Post by Contention on Feb 10, 2007 21:03:58 GMT -5
As I looked into the starry sky
What did I see?
Woe, it was an illusion of me,
And all that I had once to be.
Gleaming backwards, moving face;
In, about, and out of place.
Wave by wave I crashed ashore,
Known’st to what I was before;
Upon a rock, my body bled:
Wound alive, and nearly dead.
Across the water on a boat,
Seven men were all afloat;
Thirteen others, in the blue,
Sleeping where the coral grew.
Journeys cropped in every tongue,
Like the rag as it is rung:
Dripping, dropping to the ground
Without haste, though all of sound.
Homeward bound, they made a’ way
Up in night and back at day;
Singing pride in every chest,
Beating neath’ their rippled breast.
Sunday Churches, out of prayer,
Loft’ above the salty air;
All were gathered, coast to coast
Watching for that other ghost.
Aboard the raft came in sight
Coastline through the shade of night;
Far ahead, keeping still,
Shivered in nocturnal chill.
As they neared, cries were heard,
Every ounce in every word;
Crossing over fickle tide,
Into solid ears to bide.
Shores so close and port ahead
All was done, all was said;
Or so would think we all to soon
For morning is not after noon.
Sudden stop, the boat would motion,
Still as ice in rocking ocean;
Still would fall each breeze to blow,
Such the mast had come to show.
All were frenzied, eyes a’ blaze
Caught within Poseidon’s haze;
Torn from mother, cut the cord
Down would fall the mighty hoard.
Snap and crack, the stern would swell,
Preaching things that none could tell;
Full of lies and deep deceit,
Man would lose to simple ‘feat.
Down to walk, the darkness drew
Taking in what they all knew;
Light was but the only hope,
Yet it would cast no woven rope.
Drowing, drowning, down to die
Letting out that weary cry:
‘Simple things do not mistake,
We are men, doomed to break
We are creatures, born and bred
We are creatures, fat and fed’
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The longer something becomes, the more apt it is to fail. This one might need a read aloud to have some sense; though that's totally up to the viewer. Do what's easiest.
It's hard to really cut up this poem in any certain pattern or background. This "idea" seemed to flop out of nowhere, and then just form as it could. In some, malnurished pattern. There's nothing really "expansive" to give it birth, and nothing awe-inspired. It's just there, and likely nothing of anything when it comes to poetry. Out in all, the piece really just came to mind one night. It wasn't "planned" or "built". Describing how it happened is odd enough, it materialized in a sense. Some of it was written down that night, but it was so "out of shape", that things had to be pulled and then resculpted. So, it's been lying in the dust for nearly two to three weeks. Speaking on it's behalf seems odd to do, for most of it is just a slur from the mind. It's nothing "beautiful", for there are so many actual treasures of writing out there in the world. It's interesting to see what poets out there have to say from their minds. This, however, is just a slur as it proposes.
Starting from the beginning, the piece evolves from some setting that can't be described. Something "mysterious", a nightime wonder. While looking above, something deeper is seen. You know, that kind of event when you look at something and it reminds you of another "thing". That's what the first two points of the stanza are stating. The next few lines go on to explain pretty much what they state. Farther down though, the "wave by wave" is oddly a metaphor. Putting "the person" into a "ocean like" ability. As to why, that can't be said. Nothing really seems able for decipher until the "story" sets into play. From there, most of the lines turn into logic. What they say is what they mean. This poem wasn't written as a "Stanza by Stanza metaphor". Instead, the whole poem itself is a metaphor for something more simply stated. Something that seems to happen to all people in their lives.
The poem itself, details an adventure of few men on a boat. Where they come from, seems to be that of a "Journey". They are finally on their way home, hoping to be well-taken. Instead, events, unexplainable, wrasp them away. No one makes it back, and the turn of actions seem to "horrific" to be laid out. In life, this always seems to occur to some. In that sense of things. You'll feel on top of the world, going in the right direction with nothing to stop you. But like any danger, you can never expect harm to come your way. If you feel something bad will happen, chances expect it won't. Most things in life that threaten, or the thoughts that never come to you. They take you away, and can at times, remove every brick from the tower. Until it crumbles, or welts. We are men, meant to be broken. Not in a "depression" type of way. But in a challange stance. We are given "rancid actions" to get out of, not to fail for, but to win. Those who fail, may be weak. If not, who knows. Life is all about passing challanges, and sometimes losing. It's what builds you. Not kills you.
Little tid-bits of metaphors throughout the piece include the numbers of "Seven and Thirteen", two unlucky odds that foreshadow following settings. The town missing church on sunday, to welcome their "kin", somewhat could be taken as another foreshadow to the death of those on sea. As well as light and darkness. However, religion is no "worship", and nor is it petruding in the poem. Religion is what you make of it.
What did I see?
Woe, it was an illusion of me,
And all that I had once to be.
Gleaming backwards, moving face;
In, about, and out of place.
Wave by wave I crashed ashore,
Known’st to what I was before;
Upon a rock, my body bled:
Wound alive, and nearly dead.
Across the water on a boat,
Seven men were all afloat;
Thirteen others, in the blue,
Sleeping where the coral grew.
Journeys cropped in every tongue,
Like the rag as it is rung:
Dripping, dropping to the ground
Without haste, though all of sound.
Homeward bound, they made a’ way
Up in night and back at day;
Singing pride in every chest,
Beating neath’ their rippled breast.
Sunday Churches, out of prayer,
Loft’ above the salty air;
All were gathered, coast to coast
Watching for that other ghost.
Aboard the raft came in sight
Coastline through the shade of night;
Far ahead, keeping still,
Shivered in nocturnal chill.
As they neared, cries were heard,
Every ounce in every word;
Crossing over fickle tide,
Into solid ears to bide.
Shores so close and port ahead
All was done, all was said;
Or so would think we all to soon
For morning is not after noon.
Sudden stop, the boat would motion,
Still as ice in rocking ocean;
Still would fall each breeze to blow,
Such the mast had come to show.
All were frenzied, eyes a’ blaze
Caught within Poseidon’s haze;
Torn from mother, cut the cord
Down would fall the mighty hoard.
Snap and crack, the stern would swell,
Preaching things that none could tell;
Full of lies and deep deceit,
Man would lose to simple ‘feat.
Down to walk, the darkness drew
Taking in what they all knew;
Light was but the only hope,
Yet it would cast no woven rope.
Drowing, drowning, down to die
Letting out that weary cry:
‘Simple things do not mistake,
We are men, doomed to break
We are creatures, born and bred
We are creatures, fat and fed’
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The longer something becomes, the more apt it is to fail. This one might need a read aloud to have some sense; though that's totally up to the viewer. Do what's easiest.
It's hard to really cut up this poem in any certain pattern or background. This "idea" seemed to flop out of nowhere, and then just form as it could. In some, malnurished pattern. There's nothing really "expansive" to give it birth, and nothing awe-inspired. It's just there, and likely nothing of anything when it comes to poetry. Out in all, the piece really just came to mind one night. It wasn't "planned" or "built". Describing how it happened is odd enough, it materialized in a sense. Some of it was written down that night, but it was so "out of shape", that things had to be pulled and then resculpted. So, it's been lying in the dust for nearly two to three weeks. Speaking on it's behalf seems odd to do, for most of it is just a slur from the mind. It's nothing "beautiful", for there are so many actual treasures of writing out there in the world. It's interesting to see what poets out there have to say from their minds. This, however, is just a slur as it proposes.
Starting from the beginning, the piece evolves from some setting that can't be described. Something "mysterious", a nightime wonder. While looking above, something deeper is seen. You know, that kind of event when you look at something and it reminds you of another "thing". That's what the first two points of the stanza are stating. The next few lines go on to explain pretty much what they state. Farther down though, the "wave by wave" is oddly a metaphor. Putting "the person" into a "ocean like" ability. As to why, that can't be said. Nothing really seems able for decipher until the "story" sets into play. From there, most of the lines turn into logic. What they say is what they mean. This poem wasn't written as a "Stanza by Stanza metaphor". Instead, the whole poem itself is a metaphor for something more simply stated. Something that seems to happen to all people in their lives.
The poem itself, details an adventure of few men on a boat. Where they come from, seems to be that of a "Journey". They are finally on their way home, hoping to be well-taken. Instead, events, unexplainable, wrasp them away. No one makes it back, and the turn of actions seem to "horrific" to be laid out. In life, this always seems to occur to some. In that sense of things. You'll feel on top of the world, going in the right direction with nothing to stop you. But like any danger, you can never expect harm to come your way. If you feel something bad will happen, chances expect it won't. Most things in life that threaten, or the thoughts that never come to you. They take you away, and can at times, remove every brick from the tower. Until it crumbles, or welts. We are men, meant to be broken. Not in a "depression" type of way. But in a challange stance. We are given "rancid actions" to get out of, not to fail for, but to win. Those who fail, may be weak. If not, who knows. Life is all about passing challanges, and sometimes losing. It's what builds you. Not kills you.
Little tid-bits of metaphors throughout the piece include the numbers of "Seven and Thirteen", two unlucky odds that foreshadow following settings. The town missing church on sunday, to welcome their "kin", somewhat could be taken as another foreshadow to the death of those on sea. As well as light and darkness. However, religion is no "worship", and nor is it petruding in the poem. Religion is what you make of it.
