Prometheus

So, first let me apologize. I am very sorry that I have taken so long to post and because I have to put a pause on my composting series. Hopefully, I will throw down on the two more instrumental poems that I want to write soon.

Today though, I would like to share a new style of poem with you. In composition it is the same but, the process is different. I call these sudden poems. These are composed in a fit of emotion: joy, love, sadness, hate. They are undoubtedly the most common poems I compose.

Also, I hope to have some pictures of Beaux Arts posted for you next time.

Prometheus

There he stole my fire.
With Guile and stealth
and treachery

He called me as his friend.
We dined and laughed together;
Yet, when the flickerin' embers
And ruby gleam caught his eye
Our friendship was lost.

There he stole my fire.
The desire and love of my mind,
The greatest possession of my soul.
He took it with wanting eyes,
Where flames and Lust danced within.

Now, the heavens are dark.
Friendless, without warmth and light.
My days spent, watching and loving
An afterimage, of flame he held.

For, I cannot discard my love.

Beaux Arts Coming up

The Beaux Arts Ball, hosted by UK's College of Design, will be this Saturday and I am super duper psyched. Last year I went as Doc Holiday and Fayth went as Big Nose Kate. It was a fun time for all and a freaky time for Lexington. I only hope the same for the Beaux arts ball this year.

Speaking of this year, I have a great costume plan. I plan on being the Doritos Samurai from the Super Bowl Commercial. What can I say, I love doritos, so crunchy and tasty. YUM :)

I have the second of my musical profile poems for you today. This bit of poetry is about the Guitar. If you would like an extra bit of lyricism in your life today: try comparing the Guitar poem with the Horn poem. They are poetry written in series, they do have some correlation between them. See what you can find!

Guitar

A strum begins the battle,
One man grips the neck in one hand
And strums his fingers across the body.
With the rhythm in his grasp he
bends it to his will, no resistance.

His fingers dance across the
pressure points of melody, striking
with precise time. Each fret
and strum: a fainting blow,
each chord a slash of layered steel.
With calculated performance, he
dispatches each individual target.

He carries his Guitar, like
a rogue his blade.
With agility and stealth
it can strike you, unknowing.

Music Class Composting

I have a music history and theory class ( mus 101) every Mon, Wed and Fri morning and usually the class proceeds as a semi-boring lecture with a lot of copying and such. I have been trying to take a more active approach in appreciating the class material and over-viewing my notes and so I have been composting them into poetry.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with composting: it is the process of taking old things you have written, even the most casual and lucid things and then reintroducing them into your current 'pool of thought'. This often results in a greater understanding and analysis of a particular idea, as it has already been thought upon by yourself at least once.

This idea is central in Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down The Bones, I thoroughly suggest you purchase this book if you need guidance in writing. She does a remarkable job exploring the depths of a writer.

I have plan to pull a series of instrument profile poems from my notes. I have one written so far, more to come.


Horn

A breath begins the fight.
One man clenches chest muscles
pushing against, crushing into
emptiness: his lungs and
expelling a vicious punch of wind.

His breath surges down and strikes
through his weapon. His fingers,
stretched to a posture of rapid attack,
engage in a fury of jabs and blows to strike his foe.

His brass beast squeals out a war cry.
Galloping, Breathing, Striking,
a music formed of war.

Haiku for You

Today is an exceptionally sunny day here in Lexington. I decided to do some writing on the porch out back. Well, these little morsels of poetry are the result and they are just for you to enjoy.


Clothes heavy and limp.
They are soaked with cold river,
Koi caress my feet.


A field of Flowers,
All vying to see the sun
Solar warmth abides.


Pure snow, Undisturbed.
White, endless serenity,
Crunching underfoot.


Below me a mountain,
Rocky crags and hills form its veins,
All I see is stone.


Playful spring breezes
Alight petals into dance.
Beauty of Nature.

Sonnetize me captain

At one point I would say that I didn't like Sonnets. My perspective has broadened since then and now I share for you a sonnet I wrote for my English class.

Sonnet #195
Here in the wastes of schooltime splendor I,
The laureate of lethargy, compose
Ballad to delight my readers a sigh.
Thusly words from my fingertips now flow:

Here, keeping meter and rhyme grows weary
As the mind is tortured o’re boredoms racks.
My mouth drawn to yawn, my eyes gone teary,
I wade through conjecture and lecture facts.

Then my eyes are blinded by knowing light.
When I, my home in lazy darkness make,
Remove myself from understanding’s fight.
Now with scholar’s purpose, I my norm break.

Knee-deep in knowing, I now understand
That living a life of effort is quite grand.

Only Words Remain....and kick your ass!

Only Words Remain

Soft lead to paper, it begins.
The thought precedes the action
But the action begins to fade,
Only words remain.

Eternal, Syllabic, the message left,
Emphatic. Inertial, words derive
With design pre-ordained, and strike
The mind with god hand’s intent.

These words, composed of graphite and friction
Hide more than any one could dream of diction.
Characters that can make you snarl, growl,
While others bring a ‘coo’ to form on waiting lips.

Each ‘S’ sends the reader soaring.
Through semi-saline seas
And sighing softly as sun sets.

Each ‘B’ brings barbarous thoughts to bear.
Burly brawlers, barreling their way through a Bazaar.
Bending bystanders beneath their brutish boots.

Do not forsake these scrawled inscriptions.
Do not banish them to paper piles long forgot.
Do not ignore the meaning that they chant.

For, when worlds erode and eons pass,
These words will remain, steadfast.

Red Light Beauty

Red Light Beauty
I can see your face.
Red light highlighting your features,
Each line, composing your smile,
Glows with a surreal ruby gleam.
I can see your face.

You lean in, so close to me.
Intoxicating, your sweet cinnamon scent
And the grip of your red-bathed hand,
Loosen my grip on the wheel.


Reeling, in the miasma of my affections,
Your soft cheeks,
pointed chin,
loving eyes,
delicate ears,
All bathed in a crimson wash that says:
“Go on, Love me”

I can hear the red light screaming to me:
Stop caring,
Stop worrying
Stop needing.
Stop everything, short of love.

In the moment, our lips now touch.
A kiss ensues, erupting joy.
I imagine my features red like yours
Speaking of passion and love.
The blushing lost in ambiguity.

I can see your face,
The comforting rouge, now a jarring green.
I am pulled from you, told to stop.
My hands on the wheel, I drive on.
I hope to see you again,
My Red Light Beauty.