JayDee

Two hundred years ago (and a month) Charles Harpur was born. Harpur is my favourite poet, an Australian colonial poet who was not of his time. Even back then, his tastes and influences were anachronistic. Given that Harpur and his influences are the largest influence on my own poetry two hundred years later, I'm not sure what that makes me.

Bicentennial. I was only planning to post my own poems here, but given the occasion I think I can make an exception. Or more than once exception, even.

The following two sonnets speak to me deeply. They speak to the best in me; they speak to the worst in me.

( Two Sonnets by Charles Harpur )

Looking through the poems I wrote on my laptop, this one jumps out as one that doesn't give away any secrets I'd rather were kept. More importantly, I like the way it flows. It was written last August.

The sonnet itself was wrriten as a response to the question "Because of course I could have given you all the warnings in the world, but answer me this: Would you have ended it to protect yourself? Would you have been any less hurt if it went wrong?"

All lives are filled with misery and pain.
Although from time to time we might feel joy
'tis rare and special. Pain does not destroy
our happiness, although it does constrain
and draw the bounds -- No, joy has not free rein
to leap and frolic so throughout a life,
but must be given edges, as a knife
is used to split the meat and bone in twain.
With all the warnings in the world what would
I do? Would I have any less been hurt?
a question once proposed I must subvert
(discussing this I'm oft misunderstood.)
Despite what others do, I must assert
that pain can be accepted for the good.

Spent a few hours today "packing". By which I mean that I took all of the things out of half a dozen boxes and then organised them in stacks on the floor. Which is, like, the first step at least. Got my books sorted into a "keep" pile and a "don't keep" pile. Almost exactly 20% of them wound up in the "keep" pile, which I'm happy with.

And I'm very happy to have found a notepad I was searching for months ago. As well as the notes I was looking for, it contains a couple of poems I'd entirely forgotten writing. Both from first year lectures, first year maths I am guessing.

First a limerick:

"The limit as x nears to seven"
We did this stuff in year eleven!
It bores me to hell,
I don't take this well,
it's more fun to find rhymes like

And then what was maybe meant to be a sonnet, but it works like this:

It seems to me that if my chem and maths
curriculums did what they advertised
I would be spending more time making graphs
than making rhymes. I should not be surprised.
They said this knowledge they'd assume we knew
and yet I have to sit through it again;
I guess there are some people who are new.
But me? This is the best use of my pen.

Here's another lazy sonnet, written in lectures to vent various frustrations. Not necessarily about a particular lecturer, it describes the incompetence of plenty of 'em.

These bite sized bits of content coupled with
this need for constantly repeating each
and every thing that's said; it seems as if
a lecturer is chosen not to teach,
for if they were these lectures would be worth
attending. Well, for more than just the jokes.
'Tis well that we can have a source of mirth,
for joy should ne'er be shackled by the yokes
of formal education. Nor by slides
from bloody Powerpoint. No surer way
to package things to deaden minds
has yet been found. To seriously convey,
the presentation of material
should rise above the managerial.

Thankfully, I have only a week or so of lectures left.

So according to New Zealand, it's Spring now. I hate spring, more than any other "season". Twelve months ago I tried to say why, in verse:

There must be something in the air
to make me see the world like this.
I tell you that it isn't fair -
There must be something in the air.
Her flashing eyes, her flowing hair,
Those subtle lips that tempt a kiss...
There must be something in the air
to make me see the world like this.

Tonight I've been reading up on various things. Mostly Hellenistic mathematics, which I have no poems for. But also partly some discussion on the art of pick-up, which was interesting, and which I can almost relate to the subject of a poem I've written. Almost:

I lie awake on cold and empty nights
and although sleep is yet to come, I dream.
Of how I wish things were. A single theme
pervades these thoughts, the same my pen now writes.
Oh, how I miss relationships! The heights.
The lows. A kiss. Embraces that just seem
to be too short. To talk 'til dawn does gleam.
I even envy other couples' fights -
There's naught that I don't wish that I still had.
and yet what foolish thoughts are these of mine,
For even not alone, I'd still be sad.
Were I together with a girl so fine
the merest sight of her could make men glad,
For sure I'd find some reason still to whine.

So I just handed in a thousand word paper that I'm pretty much ashamed of. Ashamed of because it was crap, not because it was late - it was that too, but not by much. It was late (in part) because I spent most of the day it was due trying to finish a poem. Which started out nice and vague and non-specific and then got way personal and about me and yeah, also crappy. Another thing to be somewhat ashamed of.

When I did finish it I knew it wasn't one I'd be sharing. And I realised there are a whole lot like that. I've written more than double the poems this year than I've put here. Looking at this little selection it's not even clear that most of the poems I write are terribly angsty and romantically themed (which was maybe a good thing?) and so I decided to fix that. Here is one such poem from about a year and a half ago. A poem that I'm not ashamed of.

( Warning: slight chance of angst )

I've been playing Fallout 3 lately, with a mod that increases the number of period (read: 50s) songs on the in game radio immensely. I shouldn't be surprised to find there are many popular 50s songs I love, including 'Dream a little dream of me'.

( And speaking of dreams... )

Oops. Over a month without posting a new poem. Was planning to do better than that. Obviously I'm writing the wrong kinds of poesy. This one was written instead of accepting a facebook request. It's a villanelle!

( Nineteen line cut! )

I've been loving the triolets lately. They are only little things, sure, but they're fun and I've written half a dozen so far in 2010. Here is probably the most lighthearted of them:

Now that Cupid has a gun
he is out with plans to kill.
So much damage can be done
Now that Cupid has a gun.
The bow and arrow was just fun
it caused a momentary thrill.
Now that Cupid has a gun
he is out with plans to kill.