Post by contention on Aug 28, 2006 19:40:45 GMT -5
As the pendulum
To and fro;
Rocking back and forth to show:
Never still, nor but to rest;
Caught within eternal ‘gest.
Swinging sideways,
Out and in:
From there to back
To back again.
Beside the hands,
What arms in race:
Running for familiar place;
‘Round and ‘round and
‘Round in play,
Thoughtless of the dying day.
Burning embers, painted stale;
Each their own, each as well:
Twelve a’ cast, all a part,
Where to end is where to start.
When fickle sun doth daint the sky,
Replacing moon in lunar eye,
Shall all to squelch beneath what pose
That of which the night not knows.
Among the stars, so sputtered bright
Will tuck the sheets, and rid of sight;
Smothered oppression, vain redress
Curled between, above the rest.
Upon yon’ garden, blossoms bloom
Rising in the dawn of noon,
But to writhe beneath the stare:
Unattended, without care;
Plucked and scattered,
Trickled thin;
Replaced by another,
Replaced by men.
For thy art not the sun so high,
Nor the time to riddle by;
But mere man and such to be,
Morality flaunt for we to see.
Hours, minutes, yet to fall,
A simple meaning: letters sprawl;
Not defined or ever placed
Shall come but in the human race.
To and fro;
Rocking back and forth to show:
Never still, nor but to rest;
Caught within eternal ‘gest.
Swinging sideways,
Out and in:
From there to back
To back again.
Beside the hands,
What arms in race:
Running for familiar place;
‘Round and ‘round and
‘Round in play,
Thoughtless of the dying day.
Burning embers, painted stale;
Each their own, each as well:
Twelve a’ cast, all a part,
Where to end is where to start.
When fickle sun doth daint the sky,
Replacing moon in lunar eye,
Shall all to squelch beneath what pose
That of which the night not knows.
Among the stars, so sputtered bright
Will tuck the sheets, and rid of sight;
Smothered oppression, vain redress
Curled between, above the rest.
Upon yon’ garden, blossoms bloom
Rising in the dawn of noon,
But to writhe beneath the stare:
Unattended, without care;
Plucked and scattered,
Trickled thin;
Replaced by another,
Replaced by men.
For thy art not the sun so high,
Nor the time to riddle by;
But mere man and such to be,
Morality flaunt for we to see.
Hours, minutes, yet to fall,
A simple meaning: letters sprawl;
Not defined or ever placed
Shall come but in the human race.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This poem was merely written in a simple little section of time throughout the day; sadly, it shows to much of that type of prescence. One does apologize on that behalf and what it shows, however hopefully the meaning still remains intact regardless of what was left out and replaced. The figure of this poem is to capture something that seems to go on a lot through the minds of a growing youth. Especially anyone or anything for that reason, the feeling of being replaced or passed up. One reason that this piece comes off as more metaphorical, hopefully however the comparisons shouldn't be hard to catch on with. The whole matter is brought up on how we treat each other and abuse the meaning of friends. Everything these days seems to be some game of popularity, counting out on who is the best at what; and how much someone can do to impress you. That's not how you're supposed to meet someone, to share personalities. We are tied at the mind, not by material means. Many also abandon those they know, for who they find to be better; sort of like getting a more appropriate deal on some item you may have long been searching for. People don't recogonize emotions of those around them, they seem to selfishly focus on themselves more often. Wanting to be the best, wanting to know everyone; when it's not about that, and it never should be nor ever aim at that by any means.
This was written all together, so there are no stanzas to help pluck it apart an analyze. However, the meaning is pretty obvious in what is said; the comparisons to a clock are used to show how time passes us by. A pendulem swings back and forth, it's never in one spot for an elongated period of time. Sometimes how we treat those around us, moving from one position to the next; never sticking still. The hands on a clock go round and round, tying into the pendulem. While we might return once more, we still keep going; without acknowledging the ending that we may infact be bringing upon ourselves and our relationships with what we do. Going on, the subject of day and night is related to how we change over what we like. Obviouslly, the sun and the daytime is the most active section of what is; therefore we don't put as much thought and essence into what comes during the night. Our day is the life we live, and we abandon the other edge in an effort to rest up and wait for the day. Sort of like "ignoring something in effort to wait for what you trully want". The stars and the "sheets" are refrences that seem related to stars and well, clouds. Clouds smother away the beauty of the flames of the night sky; they don't let us see them through their vain appearance. Therefore, they come off as our best, better than any other item.
The refrence to flowers states that while a blossom may bloom, without care or any sort of attention, in time it will die. It seems however, that not to many definetly put care upon this factor. Therefore, the mirth becomes sour and ridden. The last lines pretty much make their effort well known; a simple battering to show that "We as men are none of these items, we're not replacable and we have mortality; therefore, we don't last forever. So don't throw away, or put off time with someone or something that won't be around, as time and day will always be".