Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Edgar Allen Poe while reading his wiki the first thing that I loved was before his passing he lived in the Bronx New York and a fellow Capricorn. I find it wild that he was in the great state of New York especially in the borough to live his life.

It is sad, that living in a boisterous area, he was a very sad and depressed man. Most of his work, the best works was after the death of his young wife Virginia Clemm who was a first cousin.

Yes, this is a boring post.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Lost and Found in Translation by Melissa Cannon

Lost in translation especially between cultures can be difficult to surpass.  Though as two consenting adults, certain cultures are still adamant that customs are to be followed.  It takes strength for those who are in love with someone in that culture.You have ensure that all feeling are controlled and sometimes the longer you are together the more difficult it becomes.

Winner of the The Robinson Jeffers Tor House 2012 Prize for Poetry
Lost and Found in Translation
Melissa Cannon

What’s in a sobriquet? My Iraqi boss,
whose self-taught English only goes so far,
renames us—now “habibi,” now “hemar,”
which, roughly put, means “dearest dear” or “ass.”
“Habibi” saves the buns before they char,
while “hemar” neglects to stock tomato sauce
and over-proofs fresh dough until that mass,
reeking of beer, sinks, flat and turning sour.
His Kurdish girl’s a frequent visitor—
she’ll pound the counter, giving grief and sass.
From the same country, both suffering its loss,
they lack one native tongue and have to spar
with ours: she, baiting when she’s really cross,
calls him the oppressor in their civil war;
he scoffs—her family’s clannish, insular
(the sense is clear, the terms less decorous).
We’re an unlikely pair: he might have been,
in a different, saner world, an architect;
a cook here, he describes his Shiite sect
to an ex-academic, skeptic lesbian
he’s dubbed “old lady.” Just sixty, I object,
but he claims stings help toughen too-thin skin,
shows the scar a bullet gouged along his shin
and reveals himself in ways I don’t expect.
I read things he needs read and I’ll correct
his grammar if he asks, suppress a grin
when he says, “That’s how is it.” We begin,
through daily chores and crises, to connect.
We shy from touch. Though, greeting, Muslim men
may kiss the cheek, embrace with warm respect,
touch seems to be reserved for those select
few—lovers, fellows of the faith and kin.
Since I’ve retired, we arrange to meet and chat.
He bought a house, remodeled every room,
now longs to fill it, marry and become
a father. His stubborn girl won’t set a date:
though they spat until their lips grow numb,
she craves her parents’ blessing so they wait.
But then, if it’s too little and too late?
After twenty years, he’ll finally travel home,
anxious, he tells me, to surprise his mom;
I’m anxious at the thought of tempting fate,
can’t bear the image as I contemplate
his brother, dead from an errant curbside bomb.
I surface, startled, when he adds, “I hate
to leave. You know, we are—“ We’re what? Well, some
elusive answer to this posed conundrum
perplexes, vexes, makes him hesitate.

Then he speaks to me in Arabic, intends,
I guess, to find the phrase still unexpressed
if he has to put each language to the test.
And yet so much of all we mean transcends
mere words—ambiguous, half-true, at best,
misleading us to figure out the rest;
it’s hardly any wonder that he ends
up shrugging , settles for “—we’re more than friends.”

Melissa Cannon was born in New Hampshire and grew up in Tennessee.  She decided, at 15, that she wanted to be a poet and, at 65, she still has her pen in hand.  Her first career was in academia; her second, in fast food--both, she comments, provided substantial entertainment.  Her poems have appeared in various small-press publications over the years--most recently in Indefinite Space and The Lyric. 

Monday, April 9, 2012

Mother Goose

As again, I will restate my knowledge in poetry is childlike as with darkness from English when I was able to relate to Mr. Edgar Allen Poe.

Being the age I am currently at but too vain to admit the range it falls between, my oldest and dearest is Mother Goose.  With having three children the rhymes were a refreshing flashback to my past.  Looking back with a 15 year old and soon to be 14 year old, their books and poems are no longer that simple.

To keep my childhood in place, my oldest and truest of poetry form is the beloved Mother Goose.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Behind the 8-Ball

I am way behind the 8 ball but I tried to blog once a day to get motivation, to gain experience but as always I fall short and put everything I think of in the back of my head. Rather than put it all in the back of my head I should just let it out, taking the phone and saying my thought to enhance on it.

So help me please as I use this new beginning to breathe fresh life that has been suffocating inside for a very long, long time!!!!

Friday, April 6, 2012


As I begin this post, I am ashamed that I do not have a favorite poet or poem. When I was in high school I did enjoy the studies of Edgar Allen Poe. The Raven was one of my favorite poem with his darkness and the vivid imagination I had gave me chills.

When I walked home during the dark winter nights from my friends home I thought of the poem as I passed the cemetery each night. I had my ears open and  opened the eyes behind my head thinking of dark hands attacking me and pulling me into the cemetery.

The raven I only see the darkness and I think part of my soul is black as the raven.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
                Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
                Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
                This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
                Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
                Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
                'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
                She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Funeral Card

You will not see me, so you must have faith. I wait for the time when we can soar
together again, both aware of each other. Until then, live your life to its fullest and when
you need me, just whisper my name in your heart, ...I will be there.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Corny Poems..

Yes, I will admit due to having men that never expressed themselves to me. My degree of romantic poems is as simple as this:

Roses are red, violets are blue
Sugar is sweet and so are you!

I think I should have woken up after hearing it too many times when no effort went past that poem. There were times that I even heard as this with the romantics I have dated as such:

Roses are red, violets are blue
I love chocolate more than you!

Tuesday, April 3, 2012


As I am sad which is more often of the late, I look to find anything that can reflect of how I feel.  When I look for reading to reflect on I ask my friends for help. The latest poem I received was by Ms. Dorothy Parker - For A Sad Lady.

I hope that my life will be reflected not as a sad woman I feel today but I should hope to move forward be able to be a happy lady once again. Those who are forgotten alive, will be ashes that fly away when gone.

And let her loves, when she is dead,
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Who asked her only stones."

Monday, April 2, 2012

Nursery Rhymes....

As there are those who are avid readers and those who enjoy reading a good book to relax I am either. I regret that I don't have a good knowledge of books especially the classics partially due to high school but I allowed myself to wallow in pity of not being intelligent.

As I finish my rant, the first poem that I read if nursery are considered is Hickory Dickory Dock it was very fun to say and good way to learn how to tell time. The verse was repetitive and easy to learn just needed to change the time.  

It is just a very fun poem to read and best to star with isn't that what Mother Goose wanted us to do make fun learning.

Hickory Dickory Dock
(words from one o'clock to noon)

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down!
Hickory Dickory Dock.

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The bird looked at the clock,
The clock struck two 2,
Away she flew,
Hickory Dickory Dock

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The dog barked at the clock,
The clock struck three 3,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The bear slept by the clock,
The clock struck four 4,
He ran out the door,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The bee buzzed round the clock,
The clock struck five 5,
She went to her hive,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The hen pecked at the clock,
The clock struck six 6,
Oh, fiddle-sticks,
Hickory Dickory Dock!
Hickory Dickory Dock,
The cat ran round the clock,
The clock struck seven 7,
She wanted to get 'em,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The horse jumped over the clock,
The clock struck eight 8,
He ate some cake,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The cow danced on the clock,
The clock struck nine 9,
She felt so fine,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The pig oinked at the clock,
The clock struck ten 10,
She did it again,
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The duck quacked at the clock
The clock struck eleven 11,
The duck said 'oh heavens!'
Hickory Dickory Dock!

Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck noon
He's here too soon!
Hickory Dickory Dock!