Saturday, July 30, 2011

ALL YOU HATERS CAN SUCK MY SPARKLY ICE COLD DICK

This is the self indulgent Comic Con mega-rant I spewed out last night when I was still on Pacific time and having a hard time sleeping. I didn't think I'd post it once I got it out of my system, but I shared it with my beta (because I love her and share everything with her!) and, well, now here it is.
 
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I wrote this the night I came home from Comic Con, and it's stale and days old because LJ has been down for so long. I'm sure people who didn't go to Comic Con don't give a shit about this, and people who did probably don't care any more, so long after the fact. I'm posting it anyway, even though my righteous indignation has faded, just because it's fun telling people to suck my dick! :D Once LJ is back up, I'll probably move this over there, but for now, my spew resides here.
 
For those of you who look at this and say tldr, here is it in a nutshell: I'm laying out my geek cred and telling you to fuck off for dissing my current fandom. Oh, and I add an impassioned plea for a picture of Andrew Garfield's shoes.
 
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About a week before Comic Con, einfach_mich wrote a blog post about the misogynist undertones of hating on Twilight, spurred, in part, by the recently resurrected quote by Steven King comparing Twilight to HP. I kind of rolled my eyes a little bit and was all: oh no, not again, and does everything have to be about women empowerment, blah blah blah, especially because I remember when that quote first went around and I was all: “Rock on, S.K.!!” And my sister and I teased my niece (her daughter) into a frenzy way back when, insisting that the writing of the Twilight books was crap compared to the writing of J.K. Rowling. How yeah, Twi was a definitely good story telling, compelling characters (I did devour the books, after all), but never in a million years would we call it great literature. And Bella vs. Hermione? Seriously???? (She got soooo mad; it was hilarious! Sorry, B., but it was! I LOVE YOU!!!) There were even some twitter responses to Jeanne’s post that suggested you were a bad feminist for hating on Twilight. I may have passive aggressively tweeted a response that I would forever reserve the right to mock Twilight!! And I may even have made a snarky comment or two about all the peeps camping for the BD panel outside of Hall H, along the lines of: bitches be crazy!! (Said with love, bbs. Said with love.)

Then a funny thing happened. Everywhere I went during Comic Con, every panel I attended, someone made fun of Twilight, and by extension, its fans. Or, not even by extension, but straight out, like the guys on the shuttle bus, the very first day, gossiping about those crazy Twilight Mom people under the tent for Hall H. Yes, they were going to keep FAR FAR AWAY. I, of course, turned my badge so that my “Professional” designation was showing, and not my “Twilight Fan Panel” side, even as my Mama Bear instincts were beginning to kick in.

Er… Jeanne… maybe you were on to something (YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU, BABE!!).

Underworld made sure to mention how they pitted vamps and wolves against each other long before you know who. Lots of we don’t sparkle jokes from every corner. Even my beloved X-Men comic books (my first fic fandom), during my favorite panel of the entire Con—the LGBT X-Men panel—cracked a Twilight joke. The final straw for me was walking through the Exhibit Hall on my last morning, trying to soak up some final CC goodness before heading home to real life and some guy was walking through the hall, holding up a small dry erase board above his head with this written on it: Want to hear a joke? And then written underneath: Twilight. WTF?? I mean, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?? *This* is how someone chooses to spend the last day of SDCC2011? Hating on a fandom?

WHAT THE EVER LIVING ACTUAL FUCK???

The thing is, I’ve been a “fan” for many many years. I was a rabid comic book fan. A serious collector. I rented an apartment simply because it was above my favorite comic book shop. I carefully cultivated important comic book relationships, so the owner of the shop would save me the good ones. I HAVE A #1 IRON MAN. And it was considered nerdy and weird and, “I can’t fucking believe you actually read those, hahaha aren’t you kind of a loser.” YES, NOW COMICS ARE COOL AND TWILIGHT ISN’T, WHAT THE FUCK EVER.

I’ve been heavily involved in early online communities, arguing politics, culture, movies, books. I’d go to meet-ups with people I’d met in these forums, way back before it was commonplace to meet people you only knew on line, when you mentioned what you were doing people would look at you like you were GOING TO YOUR DEATH BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY YOU WERE GOING TO BE MEETING CHILD MOLESTERS OR 60 YEAR OLD MEN PRETENDING TO BE YOUNG HOT CHICKS. Yeah, in reality, not so much. Still, not something I often mentioned out loud, because I didn’t want to hear THE JUDGMENT.

I played online games and ran a fan site that was so well known people would ask for my autograph at fan get-togethers (which I went to proudly, and with great enthusiasm). Penny Arcade once said that they were fans of ME. And because the gaming company is awesome, they paid tribute to my dear friend and in-game vassal who passed away, WRITING HIM INTO A QUEST AND ADDING US AS NPCs INTO THE FUCKING GAME. And back then, with those early generation online MMORPGs, people LOOKED AT YOU FUNNY, LIKE YOU WERE WEIRD AND MUST LIVE IN YOUR PARENTS’ BASEMENT OR SOMETHING TO LIKE THAT KIND OF GEEKY SHIT, and I wouldn’t talk out loud about my HUGE GAMING ADDICTION THAT I WAS TOTALLY CRAZY ABOUT FOR A DECADE. Now? Who the fuck doesn’t know someone who plays World of Warcraft? Yes, NOW IT’S SOOOOO COOL AND MAINSTREAM AND WHATEVER.

So, yeah. The hostility toward Twilight kind of reached the tipping point for me this morning. Yes, there’s a lot there to make fun of (AND BELIEVE ME, I HAVE DONE SO). They fucking sparkle. Another editing pass would not have been amiss. I personally cackled when Bella (SPOILER!) got all sad and broody, with her blank-months-passing-pages. I was thinking, this is SO BUFFY SEASON 2 (Oh yeah, I went there) with the I’LL DIE WITHOUT YOU angsty bullshit that particularly seems to afflict teenagers and makes (some) jaded (but still totally sexy) older women roll their eyes.

And just to round out my “fan” profile, I started watching Buffy during Season 6, with arguably one of the most unpopular eps ever (“Doublemeat Palace”) and was still so taken by the show that I BOUGHT A NEW TV BECAUSE I DIDN’T GROW UP W/TV AND NEVER EVER WATCHED IT, SUBSCRIBED TO SATELLITE TELEVISION, ORDER THE DVDs FROM AUSTRALIA BECAUSE THEY WEREN’T OUT IN THE U.S. YET AND I WAS TOO IMPATIENT TO SEARCH OUT ONLINE DOWNLOADS, AND HACKED MY DVD PLAYER TO BE REGION FREE. PLUS I HAVE A PIECE OF THE SET NOW IN MY LIVING ROOM. (When I become a “fan”, I become a FAN.) One of my fave moments of the entire con was sitting having coffee before the Twi panel talking about “The Body,” and I said, “Oh my God, I just got chills,” and my friend said, “So did I!” (WE LOVE YOU JOSS!)

It’s like, *I* can make fun of Twilight because I’m in the fandom, and have a lot of affection for it, and I WRITE TWIFIC, FUCK YOU. But you? Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of hearing it. TALK TO THE HAND.

IT IS POSSIBLE TO BE A TWILIGHT FAN AND STILL BE SO COOL THAT YOU LIKED COMICS AND FAN MEET-UPS AND ONLINE GAMING BACK WHEN THEY WERE CONSIDERED TOO NERDY FOR WORDS AND YOU WERE HESITANT TO EVEN MENTION THEM OUT LOUD. AND EVEN IF YOU DIDN’T LIKE ANY OF THESE FORMERLY LOOKED DOWN UPON THINGS THAT ARE NOW CONSIDERED MAINSTREAM COOL, SO MUCH SO THAT 100,000+ PEOPLE GATHER IN SAN DIEGO EACH SUMMER, PEOPLE SHOULD BE ABLE TO LIKE WHAT THEY LIKE WITHOUT BEING MOCKED AND SHAMED.

PETER PARKER WOULD TOTALLY AGREE.

In my real life, no one but my sister (another closet fic reader) and my nieces knows why I was at CC this year. Everyone just assumes it’s because of my gaming fan shit that I did for years. AND I DIDN’T TELL THEM OTHERWISE. NOR DO I MENTION IT EVER, IN MY REAL LIFE.

Because, you’re considered lame and stupid for liking vamp romance or something (EVEN THOUGH BUFFY AND TRUE BLOOD, ETC. ETC. ARE COOL. WHATEVER).

Here are some of the kinds of things I heard at the Twi Fan meet-up:

“I never really had women friends before. Last year’s Comic Con was a real turning point in my life and I’ll be forever grateful for the friendships I’ve made.”

“The 40s have been great for me. Interacting with all these younger women who are so unsure and critical of themselves really helped me look at myself and be more comfortable with who I am. I feel like I’ve finally come into my own as a woman.”

“I’d never written anything in my life until I read all these great stories and they inspired me to want to try and create something too.”

“I’m so happy I got to come here and meet all these other women who love the same thing I do. I don’t have anybody in my life I can talk to about it at all.”

“I’m more excited to meet the writers in the fandom than the actual actors and celebrities.”

“It wasn’t so much the BD panel I was interested in with the camping out; it was having the shared experience and the memories and finally meeting in person and hanging out with all the wonderful friends I talk to online.”

Do you assholes see what you’re hating on? PEOPLE WITH A SHARED LOVE AND PASSION FOR SOMETHING—IN OTHERWORDS, A FANDOM, JUST LIKE ANY OTHER FANDOM, BE IT COMICS, OR WHEDONESQUE, OR YOUR FAVORITE ONLINE GAME.

At heart, it’s not the source material that’s the core of a fandom; it’s the community, the fans themselves.

YOU ARE SHITTING ON YOURSELVES.

YOUR FANDOM IS NOT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN MINE.

IN CONCLUSION, ALL YOU HATERS CAN SUCK MY SPARKLY ICE COLD DICK.



BTW, I APOLOGIZE FOR ALL THE SHOUTY CAPS. IT’S A HABIT I PICKED UP FROM MY NEW FAVORITE FANDOM, THE SOCIAL NETWORK, WHICH IS ANOTHER TRAGIC ROMANCE JUST LIKE X-MEN FIRST CLASS!! Mark, you should have grabbed Eduardo and kissed him and licked into his mouth when he was standing in that hallway, soaking wet and dripping from the rain. Oh, how things might have turned out differently! And also, Andrew Garfield, you make the BEST PETER PARKER/SPIDERMAN EVER. YOU’RE SUPER TALENTED AND I TOTALLY WOULD HAVE CAMPED OUT FOR YOU. I LOVED YOUR PANEL AND YOUR FAN SPEECH! I AM SO HAPPY I GOT TO SHARE THE COOLEST MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE WITH YOU. IT WAS COOL FOR US TOO! AND BTW, DID YOU SEE THE PICTURE OF EDUARDO SAVERIN IN THE SPIDEY SUIT, AND IF YOU DID, WHAT DID YOU THINK OF IT? PRETTY FUNNY, RIGHT? AND IF YOU READ THIS, CAN YOU PLEASE EMAIL ME A PICTURE OF YOUR SHOES FOR MY FRIEND SHOEFREAK37? WHILE YOU’RE WEARING THEM WOULD BE AWESOME. SHE JUST LIKES SHOES, NOT IN ANY KIND OF FETISH WAY, BUT MORE OF AN AESTHETIC APPRECIATION. I TOTALLY BLEW MY CHANCE OF GETTING A PICTURE OF YOUR SHOES BY USING THE WORD FETISH, DIDN’T I? WELL, ANYWAY, WE ALL ADORE YOU AND CAN’T WAIT FOR THE MOVIE! TELL EMMA WE SAID HI!

Monday, January 24, 2011

Chapter 24 - Permanent Tenderness

Soneto IX by Pablo Neruda

Al golpe de la ola contra la piedra indócil
la claridad estalla y establece su rosa
y el círculo del mar se reduce a un racimo,
a una sola gota de sal azul que cae.

Oh radiante magnolia desatada en la espuma,
magnética viajera cuya muerte florece
y eternamente vuelve a ser y a no ser nada:
sal rota, deslumbrante movimiento marino.

Juntos tú y yo, amor mío, sellamos el silencio,
mientras destruye el mar sus constantes estatuas
y derrumba sus torres de arrebato y blancura,

porque en la trama de estos tejidos invisibles
del agua desbocada, de la incesante arena,
sostenemos la única y acosada ternura.

Sonnet IX
Translation by Stephen Tapscott

There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
to one drop of blue salt, falling.

O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
magnetic transient whose death blooms
and vanishes--being, nothingness--forever:
broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.

You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:

because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand,
we make the only permanent tenderness.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 24

Pablo Neruda - Wikipedia
Pablo Neruda - Poems
Red Poppy: Pablo Neruda
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Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Chapter 23 - The Frirst Beheading of the Jasmine

Pillow by Li-Young Lee

There's nothing I can't find under there.
Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.

Everything but sleep.

And night is a river bridging
the speaking and listening banks,

a fortress, undefended and inviolate.

There's nothing that won't fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.

And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.

Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.

Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?

There's nothing that hasn't found home there:
discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet.

Everything but sleep. And night begins

with the first beheading
of the jasmine, its captive fragrance
rid at last of burial clothes.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 23

Li-Young Lee - Wikipedia
An Interview with Li-Young Lee by Carolyn Alterio
Songwriters on Process - Li-Young Lee, Poet
Blue Flower Arts - Li-Young Lee
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Monday, December 6, 2010

Chapter 22 - The Sacred Moments

Flame-Heart by Claude McKay

So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 22

Claude McKay: Jamaica's Poet Laureate 1890 - 1948
Claude McKay's Life - Modern American Poetry
Claude McKay - aalbc.com

Claude McKay - Wikipedia
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Sunday, November 14, 2010

Chapter 21 - Turn to the Open Sea

Security by William Stafford

Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.

Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.

So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 21

William Stafford Archives
William Stafford - Wikipedia
An Interview with William Stafford
William Stafford and Robert Bly - A Literary Friendship
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Friday, October 22, 2010

Chapter 20 - A Heaven of Blackred Roses

XLIII by e.e. cummings

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)




















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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 20

E.E. Cummings - Wikipedia
Modern American Poetry - E.E. Cummings
The Paintings of E.E. Cummings
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Saturday, October 2, 2010

Chapter 19 - Everything That Is

Soneto VIII by Pablo Neruda

Si no fuera porque tus ojos tienen color de luna,
de día con arcilla, con trabajo, con fuego,
y aprisionada tienes la agilidad del aire,
si no fuera porque eres una semana de ámbar,

si no fuera porque eres el momento amarillo
en que el otoño sube por las enredaderas
y eres aún el pan que la luna fragante
elabora paseando su harina por el cielo,

oh, bienamada, yo no te amaría!
En tu abrazo yo abrazo lo que existe,
la arena, el tiempo, el árbol de la lluvia,

y todo vive para que yo viva:
sin ir tan lejos puedo verlo todo:
veo en tu vida todo lo viviente.

Sonnet XVI
Translation by Stephen Tapscott

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is --
sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.

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Links: I Wept Not - Chapter 19

Pablo Neruda - Wikipedia
Pablo Neruda - Poems
Red Poppy: Pablo Neruda
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Thursday, September 23, 2010

Chapter 18 - One Piece of Your Heart

When I select a poem for the title chapters, sometimes I already know which one I'll use. Other times I'll have a specific poet in mind. For example, with Jasper, I knew I'd be using Blake, Neruda, and especially Roethke at some point; for Edward, I knew I'd use some Dylan Thomas. For this chapter, Adrienne Rich seemed appropriate. There were actually several poems I thought would fit, and since I could only use one for the title, I thought I'd add two others I had considered. I hope you enjoy them! I doubt very many readers actually come over here to read the poetry, but for those who do, I love being able to share my love of poetry and some of my favorite poets with you!

Miracle Ice Cream by Adrienne Rich

Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.

Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow
a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news,
fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions,
the rest of year heart.


A Valediction Forbidding Mourning by Adrienne Rich

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control

A red plant in a cemetary of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.


In Those Years by Adrienne Rich

In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to

But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through the rags of fog
where we stood, saying I

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 18

Adrienne Rich - Wikipedia
Audio Recordings at Penn Sound
A Rich Life by Michael Klein, The Boston Phoenix Article
American Poems - Adrienne Rich
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Friday, September 3, 2010

Chapter 17 - The Multiplying Universe

Soneto XVI by Pablo Neruda

Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,
porque de las praderas planetarias
otra estrella no tengo. Tú repites
la multiplicación del universo.

Tus anchos ojos son la luz que tengo
de las constelaciones derrotadas,
tu piel palpita como los caminos
que recorre en la lluvia el meteoro.

De tanta luna fueron para mí tus caderas,
de todo el sol tu boca profunda y su delicia,
de tanta luz ardiente como miel en la sombra

tu corazón quemado por largos rayos rojos,
y así recorro el fuego de tu forma besándote,
pequeña y planetaria, paloma y geografía.

Sonnet XVI
Translation by Stephen Tapscott

I love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.

Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,

was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you—compact and planentary, my dove, my globe.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 17

Pablo Neruda - Wikipedia
Pablo Neruda - Poems
Red Poppy: Pablo Neruda
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Chapter 16 - From the Rift

Clown in the Moon by Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 16

Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas - Wikipedia
Poems by Dylan Thomas
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Friday, July 30, 2010

Chapter 15 - The Savage Blood's Obscenity

Epidermal Macabre by Theodore Roethke

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, —
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 15

Theodore Roethke - Wikipedia
Modern American Poetry - Theodore Roethke
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Friday, July 16, 2010

Chapter 14 - All That I Remember

Incident by Countée Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 14

Countee Cullen - Wikipedia
AfroPoets.Net - Countee Cullen
On "Incident" - Modern American Poetry
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Thursday, July 1, 2010

Chapter 13 - The Deepening Shade

In a Dark Time by Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

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Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 13

Theodore Roethke - Wikipedia
Modern American Poetry - Theodore Roethke
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Thursday, June 17, 2010

Chapter 12 - It Shall Be You

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

24

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,
No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Whoever degrades another degrades me,
And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.

Through me many long dumb voices,
Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,
Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs,
Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,
And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,
And of the rights of them the others are down upon,
Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised,
Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
Root of wash'd sweet-flag! timorous pond-snipe! nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be you!
Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!
Sun so generous it shall be you!
Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!
Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you.

I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,
Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.

That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

To behold the day-break!
The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.

Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding,
Scooting obliquely high and low.

Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,
Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,
The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head,
The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!

To A Stranger by Walt Whitman

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

-----
Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 12

The Walt Whitman Archive
Walt Whitman - Wikipedia
Poems by Walt Whitman
Song of Myself
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Friday, June 4, 2010

Chapter 11 - Burning Bright

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?




















And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
 
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

-----
Links:
I Wept Not: Chapter 11
The William Blake Archive
Songs of Innocence and Experience
The Tyger - YouTube's Spoken Verse Channel
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Friday, May 21, 2010

Chapter 10 - Eternity in an Hour

Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A dove house filld with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro all its regions.
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear
A Skylark wounded in the wing
A Cherubim does cease to sing
The Game Cock clipd and armd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright
Every Wolfs & Lions howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul
The wild deer wandring here & there
Keeps the Human Soul from Care
The Lamb misusd breeds Public strife
And yet forgives the Butchers Knife
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity
He who torments the Chafers sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar
The Beggars Dog and Widows Cat
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat
The Gnat that sings his Summers song
Poison gets from Slanders tongue
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envys Foot
The Poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the Soul divine
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
The Babe is more than swaddling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made & Born were hands
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity
This is caught by Females bright
And returnd to its own delight
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands
Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole Nation sell & buy
He who mocks the Infants Faith
Shall be mockd in Age & Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death
The Childs Toys and the Old Mans Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons
The Questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to Reply
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold and Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply
The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will neer Believe do what you Please
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
Theyd immediately Go out
To be in a Passion you Good may do
But no Good if a Passion is in you
The Whore & Gambler by the State
Licencd build that Nations Fate
The Harlots cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse
Dance before dead Englands Hearse
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day

The Lamb by William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,---
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
 
-----
Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 10

The William Blake Archive
Songs of Innocence and Experience
The Wilfred Owen Collection
Wilfred Owen - Wikipedia
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Thursday, May 6, 2010

Chapter 9 - Sniffing the Twilight

Soneto XI by Pablo Neruda

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.

Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.

Sonnet XI
Translation by Stephen Tapscott

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

-----
Links:

Pablo Neruda - Wikipedia
Pablo Neruda - Poems
Red Poppy: Pablo Neruda
-----

I Wept Not - Prologue

Inferno, Canto XXXIII (lines 13-78) by Dante Alighieri

'Take note that I was Count Ugolino,
and he Archbishop Ruggieri. Let me
tell you why I'm such a neighbor to him.
'How, as consummation of his malicious schemes,
after I'd lodged my trust in him, he had me seized
and put to death, there is no need to tell.
'But when you learn what you cannot have heard --
that is to say, the cruelty of my death --
then you shall know if he has wronged me.
'A little spyhole in the Mew, which now
on my account is called the Tower of Hunger,
where others yet shall be imprisoned,
'had through its opening shown me several moons,
when, in a dreadful dream,
the veil was rent, and I foresaw the future.
'This man appeared to be the lord and master,
hunting the wolf and wolfcubs on the mountain
that hides Lucca from the sight of Pisans.
'Along with well-trained hounds, lean and eager,
he had ranged in his front rank
Gualandi, Sismondi, and Lanfranchi.
'Father and sons, after a brief pursuit,
seemed to be flagging, and it seemed to me I saw
the flesh torn from their flanks by sharp incisors.
'When I awoke before the dawn of day
I heard my children, in that prison with me,
weep in their sleep and ask for bread.
'You are cruel indeed, thinking what my heart
foretold, if you remain untouched by grief,
and if you weep not, what can make you weep?
'Now they were awake, and the hour drew near
at which our food was brought to us.
Each of us was troubled by his dream.
'Down below I heard them nailing shut
the entry to the dreadful tower. I looked
my children in the face, without a word.
I was so turned to stone inside I did not weep.
But they were weeping, and my little Anselm
said: "You look so strange, father, what's wrong?"
'Even then I shed no tear, and made no answer
all that day, and all the night that followed
until the next day's sun came forth upon the world.
'As soon as some few rays had made their way
into the woeful prison, and I discerned
four other faces stamped with my expression,
'the sorrow of it made me gnaw my hands.
And they, imagining I was doing this
from hunger, rose at once, saying:
'"Father, we would suffer less
if you would feed on us: you clothed us
in this wretched flesh -- now strip it off."
'Then, not to increase their grief, I calmed myself.
That day and the next we did not speak a word.
O hard earth, why did you not engulf us?
'When we had come as far as the fourth day
my Gaddo threw himself on the ground before me,
crying, "O father, why won't you help me?"
'There he died; and even as you see me now
I watched the other three die, one by one,
on the fifth day and the sixth. And I began,
'already blind, to grope over their bodies,
and for two days called to them, though they were dead.
Then fasting had more power than grief.'
Having said this, with maddened eyes he seized
that wretched skull again between his teeth
and clenched them on the bone just like a dog.

-----
Links:
I Wept Not - Prologue
 
Princeton Dante Project
Dartmouth Dante Project
The World of Dante
Inferno (Dante) - Wikipedia
Ugolino della Gherardesca - Wikipedia
-----

Chapter 1 - With the Setting Sun

Paradise Lost, Book I (lines 739-751) by John Milton

In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land
Men call'd him Mulciber; and how he fell [ 740 ]
From Heav'n, they fabl'd, thrown by angry Jove
Sheer o're the Chrystal Battlements: from Morn
To Noon he fell, from Noon to dewy Eve,
A Summers day; and with the setting Sun
Dropt from the Zenith like a falling Star, [ 745 ]
On Lemnos th' Ægean Ile: thus they relate,
Erring; for he with this rebellious rout
Fell long before; nor aught avail'd him now
To have built in Heav'n high Towrs; nor did he scape
By all his Engins, but was headlong sent [ 750 ]
With his industrious crew to build in hell.

-----
Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 1

John Milton, The Milton-L Home Page
John Milton - Wikipedia
The John Milton Reading Room
Paradise Lost
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Chapter 2 - Bright and Deep

A Boy's Song by James Hogg

Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

-----
Links:
I Wept Not - Chapter 2

James Hogg - Wikipedia
The James Hogg Society
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner
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