the marvelous world

(we now interrupt the story revision in progress to bring you the following poem...)

the marvelous world

stay beside me, love, for all my days and nights
hold my hands in yours, sing to me adventures
of heroes and true love and the marvelous world;
look in my eyes and tell me in wordless joy.

hold my hands in yours, sing to me adventures;
walk by my side and make me laugh to tears.
look in my eyes and tell me in wordless joy
of the infinite sky, the vast ocean dreaming.

walk by my side and make me laugh to tears;
when the storms come, I shelter in your arms.
the infinite sky, the vast ocean dreaming -
how they roil and rage, shine and sing.

when the storms come, I shelter in your arms.
we are safe in each other, fire and air in sacred flame;
how they roil and rage, shine and sing -
how the ancient earth envies our life together.

we are safe in each other, fire and air, sacred flame;
we are constant and changing, we are beauty and art.
how the ancient earth envies our life together;
the old stories are true, but never so true as now.

we are constant and changing, we are beauty and art,
heroes and true love and the marvelous world:
the old stories are true, but never so true as now.
stay beside me, love, for all my days and nights.


...And now, a little context.

There is an absolutely amazing and wonderful woman named Kate - well, I am sure there are a lot of amazing and wonderful Kates, but this one is superlatively so and has been one of my dearest friends for lo, these many years.

Three years ago, Kate read a poem I wrote at my wedding - called, perhaps unsurprisingly, true love. And now, at the end of June, Kate will marry an excellent guy named Andrew (I don't know him as well, but he seems fully worthy to be her life partner, and I can give no man higher praise than that).

To my great honor, Kate has asked me to read a poem at her wedding, preferably one that I wrote. She did give me the option to read something someone else wrote, but I love her very much and wanted to do something original as a gift to them.

So there I was, faced with the task of writing a non-cheesy poem about love, something that would deserve to be read at the wedding of one of my best friends. After about 83,000 attempts, I finally drafted the poem above. I've put it through a few revisions by now, but I have until June 27th to make it perfect, or as close to perfect as I can get it.

You can therefore see, dear reader, why your feedback is much needed and appreciated.

A word on the form - this type of poem is called a pantoum. As you may already know, pantoums are a type of poetry that originated in Malaysia. There is little structure besides the pattern of repetition of the lines - no set number of syllables or stanzas, no rhyme scheme, no scansion. It's one of my favorite forms of poetry; the repeating pattern creates this great tension, then the pattern of the last stanza provides a fantastic catharsis.

A word to the wise - should you wish to attempt your first pantoum, may I suggest you drive it with verbs. At least, that's the only way I can ever figure out how to make 'em work.

Anyway, please let me know what you think. Much obliged!

exorcism

Nothing like writing for getting those inner demons out. Actually I wrote a couple new poems tonight. One came in a fit of frustrated boredom - I was restless & aggravated & casting about for something constructive to do - and lo and behold this line popped into my head and I sat down & wrote a poem. I still need to sleep on it, but maybe I'll post it tomorrow morning (if it doesn't suck).

Anyway, it definitely feels like one of those nights where I have an overabundance of creative energy. When my writing starts seeking ways to come out, sometimes it can go in odd directions. Hence the following pantoum, which is tonight's other new poem. I love pantoums; the challenge is really worth it, when it works. It's a form of poetry that originated in Malaysia. The really badass poets will make theirs rhyme, but the crucial thing is the pattern of line repetition.

Caught

I roam from window to empty window
a restless ghost caught in currents of thought.
I wait for snow that will not fall
count endless minutes in the night.

A restless ghost, caught in currents of thought
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
count the endless minutes in the night,
narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising.

I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
my fingers fret and fold the blankets square;
I narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night.

My fingers fret and fold the blankets square
I place useless objects in a useless order,
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand.

I place useless objects in a useless order
wait for something to make deeper sense at last,
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand,
leaving me restless and thoughtful again.

I wait for something to make deeper sense; at last
there are only a few final truths left to face.
They leave me restless, thoughtful again
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.

There are only a few final truths left to face.
I wait for snow that will not fall
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
I roam from window to empty window.

Before I got into the pantoum, I thought I'd work on some previous poetry & settled on one that's been nagging at me. It still needs some work, but after messing with it for the last hour, it's gotten a lot closer.

I used to be beautiful

Long did I laugh in my days of youth
and I danced like the wings of the air.
I trusted the promise life whispered,
trod the twists of my path without fear.

“You’re beautiful,” strangers would say
as if in a dream, caught off guard.
I moved in joy, sang to the wind;
blithe and blind to Time’s vagaries.

Then my daughter, my first child,
died in my womb.
And suddenly

I was not the golden leaf shining bright
but a faded skeleton crumbling into winter.

And I was no longer beautiful.
I was invisible.

For who is left to mourn
but what is left behind.
A skeleton, crumbling
to invisible air.

Long did I laugh in the days of my youth
and the world lived for beauty, and I
loved the living of it. But the dying,
the dying of beauty is a hard thing.

And what was left behind, in Time,
you would not want to see at all.