You likely don't know who Joe Limer is. He's an associate professor at Palomar College in Escondido, California. That's on the surface. Beyond that he is an extremely talented performance artist - his speciality: def poetry. I was fortunate enough to attend a quickly thrown together workshop he hosted before he returned to California this week and it produced a lot in me to think about and consider with my new and existing works - good fuel to push me over the finish line with this current book of poetry I'm finishing up in the near future.
Anyway, the first exercise was in speed writing haikus - just getting an emotion onto the paper as raw and unadulterated - and fast - as possible. I was able to grind out six in the 10 minutes we were given. I thought I'd go ahead and share them with you all - a little hors d'oeuvre for you all until my next post.
All in all, it was a great experience, and I can't wait to do something like it again. Thanks Joe - and keep up the amazing work!
'workshop haikus 6-27-11'
This is not a gift
Or perhaps there are no gifts
Until we learn to take
Hops twine up the lines
The season jogs so swiftly
I really must catch up
The morning car ride
Screams out to invite the song
I never turn one on
I pen the never
I dream the past that once was
I grasp what must be
Gain the upper hand
Shrug the weight of atlas now
Stomp upon the rest
Thou art in a glass
Color, texture, flavor, smell
Drunk on every part
- Joshua Clarke
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Day 17 - "Losing the Cord"
Aye, here we all are again, say true. See us now - see us very well - restin' upon the precipice of a new poem for a new day dawning in an old world. 'Tis a feelin' that comes often, but not often enough for the likes of my own. But that's just me, I 'spose. For all the drawl of this lonely walk to the gallows, there are a few moments worth taking the time to truly enjoy, if ye find ye're well able to enjoy them, that is - do ya kennit?
Yes, as some of you might have guessed I'm being drawn in, once again, by the tales of Roland and his ka-tet in Stephen King's Dark Tower series. It's one of my absolute favorite series of novels I've ever read and continues to be - it's an extremely rich mythos with an almost insurmountable mystery behind it all to contend with. That's probably what I love about it the most - that and its overall message one reaches when they finish the seventh book, especially if they decide to follow Roland all the way to the top of the Tower itself, which Mr. King cleverly and importantly gives you the choice of and elaborates on before that final chapter. He asks the reader, considering all they have read, what would it mean to take that final step alongside him? What would it mean to finally acquire the goal that we've been hankering for for over six volumes? What was it that truly stood out as meaningful, after all - the end, or the journey to the end, and what we sacrificed to get there along the way?
It's interesting, beautiful, tragic, and poetic - all rolled into one. And I obviously can't get enough of it. :) I would advise anyone who's a fan of grand, enticing, suspenseful adventure that gives even the Lord of the Rings a huge run for its money to pick up the Gunslinger and see where it leads you. Then again, that's for ka to decide.
In any case, I started this post today with the intention of actually posting a poem, so I'm going to do just that. However, the preface above actually does play a part in the poem I chose to post today. I wrote this piece when I was outside of Nags Head, North Carolina on the shoreside in the early morning, about 4:30 AM, with my friend Nick, waiting for the sun to rise on the beach. I had been reading the series at the time and had just finished the second book, The Drawing of the Three, and was starting on the third. Strangely enough, the bulk of the second book takes place on a beach near the Great Sea in Mid-World and it inspired me, coupled with the events of the book, to compose a poem right there in the dim light of the newborn day while Nick sat beside me in his beach chair having a cigarette and sipping on a bottle of some recently-purchased liquor.
I thought about the paths we take in life, the places we go, and what binds it all together. It brought back symbols and ideas I had gleaned from high school AP English class while reading and examining Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities. In our analysis the character of Lucie is said to weave the "golden thread" through the rest of the characters in the novel, binding them to a better destiny and community as a whole. This idea of a "golden thread" pervading different experiences and people in life has always piqued my interest and I have since thought about it often. It's something I pull into consideration in just about every narrative literary work I come across these days, and in a way it was the main inspiration for this work. In that moment I suppose I was attempting to grasp - however unattainably - for my own "golden thread" woven by God and the fates that has since chosen who and what I am to meet in this world and why - again, another echo of the Dark Tower series. :)
So take it for what it is - it was written in passion and shall remain so - probably never to be explained fully, though I would likely be displeased with it if I was ever able to fully embrace every thought I put into it. It's the mystery of the thing with me, I guess - that's what I love about it. So take of it what enjoyment and fascination you will, and share this bit of khef with me, will ya? Long days and pleasant nights, sai Reader. See you further along down the Path of the Beam.
"Losing the Cord"
The witness nears the ocean
The sights and sounds of grandeur creep inside
Extending the vital climate of the magician’s sleight of hand
This harness grants him motion
And evergreen breezes fade as his spirit glides
Out of reach and into the breach that lies beyond the sand
and in the flash of a fire-igniting blaze
in the first gasp ever taken by the dust-becomes-man
the horizon splits
and life-becomes-death
and death-becomes-life
an awakening hits
Where we wiped the dew from our new skin
To find the narrative stretched to the brink
Encased in the milky glass, still seized by the mechanical demon’s grin
Like clockwork, slowly seeping down the sink
Therein lies the traitor
In a red-ribbed, vitriolic, patriotic stride
Confusion given preference, delusion made as powerful as wrath
No questions of war, now or later
To begin to adore the creature and choose sides
Corrupts the convolution of the institution that controls who walks its path
and in the fiercest of the billowing nights
that harbor hordes borne ready as the man-becomes-dust
the curtain rips
and tragedy-becomes-realization
and realization-becomes-tragedy
a sickness grips
Where the instant stings the witness to the senses
Of a weary traveler nearing a mass too great to explore
Suddenly reaching for the strand, now caught between past and present tenses
And finally losing the cord – finally, losing the cord
- Joshua Clarke
Yes, as some of you might have guessed I'm being drawn in, once again, by the tales of Roland and his ka-tet in Stephen King's Dark Tower series. It's one of my absolute favorite series of novels I've ever read and continues to be - it's an extremely rich mythos with an almost insurmountable mystery behind it all to contend with. That's probably what I love about it the most - that and its overall message one reaches when they finish the seventh book, especially if they decide to follow Roland all the way to the top of the Tower itself, which Mr. King cleverly and importantly gives you the choice of and elaborates on before that final chapter. He asks the reader, considering all they have read, what would it mean to take that final step alongside him? What would it mean to finally acquire the goal that we've been hankering for for over six volumes? What was it that truly stood out as meaningful, after all - the end, or the journey to the end, and what we sacrificed to get there along the way?
It's interesting, beautiful, tragic, and poetic - all rolled into one. And I obviously can't get enough of it. :) I would advise anyone who's a fan of grand, enticing, suspenseful adventure that gives even the Lord of the Rings a huge run for its money to pick up the Gunslinger and see where it leads you. Then again, that's for ka to decide.
In any case, I started this post today with the intention of actually posting a poem, so I'm going to do just that. However, the preface above actually does play a part in the poem I chose to post today. I wrote this piece when I was outside of Nags Head, North Carolina on the shoreside in the early morning, about 4:30 AM, with my friend Nick, waiting for the sun to rise on the beach. I had been reading the series at the time and had just finished the second book, The Drawing of the Three, and was starting on the third. Strangely enough, the bulk of the second book takes place on a beach near the Great Sea in Mid-World and it inspired me, coupled with the events of the book, to compose a poem right there in the dim light of the newborn day while Nick sat beside me in his beach chair having a cigarette and sipping on a bottle of some recently-purchased liquor.
I thought about the paths we take in life, the places we go, and what binds it all together. It brought back symbols and ideas I had gleaned from high school AP English class while reading and examining Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities. In our analysis the character of Lucie is said to weave the "golden thread" through the rest of the characters in the novel, binding them to a better destiny and community as a whole. This idea of a "golden thread" pervading different experiences and people in life has always piqued my interest and I have since thought about it often. It's something I pull into consideration in just about every narrative literary work I come across these days, and in a way it was the main inspiration for this work. In that moment I suppose I was attempting to grasp - however unattainably - for my own "golden thread" woven by God and the fates that has since chosen who and what I am to meet in this world and why - again, another echo of the Dark Tower series. :)
So take it for what it is - it was written in passion and shall remain so - probably never to be explained fully, though I would likely be displeased with it if I was ever able to fully embrace every thought I put into it. It's the mystery of the thing with me, I guess - that's what I love about it. So take of it what enjoyment and fascination you will, and share this bit of khef with me, will ya? Long days and pleasant nights, sai Reader. See you further along down the Path of the Beam.
"Losing the Cord"
The witness nears the ocean
The sights and sounds of grandeur creep inside
Extending the vital climate of the magician’s sleight of hand
This harness grants him motion
And evergreen breezes fade as his spirit glides
Out of reach and into the breach that lies beyond the sand
and in the flash of a fire-igniting blaze
in the first gasp ever taken by the dust-becomes-man
the horizon splits
and life-becomes-death
and death-becomes-life
an awakening hits
Where we wiped the dew from our new skin
To find the narrative stretched to the brink
Encased in the milky glass, still seized by the mechanical demon’s grin
Like clockwork, slowly seeping down the sink
Therein lies the traitor
In a red-ribbed, vitriolic, patriotic stride
Confusion given preference, delusion made as powerful as wrath
No questions of war, now or later
To begin to adore the creature and choose sides
Corrupts the convolution of the institution that controls who walks its path
and in the fiercest of the billowing nights
that harbor hordes borne ready as the man-becomes-dust
the curtain rips
and tragedy-becomes-realization
and realization-becomes-tragedy
a sickness grips
Where the instant stings the witness to the senses
Of a weary traveler nearing a mass too great to explore
Suddenly reaching for the strand, now caught between past and present tenses
And finally losing the cord – finally, losing the cord
- Joshua Clarke
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Day 16 - "Matar as Saudades, Or How To Write With a Broken Heart"
Good morning everyone,
I do intend to be genial and genuinely happy today in my post, though I feel I cannot post very much personal explanation for the piece. So much has occurred in my life lately - so much that is painful and difficult to mention - that I don't wish to recount it all here once again (which is why I haven't posted in a while, if any of you have been wondering why). Instead, I will let the poem speak for itself, as it is the first poem I have been able to pen since the event that has forever changed my life recently. At the very least, before I set it upon you, I will offer insight into the poem's title as well as the epigraph.
The poem's first title, "matar as saudades" is a common Portuguese phrase and means, simply, "to kill the saudades." Saudades is a beautiful Portuguese word for which there is no English translation, nor in any other language, and I will not rob you of the opportunity to discover what the word means on your own.
The epigraph is one written by a famous Portuguese 'saudadismo' and, in essence, it states:
"In reality
A man only finds himself in what he looses,
Because he embraces the space and the eternity."
I couldn't have found more perfect words. Enjoy the poem.
"Matar as Saudades, Or How To Write With a Broken Heart"
"Na verdade
Um homem só se encontra no que perde,
Porque ele abrange o espaço e a eternidade."
- TEIXEIRA DE PASCOAES
There is no instruction
No sling to hold it
No cloth to bear tears
No drink to quick-dissolve the ache
Only this, for sure: that we will sit with our pens
And think of things like,
“What strange little markings on these pages we’ve made.
And what do they mean, after all?
Fragments of ourselves -
Pieces of our hearts -
etched into tombstones of dead, bleached wood;
Epitaphs of bygone feelings, cut into manageable strips.
Distributed.
Given away to others, to take of as they will.
And this, we think,
this is what we ultimately wanted.
To have part of ourselves forever given to others,
And, to an extent, forever taken from us.”
The essence of true love
is sacrifice.
Like Adam, forced out of Eden, knew:
‘From now on, we must strive for our happiness.
It will not be given freely - never again.’
To dress our shrapnelled wounds and
Stumble through the crowds outside the Garden
We call forth lithic words of wisdom;
Capture the voices of friends within our ears;
Stitch the gifts of suffering upon our hearts;
And sit.
Just sit.
For hours, in the land of Nod.
Praying to understand the lot we cast.
Listening to the birds crying out, speaking in tongues
Through the stillness of the bleak morning air.
They sow not, reap not, nor gather in barns,
yet are fed.
The world still exists,
and will carry the birds and broken hearts along with it
Through each and every revolution.
But again, there is no instruction
This earth will turn
And you shall walk upon it, exiled
A wanderer
Without shoulder to lean on
Nor hand to clasp
Silently uttering horrible truths to your soul
You hoped you never would,
To which it shall respond, harmlessly enough,
“This pain, dear friend, is the price to be paid.”
It is then that one learns,
If we faint not at this,
That our pens still have ink to sacrifice
If our hearts can bear our hands to write
And carve new words into the dead, bleached wood
Of the generous tree, ‘neath whose shade we would slumber
In times we would die to see once more,
With a rough, mended smile, proclaiming therein, in vain:
“Set me once more upon your mantle, love;
I should be glad to be broken by your hands again.”
For Joe
- Joshua Clarke
I do intend to be genial and genuinely happy today in my post, though I feel I cannot post very much personal explanation for the piece. So much has occurred in my life lately - so much that is painful and difficult to mention - that I don't wish to recount it all here once again (which is why I haven't posted in a while, if any of you have been wondering why). Instead, I will let the poem speak for itself, as it is the first poem I have been able to pen since the event that has forever changed my life recently. At the very least, before I set it upon you, I will offer insight into the poem's title as well as the epigraph.
The poem's first title, "matar as saudades" is a common Portuguese phrase and means, simply, "to kill the saudades." Saudades is a beautiful Portuguese word for which there is no English translation, nor in any other language, and I will not rob you of the opportunity to discover what the word means on your own.
The epigraph is one written by a famous Portuguese 'saudadismo' and, in essence, it states:
"In reality
A man only finds himself in what he looses,
Because he embraces the space and the eternity."
I couldn't have found more perfect words. Enjoy the poem.
"Matar as Saudades, Or How To Write With a Broken Heart"
"Na verdade
Um homem só se encontra no que perde,
Porque ele abrange o espaço e a eternidade."
- TEIXEIRA DE PASCOAES
There is no instruction
No sling to hold it
No cloth to bear tears
No drink to quick-dissolve the ache
Only this, for sure: that we will sit with our pens
And think of things like,
“What strange little markings on these pages we’ve made.
And what do they mean, after all?
Fragments of ourselves -
Pieces of our hearts -
etched into tombstones of dead, bleached wood;
Epitaphs of bygone feelings, cut into manageable strips.
Distributed.
Given away to others, to take of as they will.
And this, we think,
this is what we ultimately wanted.
To have part of ourselves forever given to others,
And, to an extent, forever taken from us.”
The essence of true love
is sacrifice.
Like Adam, forced out of Eden, knew:
‘From now on, we must strive for our happiness.
It will not be given freely - never again.’
To dress our shrapnelled wounds and
Stumble through the crowds outside the Garden
We call forth lithic words of wisdom;
Capture the voices of friends within our ears;
Stitch the gifts of suffering upon our hearts;
And sit.
Just sit.
For hours, in the land of Nod.
Praying to understand the lot we cast.
Listening to the birds crying out, speaking in tongues
Through the stillness of the bleak morning air.
They sow not, reap not, nor gather in barns,
yet are fed.
The world still exists,
and will carry the birds and broken hearts along with it
Through each and every revolution.
But again, there is no instruction
This earth will turn
And you shall walk upon it, exiled
A wanderer
Without shoulder to lean on
Nor hand to clasp
Silently uttering horrible truths to your soul
You hoped you never would,
To which it shall respond, harmlessly enough,
“This pain, dear friend, is the price to be paid.”
It is then that one learns,
If we faint not at this,
That our pens still have ink to sacrifice
If our hearts can bear our hands to write
And carve new words into the dead, bleached wood
Of the generous tree, ‘neath whose shade we would slumber
In times we would die to see once more,
With a rough, mended smile, proclaiming therein, in vain:
“Set me once more upon your mantle, love;
I should be glad to be broken by your hands again.”
For Joe
- Joshua Clarke
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Day 15 - "Paintings"
'Allo, all.
Today, being the last day I will see my fiancee until one or two days before the wedding in July, is a somber one for me. What I have to look forward to for the next two weeks is basically a sort of solitary confinement to my job and my bank account as well as a walk to the gallows in a sense - it is the beginning of the last few weeks I will be living in this state near my family; probably for the rest of my life. It's a lot to prepare for, and I don't feel in the least bit prepared.
I sit here in the dim kitchen this morning, wondering what it will be like to think back on this time of my life - thinking back on this place that has meant so much to me in the past - a place that I will never be able to visit again. Sometimes... it almost seems better not to think of it. Life is change. Life is growth. Life is a cycle, and the wheel must turn. Nothing will remain forever.
That is, except pictures - pictures either in our minds or on our shelves. Already I've posted another poem, "If to see such again," about that same idea. However, there is another one I have written that is similar, but with a much different tone and interpretation. Much more like a cross-section of the thought - a studied examination and hypothesis. It's about the grip of the moment - the peculiarity of making something immutable in a mutable world. It goes back to a conversation I had a while ago with a family member about an old painting in our home, and I believe it presents something very interesting about art within its lines. It is also a concrete poem - something I don't take up very often, but as a poem written about an image I thought it an appropriate choice in this circumstance; it also presents some interesting enjambment that adds to the impact of the piece in my opinion which is something I had intended from the beginning, even before I decided to make it a concrete work (Eat your heart out, Heaney and Carson). However, the spacing of the concrete-ness of the poem doesn't show up in this page's formatting, unfortunately, so you won't have to worry about it until you buy my book when it's finally published, right? :) So here it is, the fifteenth poem - the halfway mark - of our thirty days of poetry marathon. We've made it this far; may as well shove on, eh? Enjoy.
"Paintings"
Paintings
Are so much better than stories,
...you know?
Everything left to the
Dark
of your imagination.
you never know
what’s happened just before
or what’s going to happen
you don’t know
anything of anyone in it
or what they’ve gone through
to be there.
In that pose.
The world in the frame is a
Mystery
To us.
We’ll never hear their thoughts
as they stare at us and at each other.
We’ll never see their welling tears fall
to the floor from their faces.
And they’ll always be there in that moment,
...you know?
Constantly living
in that glimpse of beauty
that either
Compels them
or
Kills them
...forever.
Captured in their light.
It’s a
Lovely medium,
...don’t you think?
- Joshua Clarke
Today, being the last day I will see my fiancee until one or two days before the wedding in July, is a somber one for me. What I have to look forward to for the next two weeks is basically a sort of solitary confinement to my job and my bank account as well as a walk to the gallows in a sense - it is the beginning of the last few weeks I will be living in this state near my family; probably for the rest of my life. It's a lot to prepare for, and I don't feel in the least bit prepared.
I sit here in the dim kitchen this morning, wondering what it will be like to think back on this time of my life - thinking back on this place that has meant so much to me in the past - a place that I will never be able to visit again. Sometimes... it almost seems better not to think of it. Life is change. Life is growth. Life is a cycle, and the wheel must turn. Nothing will remain forever.
That is, except pictures - pictures either in our minds or on our shelves. Already I've posted another poem, "If to see such again," about that same idea. However, there is another one I have written that is similar, but with a much different tone and interpretation. Much more like a cross-section of the thought - a studied examination and hypothesis. It's about the grip of the moment - the peculiarity of making something immutable in a mutable world. It goes back to a conversation I had a while ago with a family member about an old painting in our home, and I believe it presents something very interesting about art within its lines. It is also a concrete poem - something I don't take up very often, but as a poem written about an image I thought it an appropriate choice in this circumstance; it also presents some interesting enjambment that adds to the impact of the piece in my opinion which is something I had intended from the beginning, even before I decided to make it a concrete work (Eat your heart out, Heaney and Carson). However, the spacing of the concrete-ness of the poem doesn't show up in this page's formatting, unfortunately, so you won't have to worry about it until you buy my book when it's finally published, right? :) So here it is, the fifteenth poem - the halfway mark - of our thirty days of poetry marathon. We've made it this far; may as well shove on, eh? Enjoy.
"Paintings"
Paintings
Are so much better than stories,
...you know?
Everything left to the
Dark
of your imagination.
you never know
what’s happened just before
or what’s going to happen
you don’t know
anything of anyone in it
or what they’ve gone through
to be there.
In that pose.
The world in the frame is a
Mystery
To us.
We’ll never hear their thoughts
as they stare at us and at each other.
We’ll never see their welling tears fall
to the floor from their faces.
And they’ll always be there in that moment,
...you know?
Constantly living
in that glimpse of beauty
that either
Compels them
or
Kills them
...forever.
Captured in their light.
It’s a
Lovely medium,
...don’t you think?
- Joshua Clarke
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Day 14 - "Memory of a Lucid dream"
Guten Morgen, mein friends. And what a morning it is.
I feel more tired today than if I'd been out drinking all night and I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's the weather - muggy and supremely foggy outside as the sun continues its late-spring work of slicing through it to proclaim its daily majesty. It's triumphant return. But enough garnishment... I'm too tired for excessive verbiage at the moment.
In any sense, given this over-grogginess I'm feeling I've decided to post a poem from another time in my life when I was stuck tight in the grip of sleepiness and had a strange and interesting experience that eventually became poem-worthy. I remember it occurring at one of my old workplaces - one of those things that happens out of nowhere, in the dim, mindless hours of the early morning. Something that occurs in the twilight of consciousness that cannot be explained, as we fully wake ourselves later, wondering again and again if that was actually real or merely a dream. Whatever the case, I let it be and eventually ended up chronicling it in this work and expanding upon the feelings and thoughts it produced in me. I hope you all enjoy it for what it's worth, for now I must bid you all a fond adieu until tomorrow... alas, I'm going back to bed for a while to visit those charming kingdoms once more. :)
Memory of a Lucid dream
I opened my heavy eyes from
Sleep, or so I believed.
And what therein I
Perceived
Was some bright incandescent, and a face
Mild, yet pleasant
That turned and stole a brief moment’s
Pure, desirous essence
That I have since
Longed for to keep.
Will we remember this
One dream of a life
When our eyes are
Glazed over
With eternity’s light?
One cannot tell, but
If it be so
May we sleepers forego the
Infernal beams of lunar glow;
For the fancies we seek
are but the heathenish lore
Of Morpheus, Phantasos, and Phobetor
Who tend those charming kingdoms
For evermore.
- Joshua Clarke
I feel more tired today than if I'd been out drinking all night and I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's the weather - muggy and supremely foggy outside as the sun continues its late-spring work of slicing through it to proclaim its daily majesty. It's triumphant return. But enough garnishment... I'm too tired for excessive verbiage at the moment.
In any sense, given this over-grogginess I'm feeling I've decided to post a poem from another time in my life when I was stuck tight in the grip of sleepiness and had a strange and interesting experience that eventually became poem-worthy. I remember it occurring at one of my old workplaces - one of those things that happens out of nowhere, in the dim, mindless hours of the early morning. Something that occurs in the twilight of consciousness that cannot be explained, as we fully wake ourselves later, wondering again and again if that was actually real or merely a dream. Whatever the case, I let it be and eventually ended up chronicling it in this work and expanding upon the feelings and thoughts it produced in me. I hope you all enjoy it for what it's worth, for now I must bid you all a fond adieu until tomorrow... alas, I'm going back to bed for a while to visit those charming kingdoms once more. :)
Memory of a Lucid dream
I opened my heavy eyes from
Sleep, or so I believed.
And what therein I
Perceived
Was some bright incandescent, and a face
Mild, yet pleasant
That turned and stole a brief moment’s
Pure, desirous essence
That I have since
Longed for to keep.
Will we remember this
One dream of a life
When our eyes are
Glazed over
With eternity’s light?
One cannot tell, but
If it be so
May we sleepers forego the
Infernal beams of lunar glow;
For the fancies we seek
are but the heathenish lore
Of Morpheus, Phantasos, and Phobetor
Who tend those charming kingdoms
For evermore.
- Joshua Clarke
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Day 13 - "Fables Ex Vivo"
A good Sunday morning to you all!
Today's a bit of a busy day for me, and in keeping with my schedule I decided to post a poem that's probably something more desirable in terms of today's social climate. Something fast - something easily digestible. Something you can take one or two glances at and still receive a nugget of golden understanding. I suppose they're fairly haiku-like in nature, really, but their format is of my own invention, I assure you (unless this is some sort of poetic style I am currently unaware of). The poem in itself is six little observations I've made over time and condensed into bits that, together, form a whole. The Latin term "ex vivo" literally translates as "out of the living" or 'that which takes place out of an organism'. This is what I sought to document and raise to a level of observation far above the ordinary - ideas attached to mere moments; things to be considered in a far more aesthetic sense. All in all, I suppose that's just poetry in general. So be it. I've created poetry. Ha, think of that!
Here it is. I hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful, restful Sunday.
"Fables Ex Vivo"
1
The child gazed at a brochure in the soaking rain
And wondered
How did they make the sky so blue?
2
When it turned straight ahead to watch them
The statue’s glare
Met the salt pillars’ and wouldn’t speak their names
3
Mumbled prophecies dropped from the hand
Into the paper cup
And the suit felt death was a great idea
4
There was no reason for the markings on the stone
But in time
Their silence would evolve and breed lonely horrors
5
Younglings stroll uncertainly about the streets and
Attempt to embrace
The worth of bottles and the rattle-songs of scavenging
6
Muscled steaming animas gutted the groaning age
Shuddering through fevers
They had contracted from the coughs of golden calves
- Joshua Clarke
Today's a bit of a busy day for me, and in keeping with my schedule I decided to post a poem that's probably something more desirable in terms of today's social climate. Something fast - something easily digestible. Something you can take one or two glances at and still receive a nugget of golden understanding. I suppose they're fairly haiku-like in nature, really, but their format is of my own invention, I assure you (unless this is some sort of poetic style I am currently unaware of). The poem in itself is six little observations I've made over time and condensed into bits that, together, form a whole. The Latin term "ex vivo" literally translates as "out of the living" or 'that which takes place out of an organism'. This is what I sought to document and raise to a level of observation far above the ordinary - ideas attached to mere moments; things to be considered in a far more aesthetic sense. All in all, I suppose that's just poetry in general. So be it. I've created poetry. Ha, think of that!
Here it is. I hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful, restful Sunday.
"Fables Ex Vivo"
1
The child gazed at a brochure in the soaking rain
And wondered
How did they make the sky so blue?
2
When it turned straight ahead to watch them
The statue’s glare
Met the salt pillars’ and wouldn’t speak their names
3
Mumbled prophecies dropped from the hand
Into the paper cup
And the suit felt death was a great idea
4
There was no reason for the markings on the stone
But in time
Their silence would evolve and breed lonely horrors
5
Younglings stroll uncertainly about the streets and
Attempt to embrace
The worth of bottles and the rattle-songs of scavenging
6
Muscled steaming animas gutted the groaning age
Shuddering through fevers
They had contracted from the coughs of golden calves
- Joshua Clarke
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Day 12 - "The Curio-cart man"
Good day, eh, and welcome to day 12.
(a little Bob & Doug McKenzie for you this morning.)
Today, I'm in a pretty good poetic mood. Things are rough at the moment, but of course there are diamonds to be found nonetheless. At my new job my shift doesn't start until 10:30 so I get a little bit of free time in the morning to compose myself and kind of gear-into the work-day. True, it's pretty disgusting to have to work from 10:30 AM til 8:00 PM on a beautiful Saturday, but this is the price we pay, I suppose, for our extremely modest lifestyle. C'est la vie, eh?
Nevertheless, I've even started a new poem this morning based on some conversations I had yesterday and I am feeling rather spritely in terms of what poem I'd like to post this morning - something new, unexpected, and out of the ordinary for what this blog is used to. A real 'wake up call' this morning, as it were. :)
The second half of my book is appropriately called "Whims" and these are the poems which have more of a fantastic, fable-like, nursery rhyme-based formula to them (which is what most of my favorite kinds of poems possess in some form or another - Ray Bradbury is great at this, even in his more serious works!) This particular poem is a sweet little narrative that had taken me quite a long time to write given the strictures of the rhyme scheme and format I adopted, but in the end I think it turned out quite well. It's a poem for everyone who has ever, regrettably, become a responsible person in this life and has given way to duty and toil where childish happiness and wonder used to roam free. It reminds us that no matter how old we are or how long-lost that part of our lives feels it is still there, somewhere down inside, still patiently waiting to emerge in hopes that someday we'll realize that maybe it was the right way to be all along. Enjoy.
"The Curio-cart man"
Whatever became of the Curio-cart man
The peddler of charms in his colorful stand
Full of wares and wee trinkets
Disappeared?
Who could think it?
For his market was once high in demand
O how the young ones chased him so
And followed his wagon wherever he’d go
Begging toys and sweet vittles
While he’d tell
Them all riddles
And make their minds swim to and fro
He was glad to oblige, out parading his mart
Spouting off jolly figaries and whittling darts
Playing games like a child
While the aged
All the while
Were most eager to see him depart
Still he’d swell up the dreams of the children he met
And believe in their fancies; every one of them set
Like bright jewels in his crown
As the old ones
Would frown
On most frivolous waste they would come to regret
For what use could there be in the tending of naught
That could ever be useful beyond idle thought?
So at night they would scorn
That man had
Ever been born
And the curio-cart man had since sensed them distraught
So with most heavy heart, like many times come before
He prepared all his trappings and locked up his store
And though the children would pout
He knew time
Had run out
That if he was to bide he’d be thrown out the door
But there was part of him yearned to be there one more day
To tell just one more tale or to join in their play
To give last bits of joy
To each girl
And each boy
Who would spend most their lives in a miserable way
For he’d seen it was so in his journeys’ great stride
That men’s souls become trapped in a net they provide
Made of duties and chores
And the rest
Of life’s bores
And not long do they have to enjoy what’s inside
But from hence he did turn, and on down that old road -
The pike that leads forth from the ones we well know -
With a tune and a laugh
He’d gone on
With his path
For ‘twas never his aim to remain fixed so
Yet he’d left late in evening; a strange act to some
Though the antsy clerk knew it the best time to run
As all hopes and dear wishes
Are best left
Quite fictitious
If there’s naught left to wonder, then his craft is undone
And while most have forgotten that Curio-cart man
The peddler of charms in his colorful stand
There are old ones whose dreams
Are still within
Their means
But all hopes of their growth have long gone from this land
Though surely it wasn’t the cart and its things
That had ever been what made the youthful ones spring
It was something their own
As the man
Had well known
Though his song had been sung, he knew they could still sing
And whatever became of that silly old fool
Made no difference to those who had younglings to school
But at night in their beds
They’d still dance
In their heads
With that bright laughing fellow under mystical rule
Of a kind that’s not bounded by simplest fate -
That can never be caged by mere toils that may wait -
For deep down in our hearts
There’s a man
And his cart
Who knows that it’s never, quite ever too late
To be simple again, and live happy and free
As the child once before could now return to be
But if only in sleep
Is where he
Seems to keep
Then each night we’ll return to his sweet memory
For now we know sure what became of our dreams
And the rusty old cart on which every one leans
As we await its return
In hopes that
We might learn
That the child deep inside is wiser than he seems
- Joshua Clarke
(a little Bob & Doug McKenzie for you this morning.)
Today, I'm in a pretty good poetic mood. Things are rough at the moment, but of course there are diamonds to be found nonetheless. At my new job my shift doesn't start until 10:30 so I get a little bit of free time in the morning to compose myself and kind of gear-into the work-day. True, it's pretty disgusting to have to work from 10:30 AM til 8:00 PM on a beautiful Saturday, but this is the price we pay, I suppose, for our extremely modest lifestyle. C'est la vie, eh?
Nevertheless, I've even started a new poem this morning based on some conversations I had yesterday and I am feeling rather spritely in terms of what poem I'd like to post this morning - something new, unexpected, and out of the ordinary for what this blog is used to. A real 'wake up call' this morning, as it were. :)
The second half of my book is appropriately called "Whims" and these are the poems which have more of a fantastic, fable-like, nursery rhyme-based formula to them (which is what most of my favorite kinds of poems possess in some form or another - Ray Bradbury is great at this, even in his more serious works!) This particular poem is a sweet little narrative that had taken me quite a long time to write given the strictures of the rhyme scheme and format I adopted, but in the end I think it turned out quite well. It's a poem for everyone who has ever, regrettably, become a responsible person in this life and has given way to duty and toil where childish happiness and wonder used to roam free. It reminds us that no matter how old we are or how long-lost that part of our lives feels it is still there, somewhere down inside, still patiently waiting to emerge in hopes that someday we'll realize that maybe it was the right way to be all along. Enjoy.
"The Curio-cart man"
Whatever became of the Curio-cart man
The peddler of charms in his colorful stand
Full of wares and wee trinkets
Disappeared?
Who could think it?
For his market was once high in demand
O how the young ones chased him so
And followed his wagon wherever he’d go
Begging toys and sweet vittles
While he’d tell
Them all riddles
And make their minds swim to and fro
He was glad to oblige, out parading his mart
Spouting off jolly figaries and whittling darts
Playing games like a child
While the aged
All the while
Were most eager to see him depart
Still he’d swell up the dreams of the children he met
And believe in their fancies; every one of them set
Like bright jewels in his crown
As the old ones
Would frown
On most frivolous waste they would come to regret
For what use could there be in the tending of naught
That could ever be useful beyond idle thought?
So at night they would scorn
That man had
Ever been born
And the curio-cart man had since sensed them distraught
So with most heavy heart, like many times come before
He prepared all his trappings and locked up his store
And though the children would pout
He knew time
Had run out
That if he was to bide he’d be thrown out the door
But there was part of him yearned to be there one more day
To tell just one more tale or to join in their play
To give last bits of joy
To each girl
And each boy
Who would spend most their lives in a miserable way
For he’d seen it was so in his journeys’ great stride
That men’s souls become trapped in a net they provide
Made of duties and chores
And the rest
Of life’s bores
And not long do they have to enjoy what’s inside
But from hence he did turn, and on down that old road -
The pike that leads forth from the ones we well know -
With a tune and a laugh
He’d gone on
With his path
For ‘twas never his aim to remain fixed so
Yet he’d left late in evening; a strange act to some
Though the antsy clerk knew it the best time to run
As all hopes and dear wishes
Are best left
Quite fictitious
If there’s naught left to wonder, then his craft is undone
And while most have forgotten that Curio-cart man
The peddler of charms in his colorful stand
There are old ones whose dreams
Are still within
Their means
But all hopes of their growth have long gone from this land
Though surely it wasn’t the cart and its things
That had ever been what made the youthful ones spring
It was something their own
As the man
Had well known
Though his song had been sung, he knew they could still sing
And whatever became of that silly old fool
Made no difference to those who had younglings to school
But at night in their beds
They’d still dance
In their heads
With that bright laughing fellow under mystical rule
Of a kind that’s not bounded by simplest fate -
That can never be caged by mere toils that may wait -
For deep down in our hearts
There’s a man
And his cart
Who knows that it’s never, quite ever too late
To be simple again, and live happy and free
As the child once before could now return to be
But if only in sleep
Is where he
Seems to keep
Then each night we’ll return to his sweet memory
For now we know sure what became of our dreams
And the rusty old cart on which every one leans
As we await its return
In hopes that
We might learn
That the child deep inside is wiser than he seems
- Joshua Clarke
Friday, June 3, 2011
Day 11 - "truth lives in brief moments"
I realized today, before fully finishing the title of today's blog, that I'm still following the 30 days of poetry format I started about a year ago. Obviously that failed due to lack of internet access, but for some reason I still feel like keeping up with it. In my heart, sitting here now around the same time of year as the last, I feel like I never really left off on that pursuit for some reason - that I was only detained for a while. So bear with me, folks - I promise this 30 days of poetry will come to an end this year. And hopefully within a timely fashion, so you'll be able to enjoy new poems posted nearly every day to make up for my long leave of absence.
When I was considering which poem I ought to post today, I decided to turn to something that's been on my mind very heavily lately - the auctioning-off of my family's farm. I helped build part of the house in my youth, and for the last year I've been living in it out in the country on 270 acres of meadow and forest land. I've loved it, I've worked it, I've felt it - it's become almost a brother to me, this land. To have to leave it by the end of July nearly breaks my heart, as I look out on the garden I've started and know that I will never be able to harvest it and enjoy it again. I suppose it's maybe something similar to a mother losing their child, though not as extreme of course.
In any case, separation and change in one's life is as common as the rising and setting of the sun. It's something we must expect, no matter how much stock we put in things remaining the same forever. I've found recently, through several events, that the true happiness you find in this world is within yourself, and it is to be found in every new day - every new instant. Appreciating right now - not the future nor the past, because neither of them truly belong to us. I may die tomorrow, but today I smile and I stand in the sunlight. Not always because I feel like it, but because I must. My mother would say, 'fake it till you make it' or 'laugh in spite of'. I never found those sayings appealing. I don't believe in faking, or doing things in spite of. I believe in believing in what you feel because you understand it - not fooling yourself into feeling it. Every day I strive to fully understand and know the way this world functions and to see the beauty of it, even during times that, to others, seem a downfall.
It's tough, but I'm beginning to see the method to what we may call madness is simply the gorgeous, unfathomable, unstoppable mechanism of the universe. A poet that exemplifies this ideal in his work, whom I greatly admire, is Robinson Jeffers. I wrote this poem in memory of him, and since it is in relation to an occurrence on the farm that I will soon be leaving, I thought it appropriate for today's posting. Enjoy the work, readers, and enjoy the truth that exists in the world even in the most minute happenings that we are privileged enough to witness if we but allow ourselves that brief moment of introspection. :)
"truth lives in brief moments"
In the dewy, muggy sunrise of a day in mid June,
I awoke to the sound of a tapping outside.
I then shuffled to the window and so witnessed the sight
Of a diligent young woodpecker knocking away at my porch.
My first thought was to shoo it away from my home,
But before I could move the reasons flew from my mind
For I was shown, in that moment, all the things I would tend
Would one day return to their home in this land.
And so I stood there awhile, and watched the woodpecker tap -
Tap away at my importance, my rashness… my world.
And it became rather pleasing
To see it slowly destroyed.
For Robinson Jeffers
- Joshua Clarke
When I was considering which poem I ought to post today, I decided to turn to something that's been on my mind very heavily lately - the auctioning-off of my family's farm. I helped build part of the house in my youth, and for the last year I've been living in it out in the country on 270 acres of meadow and forest land. I've loved it, I've worked it, I've felt it - it's become almost a brother to me, this land. To have to leave it by the end of July nearly breaks my heart, as I look out on the garden I've started and know that I will never be able to harvest it and enjoy it again. I suppose it's maybe something similar to a mother losing their child, though not as extreme of course.
In any case, separation and change in one's life is as common as the rising and setting of the sun. It's something we must expect, no matter how much stock we put in things remaining the same forever. I've found recently, through several events, that the true happiness you find in this world is within yourself, and it is to be found in every new day - every new instant. Appreciating right now - not the future nor the past, because neither of them truly belong to us. I may die tomorrow, but today I smile and I stand in the sunlight. Not always because I feel like it, but because I must. My mother would say, 'fake it till you make it' or 'laugh in spite of'. I never found those sayings appealing. I don't believe in faking, or doing things in spite of. I believe in believing in what you feel because you understand it - not fooling yourself into feeling it. Every day I strive to fully understand and know the way this world functions and to see the beauty of it, even during times that, to others, seem a downfall.
It's tough, but I'm beginning to see the method to what we may call madness is simply the gorgeous, unfathomable, unstoppable mechanism of the universe. A poet that exemplifies this ideal in his work, whom I greatly admire, is Robinson Jeffers. I wrote this poem in memory of him, and since it is in relation to an occurrence on the farm that I will soon be leaving, I thought it appropriate for today's posting. Enjoy the work, readers, and enjoy the truth that exists in the world even in the most minute happenings that we are privileged enough to witness if we but allow ourselves that brief moment of introspection. :)
"truth lives in brief moments"
In the dewy, muggy sunrise of a day in mid June,
I awoke to the sound of a tapping outside.
I then shuffled to the window and so witnessed the sight
Of a diligent young woodpecker knocking away at my porch.
My first thought was to shoo it away from my home,
But before I could move the reasons flew from my mind
For I was shown, in that moment, all the things I would tend
Would one day return to their home in this land.
And so I stood there awhile, and watched the woodpecker tap -
Tap away at my importance, my rashness… my world.
And it became rather pleasing
To see it slowly destroyed.
For Robinson Jeffers
- Joshua Clarke
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Day 10 - "is carmen of mei"
Wow... it's been quite a year, ladies and gents.
I say that since my last post on this blog was about a year ago, give or take twenty or so days.
There have been many reasons for my absence - number one, of course, has been planning for my wedding and raising enough money to pay for it by working my ass off constantly at three different jobs. Another has been the Fairmont Homebrewers Club that I started way back in October that has taken a lot of my time as well. And besides that, there have also been family problems, helping my friends start their farm, this and that, on and on ad infinitum. Needless to say, I have been busy, and I do regret that I've neglected this blog for so long. There are two big reasons for that as well, however: one, I didn't have reliable internet out here in the country until about Christmas, and two, I wasn't sure if anyone was really reading this blog anyway.
But it was made clear to me, by some of my close colleagues, that there is still definite interest in this blog, so I've taken it up again and will try - despite all of the craziness that is STILL consuming my life (especially so close to the wedding taking place NEXT MONTH! yikes!) to post as often as I can.
And to be sure, I haven't been dilly-dallying, as they say around here, with my poetry. I have continued reading, and, more importantly, I have continued writing. In fact I've recently finished the introductory poem to my book that I'd been working on for quite some time - trying to find the perfect words (as all poets do, but one means or another) - waiting for them to fall into my lap on some sunny day where I had nothing better to do than abandon all pursuits, sit on my porch, and sweat over a scalding laptop keyboard.
And here are the fruits of those labors, dear friends. I hope you all enjoy the introduction to my upcoming book of poetry: "The Whispers and Whims of a Ha'Penny Bard" It's kind of a nod to poetry in general - at least, poetry that I greatly admire - as well as a mission statement and brief narrative of my journey as an aspiring, and somewhat 'half-assed' poet making his way into the big bad Western tradition of the written word. The Latin title, "is carmen of mei," roughly translates as 'this song of mine.' (Big points to anyone who can name all the references!)
So, cheers to new beginnings, I suppose - how ever many times they must occur before we finish. :)
"is carmen of mei"
I have not claimed my Innisfree
The Abyssinian maid plays not for me
My Grecian Urn has not been thrown
The daffodils have not yet grown
All through the Waste Lands I have tread
Like Don Juan, romping from bed to bed
Yet still, there in the dim, dead throngs around
Prometheus, friend of man, lies bound
But proud laurels are not what I’d wish to have worn
Great things slouching towards Bethlehem to be born
I would far rather be a creature; naked, bestial, apart
And to know why it tastes bitter, because it is my heart
I’ve known that this passion’s been burning so bright
Deep in my soul, in the forests of the night
A dark place wherein I’ve since tasted of desire
For I’ve found I hold with those who favor fire
In poetry, in life, throughout hours and days
Poured out through a pen and then kilned with a glaze
That is something half theirs and half totally ours
Just the same as a door’s not a door when ajar
And I’ve longed to produce this, my own avant-garde -
All these whispers and whims of a ha’penny bard
That span time like Crane’s Bridge, from the sweat of my brow
Though the harvest is past - I am done with apple-picking now
Yet I’ll still grasp for beauty til’ the day that I’m gone
Searching forever, a lost and muttering Endymion
To capture Selene as she seeps through the cracks
In this black and white world, wanting color it lacks
But for the opus you hold - most modest chef-d’oeuvre -
I have strove for the epic, with a bit of blah, blah
And pray that these songs I’ve composed through my youth
Will remind us of Art, so we won’t die of Truth
So go forth, poetic progeny
Run along through this world
Like bright rays of light
Heliotic daybreak unfurled
And do what you may, dear friends, may it please or offend
For at this beginning, I must come to an end
Though no end is forever - still, like dust, we shall rise
While Dickinson calls out, “There is yet another sky.”
- Joshua Clarke
I say that since my last post on this blog was about a year ago, give or take twenty or so days.
There have been many reasons for my absence - number one, of course, has been planning for my wedding and raising enough money to pay for it by working my ass off constantly at three different jobs. Another has been the Fairmont Homebrewers Club that I started way back in October that has taken a lot of my time as well. And besides that, there have also been family problems, helping my friends start their farm, this and that, on and on ad infinitum. Needless to say, I have been busy, and I do regret that I've neglected this blog for so long. There are two big reasons for that as well, however: one, I didn't have reliable internet out here in the country until about Christmas, and two, I wasn't sure if anyone was really reading this blog anyway.
But it was made clear to me, by some of my close colleagues, that there is still definite interest in this blog, so I've taken it up again and will try - despite all of the craziness that is STILL consuming my life (especially so close to the wedding taking place NEXT MONTH! yikes!) to post as often as I can.
And to be sure, I haven't been dilly-dallying, as they say around here, with my poetry. I have continued reading, and, more importantly, I have continued writing. In fact I've recently finished the introductory poem to my book that I'd been working on for quite some time - trying to find the perfect words (as all poets do, but one means or another) - waiting for them to fall into my lap on some sunny day where I had nothing better to do than abandon all pursuits, sit on my porch, and sweat over a scalding laptop keyboard.
And here are the fruits of those labors, dear friends. I hope you all enjoy the introduction to my upcoming book of poetry: "The Whispers and Whims of a Ha'Penny Bard" It's kind of a nod to poetry in general - at least, poetry that I greatly admire - as well as a mission statement and brief narrative of my journey as an aspiring, and somewhat 'half-assed' poet making his way into the big bad Western tradition of the written word. The Latin title, "is carmen of mei," roughly translates as 'this song of mine.' (Big points to anyone who can name all the references!)
So, cheers to new beginnings, I suppose - how ever many times they must occur before we finish. :)
"is carmen of mei"
I have not claimed my Innisfree
The Abyssinian maid plays not for me
My Grecian Urn has not been thrown
The daffodils have not yet grown
All through the Waste Lands I have tread
Like Don Juan, romping from bed to bed
Yet still, there in the dim, dead throngs around
Prometheus, friend of man, lies bound
But proud laurels are not what I’d wish to have worn
Great things slouching towards Bethlehem to be born
I would far rather be a creature; naked, bestial, apart
And to know why it tastes bitter, because it is my heart
I’ve known that this passion’s been burning so bright
Deep in my soul, in the forests of the night
A dark place wherein I’ve since tasted of desire
For I’ve found I hold with those who favor fire
In poetry, in life, throughout hours and days
Poured out through a pen and then kilned with a glaze
That is something half theirs and half totally ours
Just the same as a door’s not a door when ajar
And I’ve longed to produce this, my own avant-garde -
All these whispers and whims of a ha’penny bard
That span time like Crane’s Bridge, from the sweat of my brow
Though the harvest is past - I am done with apple-picking now
Yet I’ll still grasp for beauty til’ the day that I’m gone
Searching forever, a lost and muttering Endymion
To capture Selene as she seeps through the cracks
In this black and white world, wanting color it lacks
But for the opus you hold - most modest chef-d’oeuvre -
I have strove for the epic, with a bit of blah, blah
And pray that these songs I’ve composed through my youth
Will remind us of Art, so we won’t die of Truth
So go forth, poetic progeny
Run along through this world
Like bright rays of light
Heliotic daybreak unfurled
And do what you may, dear friends, may it please or offend
For at this beginning, I must come to an end
Though no end is forever - still, like dust, we shall rise
While Dickinson calls out, “There is yet another sky.”
- Joshua Clarke
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