The Chrono Compendium Poets Bakery

[Syna]

Shel Silverstein will do. He's certainly a genius in his own sort of way -- such parable-esque simplicity done well is rare to find.

[GenesisOne]

I took one look at this thread and thought to myself "Oh, no. My Chrono Trigger by Dr. Seuss days will soon be resurfacing. Must... resist... temptation..."

  Bwa ha ha ha ha ha!

But alas, I shall restrain. Instead, I present this poem

"Stained Glass Masquerade" by Casting Crowns

So I tuck it all away, like everything's okay
If I make them all believe it, maybe I’ll believe it too
So with a painted grin, I play the heart again
So everyone will see me the way that I see them

The performance is convincing
And we know every line by heart
Only when no one is watching
Can we really fall apart

But would it set me free
If I dared to let you see
The truth behind the person
That you imagine me to be

And yeah, way to shut down the poetry thread, Zeality. How the hell are any of us supposed to follow up Keats?!

I present in the blue corner... T.S. Eliot.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What's not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

I'll come around to present my own poetry, but  first, I must draw inspiration from the great poets of yesteryear.

[Syna]

Goddamn it TS Eliot, every time I want to write you off because you were an ass, you remind me of how much more awesome you are than I am. "History has many cunning passages," indeed.

I love the classics, but here's some inspiring modern poetry for variety's sake:

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

My childhood: closed to me. Or is it
under the mulch—fertile.

But very dark. Very hidden.

From her much longer poem, "Fugue."

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.

[Sajainta]

This is one of my favourite poems of all time.  It's by Bill Coyle.

"The Magic Circle"

1.  Autumn

Early this morning I glanced out the window
and saw her underneath the maple tree.
She was as pale as that white gown of hers.
Hard to believe it's been a year already.
I waved.  She turned away, paused for a moment,
then walked into the mist that marked the border
between my backyard and what lay beyond.
Proserpine, I called, but she was gone.
I am convinced that this was Proserpine
and not, as Mrs. Grandison maintains,
some nut escaped from the state hospital.
All Hallow E'en approaches.  Skeletons
hang from the trees along my street and ghosts,
emboldened, haunt the front yards in broad daylight.

2. Winter

The swallows sleep beneath the river ice.
The salamanders whisper in the fire.
Hermes Trismestigus' new work is open
at one of its obscurer passages,
of which there are intolerably many.
I take a break to watch the local news.
Toward midnight, I collect my charts and go
to make my nightly survey of the heavens.
Mercifully they're still there.  One of the saddest
developments I've witnessed in my time
has been astrology's decline from science
to fortune telling of the basest sort,
its long eclipse by disciplines that measure
not meaning, now, but distance, size and mass ...
As if mere matter mattered in itself.

3. Spring

Bears wake from their long hibernation, now,
hirsute initiates with tales to tell
to those with ears to listen.  Proserpine
returns as well, and Christ.  And may not I?
The budding trees and the returning birds
figure the transmigration of the soul
so beautifully I wish that I could die
and see the world again through infant eyes.
I intimate these things to Ed, my mailman,
who nods politely.  Ed is not about
to jeopardize his Christmas tip (last year
an old tin can transmuted into gold)
regardless how much of a character
he and the other villagers may think me.

4. Summer

Little did I know when I concocted
my potion that, although one may stop time,
it is impossible to turn it back.
Youth, they say, is wasted on the young.
Perhaps I'll have a tee-shirt made that reads,
Eternal life is wasted on the old.
And yet the world is no less beautiful.
Toward evening dew collects upon the lawn,
rising again as fireflies.  Above
the white New England church a flock of swallows
copies a Greek text out in Arabic,
and in the maple trees a light breeze stirs,
sounding for all the world like water falling
distantly off the edges of the world.

[Manly Man]

It's a beautiful parody of Poe's 'The Raven,' done by the humorous Miss Avarice on fanfiction.net.

I Hate Doors
Once upon a midnight dreary, I flew about, weak and weary
Over many quiet and forgotten towns galore
While I tired, nearly falling, and hit such an appalling,
Appalling kind of wooden door.
And in my blindness I kept hitting that stupid door.
More than once, and once more.
But a flicker of hope arose, and I heard a man's voice, morose
Echoing out faintly from behind that annoying door
He explained, with a voice pained
That I had woken him from his nap, as I had come to rap
Rap upon his chamber door.
And soon the door opened wide, and I quickly flew inside
As he continued to stare out the door
Though finally it was shut, and he proceeded to pace but
All the while muttering about some lost Lenore
(His girlfriend from those days of yore.)
He threw open the window, (why? I don't know…)
Then finally seemed to sight me, the visitor from before
He turned pale as a ghost, and then proceeded to wail the most
Long words that nobody uses anymore
I resisted the urge to snore.
After this I merely said, while his face was filled with hatred
"Nevermore."
Because that's all I felt like saying, and there was no use in staying
To listen to an old guy talk about his "lost Lenore".
Plus, I was sitting on a most uncomfortable piece of décor.
Patiently, I waited, as I was continually berated
And replied in turn, always "Nevermore."
I would have left by then, but Heaven knows when
He suddenly collapsed upon the floor
Unmoving, and his heart beat no more.
And now he is dead, and it fills me with dread
To know I will have his death upon my conscience forevermore.
With that aside, the door opened wide
And I was thrown by a gust of wind onto the floor
I hate doors.

[Syna]

Any poem that references Hermes Trismegistus is good in my book. Lovely.

[tushantin]

Lyrics from the song Give Me Some Sunshine, from 3 Idiots. Unlike the previous song "All Iz Well" which was positive, silly and hilarious, this song is far too thoughtful and shows the negative side of the experiences of most college students.

Saari Umr Hum Mar Mar ke jee liye Ek pal to ab humein Jeene Do Jeene do Saari Umr Hum Mar Mar ke jee liye Ek pal to ab humein Jeene Do Jeene do Saari Umr Hum Mar Mar ke jee liye Ek pal to ab humein Jeene Do Jeene do Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Kandhon ko kitabon Ke bojh ne jhukaya Rishvat dena to khud Papa ne sikhya 99% marks laaoge to ghadi varna chadi Likh likh pada hatheli par Alpha beta gamma ka chaala Concentrated H2so4 Ne Poora Poora bachpan jala daala Bachpan to gaya Jawani bhi gayi Ek pal To ab humein Jeen Do jeene do Bachpan to gaya Jawani bhi gayi Ek pal To ab humein Jeen Do jeene do Saari Umr Hum Mar Mar ke jee liye Ek pal to ab humein Jeene Do Jeene do Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again

For our entire lives We lived each day dying At least for a moment Let us live, let us live For our entire lives We lived each day dying At least for a moment Let us live, let us live For our entire lives We lived each day dying At least for a moment Let us live, let us live Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Books burdened our shoulders and bent them with their weight How to give a bribe some, Father was the one to teach us. 99% marks is what you need to get a car, otherwise severe beatings (with a stick) Write, write, read, On my palm, on my wrist Alpha beta gamma left a stain, and Concentrated H2so4 Burned our entire childhood. Our childhood's gone Our youth, also gone At least now, for a moment Let us live, let us live Our childhood's gone Our youth, also gone At least now, for a moment Let us live, let us live For our entire lives We lived each day dying At least for a moment Let us live, let us live Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Na Na NA Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again Give me some Sunshine give me some rain Give me another chance wana grow up once again

[Sajainta]

Fine. Here's an original:


If You Ask Me To

A pool of water platformed on the bay –
Soft blue that emanates behind the clouds
And carries moonlight through sweet summer air;
The pleasure of an ivory display;
Of arches; glasses; ocean columns roused
To gently host enchanted evening scenes;
Enwrapped in your embrace and loving care,
Your form a cherished glow from starry fays,
Your face, the highest arc of beauty's essence found,
I know that fantasy cannot compare
To our experience in night serene;
To passion; warm desire met and sewn
In kiss – our feelings rise among our dreams,
And disappear into the tender morn.

I like the rhyme scheme very much.  However, in the third line I think commas would work better than semicolons.  The semicolons between one or two words reads as very choppy to me, and I found it to be rather disruptive.

Is there any particular reason why you are so fond of semicolons?  I realize that they're an underused punctuation mark and they should certainly be used more often, but you seem keen on using them quite often in this poem.

[ZeaLitY]

Just to further separate the imagery presented in the individual lines. I should remove the ones after arches and glasses.

I really don't like modern poetry (since it seems to come in two flavors: pretentious word salad or rambling chopped-up sentence), but here's some of mine:

May 2003

The past is an airy, shaded, lacquered dream –
I can touch the rain-soaked, sunset-dried leaves;
Feel the orange-lit nights of magic;
Taste the crimson wish beyond the atmosphere –
What did I do; what was I doing,
To lose grasp?

Another sonnet about that awesome space between winter and spring that feels like some kind bizarre season unto itself:

The Course Unreal

The ice can thunder in its crippling grip,
And snow can quiet all the life of earth
As naked tree-bark shivers in the wind –
But draw the breath of March on warming lips;
The eve with rosy golden hues conferred;
The ground, the mirror of clearing daylong rain,
As currents purple thunder eastward send;
The blades of hardened grass with sparkling drip
And dreams renewed by drops of em’rald birth,
And you shall stand where time with meaning blends;
The middle space between the seasons’ grain
Where waking beauty runs the course unreal
And crosses life to where there has been lain
The heart of spring and summer’s burning zeal.

And here's my attempt to capture the Dai-Gurren Brigade in a sonnet:

1:20

To spill a tapestry across the sky
Of stars and colors; lights and sparkling streaks
Of brilliant swirls currented by love;
Of passion’s flourish cov’ring all the high
Empires born of dreams among the gleam
Of lofty spiral galaxies, arrayed
In daring emerald with halo lux,
And populated by the bold who strive
For beauty; love; illumination’s sheen
As glowing in their hearts and burning blood,
Stirred rich with potent will and restless sway;
The piercing glare unleashed from lucid eye –
To cast your bright ambition dauntless ways
Shall cut a path through destiny’s demise.

[tushantin]

@ZeaLitY: I couldn't interpret the proper meaning of your Course Unreal (probably because I'm distracted by my brother's music volume too high up), but that Dai Gurren Brigade's take...

Would you (or someone else if they're interested) narrate/sing that sonnet for me? I'd like to make a video of it once my UPS is fixed. It'd not only be a good video-editing practice for me, but also something of a tribute to the Springtime of Youth.

[Sajainta]

Another one of my favourites, by Nicholas Roerich.

The Hour

Awaken, O friend. A message has come.
Ended, thy rest.
Now I have learned where is guarded
One of the Sacred Signs.
Think of the joy if
One sign we shall find.
Before sunrise we shall have to go.
At night we must all prepare.
Look at the night-sky....
It is beautiful as never before;
I do not remember
Such another.
Only yesterday
Cassiopeia was sad and misty,
Aldebaran twinkled fearfully
And Venus did not appear.
And now they are all ablaze.
Orion and Arcturus are shining.
Far behind Altair
New starry signs
Are gleaming and the mistiness
Of the constellations is clear and transparent.
Dost thou not see the path to that
Which tomorrow we shall find?
The starry masses have awakened.
Take thy fortune.
The armor we shall not need.
The shoes put tightly on,
Tightly girdle thyself,
Our path will be stony.
The East is aflame.
For us
Is the hour.

[Syna]

    It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.

And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.

Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.

If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.

[tushantin]

MEPHISTOPHELES

Since Thou, O Lord, deign'st to approach again
And ask us how we do, in manner kindest,
And heretofore to meet myself wert fain,
Among Thy menials, now, my face Thou findest.
Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after
With lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned:
My pathos certainly would move Thy laughter,
If Thou hadst not all merriment unlearned.
Of suns and worlds I've nothing to be quoted;
How men torment themselves, is all I've noted.
The little god o' the world sticks to the same old way,
And is as whimsical as on Creation's day.
Life somewhat better might content him,
But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent
him:
He calls it Reason—thence his power's increased,
To be far beastlier than any beast.
Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me
A long-legged grasshopper appears to be,
That springing flies, and flying springs,
And in the grass the same old ditty sings.
Would he still lay among the grass he grows in!
Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in.


THE LORD

Hast thou, then, nothing more to mention?
Com'st ever, thus, with ill intention?
Find'st nothing right on earth, eternally?


MEPHISTOPHELES

No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be.
Man's misery even to pity moves my nature;
I've scarce the heart to plague the wretched creature.

[tushantin]

The pronunciation thread sort of reminded me of this adventurous song from a movie called Road to Eldorado. If Chrono Cross was comedy, I think we could imagine Wazuki and Miguel doing this.

Look out new world here we come
Brave, intrepid and then some
Pioneers of maximum
Audacity whose resumes
Show that we are just the team
To live where others merely dream
Building up a head of steam
On the trail we blaze

Changing legend into fact
We shall ride into history
Turning myth into truth
We shall surely gaze
On the sweet unfolding
Of an antique mystery
All will be revealed
On the trail we blaze

Paradise is close at hand
Shangri-la the promised land
Seventh heaven on demand
Quite unusual nowadays
Virgin vistas, undefiled
Minds and bodies running wild
In the man behold the child
On the trail we blaze

The trail we blaze
Is a road uncharted
Through terra incognita
to a golden shrine
No place for the traveler
To be faint-hearted
We are part of the
sumptuous grand design

Changing legend into fact
We shall ride into history
Turning myth into truth
We shall surely gaze on
the sweet unfolding
Of an antique mystery
All will be revealed
On the trail we blaze

[Bard_of_Time]

I wanted to share another poem, so I dug through the ol' creative writing notebook. There's only four poems in here. One of them I shared already, one of them is about how much I HATE poetry and can't understand it, one is about how my life SUCKS (junior year of high school was fun!), and one was about kites.

I like the kite poem.

Right up there, on that tall grassy hill
Is the place where we still laugh and wish.
We climb up and up till the clouds are in our grasp
And the world below can't see our folly.
He has the sticks and the bright red paper
While I have the string and dark blue ribbon.
"Where's the tape?" he asks and I realize I forgot.
"Ow well." we say, and laugh at the thought.

I tie the ribbon in a foolish way,
Little lopsided bows that are strung to the extras.
He takes the dream and runs.
He lets it fly into the world and we both hope it's strong enough.
We watch as it dances in the wind
Then we laugh when it falls.
We laugh at the delicious fragility of this travesty
Then say, "Oh well, they're easy to make."
The next will be that much better.