Alias Pseudonym (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aliaspseudonym) wrote2010-12-05 11:25 pm
aliaspseudonym) wrote2010-12-05 11:25 pm
Dreaming of Flying
Dreaming of Flying
(Or: Lines Written so as to Avoid Writing a Final Essay for Romanticism Class)
i descent
I sit down and begin to write,
“As Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote
in his ‘Defence of Poetry,'
the poet is an instrument
of ‘ever-changing melody’ . . .”
I turn away. The words are wrong.
There’s something missing, like a song
whose tune I know but not the words
so I can only hum along.
“If music plays upon the heart
and sings of feelings pure and whole
then poetry can best be called
a music played upon the soul . . .”
Soul? Is that the proper word?
Might be informal, or absurd.
But still, I feel it resonates
in harmony with songs unheard.
As the word falls above the page,
as the snow falls upon the ground,
as the sun falls below the earth,
as the shadows grow long,
Like fishes across my screen words swim.
Like seagulls across my mind thoughts soar.
My eyelids become anchors as I sink into the sea.
ii abyss
The bottom is black,
not as midnight or ink,
as primordial night.
It’s a hue that calls back
to the soul from the brink
from the boneyards of light
and it says “you are small”
“You’re afraid." It says “All
that you’ve made
will crack and crumble under weight of ageless years
till your whole world has faded to a greyish dust
that blows away in the wind, leaving not even
the barest trace of something worth the shedding of tears.”
In this darkness I stand.
In this black beyond night,
I stand straining my eyes
for a hint of a light.
As my eyes become used
to the black ocean floor
sublime shapes rise around
and before me, a door.
It hangs a little open, and in fact the hinge is broken,
for at my touch it topples and comes crashing to the floor.
So across the threshold creeping I disturb the solemn sleeping
of the deep and dismal shadows coiled round th’abyssal shore,
and look up for something more.
A stairway stretches upward
in an unsupported spiral
from the breathless shores of midnight
up into the unseen sky
By the light of choking candles
I begin my long asending
round the endless dizz’ying corkscrew
as the shapeless things wing by.
Though my legs grow weak and waver
T’ward the sheer unguarded chasm,
Though I spot the mountains moving
from the corner of my eye
I press onward, full determined,
up the steep and narrow pathway,
‘neath the ancient gaze of eyes
that never blink, and
reach the sky.
iii fledging
I break the surface and shake myself
sending tiny droplets of liquid shadow flying
in all directions, making tiny ripples as they
rejoin the endless, tranquil sea.
This smallest island in endless sea
seems so lonely amidst the eerie waters,
for a moment, I feel I might be trapped;
marooned and lonely here forever.
Then,
in a flash of wonder I remember how to fly.
In a blur of feathers I asend into the sky.
In th’unyielding ocean I could scarely walk the earth,
yet on wings of midnight now shape clouds to mark my birth.
But of course the clouds will soon forget my infant hands;
turn to fluffy pillows as I search for unknown lands.
And I wander farther, finding mountains, forests, seas
where the swirls of petals lend a radiance to the breeze.
And unflagging, ever further, I fly on to lands unknown
and I dance among the dragons where no map has ever shown
till I reach the utter sunset, then, as night begins to fall
I will turn my eyes t’ward heaven and resolve to see it all.
I rise to meet the spark’ling glorys of the starry starry sky
where the perfect spheres of heaven glint with silver moonlit truth.
Higher still are angels soaring on much greater wings than I,
singing wordless, noteless silence, branding glory on my soul
And higher! always higher, though my wings should surely melt.
The air is thin and shines with light that pierces; makes me pale.
And here I find a thing that can’t be seen or heard or felt;
So far beyond the senses. . .
Words fail me.
iv silence
something
everything
infinitely
eternally
good
is so
so
close
i want to speak i want to sing i can only be silent
v night
I let myself fall
from the heavens above
to the clouds below.
I hesitate but,
at last, I turn
to catch the wind upon my wings
and soar down lightly to the earth.
I land upon a great plateau
of grass and shrub where wind blows free
and having nowhere left to go
I contemplate the dirt.
The midnight air is icy cold;
I fold my wings and disappear
behind black feathers. Try to hold
myself apart from hurt.
The night wind blows so strong.
Like a seed discarded by some tree,
it carries me low and tumbling 'cross land and sea
to drop me midway between earth and sky;
On the mountainside I lie.
The night chill lasts so long.
This slope so steep,
this sideways land
will make me weep
and scarely stand
for fear of fall-
ing, and I know
that worst of all
nothing can grow here.
The wind swells and I half hope it will take me
to some fertile earth or flowing waters.
Instead, I hear a lilting melody
That strikes in me a memory
of something I had heard on high
of silver wings and shining rings
and something greater, higher still.
I turn toward the music
as the sun begins to rise.
vi path
On the mountaintop, gleaming gold by light of morning
is a wooden scaffold wrapped around a tower stretching to the sky.
On the scaffold’s side, singing songs of joy and mourning
is a man too set on building to have seen me as I floated by.
His wings are purest white.
I call to him,
“Stranger! I know truth beyond my words,
and from your song I know that we are kin
in this most blissful pain. Am I a fool?
An Icharus who’s flown into the sun
and now’s just waiting for the ground to hit?
How can I say it when there are no words?”
The music stops; he turns to me
and says
“There is a Word.
But if you heard it, you should understand
it has a voice that makes the world grow thin
and in that voice alone it must be heard.”
I ask,
“Then, how?”
“I am building a stairway to the sky,
and every step is built of lesser words
and songs of truth and beauty sung by those
with wings like yours. As was the path you climbed
up from the pit below to earn those wings.”
And at his words I feel
a crushing weight lift
and I fling myself skyward, spinning loops of glory round the tower
and, descending to earth, I begin
slowly,
painstakingly,
to put together what I know of truth
and beauty and silence and even darkness
into words, to make the tiniest of lights
in the night; the smallest of steps t’ward the sky.
Then,
vii awakening
I am awake.
And, eyes returning to the screen
I undo all I’ve wrote so far.
I know I must begin anew.
I write,
“I cannot defend poetry.
Nor does it need my defense.
Instead, I will write it
and it will speak for itself.”
And then I sit
and close my eyes
and place my hands
upon the keys.
I stretch my wings to heaven clear
and dream so all the world can hear.
(Or: Lines Written so as to Avoid Writing a Final Essay for Romanticism Class)
i descent
I sit down and begin to write,
“As Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote
in his ‘Defence of Poetry,'
the poet is an instrument
of ‘ever-changing melody’ . . .”
I turn away. The words are wrong.
There’s something missing, like a song
whose tune I know but not the words
so I can only hum along.
“If music plays upon the heart
and sings of feelings pure and whole
then poetry can best be called
a music played upon the soul . . .”
Soul? Is that the proper word?
Might be informal, or absurd.
But still, I feel it resonates
in harmony with songs unheard.
As the word falls above the page,
as the snow falls upon the ground,
as the sun falls below the earth,
as the shadows grow long,
Like fishes across my screen words swim.
Like seagulls across my mind thoughts soar.
My eyelids become anchors as I sink into the sea.
ii abyss
The bottom is black,
not as midnight or ink,
as primordial night.
It’s a hue that calls back
to the soul from the brink
from the boneyards of light
and it says “you are small”
“You’re afraid." It says “All
that you’ve made
will crack and crumble under weight of ageless years
till your whole world has faded to a greyish dust
that blows away in the wind, leaving not even
the barest trace of something worth the shedding of tears.”
In this darkness I stand.
In this black beyond night,
I stand straining my eyes
for a hint of a light.
As my eyes become used
to the black ocean floor
sublime shapes rise around
and before me, a door.
It hangs a little open, and in fact the hinge is broken,
for at my touch it topples and comes crashing to the floor.
So across the threshold creeping I disturb the solemn sleeping
of the deep and dismal shadows coiled round th’abyssal shore,
and look up for something more.
A stairway stretches upward
in an unsupported spiral
from the breathless shores of midnight
up into the unseen sky
By the light of choking candles
I begin my long asending
round the endless dizz’ying corkscrew
as the shapeless things wing by.
Though my legs grow weak and waver
T’ward the sheer unguarded chasm,
Though I spot the mountains moving
from the corner of my eye
I press onward, full determined,
up the steep and narrow pathway,
‘neath the ancient gaze of eyes
that never blink, and
reach the sky.
iii fledging
I break the surface and shake myself
sending tiny droplets of liquid shadow flying
in all directions, making tiny ripples as they
rejoin the endless, tranquil sea.
This smallest island in endless sea
seems so lonely amidst the eerie waters,
for a moment, I feel I might be trapped;
marooned and lonely here forever.
Then,
in a flash of wonder I remember how to fly.
In a blur of feathers I asend into the sky.
In th’unyielding ocean I could scarely walk the earth,
yet on wings of midnight now shape clouds to mark my birth.
But of course the clouds will soon forget my infant hands;
turn to fluffy pillows as I search for unknown lands.
And I wander farther, finding mountains, forests, seas
where the swirls of petals lend a radiance to the breeze.
And unflagging, ever further, I fly on to lands unknown
and I dance among the dragons where no map has ever shown
till I reach the utter sunset, then, as night begins to fall
I will turn my eyes t’ward heaven and resolve to see it all.
I rise to meet the spark’ling glorys of the starry starry sky
where the perfect spheres of heaven glint with silver moonlit truth.
Higher still are angels soaring on much greater wings than I,
singing wordless, noteless silence, branding glory on my soul
And higher! always higher, though my wings should surely melt.
The air is thin and shines with light that pierces; makes me pale.
And here I find a thing that can’t be seen or heard or felt;
So far beyond the senses. . .
Words fail me.
iv silence
something
everything
infinitely
eternally
good
is so
so
close
i want to speak i want to sing i can only be silent
v night
I let myself fall
from the heavens above
to the clouds below.
I hesitate but,
at last, I turn
to catch the wind upon my wings
and soar down lightly to the earth.
I land upon a great plateau
of grass and shrub where wind blows free
and having nowhere left to go
I contemplate the dirt.
The midnight air is icy cold;
I fold my wings and disappear
behind black feathers. Try to hold
myself apart from hurt.
The night wind blows so strong.
Like a seed discarded by some tree,
it carries me low and tumbling 'cross land and sea
to drop me midway between earth and sky;
On the mountainside I lie.
The night chill lasts so long.
This slope so steep,
this sideways land
will make me weep
and scarely stand
for fear of fall-
ing, and I know
that worst of all
nothing can grow here.
The wind swells and I half hope it will take me
to some fertile earth or flowing waters.
Instead, I hear a lilting melody
That strikes in me a memory
of something I had heard on high
of silver wings and shining rings
and something greater, higher still.
I turn toward the music
as the sun begins to rise.
vi path
On the mountaintop, gleaming gold by light of morning
is a wooden scaffold wrapped around a tower stretching to the sky.
On the scaffold’s side, singing songs of joy and mourning
is a man too set on building to have seen me as I floated by.
His wings are purest white.
I call to him,
“Stranger! I know truth beyond my words,
and from your song I know that we are kin
in this most blissful pain. Am I a fool?
An Icharus who’s flown into the sun
and now’s just waiting for the ground to hit?
How can I say it when there are no words?”
The music stops; he turns to me
and says
“There is a Word.
But if you heard it, you should understand
it has a voice that makes the world grow thin
and in that voice alone it must be heard.”
I ask,
“Then, how?”
“I am building a stairway to the sky,
and every step is built of lesser words
and songs of truth and beauty sung by those
with wings like yours. As was the path you climbed
up from the pit below to earn those wings.”
And at his words I feel
a crushing weight lift
and I fling myself skyward, spinning loops of glory round the tower
and, descending to earth, I begin
slowly,
painstakingly,
to put together what I know of truth
and beauty and silence and even darkness
into words, to make the tiniest of lights
in the night; the smallest of steps t’ward the sky.
Then,
vii awakening
I am awake.
And, eyes returning to the screen
I undo all I’ve wrote so far.
I know I must begin anew.
I write,
“I cannot defend poetry.
Nor does it need my defense.
Instead, I will write it
and it will speak for itself.”
And then I sit
and close my eyes
and place my hands
upon the keys.
I stretch my wings to heaven clear
and dream so all the world can hear.
no subject
(no subject)