Sonnet 16 by Richard Barnfield

Long have I longed to see my love againe,
Still I have wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my love's sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my love's fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.


Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (Pearson, 2006)
The Poetry Foundation

Lifting a Favorite Word from the Muck

Cunt.

It’s slang for vagina.

It begins with a hard-c. It rhymes with punt, stunt and front.

Use it lovingly, “that flower is opening up like a beautiful crimson cunt.”

Use it with edge, “that little fucking cunt just cut me off.”

Use it absurdly, “there’s a certain oaky cuntiness to this Merlot.”

Use it frequently.

And when someone balks or is morally offended, tell them it’s just a fucking word, lifted from a whore street in Old London and first used in print by James Joyce. Then gaze at them with judgmental disdain and tell them perhaps they’re the ones who need a morality check.

Cunts.

— Kurt Sutter, “A LITTLE BIT OF MY SEMANTIC THEORY OF SLURS AND HOW THAT RELATES TO MY AFFECTION FOR THE USE OF ‘SEE YOU AND TEA’”

Letter to Self - 4

A very close friend, a knight I know, has asked me to write letters to myself on a monthly basis.  What's more, he's smart enough that he came up with the idea that I should read them aloud when they're done.  It's amazing how writing them, I feel very much like the me that is encouraging and supportive.  Reading them... hearing them read... I feel very much like the me that is nurtured and cared for by the words.  Though it makes me cry, I am beginning to see the good in this sort of practice.

Dear Beloved,

Here we are again at the place where I am supposed to say something to you, and you are supposed to hear and know that you’re doing okay. The advice is supposed to be positive, and good. I suppose, it’s strange to say “you” and “I”, when we are both just “me”... but there it is.

I’m not sure what it is you need to hear, or what it is I need to say, but I do have faith in the ink. I know that if I just let the words flow, they will lead me in the right direction... they always do. You know, of course, that I’ve been lost in the story of Le Cirque des Re’ves, for several days. The magic appeals to me, the potential for the dreamlike, the intricacies and details that add to that dream’s inherent sensuality. I do love that type of story. I think there is a message in that story for you, and for me.

I think the message is two-fold. First, trust the ink. Trust the magic of creating with words. You are, at heart, a poet, a dreamer, a story weaver. Find the magic that moves you and keeps you awake at night, and get it down on paper. Make that dream come alive in the letters and words and phrases that spill from your pen in a continuous thread. This is, more than any other single thing, who you are. You were made to write. This is your magic, as sure as your deep emotion, and your capacity for love are magical, your true gift is words. Embrace that truth, and live it. Please.

The second message is this - there is always something impossible, something unbelievable, something incredible to hope for. There is a reason to keep dreaming. You’ve been hurt again, and you are tired of the hurting and the worry and the grief. You are tired of being cautious with your heart. I know you’re afraid of risking so much again just to be hurt. You say you refuse to hold back. But you are on hold... and maybe that is wise. Maybe you need time to heal, and that is perfectly fine.

But Beloved, don’t give up. Don’t quit. Don’t close your heart to the possibility that somewhere out there in your future, in your life, there is the magic of falling in love again. You make magic still in your relationship with Shepherd. You live magic in your home, with the life you and Husband have built with children and grandchildren, too. You are extremely fortunate to have such wonder in two worlds.

Just don’t close your heart to the possibility that you might find it in three... or more... the truth is, you never know what you might find if you let your heart believe anything is possible -- and that alone is worth the risk.

There is more love. There is more possibility. There is more.

Don’t close the door.

-Me

Swimming in the Dark Ink

Primordium

"The whole of Le Cirque des Re'ves is formed by series of circles.  Perhaps it is a tribute to the origin of the word "circus," deriving from the Greek kirkos meaning circle, or ring.  There are many such nods to the phenomenon of the circus in a historical sense, though it is hardly a traditional circus.  Rather than a single tent with rings enclosed within, this circus contains clusters of tents like  pyramids, some large and others quite small.  They are set within circular paths, contained within a circular fence.  Looping and continuous.

-Friedrick Thiessen, 1892

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

- Oscar Wilde, 1888

(And so, Part I of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern begins...)

----------

I am captivated by this book already.  It contains so many lines, so many singular words so much that strikes chords inside of me... individual chords that barely begin to vibrate, to quiver in anticipation of the inspiring words that will spill from my pen later.  Already I've been jotting those words and phrases into my notebook.  There is no music yet, but it is coming - these chords will keep trembling and eventually lend their voices to sweet harmonic inspiration -- and I can't wait to set it down in inky black words, lined up properly, one after another.  

It may be quite a fantastic tale.  It may lend itself to another essay about my own darkness, and how I am chasing it with glee; or perhaps it will weave itself into some dark poem that beats with a life and rhythm all it's own.  All I know is that for now, this reading -- this soaking up of the dark rich imagery and language -- is good for me. 

So very good for the ink in my veins.  

This I need.

And So It Begins

provenience
a sonnet corona by Ephemera

"All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reason, passion and desire." 
-Aristotle

I. Chance

I'll entertain that chance may be the cause
for this encounter, with two eyes so blue.
Against such happenstance there are no laws;
though I might wish the opposite were true.

I find I'm staring, wondering at this hue.
It mirrors both the night sky and the sea.
It leaves me drunken, like a heady brew
and dulls my sense for witty repartee.

A moment's circumspection may be key
to aid a maiden choosing her next move.
If only in your gaze she could foresee
the way to her advantage quickly prove.

The longer here I gaze, I must surmise,
perhaps your nature lies behind disguise.

II. Nature

Perhaps your nature lies behind disguise.
The thought alone should beg a moment's pause.
I note at once, your chest it does not rise,
the way mine does with every breath it draws!

Here now, the doubt takes form. With teeth it gnaws.
Yet surely you must breathe as creatures do?
The hand of dread taps, taunts me with its claws --
until you speak, sweet words as if to woo...

"Oh lovely one, I beg you don't adieu!
Propriety would this dark one behoove
to honor beauty such as yours is due,
with entertainment!  Please, say you approve?"

Your two pale lips seduce me with their plea.
An old compulsion tempts me -- wait and see.

III. Compulsion

An old compulsion tempts me wait and see.
"Might I," you ask, "your patient smile renew?"
"Perhaps a bass-line might, to some degree
allay timorous thoughts and comfort you."

At your proposal, as if by your cue,
the pulses of blue melody surprise.
Both pleasure and diversion soon ensue.
I smile and tap my toes in compromise.

My doubts remain, continue to chastise,
admonish me, beware sly danger's jaws!
I placate fears, asserting I am wise,
though over-prudence is among my flaws.

An urgency now beats within this groove.
Should habit hint at danger, I'll remove.

IV. Habit

Should habit hint at danger, I'll remove.
In meantime, let me strategy devise.
A gambit wrapped in words should well improve
resistance to those looks that hypnotize.

I'll flirt and tempt with verse; I'll improvise.
will rhyme in stanzas two and maybe three.
Ah, there he smiles as pleasure fills his eyes!
I can't be blamed for marking victory.

My pulse sings high, my mouth tastes of chablis.
My fingers itch to offer quick applause.
I smile sweetly though; to boast would be
a damper on the atmosphere that was.

I'll counter with a smile, while blushing too.
Of course, clear reason should be kept in view.

V.  Reason

Of course, clear reason should be kept in view.
You speak of chances fleeting, perhaps we
the opportunity should not eschew,
to dance a while as music flows so free.

You take my hand and lead me 'neath a tree.
A gallant bow you swiftly improvise.
I blush and curtsy cannot disagree,
when tongue and gaze of yours both hypnotize.

Your arm goes round my waist, my heart it flies.
I take your hand, my feet begin to move.
The moon spills out her light from shadowed skies.
Familiar steps may well my dread disprove.

The music's soothing cloud settles like gauze.
In mutual passion, soon all doubt withdraws. 

VI.  Passion

In mutual passion, soon all doubt withdraws. 
In nearness of your form my protest dies.
I cannot think to question now because
the sense of you surrounds me to baptize.

I drop my guard and gaze into your eyes,
where blue on blueness begins to imbue
my senses with peculiar, breathless highs
and hope -- which reason later may still rue.

My heart it syncopates and echoes through
my breathless body, begging to break free.
I rest my head against your chest and sue
my pulse for its reckless absurdity.

I care not now for those who disapprove.
Desire may at long last my shy soul move.

VII. Desire

Desire may at long last my shy soul move.
I lean to catch your scent and close my eyes.
Descending guard does your advance improve.
You counter with embraces and deep sighs.

No matter how my weakened reason tries,
with every touch my flesh longs to agree
that we should lengthen this embrace that ties
me into such strong curiosity.

My vision blurred with lust, I cannot see.
You feint and kiss before you bite into
The vein that pulses in my throat, with glee.
And I can only yield to this milieu.

How did I find myself within your jaws?
I'll entertain that chance may be the cause.

-----

A crown of sonnets or sonnet corona is a sequence of sonnets, usually addressed to some one person, and/or concerned with a single theme.  Each of the sonnets explores one aspect of the theme, and is linked to the preceding and succeeding sonnets by repeating the final line of the preceding sonnet as its first line, and by having its final line be the first line of the succeeding sonnet.  With seven sonnets, the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the final line of the final sonnet, thereby bringing the sequence to a close.

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A Poem I Found

The Quiet World - Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
I proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.

After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

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Kindle the Fire

“The instruction we find in books is like fire. We fetch it from our neighbours, kindle it at home, ommunicate it to others, and it becomes the property of all.”

-Voltaire

“Writing is a struggle against silence.”

— Carlos Fuentes

Muse

I close my eyes, and in the inky darkness
night settles upon the ivory pages of my skin.
You come to me, your ebony locks pooling
around my face, your beard rough cheek

rasping my smooth, as you trace the length
and the curve of my arm, my shoulder,
my hip and thigh with slender fingers.
I turn my head, follow your breathing whisper

and arch, pressing myself against you, tremble
as you draw my breath into your lungs.
Your jet black wings, thick as knotted rope,
long as twice my reach, fold ‘round me.

Feathers overlapping, close me in
and I panic -- as always -- at the lack of air.
My heart clamors like a bird against its cage;
your voice fills my head, thickly dark

like a mouthful of sweet, unfiltered honey.
And you speak until my tears are dry.
My whimpers fall silent; my panic subsides.
I surrender the fight to gain my freedom.

Then, and only then, do you sing to me,
in sighing lines of soul-wrought poetry.
The ink in my veins spills with your words,
written on the very flesh you own.

5/15/11

She Waits

(Original poetry for Poet, by me.)

She Waits

Darkness spilling across her gown

Soaks the fabric, traces her curves.

Like fingers of a lover's hands,

night hovers, lingers on her skin.

Moonlight framed by chamber window

Whispers glad tidings, "Soon, he comes."

Her heart dares hope, yet she lies still.

Unconvinced in the dark, she waits.

~Ephemera, 21 April, 2011

Vulnerable

I found the following quote today. It moved me. I cannot comment further, but if you could see my face, you might notice tears caught in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall if I'm not mindful of them.

----------

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
- C.S. Lewis

Let Me Find Myself in Darkness

An amazing quote that found me today:

"Let me guide myself with the blue,
forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs,
where blue is darkened on blueness
even where Persephone goes, just now,
from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness is
awake upon the dark ".

-DH Lawrence, Bavarian Gentians (1932)

Isn't it lovely?

Collars I Love

A Sonnet to Fall In Love With

Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you with knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Marvelous

Absolutely amazing. I have no words to add to this:

"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."

- Anais Nin

Slipping Through Doorways

"Not knowing when
the dawn will come
I open every door."

- Emily Dickenson

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Strange things blow in

through my window

on the wings

of the night wind

and I don't worry 

about my destiny.

- Carl Sandburg

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"Poetry is the opening

and closing of a door, 

leaving those who look
through to guess

about what is seen
during the moment.

- Carl Sandburg

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"I cannot sleep for dreaming; 

I cannot dream but I wake 

and walk about the house

as though I'd find you

coming through some door."

- Arthur Miller

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"There was a door

to which I found no key:

There was the veil
through which I might not see."

- Omar Khayyam

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"Listen;

there's a hell of

a good universe

next door: 

let's go."

- e.e. cummings

----------

There's something enchanted about a door, something fantastic about a window. I see them everywhere, and want to slip through them to whatever lies beyond. I am very much a dreamer and the little girl inside me believes there are portals everywhere. I can be Alice, turning the key in a very small door, or laying her hand against a looking glass, and stealing into Wonderland. I suppose this means that I long to escape, and that might make me seem an unhappy sort.

In reality however, that is far from true.

 

I have a life full of happiness(es) as well as sorrows. I thrive on the intensity of my friendships and relationships; they give me reason to put pen to paper, or to craft something of beauty from glass, wire, ribbon or stones. I can't deny though, that I've always dreamed of cracks in my world, of holes in the shadows where I might sneak through into a place of glowing, winged fairies or french-speaking blackbirds, or worlds built of clockwork and steam.

 

I do long for escape. I've done it for decades -- chasing Alice down the rabbit hole, and into those unexplored spaces between the pages of my favorite books. There is in me, a healthy imagination; and tucked away in one of the pockets of my little girl self is the indisputable belief that I can fly.

 

So if you dream along with me of slipping through doorways, pick one and we'll turn the knob...

Come away with me and we'll fly...