Watermark

Why Must It Be Beautiful?

 

MP3 File

What is it for, all this
beauty? The curve
of the spiral

from the laddered
twist of DNA
to the vast wave

of galaxies; the green
luna moth, breath-
taking & ordinary. 

Does the prey see
beauty in its predator?
Do gazelles admire

the leopard? Does
the seal lift
its sleek head

to gaze in wonder
at the bumbling,
lethal polar bear?

Our science tells us 
how. Our science
gives us reason.

But why must it be
beautiful? The aero-
nautic miracle

of the bumble bee;
the passing brilliance
of the butterfly. Surely

predators would be
more deterred by
ugliness. The hideous

and the platypus
have their own glory.
Humans have our

own glory. Do other
creatures adore
the useless,

the only gorgeous,
the green wave
of Northern Lights

dimming the stars?
The indented shadow
of the heron's bath

in a snowdrift? Why
must it be beautiful?
When we pass, with

the bee, with
the butterfly,
with the polar bear,

the leopard,
the gazelle,
who will grieve

this deep and terrible
loss? Who will delight
in what comes next?

I am reposting this, since it seems ideal for this week's prompt: to say why you think you're alive, why you were born, and why you're still around: What are your reasons? ...try responding to this prompt without using the word "I" (me, my, mine).

Though I did post a poem yesterday, this one seems much more responsive, even though it was written months ago -- and I doubt I could answer the question better than this does.

And I need a reminder this morning.

snapshot poem 30 january 02008

i ask for a dream to answer the question
i dream of a seal    an affectionate seal
it wants to be in the house with the women

it slips through the door like water

the seal is blue . . . mottled . . . purple and gold
it's the swimming colors of oil on water

one of the women who lives in the house
does not want the seal inside with the women

the seal stands up in the room like a woman
like a woman    she walks on the shore

the seal is innocent  the seal is a blessing
the seal is unguarded and fearless but shy

she drifts through my dream like water

she can swim    in the depths    she can surface

her fur is thick and sleek and dense
her fur is her skin of oil and colors
the deep black-blue and purple of ink
and the gold foil of secrets and vows

the seal glides through my mind like water

the seal is a sylph    a cipher    a bond
the seal is a veil       consummation

the seal is an answer to every question
she circles my dream like water
   

This week's prompt was to say why you think you're alive, why you were born, and why you're still around: What are your reasons?

So, just after agreeing that a poem needs to be intelligible and accessible. A poem should be capable of meaning something (Jim Murdock), I write this. But kasper reminds me:

A poem should not mean
But be

Later, I found this:

My Message
Cecil Rajendra

And now you ask
what is my message
I say with Nabokov
I am a poet
not a postman
I have no message.

but I want the cadences
of my verse to crack
the carapace of indifference . . .

 

Go to 3 Quarks Daily to read the rest.

And later still, thanks (again) to Ron Sipherd at The Well, here's the word I sought and could not find: SELKIE

And from Anne:  The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry

A Brief Reminder to all USA Citizens

The oath or affirmation of office of the President of the United States was established in the United States Constitution and is mandatory for a President upon beginning a term of office. The wording is prescribed by the Constitution (Article II, Section 1, Clause 8), as follows:

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.

Please note -- preserve, protect and defend the Constitution --

Not the people, not the party, not the boundaries nor the ideologies of any particular religion or philosophy.

The Constitution.

ADDED, thanks to Anne:

Things That Are Not In the U.S. Constitution

what equals metaphor plus math?

numbers

I

numbers are magic
as everyone knows
numbers of fingers
and numbers of toes

one is a number
as is two, as is three
big's not a number
and neither is wee

but you can give them a number
if you measure them close
you can give them a number
for lesser or most

red's not a number
and neither is blue
but we give them both numbers
and think that it's true

numbers aren't real
they can't hug you or kiss you
they can't feed you a meal
and numbers won't love you

zero's a number
or just an idea
it gives nothing away
but a question: to be?

II

What if we could map the future?
If we could graph the probability
of you loving me, of me loving you?
This moment, its topology, its exact
dimensions and chronology - if we
could fracture it into its smallest
signifier - decipher the most obtuse
and mysterious functions - if we
could do that - this moment, its
infinite fractals, spinning off one
from the next - if you, if I, are only
numbers, the consequence of some
algebraic equation, some geometric
shape - do we add? Do we divide?
Each solution holds the next problem.

III

zero equals spiral
the moment of conception
anything is possible

one at the center
the beginning
and the end

two, the dialectic
balance, and also
contradiction

three is perfection
in its fullness
nothing is missing

four is totality
this earth
and all its directions

five is the star
it is fire
it is light

six is power
it is destiny
unfolding

seven is fulfillment
it is motion
it is change

eight
the pillar
and the path

nine
is the serpent
that bites its own tail

zero, the spiral
the shell
and the snail

 

This week's prompt was to incorporate mathematics into a poem. As you can see, I found this unusually inspiring.   

Introduce Yourself!

Our first INTRODUCE YOURSELF! post is over a year old now, and has more than eighty comments, so I thought it might be time to begin a new one. The first one is full of interesting people and ideas -- be sure to check it out!

Some new folks are coming by, and I'm going to suggest different questions this time, so feel free to jump in even if you already introduced yourself in the first thread. If you have a website or a blog, point us to it. Informality is the rule, but formality is permitted.

Here are this round's (optional) questions. If you don't like these, answer your own:

• Do you read poems?
• If no, why not?
• Do you write poems?
• If yes, whatever for?
• What, for you, makes a poem a good poem?

I'll answer those questions myself, once the ball gets rolling.

As before, I'll link this post on the sidebar so that it's always handy.

The first one was so much fun, I can hardly wait to see what develops this time. And, this time, you have the option of subscribing to the comment thread via RSS, which will make it much easier to keep up.

Save These Cats' Jobs!

If you think that only humans are suffering from the current economic woes, think again. Boo and Spike have been out of work for months. They are free- lancers, they get paid on commission. If no one asks for their assistance, they don't have any columns to write, and they don't get paid. No new toys, no catnip, no little meeces.

Look at these pitiful, distraught, unemployed critters:

    

Don't you want to help?

Ask the AgonyCats will appear at unpredictable, feline intervals, depending on cat moods and the mailbox. If you would like to solicit advice, comment or send an email to: askthecats AT sbpoet DOT com. Boo and/or Spike will be happy to respond. Maybe.

Both AgonyCats have a great deal of experience in inter-species relationships, though they bring somewhat different perspectives to the situations they encounter. Any problem submitted for their consideration is assured of the utmost discretion, expertise, and privacy.*  Feline correspondents will, of course, have priority.

*[Discretion and privacy are guaranteed, except that letters will be published for the readers of this blog; and the readers of any excerpts published outside of this blog; and any over-the-fence or under-the-sheets conversationalists. No solution is guaranteed to be effective under any circumstance, and AgonyCats accepts no liability for hurt feelings, inadvertent or deliberately inflicted wounds, or any other damages that may ensue from incorrectly or correctly implementing any suggestions herein. Whatsoever. Etcetera.]

We will be checking for your helpful, help-needed response.

If you'd like to research further on the challenges faced by contemporary felines, look here:

• The Carnival of the Cats, now at Missy, KC, Sol & Smokey; this Sunday it will be at Bad Kitty Cats
  
• Weekend Cat Blogging last weekend was at What did you Eat?; this weekend you will find it at Tuxedo Gang Hideout
• Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos is at Mind of Mog and will be at Pet's Garden Blog; and, last but certainly not least,
  
• Friday Ark#175 at Modulator

   

RELATED POSTS:

• Ask the Agony Cats 1
• Ask the Agony Cats 2
• Working Cats

I am a Real Writer & I can prove it

 

Many thanks to Janni Lee Simner, via Erin Noteboom

But really important people have more than one certificate on their wall, and who is more important than the poet? So I worked this one up, too:

 

This idea was stolen from:

J. B. Handelsman, New Yorker, March 10, 1973

Via Ron Sipherd at The Well

Oh, you want one, too? Just in case, I made up a gender-inclusive blank one. Just add your name and the date, and there you are.*

*It has been brought to my attention that more detailed instructions might be useful. If you are not a member of flickr, you can't download photos, so first, join flickr -- it's free, and you can always unjoin if you want. Then click here; above the image you'll see ALL SIZES -- click that; then click and download the size you want.

You can then use any photo editing program to add your name and date -- now that you have a flickr account, you could upload it into your own account and use Picnik to do this; or print out a copy and do it by hand.

If all this is too much for you, just email me and I'll send you the image.

Snapshot Poem 23 January 02008

Wolf
Originally uploaded by IJsendoorn
   
 

     Wolf Moon

Wolf Moon, is that you
howling through the courtyard,
banging at our windows,
stripping shingles from the roof,
demanding to be let in? You,

hungry, in your winter coat,
fur tipped with frost and snow?
I hear you prowling, your breath
puffs coldness under the door.
Wolf Moon, I cannot see you,

but I know you're there.

   
 

Jan. 22, 8:35 a.m. EST — Full Wolf Moon. Amid the zero cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It was also known as the Old Moon or the moon after Yule. In some tribes this was the Full Snow Moon; most applied that name to the next moon.

IJsendoorn has quite wonderful photos on flickr. Here is his Animal Photoset.

MLK Day

I wanted to write, yesterday, about Martin Luther King, Jr. It was a day to celebrate his birthday, his life, and his dream -- but what took over my memory was the day in April that he was killed. That day, forty years ago, came back to me, with all its rage and despair. I was nineteen. I remember wanting to destroy ... something. I wanted to throw the television at the wall, but I wanted to know what was happening.

At that age -- so young -- I really understood only the surface (or perhaps the root?) of King's vision. For me, then, it was so simple. I was still child enough to want -- to expect -- the world to be fair. Just that, only that. Fairness. Justice.

It would be many years later that I began to understand the subtleties of racism, including my own; that assumption that white (and male, and heterosexual) is normal, and all else is subordinate. I did have a breakthrough of sorts in my mid-twenties, when I realized that being black is no guarantee against narrow-mindedness, sexism, and general idiocy. Oh, yeah, that's right -- we're all human.

Yes, things have changed. I see my young friends grow into different assumptions, different expectations. I remember the first time I saw a black and a white singer performing, together, a love duet. Though I was quite young, and no longer remember who the performers were (was the man black, and the woman white, or vice versa?) I do remember that almost physical shock, that knowing this was something important; something bigger than a love song. 

My young friends don't look twice at interracial couples. They don't have to stop and realize, when asked out by someone unlike them, that the only reason they would have to say no is exactly that difference. They seem to feel nothing in particular about voting in a presidential election with a black or a woman candidate -- I mean, nothing in particular beyond a certain academic interest in the possibility of making history.

It's not that, for me. For me, it's some combination of victory and despair. Look how far we've come!

And -- look how far we have to go. The crevasse between rich and poor grows wider and wider. We live in a country wandering -- being led -- away from our values, the values Martin Luther King represented and fought for. We live in a country that leaves its poor black citizens on rooftops for days, and then forgets.

It was so much simpler when I was nineteen. Things were right, or wrong, and that was all there was to it. I didn't realize that right, and wrong, are all mixed up in me. And in others. I didn't know that forty years later I still would not know whether to celebrate, or despair.

       

Ephemeral Sonnet

We write on water, we poets. Most of
us. Some write on sand, brief calligraphy
for seagulls, shore-birds and the slow inev-
itable tide. A few write to stain the sea,

so intense, the color of their ink salts
the words of their inheritors years
beyond their own decline. It's not their fault
that rules and ideologies emerge

poem by innocent poem. Some writers
strive to obscure the mysterious; some try
to reveal the obvious. Some are rhymers;
some are not. Some leap at the chance to fly.

In hopes they will endure, some write their odes
on stone. Stone is hard. But even stone erodes.

 

RWP offered two poems -- a sonnet and a free verse. The prompt was to pick the style that appeals least to you and write in that manner about the same theme: the transity of human efforts.

This week's prompt was to write a sonnet.

I know, it doesn't scan. I'm open to suggestions.