvaal Irish Regiment, but I was very naive and found it a bit rough being not only a teenager amongst adults, but the only female in a very masculine environment again, and this one much more macho. My enthusiasm also cooled fairly sharply as I began to realise the hours of commitment in practice and performance time needed to maintain the required standard and attend all the official functions. I left shortly after being measured for my kilt! However, my love of the pipes remained.

When my father died, I arranged for a piper to play at his funeral. It was a very appropriate send-off, but intensely emotional for almost everyone there because it brought him to mind so strongly. After his death, the Jewish side of my identity gradually took more and more focus. Eventually I emigrated to Israel, but I kept my practice chanter (I still have it) and took it with me on all my travels. When I eventually moved to the UK, I craved a reconnection to aspects of my culture that had been completely absent from my life for four years. One of the first things I did was to find a bagpipe teacher here. However, I stopped within a few months because work pressure made it difficult to find time for the necessary practice and I felt ashamed and undeserving before my very brilliant teacher. I also couldn’t fathom what I would do with my reinvigorated skill—an apartment in London is not exactly the best place for chuffing away on the bagpipes, and the practice chanter is a less-than-thrilling substitute. Also, my ever-patient husband, who is willing to give most things a go at least once, found it hard to work up any enthusiasm! I suppose it’s a lot to ask of anyone, but especially of an Israeli sabra with absolutely no exposure at all to any culture from the British Isles. At least he’s learned to love some Irish drinking songs…!

Nowadays, there’s not much Scottish in my life at all. I’ve only been to Scotland once, a few years ago. I did love it, but it was only for a few days. I wonder how to make sense of all the passion and all the experience over the years that seems to have come to nothing. My dad’s mom was Scottish and his dad Jewish, so in a way I suppose I explored my relationship with him via the former while he was alive and the latter after he died, but neither exploration yet feels complete.

The Ageless Call

The pipes, the pipes are calling me
To come to the highlands wild and free.
The swishing kilt, the marching feet,
Echo the time of the drummer’s beat.

The thrilling notes of victory
Running in my blood are part of me.
The glorious, triumphant battle cry
Lingers in the air from days gone by.

Oh, misty mountains of my Scotland,
Live forever against the bitter wind!
Wrapped in memories, your majesty
Reminds your folk of a proud country.

I want to dance the victory dance
Of the ancient Scots, in warrior stance.
If only I could return to the land
Where my heart beats to a Scottish band.

Great Scotland I have never seen;
To my own land I have never been.
Yet my spirit the distance spanned,
Linking me to my heather-clad land.

Born and bred in a southern place,
Scottish Jew with an Irish face:
A varied ancestry in all,
But the strongest cry is the piper’s call:

“Land of my high endeavour,
Land of the shining river,
Land of my heart forever,
Scotland the Brave!”



{Sun 4 March 2007}   panther in my living room

Blackjack with Flowers

panther in my living room

inside:
coiled energy hiding,
elastic power biding
lithe in silent limbs,
waiting for release;

outside:
luxuriantly stretching,
claws briefly etching
love or simply whims,
revelling in caprice;

sometimes:
kittensoft, purrplaying, strokesensing, growlgrowing;

always:
slinking toward synthesis, self-aware, knowing.



{Thu 1 March 2007}   My Ball-and-Chain

My Ball-and-Chain

I swung it daily,
my ball-and-chain,
around and around
the tea trolley,
hoarse with hoping
it would hit someone.

You, sipping,
listening
with your eyes,
gently disengaged it.
You poured me some tea,
cuffed me to myself
and bid me walk free.

 


{Wed 28 February 2007}   Leadership

Last night I was browsing through some of my thought-blurts and almost-poems and found this picture-poem combination. I recalled that I had been in a workshop where I made the picture first in response to some classical music (unfortunately, I forget which now) and then the poem in response to the picture. One of the things I couldn’t decide was which way up I preferred the picture, so that’s part of the theme!

One day this may become a standalone poem, but it needs further development. There’s just something about it that I like… I hope there’s enough here to catch your imagination too.

Sword of Damocles AboveSword of Damocles

Leadership

Am I emergent or exhumed,
Birthed or rebirthed,
Now dangling below,
Now arched above
Damocles’ sword?

With hair root-startled
And sucked-in stomach,
Breath whisked away
By words yet unformed,
Briefly balanced,
But naked,
In thought’s blue waters,

Is it with rhythm and poise
Or by sweet accident
That I somersault
(am catapulted)
over today’s death?

Do I swim under that sword,
Or is it beneath me?
Is this my dagger that I see before me?
No matter.
Tomorrow, a thousand deaths await me.



{Tue 27 February 2007}   Song and Dance
Song and Dance

Oh, grey stone steps! My steps are grey;
They heave like schoolboys from their play
When duty, duty, duty, calls
To “brighten lives” in Hades’ halls.

Their lino path invades my shoes;
Its disinfectants now suffuse
My squeamish toes, but measured pace
Seeks out the chair. The audience waits.

A faded circle: knitting, shawls
And blankets shuffle—time now crawls
And settles into atrophy
As, shallow-breathed, I sound a key.

This note-struck hour now adds itself
To sighing streams of time which swell
Past bleary eyes that bloat with tears
And shout at slowly shutting ears.

Stripped to the lip-read sound of noise,
This young and strong and destined voice
Must gentle now to songs of yore
That echo down love’s corridor.

Must stroke and soothe and smile—but, Stop!
What floating muse impels her up?
Urgent, she battles Wheelchair’s clutch:
Rises, surprises me with touch!

Recalling love, her arms wrap round
This startled beau. Thumbs tap: she sounds
The years on me, lifts chin and heart
And cocks her arms for Charleston start!



{Sat 24 February 2007}   Thanks for the lesson

And some days, one feels like this… as is the case with most of the poems on this site so far, I wrote this a long time ago, but it’s probably one to which many people can relate:

Thanks for the lesson

So you’re a lover, are you?
I can do that too:
I can lurve and leave you;
even I can screw
my head down tight and nasty,
move like a machine,
drive a forklift through the party,
decimate the dream
come true;
come, I can,
come through,
come, come,
can you?



{Fri 23 February 2007}   Seeking the Muse: Beautiful Melancholy
This poem by John Keats is one of my favourites. I return to its themes again and again as I try to understand that the capacity to enter fully into joy is the same one that enables me to grieve to the end of grief. Conversely, while my grieving is blocked, my bliss cannot flow.

The Ode on Melancholy urges me not to stop on the “obvious” expressions of Melancholy in my search for poetic feeling as this leads to a static non-productive depression, like artificially-induced altered states that purport to intensify experience but in fact deaden it. It urges me to yield to the exquisite apperception of true emotion that occurs when I am truly present to life and enter fully into its pleasures. A wholehearted contemplation of beauty must bring awareness of its transience. Ultimately, my pleasure in it is heightened precisely because of its transience. Human life is a bittersweet paradox of continual reaching for beauties which begin to dissipate almost in the moment of their flowering. The soul alert to this can truly feel.

Today, while researching it on the web, I was surprised to discover a discussion I hadn’t come across before (by marilee at englishhistory.net) of a preceding stanza that was removed before the Ode was published. It seemed at first a little impenetrable, but I realised that this was partly because I am so familiar with the other three stanzas. On rereading it, I was drawn in, especially by the idea that a poet might try to “stitch creeds together for a sail” — see my two previous posts!

Although I do think (as Keats and his publishers evidently did) that the poem as it is widely known can stand on its own, the possible prior stanza does convey the urgency that might drive the seeker to contemplate the extreme (suicidal) options covered in the stanza beginning “No, no…”. He really, really wants “To find the Melancholy”!

So… here it is, with four stanzas instead of the usual three.

Reading this poem slowly, aloud, is an incredibly rewarding experience. Enjoy!

Ode on Melancholy
by John Keats

Though you should build a bark of dead men’s bones,
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,
Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, bloodstained and aghast;
Although your rudder be a Dragon’s tail,
Long sever’d, yet still hard with agony,
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa; certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy, whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty – Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.



{Tue 20 February 2007}   Being in the Budding Field
Being in the Budding Field*

Our days flow dateless into nights
whose balm of cool and distant lights
soon melts beneath the searing dawns
of endless thirsty Negev morns.

Our heat-drugged forms ghost languid ways
through hanging dust that overlays
all muscle, feeling, thought and sense
with plodding, peaceful somnolence.

A-dream we walk, our veins shot full
of sun; our brains detach, annul
the links that joined us to the fates
of urgent lives beyond these gates.



{Mon 19 February 2007}   What is Poetry? 50 definitions
Why is it that everyone can identify poetry, but no one can define it? No matter how comprehensive the description, there is always a poem that doesn’t quite fit the given parameters. And yet, despite its many forms and styles, many people have a firm idea that they do or don’t like poetry. This is often based on exposure to a very few examples, and often in a coercive setting (i.e. school!). What kind of poetic expression speaks to you? Is it possible that one you haven’t met yet will do the trick?

I’ll start the list with a definition of my own and add several more that I’ve come across, in no particular order (yet). Please feel free to use Comments to suggest others—your own or anyone else’s (please only give definitions of “poetry”—we’ll do “poet” and other related items later!). Ultimately, I’ll compile a categorised resource page with the final results and acknowledge any contributions that usefully expand this list.

  1. Poetry is an attempt to capture the essence of the chord struck in the poet by an instant of insight, in such a way that the same music will sound in the soul of the reader. Tia Azulay
  2. poem n. a composition in metre : a composition of high beauty of thought or language and artistic form, in verse or prose : a creation, achievement, etc, marked by beauty or artistry. Chambers Student Dictionary
  3. Poetry is emotion put into measure. Thomas Hardy
  4. Poetry is the language of the imagination and the passions. William Hazlitt
  5. … not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader’s sense a vibration corresponding to what was felt by the writer—is the peculiar function of poetry. A.E. Housman
  6. Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement. Christopher Fry
  7. Poetry is a rhythmical form of words which express an imaginative-emotional-intellectual experience of the writer’s…in such a way that it creates a similar experience in the mind of his reader or listener. Clive Sansom
  8. Poetry is the spontaneous outflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origins from emotion recollected in tranquillity. William Wordsworth, Lyrical Ballads, 1802
  9. (Poetry is) literature in metrical form : any communication resembling poetry in beauty or the evocation of feeling
    wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn
  10. Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own. Salvatore Quasimodo
  11. Poetry (ancient Greek: ποιεω (poieo) = I create) is an art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. It consists largely of oral or literary works in which language is used in a manner that is felt by its user and audience to differ from ordinary prose. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry
  12. Poetry is man’s rebellion against being what he is. James Branch Cabell
  13. (Poetry is) a kind of ingenious nonsense. Isaac Newton
  14. (Poetry is) a literary expression in which words are used in a concentrated blend of sound and imagery to create an emotional response www.iclasses.org/assets/literature/literary_glossary.cfm
  15. Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. Carl Sandburg
  16. A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words. Robert Frost
  17. Poetry is what gets lost in translation. Robert Frost
  18. A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone’s knowledge of himself and the world around him.
    Dylan Thomas
  19. Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)
  20. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. T. S. Eliot (1888 – 1965), “Tradition and the Individual Talent”, II (The Sacred Wood, 1922)
  21. Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech. Simonides (556 BC – 468 BC)
  22. (Poetry) is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)
  23. Poetry is the deification of reality. Edith Sitwell (1887 – 1964), Life magazine, 01-04-63
  24. Poetry and Hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you. Winnie-the-Pooh, Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A. A. Milne
  25. Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. Carl Sandburg, Poetry Considered
  26. Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted. Percy Shelley, A Defence of Poetry, 1821
  27. Good poetry seems too simple and natural a thing that when we meet it we wonder that all men are not always poets. Poetry is nothing but healthy speech. Henry David Thoreau (1817 – 1862)
  28. Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. T. S. Eliot (1888 – 1965)
  29. (Poetry is) texts in rhythmic form, often employing rhyme and usually shorter and more concentrated in language and ideas than either prose or drama www.longman.co.uk/tt_seceng/resources/glosauth.htm
  30. Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history. Plato (427 BC – 347 BC)
  31. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen
  32. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. Edmund Burke
  33. Poetry is basically anything that calls itself a poem. www.trinityhigh.com/curric/english/literat/glossary.htm
  34. Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. Rita Dove
  35. Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary. Kahlil Gibran
  36. Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. Thomas Gray
  37. Poetry is all that is worth remembering in life. William Hazlitt
  38. (Poetry is) an imaginative response to experience reflecting a keen awareness of language. Its first characteristic is rhythm, marked by regularity far surpassing that of prose. Poetry’s rhyme affords an obvious difference from prose. Because poetry is relatively short, it is likely to be characterized by compactness and intense unity. Poetry insists on the specific and the concrete.
    www.armour.k12.sd.us/Mary’s%20Classes/literary_terms_glossary.htm
  39. Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth. Samuel Johnson
  40. Poetry should… strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance. John Keats
  41. Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. Edgar Allan Poe
  42. Poetry: the best words in the best order. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  43. The distinction between historian and poet is not in the one writing prose and the other verse… the one describes the thing that has been, and the other a kind of thing that might be. Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars. Aristotle, On Poetics
  44. Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads. Marianne Moore
  45. Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits. Carl Sandburg
  46. Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. Novalis
  47. There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing. John Cage
  48. Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. Charles Simic
  49. Poetry is certainly something more than good sense, but it must be good sense at all events; just as a palace is more than a house, but it must be a house, at least. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  50. The poem is a little myth of man’s capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see—it is, rather, a light by which we may see—and what we see is life. Robert Penn Warren

Acknowledgements: Although most of the above quotes are available from many sources, and I’ve encountered many of them before, I am grateful to Brainy Quote, Quotations Page, Quoteland, Quote World and The Quote Garden for either reminding me or making my search easier.



et cetera