Sorry for this, but I have yet another poem to post by one of my new favorite people; Billy Collins. I guess what is intriguing is to me is that he isn't as eloquent as some, and that he isn't as romantic as some; to quote a friend of mine on this subject, "It's not anything special... but its part of modern poetry that I like. I guess its the idea of looking at something perfectly normal with a different perspective...."
On Turning Ten
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
--Billy Collins
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Thank you Mr. Collins
The First Dream
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
--Billy Collins
I am normally wary of any modern poetry not written by Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, but this poem has definitely given me the reassurance that someone out there still can write good poetry. And this isn't the only good one, so if you are as yet unaware of the wonderful poetry of Billy Collins (which I was up until this past wednesday) look him up. Now. It's not Yeats or Tennyson, but it's good. Damn good, pardon my french.
Cheers, Billy. Cheers indeed.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Washington, Rain, and Meditations on Trees
So, despite extreme weather conditions, I am alive and well in Washington. This is also the first time I'm posting something before midnight. I don't know if that is significant in any way, but it might mean I might be more coherent than I normally am in these candid, shocking, and wholly uninteresting insights into my tangled psyche.
It was definitely an interesting trip up, but between seeing a car flip over in front of us on the ice and almost losing my car trying to put chains on it, what has been the most interesting to me on this trip so far are my meditations on the tree's in Lindseys backyard.
I don't know why I decided to go outside onto her deck and stare at the trees, but I did. And it's kind of scary when you just let your thoughts wander wherever they please, with no intended point or destination. So here is where they went. There are mostly big, majestic Evergreen trees back there, but there are two dead maples in the middle of them all, and for a while I couldn't keep my eyes off them. Those two images of death in the middle of all this life was a little disconcerting. It might have been because of the lighting back there, or something weird going on in my head, but they looked frightened, almost like they were lifting their branches up to shield themselves from something. And there they stood, gnarled and bare. And there I stood, with the most random of thoughts coming into my head. It was like someone pressed play on an old VCR in my brain, and a fuzzy picture of my AP English teacher came up from the beginning of Seinor year, saying "One of the most important questions asked by all authors, from all cultures, and from all time periods is the question of "How do you face your own death?"
Thankfully, I've already worked through that morbid subject (very superficially, of course) in my last entry, so I won't bore you. I then turned my attention to the giant Firs towering above my head, and my strange talent for making random connections again surfaced, which of course means that my next thought was of J.R.R. Tolkien (hear me out on this one). Trees had a very special place in the mind of Tolkien, seen most vividly in his vision of the Ents in the Rings series; great and ancient beings, who have seen more years than we could ever hope to see. And I wondered what it was that these trees saw as they grew up here in the beautiful woods of Washington; what did these woods look like before houses were built, roads were paved, even before people ever arrived in these parts? What did these woods sound like, without the constant buzzing of lights, generators, and cars whizzing by, with nothing but the sounds of the wind rustling in the trees, the light patter of rain on the earth, and the babbling of little brooks, whispering their secrets for none to hear but the birds and the clear night sky? Call me nostalgic, but shivering out there in the cold, I hoped to God that there was still someplace where it was possible to hear and see something like that. It really reminded me of Dave Matthews (hooray again for random connections) talking about the inspirations behind some of his work; "I can remember sitting out on the edge of the Grand canyon, of course trying to distance yourself from the McDonalds that is peering out over the canyon with you, and Imagining the quiet there must have been, and the people that enjoyed it . . . "
Could any human endeavor ever come close to recreating even that simple view from the deck? Sure, they could come close; songs could be written, photos could be taken, paintings could be painted, sketches could be sketched, but could they recreate the same feelings that you have when you see the real thing with your own eyes and experience it firsthand? The cold on your skin, the smell of the pines, the light mist in the air?
I really doubt that anyone will be interested in reading this stuff, or if anyone reads this thing at all, but if you have suffered this far (whoever "you" happens to be), here's comes the point of all this crazy nonsense. There is something special about actually being among the wonders of God's creation that I forget much too quickly living in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, and southern California in general. I'm going to make it a point to spend more time in that park outside school, sit on the swings, and take a break from the craziness of city life. You can join me if you want. I'm sure the trees and I would enjoy the company.
It was definitely an interesting trip up, but between seeing a car flip over in front of us on the ice and almost losing my car trying to put chains on it, what has been the most interesting to me on this trip so far are my meditations on the tree's in Lindseys backyard.
I don't know why I decided to go outside onto her deck and stare at the trees, but I did. And it's kind of scary when you just let your thoughts wander wherever they please, with no intended point or destination. So here is where they went. There are mostly big, majestic Evergreen trees back there, but there are two dead maples in the middle of them all, and for a while I couldn't keep my eyes off them. Those two images of death in the middle of all this life was a little disconcerting. It might have been because of the lighting back there, or something weird going on in my head, but they looked frightened, almost like they were lifting their branches up to shield themselves from something. And there they stood, gnarled and bare. And there I stood, with the most random of thoughts coming into my head. It was like someone pressed play on an old VCR in my brain, and a fuzzy picture of my AP English teacher came up from the beginning of Seinor year, saying "One of the most important questions asked by all authors, from all cultures, and from all time periods is the question of "How do you face your own death?"
Thankfully, I've already worked through that morbid subject (very superficially, of course) in my last entry, so I won't bore you. I then turned my attention to the giant Firs towering above my head, and my strange talent for making random connections again surfaced, which of course means that my next thought was of J.R.R. Tolkien (hear me out on this one). Trees had a very special place in the mind of Tolkien, seen most vividly in his vision of the Ents in the Rings series; great and ancient beings, who have seen more years than we could ever hope to see. And I wondered what it was that these trees saw as they grew up here in the beautiful woods of Washington; what did these woods look like before houses were built, roads were paved, even before people ever arrived in these parts? What did these woods sound like, without the constant buzzing of lights, generators, and cars whizzing by, with nothing but the sounds of the wind rustling in the trees, the light patter of rain on the earth, and the babbling of little brooks, whispering their secrets for none to hear but the birds and the clear night sky? Call me nostalgic, but shivering out there in the cold, I hoped to God that there was still someplace where it was possible to hear and see something like that. It really reminded me of Dave Matthews (hooray again for random connections) talking about the inspirations behind some of his work; "I can remember sitting out on the edge of the Grand canyon, of course trying to distance yourself from the McDonalds that is peering out over the canyon with you, and Imagining the quiet there must have been, and the people that enjoyed it . . . "
Could any human endeavor ever come close to recreating even that simple view from the deck? Sure, they could come close; songs could be written, photos could be taken, paintings could be painted, sketches could be sketched, but could they recreate the same feelings that you have when you see the real thing with your own eyes and experience it firsthand? The cold on your skin, the smell of the pines, the light mist in the air?
I really doubt that anyone will be interested in reading this stuff, or if anyone reads this thing at all, but if you have suffered this far (whoever "you" happens to be), here's comes the point of all this crazy nonsense. There is something special about actually being among the wonders of God's creation that I forget much too quickly living in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, and southern California in general. I'm going to make it a point to spend more time in that park outside school, sit on the swings, and take a break from the craziness of city life. You can join me if you want. I'm sure the trees and I would enjoy the company.
Monday, January 09, 2006
I wish . . .
Someone please make sure that this song is sung at my funeral:
DEAD MANS WILL
By: Iron and Wine/Calexico
Give this stone to my brother
Because we found it playing in the barnyard
Many years ago
Give this bone to my father
He'll remember hunting in the hills
When I was ten years old
May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone
Give this string to my mother
It pulled the baby teeth she keeps
Inside the drawer
Give this ring to my lover
I was scared and stupid not to ask
For her hand long before
May my love reach you all
I lost it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone
I have no Idea why this song resonates with me so much, but I think there are times that everyone, be you a angst-ridden college student or a teamster, must contemplate his or her own mortality. I don't mean to be morbid, but the subject has been on my mind as of late, in no small part due to me listening to this song on repeat to help me sleep. The funny thing is, it keeps me awake, despite the soft folk stylings of Iron and wine, (which I highly recommend by the by). All I can think about is what it is that I have done with my life thus far, and all that still is left to be done.
Sometimes I think it would be interesting to have a George Bailey experience and see what would happen to the world you knew if you had never been born. What would my High School have looked like, what would Biola be like, what would my torrey group be like if I had never shown up? Would things be better? Worse? Or, in the worst possible scenario, would nothing have changed? What if I have had so little effect on the people around me that nothing is different? This isn't a pity-party or a desperate cry for attention on my part, but rather an honest question of myself.
So here I sit in my living room (which, incidentally, has become my living quarters for my stay at home due to the reposession of my old quarters by my dear, loving sister), asking myself a question to which I do not have the answer; What am I going to do about this? I suppose I could sit and mope about whether or not people see my contributions or my inability to articulate myself in any coherent manner when around members of the opposite sex, but I've tried that before, and all it does is cement your face into a permanent frown. So, as I have nothing better to do . . . I'll make a list (don't tell Reynolds!!!).
Things I would like to do with my life before I am dead and gone, serious or trivial
(This is not definitive, by any means, but it's a start)
1. Write a song that makes people cry
2. Live on the east coast
3. Show my parents they raised me right
4. Have a white christmas
5. Remember the wrath of God as well as his grace
6. Find a girl who isn't just settling for me
7. Try every single existing brew of Root Beer
8. Love the Lord more than I did the day before
I guess what I'm trying to say is best said in the song that I started with.
"May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say it's not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone"
Hopefully, Before I'm dead and gone
DEAD MANS WILL
By: Iron and Wine/Calexico
Give this stone to my brother
Because we found it playing in the barnyard
Many years ago
Give this bone to my father
He'll remember hunting in the hills
When I was ten years old
May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone
Give this string to my mother
It pulled the baby teeth she keeps
Inside the drawer
Give this ring to my lover
I was scared and stupid not to ask
For her hand long before
May my love reach you all
I lost it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone
I have no Idea why this song resonates with me so much, but I think there are times that everyone, be you a angst-ridden college student or a teamster, must contemplate his or her own mortality. I don't mean to be morbid, but the subject has been on my mind as of late, in no small part due to me listening to this song on repeat to help me sleep. The funny thing is, it keeps me awake, despite the soft folk stylings of Iron and wine, (which I highly recommend by the by). All I can think about is what it is that I have done with my life thus far, and all that still is left to be done.
Sometimes I think it would be interesting to have a George Bailey experience and see what would happen to the world you knew if you had never been born. What would my High School have looked like, what would Biola be like, what would my torrey group be like if I had never shown up? Would things be better? Worse? Or, in the worst possible scenario, would nothing have changed? What if I have had so little effect on the people around me that nothing is different? This isn't a pity-party or a desperate cry for attention on my part, but rather an honest question of myself.
So here I sit in my living room (which, incidentally, has become my living quarters for my stay at home due to the reposession of my old quarters by my dear, loving sister), asking myself a question to which I do not have the answer; What am I going to do about this? I suppose I could sit and mope about whether or not people see my contributions or my inability to articulate myself in any coherent manner when around members of the opposite sex, but I've tried that before, and all it does is cement your face into a permanent frown. So, as I have nothing better to do . . . I'll make a list (don't tell Reynolds!!!).
Things I would like to do with my life before I am dead and gone, serious or trivial
(This is not definitive, by any means, but it's a start)
1. Write a song that makes people cry
2. Live on the east coast
3. Show my parents they raised me right
4. Have a white christmas
5. Remember the wrath of God as well as his grace
6. Find a girl who isn't just settling for me
7. Try every single existing brew of Root Beer
8. Love the Lord more than I did the day before
I guess what I'm trying to say is best said in the song that I started with.
"May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say it's not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone"
Hopefully, Before I'm dead and gone
Monday, January 02, 2006
Blargh.
Blargh is word that I stole from Elina
And I just watched the entire 2nd season of 24 in 2 days. The situation being what it is, I feel wonderful and terrible due to a television headache.
Blargh.
I will say it again just to make sure you heard.
Blargh.
Why do I always put a space between lines like this?
Oh well.
Blargh.
And I just watched the entire 2nd season of 24 in 2 days. The situation being what it is, I feel wonderful and terrible due to a television headache.
Blargh.
I will say it again just to make sure you heard.
Blargh.
Why do I always put a space between lines like this?
Oh well.
Blargh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
