i'm afraid you won't see the sun
i'm afraid you won't taste the summer
i'm afraid you won't feel my heart
beating next to yours.
i'm sick of all the lies,
i'm sick of too much talk,
i'm sick of everybody saying
that there's not enough room.
so many empty arms.
so many vacant hearts.
so many of us dream about you
and would die to hold you.
so
i will go to war for you.
i will not give up on you.
i will not stop burning for you
or weeping.
3/20/2010
thoughts to conquer doubt
and for this poem
let me briefly state the truth:
love is not hate disguised,
not merely a passion put to use,
or the redemption of a lonely soul.
No, it is the point of all the battle-wit and grief,
else pain's foil were not so sharp;
It is the purpose of our measured days,
for we need it like drowning men
crave air.
The word is beaten, formed and molded for
unsterling uses, but LOVE is not
anybody's plaything or a dog to call to heel-
it is untarnishable, untameable, unconjurable and deep.
As blood would not be red without iron,
so the vibrancy of love depends, not on
fate or chance or beauty,
but on the health of the soul.
For whoever trys to master love deceives himself:
Love only enters in the clothing
of
a
servant
let me briefly state the truth:
love is not hate disguised,
not merely a passion put to use,
or the redemption of a lonely soul.
No, it is the point of all the battle-wit and grief,
else pain's foil were not so sharp;
It is the purpose of our measured days,
for we need it like drowning men
crave air.
The word is beaten, formed and molded for
unsterling uses, but LOVE is not
anybody's plaything or a dog to call to heel-
it is untarnishable, untameable, unconjurable and deep.
As blood would not be red without iron,
so the vibrancy of love depends, not on
fate or chance or beauty,
but on the health of the soul.
For whoever trys to master love deceives himself:
Love only enters in the clothing
of
a
servant
3/17/2010
Would Shakespeare cringe, listening
as meth-dazed kids discuss Hamlet's great sorrow?
With words so battered and grooved, slang so
casual they puzzle over slow revenge and the complexities
of love and madness. It almost does not seem like speech,
but rather the pre-articulate thought process
of some amoeba-cluster still millenia from evolutionary progress.
No, but if the Bard himself sat here,
methinks he would not protest. Rather, with a
small smile above that stiff collar, he would
start writing a new play....
"The upstart youths do tarry, and we call them knaves, but surely they do see the stars of heaven with their eyes...."
as meth-dazed kids discuss Hamlet's great sorrow?
With words so battered and grooved, slang so
casual they puzzle over slow revenge and the complexities
of love and madness. It almost does not seem like speech,
but rather the pre-articulate thought process
of some amoeba-cluster still millenia from evolutionary progress.
No, but if the Bard himself sat here,
methinks he would not protest. Rather, with a
small smile above that stiff collar, he would
start writing a new play....
"The upstart youths do tarry, and we call them knaves, but surely they do see the stars of heaven with their eyes...."
anagram
Forget it. Seriously,you don't owe me anything,
really. if only i could make you understand how
i love helping you, and how
every chance i get to be with you is
never enough - i want to be with you always.
don't you see,
silly. We're friends.
really. if only i could make you understand how
i love helping you, and how
every chance i get to be with you is
never enough - i want to be with you always.
don't you see,
silly. We're friends.
3/16/2010
England is a (Single) Man's Land
by Cate Pilgrim
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)
There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.
It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.
From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”
Here, Archer cut in.
“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”
There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”
With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.
In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.
An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.
I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”
Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.
“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”
Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.
“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”
At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”
Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.
Shocked may be a better word.
My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.
And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”
********
I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)
There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.
It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.
From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”
Here, Archer cut in.
“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”
There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”
With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.
In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.
An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.
I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”
Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.
“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”
Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.
“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”
At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”
Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.
Shocked may be a better word.
My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.
And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”
********
I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”
3/11/2010
Song of Songs: A Note
"Indeed, A. La CoCaque and S.D. Gotein point out that the woman speaks 53 percent of the time in the Song, while the man speaks 39 percent of the time." - Longman
3/09/2010
Shakespearean Sonnet: 101
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
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