Meter Monday

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul. 

Meter Monday: Sending Faces

Cozy faces unrelated to poem!

Good morning (or afternoon), Spatulans. It’s Monday. Huzzah. Huzzah! It’s Meter Monday. Here’s a poem to start your day… or end your day. It’s got cozy blankets and… faces? Yeah, faces.

Here’s to seeing things differently, or looking outside the box. Here’s to cozy blankets, cozy faces, Meter Mondays, pareidolia, and delightfully crappy poetry. Here, here!

Sending Faces

There are faces in my blanket. When I close one eye

           They disappear. When I close the other eye

They appear in front of me covered up to their chins in my own down comforter snuggled up close,

           Eyes wide open or half shut winking

In

            And

                        Out

Of cotton blended dreams of human faces.

They are distorted as in yawn or big laugh

Both which sound like feathers falling from a pillow burst.

When I close one eye they disappear

Seeing faces in clocks too.

            But I know they are still there

Snoring behind a fold. When I close the other

They are there again. When I close both

            I know they are gone.

No longer waiting to be seen. They have

Vanished like a magician’s trick:

Hands waving over a dove

            And

                        Poof

The movement of my body

Sends shapes to new places.

Meter Monday

I would like to apologize in advance for anyone who doesn't know about a *wee* little thing I have for Richard Armitage. I think after you hear him read some Coleridge you'll understand. 

xoxo,

Lucy.

Meter Monday: William Wordsworth

Dear Fantastic Spatula,
Lucy, Clara and S. Kemp have decided to take a summer vacation from posting. They are going to go do some much needed magic making. But don't worry, they'll start posting again on September 1, 2012. Then they'll be all refreshed and shiny. They hope that all of their dear readers enjoy their summer and make much magic. Here is a poem about daffodils and wandering.
xoxo

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

I wandered lonely a a cloud

Daffodils tossing their heads

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-William Wordsworth

Meter Monday: Rainer Maria Rilke

Here is an old copy of the book.

This isn't a poem, but it's a letter written by a poet. So it counts for Meter Monday. My parents gave me Rainer Maria Rilke's "Letters To A Young Poet" in high school when I declared I was going to be a writer. When I first opened the book this particular excerpt stood out to me. Today, when I opened the book years later, the same paragraph caught my attention. I'm going to share it with you. I'd also like to know:
are there are any poets, writers, artists, musicians, potters, mathematicians, or scientists whose words or works stand out to you? Is there a specific piece or book that made you think, "Yes. This is how I feel and I know I must continue."?

"Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: "Must I write?" Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, "I must," then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity. Your life, in even the most mundane and least significant hour, must become a sign,  testimony to this urge."
- Rainer Maria Rilke, "Letter To A Young Poet," from The First Letter.

Do you agree or disagree with this sentiment?

Meter Monday: Tim Burton

Happy Monday, Spatulans. I hope your weekends were all Magical. Let's start this week with a poem from Tim Burton's slightly macabre "The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories". While each character is bizarre and each tale a bit melancholy, which is the fun of a Tim Burton poetry collection, every poem is also illustrated, which makes this poetry collection even more fun. I'd encourage you to find this book and devour it, if you haven't already.

Staring Girl

I once knew a girl 

who would just stand there and stare.

At anything, 

she seemed not to care.

She'd stare at the ground,

She'd stare at the sky.

She'd stare at you for hours,

and you'd never know why.

But after winning the local staring contest,

she finally gave her eyes

a well-deserved rest.

Meter Monday: David E. Thomas

When I first moved to Missoula, MT there were a few places I liked because they felt familiar. One place was The Oxford Cafe. You walked in and poker was played by men in driver caps and cowboy hats to your left. The long bar to your right went back past the pool players and the 2 a.m. drunks siting at the tables in the dining area. Another bar stretched in front of the grill where greasy wonderful food was cooked in front of you. This was where I went to eat cheese fries after drinking too much with new found friends. It reminded me of The Royal James bar in Beaufort, NC where I'd eat cheese fries after drinking too much with the news paper crew. There, I'd sit at the bar after putting money in the juke box and watch the pool players in drivers caps and cowboy hats.

Missoula had a lot of free events I liked going to when I first moved. My favorite was the poetry and prose readings at Shakespeare & Co. Book Store, a book store on the ground floor of my apartment building. One day I ran into a neighbor who told me another neighbor, Dave Thomas, was reading from his newest book of poetry, "Waterworks Hill", that night. Since I'd moved into the apartment building I'd seen Mr. Thomas, Dave, walking to the library during the day and sitting in a bar called Charlie B's, sipping a beer at night. I'd also seen him cleaning the four community bathrooms in the apartment building. He reminded me of my uncles Drake and Butch who lived in Easton, Maryland. They all had huge beards.

I went to the reading that night. The poems felt honest and dirty like I'd been working in the mountains all day and bathed in the river running through town that night. The people he wrote about felt familiar like I'd had a drink with them back home. He wrote about a Missoula I'd come too late to know but could picture through his words. Today I bought a book of his poetry called "Buck's Last Wreck". I found a poem about The Oxford Cafe.

Historical Eggs In The Oxford Cafe

Source

There was a time
     when women
would enter
only
on a dare
     a sorority gal's
meat and potatoes
sizzle
     a greasy grill
drunk
bleary faces move
thru
well lit smoke
wooden counter chairs
shine
with decades of hungry
asses

Meter Monday: Minchin Edition

Hello. It's been a while, huh? Sorry about that; I've got no excuse. I've just been out of it for a while. But a rejuvenating weekend has put me back on course. I figured I'd ease back into posting by taking advantage of Meter Monday and showcasing one of my favorite poets, the wonder of Tim Minchin.

Yes. I know. I've featured him before, and with good reason. This man is a wordsmith of true greatness. And he is funny to boot, truly talented. Not only is he a brilliant pianist and song writer, but his beat poetry is remarkable.

(Now, I feel I need to issue another disclaimer. Tim Minchin is not for the faint of heart. He likes profanity, but he uses it well. He is also not for those of the closed minded persuassion or those whose own view points bruise easily. So, you've been warned.)

Here are my favorite bits of Tim's poetry; absurdly funny, ridiculously apt, and irreverantly perfect. Ladies and gentlemen, Tim Minchin!

Meter Monday: Jewel

Jewel has been one of my favorite musicians since I first heard "You Were Meant for Me". Yes, it was the line about making a smiley face with the eggs that hooked me. 

When I was fifteen I bought "A Night Without Armor" as a Christmas present to myself. A lot of the poems it contained went right over my lovely, innocent head. But over the years I figured out what the darker content actually meant, and also appreciated the beautiful, triumphant ones even more. 

Tonight I picked up the dog-eared, love worn book and opened it to the first bookmarked page. 

Certain Girls

I am fascinated by
those certain girls
     you know the ones
the women that are always girls
their tiny bodies like
neglected willow trees
     controlled and contorted
which may blow away with
the slightest dissappointment 

Meter Monday: Joanna Klink

It happens sometimes. Sometimes you walk into a book store and you can't find the book you're looking for. The store owner can order it for you, but it will get to you in a week. Or more. And you just can't wait that long. You want something right now. Sometimes, a book store will have "Staff Picks" set aside on a shelf. Staff Picks are books that the book store staff has read and think are amazing and want you to read. Sometimes, you pick up a book of poetry because it was picked by staff. This book of poetry is called Raptus. It is by Joanna Klink, a lady from Montana.

"Raptus (1) A state of rapture of furor. Also: an instance of this; a fit of intense emotion. (2) A seizure; a sudden or acute attack (as in a raptus of the blood, Impulsive Raptus, or Raptus Nervorum). (3) From rapio: A carrying-off by force. (4) A state of spiritual rapture marked by anesthesia. (5) A pathological paroxysm of activity giving vent to impulse or tension (as in an act of violence)."

Sometimes, you will open up the book of poetry to the first poem and have to buy the book and read it all the way through.

SOME FEEL RAIN

Some feel rain. Some feel the beetle startle
in its ghost-part when the bark

Joanna Klink "Raptus"

slips. Some feel musk. Asleep against
each other in the whiskey dark, scarcely there.
When it falls apart, some feel the moondark air
drop its motes to the patch-thick slopes of
snow. Tiny blinking of ice from the oak,
a boot-beet that comes and goes, the line of prayer
you can follow from the dusking wind to the snowy owl
it carries. Some feel sunlight
well up in blood-vessels below the skin
and wish there had been less to lose.
Knowing how it could have been, pale maples
drowsing like a second sleep above our temperaments.
Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can't be
snapped? Some feel the rivers shift,
blue veins through soil, as if the smokestacks were a long
dream of exhalation. The lynx lets its paws
skim the ground in snow showers.
The wildflowers scatter in warm tints until
the second they are plucked. You can wait
to scrape the ankle-burrs, you can wait until Mercury
the early star underdraws the night and its blackest
districts. And wonder. Why others feel
through coal-thick night that deeply colored garnet
star. Why sparring and pins are all you have.
Why the earth cannot make its way towards you.

Meter Monday: Mary Oliver

When I was in college there were many times that I needed something to lift my up by my bootstraps and keep me going. As I worked the reference desk in the library, I kept finding hints to read the work of Mary Oliver. I followed the breadcrumbs left by trusted travelers that went before me. And I found the pieces of nourishment I needed in several of her poems. One of them being:

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.