Arty stuff

Waking in Europe

by Norbert Krapf

Waking in Europe

After hanging suspended
       between cultures,
                  above valleys
of rolling clouds
        with the Atlantic
                  turning below,
        then spinning
on an express train
        from easy Amsterdam,
I reel into bed
        in a Cologne hotel.

Next morning, as cathedral
bells lift me out
of a first-night sleep,
my eyes open to gothic
towers climbing outside
the window, then skip
down the cobbled street
to the corner where two
little girls chattering
German jump rope.

Smiling, I set my watch
to European time
and tune my ears
to the guttural waters
of the ancient Rhine
flowing behind the medieval
cathedral from the hills
of my ancestors in the south.

This poet historian is describing his experience of being in Europe. The ancient Rhine referring to the famous German river. Being able to relate yourself to a place that still can seem as ancient as a hotel just off the Rhine, requires you to go back in your family's past. He seems to be aware of his Germanic roots. While we all will not visit where our family has come from, if we are able, it will give us a greater appreciation for those who came before. 

Loss

Loss

Loss seem to bring a feeling of sorrow
Loss seem to make you feel hollow

Loss of someone close can make you shed tears
Loss of the opportunity to tell them you cared

Loss of the moment you could have created
Loss of the confidence because it faded

Loss of not ever getting to see their face
Loss of memories you wish not to embrace

Loss of the look in their eye
Loss of the feeling not to cry

Loss of a future, from a past you regret
Loss of a chance, you will now never get

Loss of a love that came with so much promise
Loss of a lover who you felt was very modest 

Marcquiese Burrell

Loss is something we all live with, and contrary to the one poem we read, it does not get easier with each instance of loss. Rather it is a compounding effect that can cause our resolve, our will to dwindle and eventually shatter. Many people just simply give up because the loss of so many loved ones, or the loss of so many hopes, desires, and dreams have been crushed. But as  a species, we must be able to overcome any obstacle if we are to survive for another millennium and so on. 

After the Sea-ship

After the sea-ship, after the whistling winds,
After the white-gray sails taut to their spars and ropes,
Below, a myriad myriad waves hastening, lifting up their necks,
Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship,
Waves of the ocean bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,
Waves, undulating waves, liquid, uneven, emulous waves,
Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves,
Where the great vessel sailing and tacking displaced the surface,
Larger and smaller waves in the spread of the ocean yearnfully flowing,
The wake of the sea-ship after she passes, flashing and frolicsome
under the sun,
A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments,
Following the stately and rapid ship, in the wake following.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/w/after_the_sea_ship.html#p5mVS5uhyM01LEJA.99

Walt Whitman describes the waves that go on the side of the ship in a variety of ways. I have only seen the ocean once, and it was awesome. Being out in the middle of the ocean I am sure is way different. The effect the ship has on displacing nearby water must be breathtaking

To the Moon

BLESS thy bright face! though often blessed before
By raving maniac and by pensive fool;
One would say something more-- but who as yet,
When looking at thee in the deep blue sky,
Could tell the poorest thought that struck his heart?
Yet all have tried, and all have tried in vain.
At thee, poor planet, is the first attempt
That the young rhymster ventures. And the sigh
The boyish lover heaves, is at the Moon.
Bards, who -- ere Milton sung or Shakspeare played
The dirge of sorrow, or the song of love,
Bards, who had higher soared than Fesole,
Knew better of the Moon. 'T was there they found
Vain thoughts, lost hopes, and fancy's happy dreams,
And all sweet sounds, such as have fled afar
From waking discords, and from daylight jars.
There Ariosto puts the widow's weeds
When she, new wedded, smiles abroad again,
And there the sad maid's innocence -- 't is there

That broken vows and empty promises,
All good intentions, with no answering deed
To anchor them on the substantial earth,
Are shrewdly packed. -- And could he think that thou,
So bright, so pure of aspect, so serene,
Art the mere storehouse of our faults and crimes?
I'd rather think as puling rhymsters think,
O; love-sick maidens fancy -- Yea, prefer
The dairy notion that thou art but cheese,
Green cheese --than thus misdoubt thy honest face.

To the moon, to the moon, to a simple sphere of cheese. Back in the 1800's, technology of astronomy was still mostly crude and many people did actually believe still that the moon was made of cheese. This poem is just about the appreciation and feeling one author describes when he looks up, and sees that glowing orb of wonderment. 

Eighth Air Force
by Randall Jarrell
If, in an odd angle of the hutment, A puppy laps the water from a can Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving Whistles O Paradiso!--shall I say that man Is not as men have said: a wolf to man? The other murderers troop in yawning; Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one Lies counting missions, lies there sweating Till even his heart beats: One; One; One. O murderers! . . . Still, this is how it's done: This is a war . . . But since these play, before they die, Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man, I did as these have done, but did not die-- I will content the people as I can And give up these to them: Behold the man! I have suffered, in a dream, because of him, Many things; for this last saviour, man, I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying? Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can: I find no fault in this just man. The fact that these men only do their job in service do their country does not make them bad people. They play games together, waiting for the next moment when the blood will flow again. They are not tyrants, just men doing their job.

Poor puggy-wug

            POOR PUGGY-WUG
Winston Churchill
    Oh, what is the matter with poor Puggy-wug
    Pet him and kiss him and give him a hug.
    Run and fetch him a suitable drug,
    Wrap him up tenderly all in a rug,
    That is the way to cure Puggy-wug.

This most unlikely of poems was written by sir Winston Churchill. Clearly the most charismatic man to Ever live. The tiny dog known as the pug, is just sad, so give it a hug. 

Poems on Victory

Sir Chimnoy

Victory usually means 
Temporary peace.
But peace is
Eternity’s victory.

~

Victory comes and victory goes. 
Defeat weeps and defeat lingers.
Experience soars and experience lasts.
God smiles and God dances.

~

The body’s victory  
Is often
The soul’s tremendous loss.
The soul’s victory
Is always
The body’s amazing progress.

~

I felt the victory  
Of the world-saviour: Peace.
Therefore
I smiled and danced.  

I see the victory
Of the world-devourer: War.
Therefore
I sigh and die.

~

Yesterday  
your victory’s crown
was possession.
Today
your victory’s crown
is renunciation.
Tomorrow
your victory’s crown
shall be liberation.

~

In the inner world  
Each victory is a help.
Each defeat is a help, too.
But each surrender to God’s Will
Is a victory unparalleled,
A victory invincible.

~

God’s Smile is the victory  
Of today’s man.
Man’s smile is the Victory
Of Eternity’s God.

~

The victory of human love is confusing.  
The victory of divine love is illumining.
The victory of supreme love is fulfilling.

~

Victory and defeat are interwoven.
Do not try to separate them,
But try to go beyond them
If your heart longs for abiding peace.

Victory in a battle does nothing but bring temporary peace. A true victory is so there was no battle at all. Peace, eternal peace, is the only true victory. For it can only be a victory if it assures no further loss

Carbon

Carbon 
Your atomic number is 6 
You're cool in three different forms 
Fullerines, graphite, and diamond 
You've been around for so long 
but by who is still unknown 
You make diamond look good 
and car rims look hot 
You combine with hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen and many more 
Even though you're worth alot today 
Your still put in good use.

Carbon, we are all made up of it, it combines with almost all of the other elements. It can last forever in the shape of a diamond. And too much of it's gas form may lead to our annihilation. CO2 may be our undoing. While we need it to survive, too much is bad. This is a poem of the stuff legends are made of (literally).

Hope of loving

THE HOPE OF LOVING

by: Meister Eckhart
Transl. Daniel Ladinksky

What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?

I think it is the hope of loving,
or being loved.

I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey
to find its source, and how the moon wept
without her lover’s
warm gaze.

We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither
like fields if someone close
does not rain their
kindness
upon
us.

The hope that we all will find that one person to illuminate the dark parts of our lives is present in this poem. We all hope to love someone, and be given that same emotion in return. Hope and love are inseparable, as are the moon and the sun. 

Peace on Earth

PEACE ON EARTH

The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till to-morrow.
The Bears are abroad!
The Eagle is screaming!
Gold against blue
Their eyes are gleaming!
Sleep!
Sleep safe till to-morrow.
The Sisters lie
With their arms intertwining;
Gold against blue
Their hair is shining!
The Serpent writhes!
Orion is listening!
Gold against blue
His sword is glistening!
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till to-morrow.

William Carlos Williams, 1913 (TOAOAL--II, pg. 1314)


This poem is showing the journey one's eyes can take when looking at our night sky. The bears are Canaris major and minor. It also shows orion the hunter and many other constellations. The story that our ancestors told of them in the past, are why today we still can distinguish the same star patterns they could thousands of years ago.