tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367909022464087202024-03-07T23:28:57.042-08:00A Knock Upon the Door: The Poetry of Joshua ClarkePoetry with a modern sensibility, a living, breathing, mutable, non-structured aesthetic, and a real soul at the center of it all - constantly searching for "that place that is ours."
(Copyright ©2008-2012 Joshua Clarke)Jooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-7334987222279971272012-03-28T18:19:00.003-07:002012-03-28T18:35:54.219-07:00day 24 - "still, the orchid blooms"good evening, internet world<br /><br />sorry I've kept you all waiting - it's been quite a while and rightly so - plans for my new business are going forward rather quickly and there hasn't been a lot of time for poetry let alone posting it online, but I told myself I would make an effort to post at least one this month and I'm sticking to it.<br /><br />the poem for today is a recent work - i just finished it in the past few weeks and it started as a single phrase in my mind that sat around for a long, long time and eventually gestated into the poem you're reading today. a lot of it came from simply sitting on my porch, interestingly enough, just gazing at my orchids.<br /><br />i have two of them - one is a phalaenopsis, and the other i'm not so sure - it was given to me as a gift. the one thing that I always thought was so beautiful about the plants, besides their obvious physical beauty, was that even though (as rainforest plants) they were thousands of miles away from their native lands and would never be properly pollinated to reproduce, still they had the nerve and audacity to bloom for their strange new world to see, in stark rejection of the impossibility looming all around.<br /><br />it's that kind of beauty that produced the single phrase in my mind that grew into 'still, the orchid blooms' - well, that and my love for sufi mysticism, I suppose. :)<br /><br />so take what you will and enjoy, and, if you happen to own an orchid yourself, perhaps you'll be able to see this spectacle for yourself - not with your eyes, but with your soul.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"still, the orchid blooms"</span><br /><br /><br />like a dervish from a foreign land<br />exotic seasons whirling round<br />your sufi-spinning Sama<br />draws all dancing eyes<br />upon you now<br />to see your<br />sublime tariqah glow<br />so bold and bright<br />in youth<br /><br />you’d never stoop to beg a stare -<br />kashkul hanging at your stem -<br />yet every falling, tender breath<br />is counted; kisses to a leaf<br />your dresses pink<br />and red as lust<br />but you’ve long shed <br />such weak desire<br />and shorn this life <br />of want<br /><br />no childish hopes of pollination<br />amongst such flowers growing wild<br />you’ve never formed a gesture once<br />suggesting you’ve held faith in us<br /><br />you laugh<br />inside, intent to hide<br />and honor us with wisdom’s dew -<br />wordlessly, in gorgeous dance,<br />each vibrant, fresh, and flowering stride<br />invites the koan, provokes a thought<br />as paradoxes twirl on by<br /><br />against all nature,<br />the purest truths<br />exist in those<br />who smile at dooms<br /><br />so might we all receive thy dance<br />and know why, still, the orchid blooms<br /><br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-51774677467470328182012-02-20T12:01:00.000-08:002012-02-20T12:14:14.925-08:00Day 23 - "under the spell"Happy Monday everyone! That most wonderful of weekdays.<br /><br />Luckily I have been able to procure this day off on a weekly basis through my job so I don't suffer the ill effects of it's 'new week' influence. But I have a new poem for all of you today, so that should cheer you up, right?<br /><br />I thought so.<br /><br />By the way, before I get into the poem, I know it's been a while since I've posted but, unfortunately, I still don't have a reliable internet connection and my dedication to keeping my poetry coming has been waning lately because of a lot of time being set aside for working on my business as well as general mayhem in terms of my weekly schedule - nothing seems to be set in stone anymore and as much as I like to parcel my week out and have some private time for writing, those plans have been dashed to pieces these past few months for one reason or another.<br /><br />But I'm back now, and my poem for today is one that I wrote a while ago after seeing a production of a musical theater piece called "Godspell" that I had particularly strong feelings about afterwards. Knowing me to be a professed Christian, many of my friends asked me about it and what I thought of it and many of them, before even speaking to me, believed that I must have instantly loved it and had to be a fan. In fact, it was quite the opposite reaction for me. It's one thing to portray a religious faith on stage - it's quite another thing to turn it into a happy, dancing charade with musical numbers and mass consumer appeal. Even my significant other at the time was extremely disappointed to find that, in private, the idea that this play even existed evoked such a disgusted response from me.<br /><br />It was and is only my personal opinion, and I know not everyone shares my sentiments on the piece itself, but regardless of the backstory involved with this poem it provoked this work in me. I hope you all enjoy it, and if you've felt the same way in a similarly given situation before, perhaps it will reach out to you in particular and convey that sense of being the only one in the audience who chose not to stand up for a certain ovation.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"under the spell"</span><br /><br /><br />One thought it a fine entertainment to see<br />Until one had gleaned of its dreadful attempt<br />At the cruel and senseless mimicry<br />Of a thing that gave half of its soul to prevent<br /><br />The damnation of ages upon ages of man -<br />Who were all the more pitiless, the more that they cheered -<br />And then bore all the whips and the lash of their hand<br />For the sake that they all might be free and would hear<br /><br />Of the bold sacrifice and the promise divine<br />But one saw all this drowned in a moment by song<br />And a dance and a joke and a bright glowing sign<br /><br />And for that lonely one, there was nowhere to hide<br />Sitting in the front row with a grand company<br />Watching doom silhouette that most bold mimicry<br /><br /><br /><br />- Josh ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-61666051607871120422011-10-31T08:23:00.000-07:002011-10-31T08:49:01.163-07:00Day 22 - "to a diamond"Greetings and salutations everyone, on this spookiest of holidays!<br /><br />It's been a busy year, to put it extremely lightly, but once again I've found myself in the comfortable, lazy bosom of one of my favorite days - Halloween. A time for scares, chills, and all things nightmarish. Besides that, it's also a day I have off from work, so that's a plus, and it's also the reason why I've actually got a little time to myself to do some blogging and post up a new poem for my dedicated readers out there in the digital world of pleasing procrastination.<br /><br />I was going to post one of my more frightening pieces today in honor of the holiday, but there's a certain poem I'd written recently that I'd really wanted to post for a while and, in it's own way, is a pretty scary one itself.<br /><br />I wrote this poem in a very Thomas Hardy "Convergence of the Twain" sort of mood. Often in my life, my mind will drift into a sort of state where it doesn't see an object on its own - whatever it may be - instead, I tend to see beyond the object and everything it's been through to get there and become what it is - the beautiful erosion of experience carving into the limestone block of primordial forms. In this case, I'd recently watched a movie called "Lord of War" starring Nicholas Cage, and one of the last scenes in the movie really struck me - where his brother died trying to save a small village of Africans who were doomed to die regardless of their actions, and the price of this genocide was a pile of glittering stones on a makeshift tabletop set on top of several boxes of grenades.<br /><br />That such small things - such strange little objects - could be the cause of such misery and drama millions of years later after their formation - the only thing setting them aside from the rest of the dirt and stones around them being the value placed on them by our imaginations; the thought of it really struck me deeply. What is a diamond, really, besides what we make it? What is <span style="font-style:italic;">anything</span>, really, when it comes down to it? Our economy itself, for all intents and purposes, is a widely accepted fabrication. Things of this world carry worth because it is we who deem them worthy - we dream the majesty of kings and, in our minds, if we, the creations, did not know of our Creator, who would be there to know of him and offer him glory?<br /><br />Anyway, these are just the ramblings of an overstuffed brain that's been reading too much Joseph Campbell and Jack Kerouac, but I digress. I leave you all to the poem and hope you enjoy the late-Victorian style that I am a very large fan of. Perhaps as well you'll grasp the desperate scariness of it that I did slightly while writing it but, like all good horror stories, I believe the weight of its horror is one that slowly sinks in over time after considering the cryptic lines in cold-sweat recollections... insidious little bastard, ain't I? haha<br /><br />To all of you out there, my fabulous readership: I wish you a wonderful, spine-chilling, and safe Halloween this year!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"to a diamond"<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><br />Had you an inkling, little stone -<br /> The value of your translucent hide?<br /><br />In eons, waiting in the ground<br /> Did gambits ever cleave your mind?<br /><br />Knew you then of silk white hands?<br /> Of tribal wars and sanguine desires?<br /><br />Did then you grasp your catalyst<br /> To tender man’s soul unto hellfires?<br /><br />Or were you innocent; unknown to this?<br /> Name given to that which flows through veins -<br /><br />Damned then and forever a Helen of Troy<br /> To witness thousands of witless aims.<br /><br />Yet perhaps you knew nothing of this all along<br /> And ‘tis useless still to question urns:<br /><br />Where nothing’s held but echoed sound;<br /> Who’d stare in silence as we’d burn.<br /><br />But if not for thee, what would we be<br /> Without a muses’ sheen to prize?<br /><br />In yielding to thee, cold, lifeless stone<br /> You’ve granted purpose to our lives.<br /><br /><br />- Josh ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-3540027884512482442011-10-09T16:16:00.000-07:002011-10-09T16:41:51.566-07:00Day 21 - "what a ferryman's gleaned"Hey everyone,<br /><br />Yeah, I know it's been a while since I put a poem up - there's been a lot going on, especially with getting the book published and getting the funds together to purchase an ISBN and all that, but I ran into some readers of my blog recently who were wondering when I was going to start posting again, so I decided to throw something new up there for anyone who's been craving a new poem recently. This one's for you - you know who you are. :)<br /><br />This is a poem I just finished the other day actually and it's one of those few poems that I've written that after it's finished I can honestly sit back and say to myself "I don't care what anyone else thinks of this work - this is a good poem exactly how it's written, and there's no way I can see it any differently." I don't say this very often, as many of you know - I'm definitely my harshest critic, but I don't totally abandon the propensity to appreciate my own style and ability as a poet.<br /><br />Something I've been knocked for a lot in the past is my tendency to be "in love with rhyme" and also my "archaic sound and diction." At one point I did consider this to be something I felt I needed to get away from and work on, but the more and more I've paroused a recent book I purchased titled <span style="font-style:italic;">The 100 Greatest Poems of All Time</span>, the more I find that the style of writing that I currently embody is, for the most part, eerily similar to most of the poems in that book that have stood the test of time to become truly memorable and powerful pieces of literary history.<br /><br />I suppose, then, I'm a bit proud to be considered archaic, and am definitely proud to be who I am as a poet. :)<br /><br />My next book, which I'm already about 1/4 of the way into, is entitled "Faux Show" and is a composition dedicated to 'abandoning' the pretenses of life and getting down to the real, honest, meaningful meat-and-potatoes of existence. Gritty truth, real emotion, and none of it getting lost in translation, worrying about the semicolons and such. Thus, it will likely end up including a lot of things I once thought were inappropriate in poetry or things I thought I was unable to do properly or well enough to be considered objectively "good." It's a bold move, but I think it's worthy experiment and I hope you will all enjoy it once it's finally done.<br /><br />But, I digress. Getting back to the poem for today, it's a poem that started out in a similar fashion to J.R.R. Tolkien's <span style="font-style:italic;">The Hobbit</span>. Much like his epic mythology started out with a single line - "In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit." - this poem was gestating within me for months on end, beginning seminally with the line - "Drifting twixt thy gutter and stars." Though those exact lines didn't actually make it into the final draft, the general feeling of the piece remained the same, and from that feeling grew the poem that eventually became "what a ferryman's gleaned".<br /><br />I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"what a ferryman's gleaned"<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><br />Charon, bear us in a little while<br />Across your brown and dirtied creek<br />But first come sun upon thy shore<br />And tarry with us for a week<br /><br />Pray tell us of your thoughts and dreams<br />That sailed these twilight beams of doom<br />And show us your collections of<br />The coins you earned this afternoon<br /><br />Come share with us the many songs<br />You’ve overheard upon your rides<br />The warbles of the heaven-sents;<br />The moanings of the hellish tides<br /><br />But most of all, please offer us<br />This chance before we make our trip:<br />To know why all this happened so;<br />Why others climbed while some did slip?<br /><br />(A ferryman ought know much of this<br />For middlemen prove the victors more<br />In truth, the ones that sold the guns<br />Claimed hefty sums; survived the war)<br /><br />We doubt it due to forces grand<br />‘Twas we who learned to fall and fear<br />We taught ourselves to kill and hate<br />Despising each short-passing year<br /><br />We’ve seen, as much as wisdom gains,<br />That downfalls rise; are born anew<br />And here, by Styx, we’d all but beg<br />You’d spare us with a word or two<br /><br />‘Tis far too late to make amends<br />Our final payment’s left us broke<br />But crueler still would be our fate<br />To die before we got the joke<br /><br />We know you’ve not much time to waste<br />Yet before you bear us on your way<br />Pray tell us what a ferryman’s gleaned <br />As critic to our tragic play<br /><br />Sing lullabies of last regrets<br />Like pennies dropped in empty jars<br />And we’ll listen as yon river flows,<br />Slow-drifting twixt the silent stars<br /><br /><br />- Josh ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-23180520705647249672011-08-14T08:28:00.000-07:002011-08-14T08:36:00.359-07:00red team, hold this position... (book update)Hello all,
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<br />I know I haven't been posting very often lately. It's because I'm finishing up the editing of my book that's going to be published in the very near future.
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<br />Good enough of an excuse? I hope so - it's going to have to do for the moment.
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<br />I will, of course, keep you all updated as it goes into its final stages and is posted for purchase on different websites. Currently I have some people looking over the draft and getting some other eyes on it to check for mistakes and other typo-errors before I convert it into an Epub format.
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<br />And there you have it - for the time being my posting of new poems will be on a somewhat indefinite hold, but rest assured that during this time I will continue writing and have already started working on my next book. There'll be plenty more coming down the line in the future for all of you die-hard readers, so stay tuned and keep experiencing life, my friends.
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<br />I'll be back before you know it. :)
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<br />And get ready for my Ebook!!!
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<br />- JoshJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-71301082304827521872011-07-30T05:19:00.000-07:002011-07-30T05:46:14.633-07:00Day 20 - "I know you in your poetry"Wow.<br /><br />This is certainly turning into the month that took a year, isn't it?<br /><br />Interesting concept. I like it.<br /><br />Today is a big day for me. I'm expecting this weekend will be a major life change for me. My fiancee and I will be reconciling our situation face-to-face for the first time - we haven't seen each other since early June. We've both gone through major shifts in our personality and attitude towards the world as well as incredible amounts of personal suffering and sadness over this decision.<br /><br />To be honest, I have no idea what will happen. Que sera, sera I suppose.<br /><br />This is also one of the last few days that I will be living at my family farm. It will be auctioned off soon and it's hard for me to bear thinking of it being totally gone. It's finally starting to hit me hard now that it's so close - I tried to ignore it for so long, but now it's time has come to stand up and refuse to be ignored any longer.<br /><br />I'll be taking a long walk today along the land, remembering - storing images in my mind that I'll hopefully be able to hold onto for years to come.<br /><br />Enough of this, though. It's too much to dwell on.<br /><br />I wanted to post a poem today after last night's New Mystics meeting in Fairmont, which I heartily enjoyed and thank everyone for coming out and inspiring each other with their works.<br /><br />Somewhat spontaneously, I had written a poem two nights ago based on something that Ted Webb had mentioned at one of our Morgantown Poets meetings earlier this month. It's something I've felt for quite a long time and had been unable to give it words, but thanks to Ted it was eventually able to make its way into ink. It's about listening to each others' work - something I'm able to do much more often these days given that I'm now a member of two poets' societies - and, more so, being able to know more about a person than most people ever get to know, just by hearing their hearts poured out upon the page in the way that they have chosen to craft their meaning; in the way that they personally adorn their emotions; how they choose to be and view the world; who they really are, inside. It has always fascinated me that whenever I read something that someone has written that means a lot to them or was written in secret or in confidence, I feel like, as I read those lines, I've never really, truly known that person until that moment, hearing those words. It's almost supernatural, the kind of link that is created when things like that are shared. It's a faith and a trust that exists in those instances. Maybe that's why it's so powerful... I'm not quite sure.<br /><br />Anyway, I'd like to dedicate this poem to Ted, and I admit I'm secretly probably one of his biggest fans. Every one of his poems I've heard thus far seems to hit the mark precisely - he is easily one of the most talented poets I've had the privilege to share with between the two groups.<br /><br />Also, before I get to the poem I would just like to 'shout out' to my old friend Micah Plante up in VT who has been constantly inspiring me with his music lately. Each one of his songs seems to just pop into my head from time to time and I find myself thinking, "what's that tune from?" and then I realize, "oh! that's right! that's micah!" It's funny - his songs tend to stick in my mind even more than all the catchy pop songs I unfortunately hear over the radio a bit too often, and that's really saying something, believe me. I know way too many bad songs and bad lyrics for no good reason. That's the double-edge of a poetic mind, though, isn't it? Whether you like it or not, your brain is forced to suck it up just the same. :)<br /><br />If you're interested in good folksy singer/songwriter music, I'd give his stuff a try - you just might love it. His website is <a href="http://micahplante.bandcamp.com/">http://micahplante.bandcamp.com/</a> and his four song EP is only 5 bucks. Definitely worth a listen.<br /><br />There, now that I've shamelessly plugged my friend, I present to you my latest work, and I hope that you all, as always, enjoy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"I know you in your poetry"<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><br />I do not know your name<br /><br />Or what you are,<br />How you came to be<br /><br />I do not know your touch or smile<br /><br />But I know you in your poetry<br /><br />I have swam within your ocean<br />I have dug the earth you’ve made<br />I have heard the voice inside of you<br /><br />That bold and fiery bursting sound<br />The one that booms<br />Like Krakatoa<br />Deafening the world around<br /><br />Though whenever I have seen your face<br />My exterior says<br />It has nothing to say -<br />Nothing to you<br />To your well-stitched puppet<br />To your flesh disguise<br />And its enterprise<br /><br />By this I mean <br />To cause no strife<br /><br />But my button eyes<br />They have looked beyond your button eyes<br />And have seen each and every<br />Nook and cranny<br />Each rip and tear<br />Each nom de guerre<br />Each naked secret of your life<br /><br />And now they cannot help<br />But know<br />Behind this<br />Punch and Judy show<br />Lie sunlit gardens<br />Of your soul<br /><br />And when they find these<br />To be more real<br /><br />They cannot bear<br />To view you as <br />That dangling, awkward marionette<br />Still hanging from<br />This old vignette<br /><br />I ask you then<br />To whisper to me<br />Another private minuet;<br />Perform a scene behind your skin<br /><br />And I will journey there <br />With you again -<br />Our artful hands at rest once more<br />In rich, familiar fantasies<br /><br />But please, no names -<br />They mean nothing here<br /><br />No more characters, acts, or revelry<br /><br />Here<br />Your everything is plain to me<br /><br />Let nothing else escape your tongue<br /><br />I know you in your poetry<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-12762719212147505962011-07-11T13:48:00.000-07:002011-07-11T14:28:13.170-07:00Day 19 - "Pallas Athene"Good afternoon, all ye blog-absorbers of the world.<br /><br />It's a blisteringly hot 94-degree day outside and now that I've watered my garden and gone back inside for some mild relief from the heat, I thought maybe it would be an appropriate time to post a new poem for the day.<br /><br />In other news, however, the book itself is really coming along. Only about 10 more pages to go and I'm going to start formatting it for Ebook standards which should only take oh about a century or so, considering I'm pretty rusty on my html skills - they were at their height my senior year of high school. Since then, I don't think I've written over one or two pages of html code in total. That's pretty sad. Well, perhaps not - I've since made up for it with other interesting life skills, I'd like to think, and have spent much less time in front of a computer screen. :)<br /><br />Anyway, back to the poem for today: It's one I'd had on the backburner for a while in my mind, and when an opportunity finally presented itself while reading a book of Greek myths I seized on it and let the two moments collide in Pallas Athene - the goddess Athena's 'extra' name.<br /><br />The conversation between the children in the poem is one of my favorite little trinkets of life I've picked up over the last few years. The lines are almost taken verbatim from a conversation I overheard on a New York subway train a few years back between a couple of 4-6 year olds. It was so priceless - so perfect - I could never forget it. And then when I came upon the story of the relationship between the goddess Athena and her mortal friend Pallas, I finally knew I'd found the perfect fit to bring the pregnant meaning in those words to life in poetic form.<br /><br />There are many things we must come to grips with in our time on this earth and some of us, it seems, are almost obsessed with the "awful black spears" of this life. Somehow, I believe, it is our duty to shun these things - to shun them proudly and live as if they shall never pierce us. To exist and enjoy the happiness in every moment, and to find in ourselves not an ignorance of those facts, but a full and cheerful embracement of them, as if to say to death itself: "You're quick... but you'll have to be quicker to catch someone like me when it's time."<br /><br />This we must do, if we do not wish to forever carry Pallas's skin upon each of our aegises to remind us of our careless sins. It's something I still struggle with, but this poem always comes back to remind me in the end.<br /><br />And without further ado... enjoy the poem! And if you have the means, read up on some Greek mythology in your spare time. It truly captures the imagination, in so many ways.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Pallas Athene"</span><br /><br /><br />A very young girl, named Athene, said to her friend,<br />“We are all of us going to die someday.”<br />And the other young girl, named Pallas, replied,<br />“No we are not, that’s a lie.”<br />And the first spoke again, saying,<br />“I was told by my father,<br />And he said that we are all of us going to die,<br />And that we are all of us going to die just the same<br />No matter what -<br />Even if we don’t do anything wrong.”<br />And the young girl named Pallas looked askance,<br />And then down,<br />And said to her friend,<br />“I don’t want to play with you anymore.”<br /><br />And, after many long years, the girl named Pallas did die,<br />And old Athene bent down<br />And took up her name<br />To honor her end.<br /><br />And never, ‘til then, <br />Was she filled with such contempt<br />For the ways of this world;<br />For the mortal delight <br />In carelessly revealing<br />The foolhardy knowledge<br />Of its awful, black spear.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-20452850923209309862011-07-04T06:14:00.000-07:002011-07-04T07:47:25.492-07:00Day 18 - "We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust."Happy Independence Day everyone!<br /><br />As some of you might know, the fourth of July is my favorite holiday, bar none. I don't know exactly why, though I have some reason to believe it has to do with warm weather, charcoal-grilled picnic food, swimming, and, probably more than anything else, beautiful explosions of light to top it all off at the end of the day. These are what I associate with this holiday - a day off to enjoy the summer for what it truly is: family, friends, and a good time.<br /><br />This year things have changed, and not so much for the better I'm afraid. It will not be the same fourth of July that it has been for years and years on end. Still, I have at least 22 or 23 happy memories of this day throughout my life and the one thing that still gets to me, more than anything else, are those fireworks. They never seem to fade or mean anything less to me - they are forever, and the feeling never changes. When I see them pop and glow in the summer night sky I am instantly four years old again. They are simply beautiful, and nothing can take that away for some reason - no pain, no sadness, no regret or loss that I am experiencing. That is why they are special to me, and in honor of that feeling I wrote this poem. The title is a direct quote from Rumi, a 13th-century Muslim poet - he is one of my favorites and I have always loved his views on the transformation of things and the experiences and vital processes of our lives. The quote itself actually seemed almost too appropriate for the subject matter - one wonders if Rumi was looking at a display of fireworks himself when he composed that line in his mind so many centuries ago?<br /><br />I wish you all a wonderfully happy and colorful fourth of July this year. May it build upon your many other priceless memories of this most perfect of holidays. :)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">“We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust.”</span><br /><br /><br />Instinctively<br /><br />the chest is clutched by the hand<br /><br />and joyfully seized by memories of grinning childhood wonder.<br /><br />The bursts of multicolored lights in the great divide<br /><br />drive away all thoughts;<br />all words;<br />all of all that is, or was, or will be;<br /><br />everything; <br />everything except the biding dark above.<br /><br />We gaze up at the nothingness<br />in tender expectation,<br /><br />and in those sudden, glorious, booming illuminations<br /><br />the young one inside of us clutches at our chest with excitement.<br /><br />And yet we cannot tear our eyes away<br />to consider what this means,<br /><br />for our eyes have become the unyielding conductors of our soul.<br /><br />And through the tiny keyholes in each of those doors<br /><br />it crouches and stares intently, and smiles, instinctively,<br /><br />in sweet, sublime puerility,<br /><br />like nothing else ever <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span><br /><br />or <span style="font-style:italic;">mattered</span><br /><br />as much as this <br /><br />skyful of enchanting fulminations.<br /><br /><br />Perhaps nothing does, or ever has, or ever will.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-31496636665418822392011-06-30T07:29:00.000-07:002011-06-30T07:40:59.296-07:00the fruits of the 6-27-11 poetry workshop led by Joe LimerYou 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />'workshop haikus 6-27-11'</span><br /><br /><br />This is not a gift<br />Or perhaps there are no gifts<br />Until we learn to take<br /><br />Hops twine up the lines<br />The season jogs so swiftly<br />I really must catch up<br /><br />The morning car ride<br />Screams out to invite the song<br />I never turn one on<br /><br />I pen the never<br />I dream the past that once was<br />I grasp what must be<br /><br />Gain the upper hand<br />Shrug the weight of atlas now<br />Stomp upon the rest<br /><br />Thou art in a glass<br />Color, texture, flavor, smell<br />Drunk on every part<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-37997889845916362292011-06-30T06:43:00.000-07:002011-06-30T07:21:09.048-07:00Day 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?<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">journey to</span> the end, and what we sacrificed to get there along the way?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">own</span> "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. :)<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Losing the Cord"</span><br /><br /><br />The witness nears the ocean<br />The sights and sounds of grandeur creep inside<br />Extending the vital climate of the magician’s sleight of hand<br />This harness grants him motion<br />And evergreen breezes fade as his spirit glides<br />Out of reach and into the breach that lies beyond the sand<br /><br />and in the flash of a fire-igniting blaze<br />in the first gasp ever taken by the dust-becomes-man<br />the horizon splits<br />and life-becomes-death<br />and death-becomes-life<br />an awakening hits<br /><br />Where we wiped the dew from our new skin<br />To find the narrative stretched to the brink<br />Encased in the milky glass, still seized by the mechanical demon’s grin<br />Like clockwork, slowly seeping down the sink<br /><br />Therein lies the traitor<br />In a red-ribbed, vitriolic, patriotic stride<br />Confusion given preference, delusion made as powerful as wrath<br />No questions of war, now or later<br />To begin to adore the creature and choose sides<br />Corrupts the convolution of the institution that controls who walks its path<br /><br />and in the fiercest of the billowing nights<br />that harbor hordes borne ready as the man-becomes-dust<br />the curtain rips<br />and tragedy-becomes-realization<br />and realization-becomes-tragedy<br />a sickness grips<br /><br />Where the instant stings the witness to the senses<br />Of a weary traveler nearing a mass too great to explore<br />Suddenly reaching for the strand, now caught between past and present tenses<br />And finally losing the cord – finally, losing the cord<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-2139058012797125182011-06-26T08:27:00.000-07:002011-06-26T08:39:49.792-07:00Day 16 - "Matar as Saudades, Or How To Write With a Broken Heart"Good morning everyone,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The epigraph is one written by a famous Portuguese 'saudadismo' and, in essence, it states:<br /><br />"In reality<br />A man only finds himself in what he looses,<br />Because he embraces the space and the eternity."<br /><br />I couldn't have found more perfect words. Enjoy the poem.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Matar as Saudades, Or How To Write With a Broken Heart"</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Na verdade<br />Um homem só se encontra no que perde,<br />Porque ele abrange o espaço e a eternidade."</span> <br /> - TEIXEIRA DE PASCOAES<br /><br />There is no instruction<br /><br />No sling to hold it<br />No cloth to bear tears<br />No drink to quick-dissolve the ache<br /><br />Only this, for sure: that we will sit with our pens<br />And think of things like,<br />“What strange little markings on these pages we’ve made.<br />And what do they mean, after all?<br />Fragments of ourselves - <br />Pieces of our hearts -<br />etched into tombstones of dead, bleached wood;<br />Epitaphs of bygone feelings, cut into manageable strips.<br />Distributed.<br />Given away to others, to take of as they will.<br /><br />And this, we think, <br />this is what we ultimately wanted.<br />To have part of ourselves forever given to others,<br />And, to an extent, forever taken from us.”<br /><br />The essence of true love<br />is sacrifice.<br /><br />Like Adam, forced out of Eden, knew:<br />‘From now on, we must strive for our happiness.<br />It will not be given freely - never again.’<br /><br />To dress our shrapnelled wounds and <br />Stumble through the crowds outside the Garden<br />We call forth lithic words of wisdom;<br />Capture the voices of friends within our ears;<br />Stitch the gifts of suffering upon our hearts;<br /><br /><br />And sit. <br /><br /><br />Just sit. <br /><br />For hours, in the land of Nod. <br /><br /><br />Praying to understand the lot we cast.<br /><br />Listening to the birds crying out, speaking in tongues<br />Through the stillness of the bleak morning air.<br />They sow not, reap not, nor gather in barns,<br />yet are fed.<br /><br />The world still exists, <br />and will carry the birds and broken hearts along with it<br />Through each and every revolution.<br /><br />But again, there is no instruction<br />This earth will turn <br />And you shall walk upon it, exiled<br />A wanderer<br />Without shoulder to lean on<br />Nor hand to clasp<br />Silently uttering horrible truths to your soul<br />You hoped you never would,<br />To which it shall respond, harmlessly enough,<br />“This pain, dear friend, is the price to be paid.”<br /><br />It is then that one learns,<br />If we faint not at this,<br />That our pens still have ink to sacrifice<br />If our hearts can bear our hands to write<br />And carve new words into the dead, bleached wood<br />Of the generous tree, ‘neath whose shade we would slumber<br />In times we would die to see once more,<br />With a rough, mended smile, proclaiming therein, in vain:<br /><br />“Set me once more upon your mantle, love;<br />I should be glad to be broken by your hands again.”<br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">For Joe</span><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-6272102288106397542011-06-08T05:18:00.000-07:002011-06-08T05:42:39.276-07:00Day 15 - "Paintings"'Allo, all.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Paintings"</span><br /><br /><br />Paintings<br /> Are so much better than stories,<br /> ...you know?<br /><br />Everything left to the<br />Dark<br /> of your imagination.<br /><br /> you never know<br /> what’s happened just before<br /> or what’s going to happen<br /> you don’t know<br /> anything of anyone in it<br /> or what they’ve gone through<br />to be there.<br /><br />In that pose.<br /><br /> The world in the frame is a<br />Mystery<br /> To us.<br /><br />We’ll never hear their thoughts<br /> as they stare at us and at each other.<br />We’ll never see their welling tears fall<br /> to the floor from their faces.<br /><br /> And they’ll always be there in that moment,<br /> ...you know?<br /><br />Constantly living<br /> in that glimpse of beauty<br /> that either<br />Compels them<br /> or<br />Kills them<br /> ...forever.<br /><br />Captured in their light.<br /><br />It’s a<br /> Lovely medium,<br /> ...don’t you think?<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-58158020164015235422011-06-07T04:56:00.000-07:002011-06-07T05:13:53.720-07:00Day 14 - "Memory of a Lucid dream"Guten Morgen, mein friends. And what a morning it is.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. :)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Memory of a Lucid dream<br /></span><br /><br />I opened my heavy eyes from<br />Sleep, or so I believed.<br />And what therein I<br />Perceived<br />Was some bright incandescent, and a face<br />Mild, yet pleasant<br />That turned and stole a brief moment’s<br />Pure, desirous essence<br />That I have since<br />Longed for to keep.<br /><br />Will we remember this<br />One dream of a life<br />When our eyes are<br />Glazed over<br />With eternity’s light?<br /><br />One cannot tell, but<br />If it be so<br />May we sleepers forego the<br />Infernal beams of lunar glow;<br /><br />For the fancies we seek<br />are but the heathenish lore<br />Of Morpheus, Phantasos, and Phobetor<br />Who tend those charming kingdoms<br />For evermore.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-18228061866402319532011-06-05T08:31:00.000-07:002011-06-05T08:40:46.606-07:00Day 13 - "Fables Ex Vivo"A good Sunday morning to you all!<br /><br />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!<br /><br />Here it is. I hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful, restful Sunday.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Fables Ex Vivo"</span><br /><br /><br /> 1<br />The child gazed at a brochure in the soaking rain<br />And wondered<br />How did they make the sky so blue?<br /><br /><br /> 2<br />When it turned straight ahead to watch them<br />The statue’s glare<br />Met the salt pillars’ and wouldn’t speak their names<br /><br /><br /> 3<br />Mumbled prophecies dropped from the hand<br />Into the paper cup<br />And the suit felt death was a great idea<br /><br /><br /> 4<br />There was no reason for the markings on the stone<br />But in time<br />Their silence would evolve and breed lonely horrors<br /><br /><br /> 5<br />Younglings stroll uncertainly about the streets and<br />Attempt to embrace<br />The worth of bottles and the rattle-songs of scavenging<br /><br /><br /> 6<br />Muscled steaming animas gutted the groaning age<br />Shuddering through fevers<br />They had contracted from the coughs of golden calves<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-61941087350295265792011-06-04T04:48:00.000-07:002011-06-04T05:06:00.992-07:00Day 12 - "The Curio-cart man"Good day, eh, and welcome to day 12. <br />(a little Bob & Doug McKenzie for you this morning.)<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. :)<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"The Curio-cart man"</span><br /><br /><br />Whatever became of the Curio-cart man<br />The peddler of charms in his colorful stand<br />Full of wares and wee trinkets<br />Disappeared?<br />Who could think it?<br />For his market was once high in demand<br /><br />O how the young ones chased him so<br />And followed his wagon wherever he’d go<br />Begging toys and sweet vittles<br />While he’d tell<br />Them all riddles<br />And make their minds swim to and fro<br /><br />He was glad to oblige, out parading his mart<br />Spouting off jolly figaries and whittling darts<br />Playing games like a child<br />While the aged<br />All the while<br />Were most eager to see him depart<br /><br />Still he’d swell up the dreams of the children he met<br />And believe in their fancies; every one of them set<br />Like bright jewels in his crown<br />As the old ones<br />Would frown<br />On most frivolous waste they would come to regret<br /><br />For what use could there be in the tending of naught<br />That could ever be useful beyond idle thought?<br />So at night they would scorn<br />That man had<br />Ever been born<br />And the curio-cart man had since sensed them distraught<br /><br />So with most heavy heart, like many times come before<br />He prepared all his trappings and locked up his store<br />And though the children would pout<br />He knew time<br />Had run out<br />That if he was to bide he’d be thrown out the door<br /><br />But there was part of him yearned to be there one more day<br />To tell just one more tale or to join in their play<br />To give last bits of joy<br />To each girl<br />And each boy<br />Who would spend most their lives in a miserable way<br /><br />For he’d seen it was so in his journeys’ great stride<br />That men’s souls become trapped in a net they provide<br />Made of duties and chores<br />And the rest<br />Of life’s bores<br />And not long do they have to enjoy what’s inside <br /><br />But from hence he did turn, and on down that old road -<br />The pike that leads forth from the ones we well know -<br />With a tune and a laugh<br />He’d gone on<br />With his path<br />For ‘twas never his aim to remain fixed so<br /><br />Yet he’d left late in evening; a strange act to some<br />Though the antsy clerk knew it the best time to run<br />As all hopes and dear wishes<br />Are best left<br />Quite fictitious<br />If there’s naught left to wonder, then his craft is undone<br /><br />And while most have forgotten that Curio-cart man<br />The peddler of charms in his colorful stand<br />There are old ones whose dreams<br />Are still within<br />Their means<br />But all hopes of their growth have long gone from this land<br /><br />Though surely it wasn’t the cart and its things<br />That had ever been what made the youthful ones spring<br />It was something their own<br />As the man<br />Had well known<br />Though his song had been sung, he knew they could still sing<br /><br />And whatever became of that silly old fool<br />Made no difference to those who had younglings to school<br />But at night in their beds<br />They’d still dance<br />In their heads<br />With that bright laughing fellow under mystical rule<br /><br />Of a kind that’s not bounded by simplest fate -<br />That can never be caged by mere toils that may wait -<br />For deep down in our hearts<br />There’s a man<br />And his cart<br />Who knows that it’s never, quite ever too late<br /><br />To be simple again, and live happy and free<br />As the child once before could now return to be<br />But if only in sleep<br />Is where he<br />Seems to keep<br />Then each night we’ll return to his sweet memory<br /><br />For now we know sure what became of our dreams<br />And the rusty old cart on which every one leans<br />As we await its return<br />In hopes that<br />We might learn<br />That the child deep inside is wiser than he seems<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-52253555100372598332011-06-03T05:07:00.000-07:002011-06-03T05:31:36.330-07:00Day 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">detained</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">right now</span> - 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">feel</span> 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.<br /><br />It's tough, but I'm beginning to see the method to what <span style="font-style:italic;">we</span> 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. :)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />"truth lives in brief moments"</span><br /><br /><br />In the dewy, muggy sunrise of a day in mid June,<br />I awoke to the sound of a tapping outside.<br /><br />I then shuffled to the window and so witnessed the sight<br />Of a diligent young woodpecker knocking away at my porch.<br /><br />My first thought was to shoo it away from my home,<br />But before I could move the reasons flew from my mind<br /><br />For I was shown, in that moment, all the things I would tend<br />Would one day return to their home in this land.<br /><br />And so I stood there awhile, and watched the woodpecker tap -<br />Tap away at my importance, my rashness… my world.<br /><br />And it became rather pleasing<br />To see it slowly destroyed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /> For Robinson Jeffers</span><br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-9823277903132312012011-06-02T06:02:00.000-07:002011-06-02T06:26:16.123-07:00Day 10 - "is carmen of mei"Wow... it's been quite a year, ladies and gents.<br /><br />I say that since my last post on this blog was about a year ago, give or take twenty or so days.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!)<br /><br />So, cheers to new beginnings, I suppose - how ever many times they must occur before we finish. :)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />"is carmen of mei"</span><br /><br /><br />I have not claimed my Innisfree<br />The Abyssinian maid plays not for me<br />My Grecian Urn has not been thrown<br />The daffodils have not yet grown<br /><br />All through the Waste Lands I have tread<br />Like Don Juan, romping from bed to bed<br />Yet still, there in the dim, dead throngs around<br />Prometheus, friend of man, lies bound<br /><br />But proud laurels are not what I’d wish to have worn<br />Great things slouching towards Bethlehem to be born<br />I would far rather be a creature; naked, bestial, apart<br />And to know why it tastes bitter, because it is my heart<br /><br />I’ve known that this passion’s been burning so bright<br />Deep in my soul, in the forests of the night<br />A dark place wherein I’ve since tasted of desire<br />For I’ve found I hold with those who favor fire<br /><br />In poetry, in life, throughout hours and days<br />Poured out through a pen and then kilned with a glaze<br />That is something half theirs and half totally ours<br />Just the same as a door’s not a door when ajar<br /><br />And I’ve longed to produce this, my own avant-garde -<br />All these whispers and whims of a ha’penny bard<br />That span time like Crane’s Bridge, from the sweat of my brow<br />Though the harvest is past - I am done with apple-picking now<br /><br />Yet I’ll still grasp for beauty til’ the day that I’m gone<br />Searching forever, a lost and muttering Endymion<br />To capture Selene as she seeps through the cracks<br />In this black and white world, wanting color it lacks<br /><br />But for the opus you hold - most modest chef-d’oeuvre -<br />I have strove for the epic, with a bit of blah, blah<br />And pray that these songs I’ve composed through my youth<br />Will remind us of Art, so we won’t die of Truth<br /><br />So go forth, poetic progeny<br />Run along through this world<br />Like bright rays of light<br />Heliotic daybreak unfurled<br /><br />And do what you may, dear friends, may it please or offend<br />For at this beginning, I must come to an end<br />Though no end is forever - still, like dust, we shall rise<br />While Dickinson calls out, “There is yet another sky.”<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-13722897677966361682010-06-24T08:18:00.000-07:002010-06-24T08:27:27.491-07:00Day 9 - "Anamnesis"Hello everyone!<br /><br />It's been quite a long absence, I realize, but not without good reason. My 800 mile move to a new state combined with laptop failure and lack of internet access brought my poetry blogging to a literal standstill for quite some time. I still don't have regular internet access, but I am able to update intermittently at least.<br /><br />As far as a poem per day goes, I don't know if I'll be able to continue my marathon in that fashion for a while, but while we wait to see if I'll be able to post anywhere near regularly here in the near future, here's a poem for you all to chew on for a bit.<br /><br />I wrote this one just recently, after watching an interesting DVD my friend lent me years ago called "Ergo Proxy." Very entertaining, and extremely thought provoking.<br /><br />And this is what it provoked in me:<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>"Anamnesis"</strong><br /><br /><em>“The bow is called life, but its work is death.”<br /> - HERACLITUS OF EPHESUS</em><br /><br /><br />What was the start of all this?<br /><br />When did the cogs of fate begin to turn?<br /><br />This brief flutter of heartbeats,<br />Culminating in a sterilized hospital bed.<br /><br />We have arrived,<br />But was the journey ever the destination<br />If we had never been truly conscious until now?<br /><br />Plato believed that knowledge was the recovery<br />Of memory existent from the beginning of time,<br />Forgotten with each new human’s cathartic first breath.<br />All of it erased, in the postnatal shock of rebirth.<br /><br />To have seen this prophecy come true, so neatly arranged:<br />Playing.<br />Learning.<br />Wondering.<br />Asking.<br />Discovering.<br />Hurting.<br />Struggling.<br />Striving.<br />Suffering.<br />Sighing.<br />Knowing.<br />And then, with that final breath,<br />Dying.<br /><br />Have we come all this way once again to find<br />That the truth behind the lies <br />does not always bring happiness?<br />And how many times before have we known<br />That we would be here again;<br />That all of us, together, would be here again?<br /><br />If there ever was a start to all this<br />It began with a click<br />And a whirr<br />And a maniacal laugh<br />That infinitely echoes<br />Until the day arrives when there is no one left to hear it.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-91940411510193474252010-05-14T11:33:00.000-07:002010-05-14T11:36:59.100-07:00sorry about the lull, everyoneHello again to all you people out there in blog land.<br /><br />If any of you are being super dedicated to this 'month of poetry marathon' that I'm hosting and are wondering why I haven't posted anything in the last few days, it's because my laptop officially went on the fritz and is being fixed right now by our computer-competent friends at the local Best Buy.<br /><br />However, when I get it back - and my poems along with it - I'll be posting a lot to make up for the time that I've missed. Needless to say, I know it's been substantial.<br /><br />I'll see you all in a few days hopefully, with more poems!<br /><br />- JoshJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-37686695664388619642010-05-07T09:51:00.001-07:002010-05-07T10:01:17.995-07:00Day 7 - "If to see such again"For today's poem - in light of all the tensions and emotions running high concerning people that I am close to in my family and other relationships because of personal heartbreak, tragedy, or whatever might be the case - I decided to post a work that speaks of those moments in life that take us back to a better place where things were once wonderful and that we never believed would come to an end. And how now, after all things have seemingly changed, we still have the photographs - still moments - of those times left over to haunt us. 'Haunt' might seem an eerie term, but at times I think they really do - not always in a bad way, but they are always there, and they always produce in us a powerful, profound feeling of unachievable distance, yet at the same time we also feel an irremovable, unforgettable familiarity when we are exposed to them once more.<br /><br />This poem was written when Brittany had been gone for a week for an acting competition and I was left alone and spent much of the time she was away at work or by myself, and all the while somehow drawn to stare at a photograph I have of my parents when they were still together. Most of the photos with both of them together were either destroyed or lost, but I kept this one because, in my heart, it's how I'd always prefer to remember things. My mother, when she saw that I had the photo, said she was "glad" that I had it, in a slightly saddened, solemn tone.<br /><br />I'll never forget that. And I can never forget those moments, and those times of our lives - like anyone else I'm sure, who has been through similar events. In short, here is my poetic nod to those feelings of ours that beg us to consider the pictures of our lives that will always remain in the albums of our memory.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />"If to see such again" </span><br /><br /><br />An existence retired, interred in a frame<br />Without any true form, without any real name<br />What could one but do, if to see such again<br />In the flesh, firm and fresh, at that time, all arranged?<br /><br />Moments true now called false<br />So remote, reappraised<br />That old camera’s a felon<br />Telling lies of that ‘phase’<br /><br />Though one looks on the thing<br />And considers its fate<br />To carry the emotions<br />Such burdensome weight<br />Of the ones who have seen it,<br />And who know what it means,<br />And who know what’s since happened,<br />And have lived in-between,<br />And who’ve loosed all their anger,<br />And have shed all their tears,<br />And have wrenched out their story<br />To whoever might hear.<br /><br />‘Tis too much for a picture<br />For one knows such things bear<br />These lost sights through the years<br />As we tend here and there<br />A dear Atlas, bent over<br />Made to shoulder our pain<br /><br />Through damp eyes, in dim light<br />We wonder in vain<br /><br />Could never<br />We ever<br />Smile on such lies again?<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-88541096553398423862010-05-06T06:20:00.000-07:002010-05-06T06:48:12.821-07:00Day 6 - "Train wreck of Thought"For today's poem, I thought I'd post something a little out of the ordinary. It's a very super-modern/postmodernistic work for me - a style that I don't try out very often in my poetic ventures, but at the time it seemed appropriate for what I was trying to relate. The formatting might look a bit strange on this blog (since it's really formatted the way I like it in Word) but, regardless, I think the idea of the piece will still come through in some form. This is one of those poems that has come to me during dark and dreary times where I can't help but consider things in lights that others may call pessimistic or overly gloomy - in response, maybe I can't say that they're totally wrong, but I do think to look at the world without the 'rose-colored glasses' on sometimes is a healthy activity and really puts things in perspective once the sugar-coating has worn off and we see things for how they really are.<br /><br />This is a pretty common theme for me, and I hope you enjoy this one. Even if you don't, I can understand - It's pretty strange, but for what it's worth, I really like it myself.<br /><br /><br />"Train wreck of Thought"<br /><br /><br />I have compiled the nomenclatures generated<br />by numerous academic sources:<br /><br />Divine Chaos<br />A nervous Tick<br />A whirling dervish on an Axis<br /> A space-lost bulb<br /><br />LITTERED WITH:<br /><br />A burgeoning multitude spawned<br />By television Static<br /><br />Tutored by the whine of an air-raid siren<br />ushering the droves into classroom shelters<br /><br />They imitate the blaring well, knowing nothing of its knell<br /><br />In a little old place where<br />All life is consumed<br />By an urge to RAGE against the DYING of the LIGHT<br />A<br />Light<br />Which<br />It<br />Continues to Douse<br />With overflowing quaffs of disenchantment<br /><br />Our elbows are on the table<br />‘Cause we still don’t know any better<br />and we’re all still waiting for the check<br />or the kireji<br /><br />one or the ‘utha...<br /><br />I ordered my morals and values<br />On a bumper sticker, miss<br />with a side dish of refrigerator magnet –<br /><br />and i’ve been waiting patiently for the grim reaper to come 4 me<br /> in his knock-knock joke.<br /><br />...some service, eh?<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-69443003713188740752010-05-06T06:15:00.000-07:002010-05-06T06:47:57.642-07:00Day 5 - "There's love, and then there's love"Good morning, all. So I wasn't able to post a poem yesterday on account of spending the whole day with my fiancee because it was our two year anniversary. :) Therefore, I'm following up with a double whammy today and I thought it best to post this poem for yesterday - a poem that I wrote for my fiancee; always reminded of the many different ways in which she makes me so happy, and keeping me mindful of the very mutable nature of love in general.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"There's love, and then there's love"<br /></span><br /><br />There’s love, and then there’s love<br />The second’s different from the first<br />The first will wait for your first date<br />The second, when things are worst<br /><br />This doesn’t mean the second love<br />Is something that’s to dread<br />Or that the first is nothing more<br />Than sweet words that we’ve said<br /><br />And never has it been the truth<br />That the first in time shall fade<br />The fact is that it stays intact and<br />Molds the second to be made, but<br /><br />To say the second is much stronger<br />Is a debate one might avoid<br />For the first is what has held us<br />Through those moments we enjoyed<br /><br />Where the first would say, “You’re beautiful”<br />The second would gaze and smile<br />The first would take you in their arms<br />The second would hold you awhile<br /><br />The first will hand you a ring and a rose<br />And the second will make you tea<br />The first will love you till the end<br />And the second will be there to see<br /><br />For when the second’s full matured<br />The first will take rest in the mind<br />And hold those moments dear to us<br />Both the first and second entwined<br /><br />And here and again, they both remind<br />That there’s love, and then there’s love<br />The first that sowed the sweetest dream<br />And the second that grew thereof<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-60578306360512783722010-05-04T13:53:00.000-07:002010-05-06T06:47:46.558-07:00Day 4 - "Micro-omniscience"For today's poem, I decided to post this poem in particular for two reasons. One, because the weather and general mood of the day is very much like the day when I originally composed this poem and this atmosphere figures heavily with the themes in the poem itself. Two, because this is one of two poems of mine that were recently published in UVM's annual Vantage Point student art & literary compiliation which was just released to the public today. I received my copy a few hours ago and, I have to say, the front cover is pretty badass. And yeah, I guess the stuff inside the cover is pretty neat too. :) Pick up a copy if you're able, and if you're here at UVM in Burlington, VT tonight, don't miss out on the naked bike ride. You just might see a naked poet running around, if you're lucky!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Micro-omniscience"</span><br /><br /><br />Even wrappers that flitter in the dull wind<br />hath more life and color<br />Than this field of martyred grass, browned and gaunt<br />in profound and ageless lamentation<br />that can recall<br />a thousand other deaths<br />like hooded monks forced to meditate<br />on how horrid they are for daring to exist<br />in this tyrants’ land, where 99¢ will always accede the throne<br />and we shall sit and watch the fireworks’ finale in delight<br />upon their trampled heads.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-54856038580012135642010-05-03T11:37:00.000-07:002010-05-06T06:47:33.401-07:00Day 3 - "Through Amber Seams"Today I've decided to post a poem that I wrote some time ago - probably about 2 years ago to be exact - for a college poetry class. It's a Petrarchan sonnet following an 'ABBA ABBA CDE DCE' rhyme scheme in meter. It might seem a bit archaic in its diction and pretty obviously Romantic in its expressed themes, but hey - that's one of my favorite poetic periods, so I can't really deny what I love and still be totally truthful, can I? :) Hope you enjoy the little trip back to the age of wonder, spirit, and exquisite verbiage.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />"Through Amber Seams"</span><br /><br /><br />In light of what that summer brought, to us now bold and lost<br />A foreign sun now rests upon the form once dressed in dew and dreams<br />In distant years we leapt through fields; wandered free through amber seams<br />Before the angels wafted low, with rivers dark to cross<br />The sails we tended ripped us loose, towards our tempests toss’d<br />Where virgin vales hid lovely snares that knew no mercies in their teem<br />The echoes in the splendoured coves are all that linger still to keen<br />While sleepless eyes invade the nights as bitter days exhaust<br />Oh fie, oh fie, by grace divine, what song shall now be sung<br />Of fortune’s joy that hears the voice that spouts so bright in youth?<br />What tales be told ‘neath pitch’s boughs where fires slouch and wait?<br />Only those that the weary child bears, now weighted down with truth<br />So crimson wings may shriek the sins to knaves, amassed and strung<br />With amber seams like summer’s beams whose sheen conceals the bait<br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-836790902246408720.post-88999054397554703022010-05-02T11:21:00.001-07:002010-05-06T06:47:10.237-07:00Day 2 - "Traveling in an antique land"Well, here we are at day 2, moving right along... I don't exactly know why I chose to post this particular poem here today, but for some reason it just seemed appropriate. Maybe it'll mean something more to someone else right now than it does to me at this moment, but who knows - but isn't <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> really the beauty of poetry itself?<br /><br />In any case, I wrote this poem shortly after finally meeting someone in person - someone I had greatly admired for a long time - but then was tragically let down by the nature of the individual whom I had thought would have been so much different; so much more than what they really were. Not that I ever saw that person as superhuman or anything, but I at least saw the person as someone decent and good at heart, which, I came to find, was not the case whatsoever.<br /><br />So here it is, a Greek-inspired poetic tribute to the tragic realizations of our lives:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />"Traveling in an antique land"</span><br /><br /><br />How famous people seem to be so far away<br />With their pictures on the covers of books and magazines<br />From who and what we are<br />We, standing at the Kiosk, as naïve in our hearts<br />as<br />innocent little Ariadne,<br />left standing on the shore of Naxos<br /><br />we cannot conceive<br />that even the authors cannot read<br />or pronounce their own works correctly half of the time<br />Like deities confused with the<br />physics of the new planes of<br />being they have inked into creation<br /><br />We unconsciously assume they are altogether <br />unattainable<br />unreal<br />Until we are near one – or see one<br />And then our hearts flutter as if<br />The fresco of a king suddenly shook off<br />Its frozen stance and strode out of the wall<br />Saying<br />“I am all you can define as the<br />Word which takes the place of everything<br />you’ve ever believed or wanted”<br /><br />and, in that moment, we don’t know for sure<br />if we should bow to ‘it’<br />or not, for now we can see the paint<br />begin to peel<br />and fall about its ruddy soles<br />a form now lacking a monarch’s aweful dimension<br /><br />The autograph book drips with black blood.<br /><br /><br />- Joshua ClarkeJooshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12216181991149895813noreply@blogger.com0