13 replies to this topic

[Crocefisso]

I've written quite a lot of poetry in the past year - around 100 poems of varying lengths -, and I'm currently working on a longer poem that I've subdivided into Cantos. It's not going too well as of today, and only Canto II is actually finished. As such, I've decided to post it here as a standalone poem to see what sort of a reception it gets. There are some thematic spoilers below the poem for people struggling to "get it"; I'm no expert poet and the message I intend to give might not be clear to others. I may also add some more poems at a later date. Furthermore, the exact layout of the poem on the page cannot be recreated on these forums (the poem on word is laid out in such a way as to communicate thought processes), so this aspect of the poem is lost.

Canto II
Intertwining clouds and contrails
pattern a sky,
a cerulean sky, the stuff of idyllic hopes,
and wistful fantasies.
The purity of their whitish glow,
on this clear afternoon,
a crochet of heaven and the terrestrial;
a crossroads,
an intersection.
Conjures up the smell, feel, look of times gone by
and
those yet to come (for I am eternal, whispered the sky).

Cirrostratus and cirrocumulus and contrails;
the three baskets, Tripitaka
three jewels, too, - triratna –
and three Kingdoms (Wei (魏), Shu (蜀), Wu (吳))  
… all of these, I see in these translucent lines
which crisscross over this floating world.

Floating world?! Is this 17th century Japan?

it might be. when all one has to go by are a few ephemeral
shapes, perpetually afloat in the azure,
who, but by the aversion of their gaze,
could know of such things as time and date?

The contrails narrow it down.

have I not stated this?
they merge with the clouds, they become one with the clouds,
they have found the Tao of the clouds,
and – as far as I am aware –
there is no distinction.

Did you not see the planes that made them?

alas, no;
did you?

… … …

He did not answer, but I knew he hadn’t seen them.
Nor was he a meteorologist.
Thus he was none the wiser to the ‘contrails’, perhaps another cirrostratus?
To this day, I remain blissfully ignorant,
to both those clouds, and all clouds. And his pedantry. Let me dream alone!






SPOILER: This poem is the attempt of the poem's protagonist (of sorts) to reconcile the natural and modern worlds which seem to come into conflict in his eyes.

[Sy_Accursed]

Its certainly interesting and captures that stream on conscious effect; but I personally don't find it poetic in anyway. It's too disjointed to be considered a prose poem but lacks any sort of rhythmic patterning to invoke that sense of poetry that non-prose poems have about them.

[Phrixeon]

I've written well over one hundred poems, myself.
I enjoy reading good poetry, but I find that it hides itself from me until I most need it.
Tonight, I needed to read something. Something so wonderful that I couldn't find the words to describe it.

I found it.

You have a way with words, Sir (or Madam).

<3 (no homo)

[Crocefisso]

Thanks very much for the feedback, you two.

Sy; I'm sorry to hear that you didn't find it poetic enough. The intention of this Canto was really to be stunted, in order to portray the descent into madness and pedantry, but I accept that I may not have communicated this as I could have. Once again, context within the wider poem I cannot give you, because the other Cantos (of which there are but eleven) aren't finished. The poem is also hindered by the fact that the layout - similar to certain Imagist poems, if you'd care to get an idea - cannot be reproduced on TIF. I was wondering if you had any suggestions as to how I might be able to imbue the poem with a much needed rhythmic quality?

(PS: If what I said sounded like an excuse, it was not intended as such)

Phrixeon; thanks very much for your kind appraisal. I'm glad you enjoyed reading the poem. By the way, the quote in your signature, though commonly misattributed to Plato, is in fact a quote of the 20th century philosopher George Santayana. I've just checked that on Santayana's wikipedia page in case you needed verification; it's in the second paragraph.

[Poet]

Really nice Keep it up man

[Crocefisso]

Unnamed Poem

I see them from my vantage point
sprawled across an open plain.

Clustered together like the homeless, the destitute, the desperate,
around their fires, in their camps -
The cacophony of sounds, the hazy sea of colours
that make up each group
Are only distinct from one another on the surface –
that oh so thin veneer of translucency,
Like a desert mirage, illusory, wishful, unattainable...
yet they still try!

[Hawks]

Canto II reminds me a great deal of Trans-Siberian Orchestra-style songs, I think it would be pretty awesome put to some music. Very much want to read the rest of it.

[Crocefisso]

Thanks very much for the feedback, Hawks. I must confess, I've done little work on the Cantos since August, so I cannot foresee any near future publication of another completed Canto.

Poem

I swim with ease
from one side of
the Infinity Pool
to the other -
yet when it
comes to
its namesake
we are all drowned,
no matter
how hard we swim.

[Crocefisso]

The View

The moon is dead -
absent.

On the streets below,
streetlights glow.

In the windows all around,
lights flicker.

Even the stars have fallen
behind the orange glow
of the sky.

[Crocefisso]

Selected Haiku - Please note: all these three line verses are standalone.

Winter’s morning…
Sun shines
On dew covered grass

Darkening skies…
Swans glide
Over the water ripples

Splash –
Stone falls in well
Quiet echoes

Kite soars above -  
The floating world below
A wry smile

Old friend...
Forever lost
In this floating world

On forest's floor
Pool of moonlight...
Silver shimmers

The floating world
Of Saikaku's dreams
Has long since floated away

An Old Waka

Willow over the river -
A single leaf descends

[Crocefisso]

The following was composed almost two years ago now, on a beach.

A wave
crashes on the sand -
opal shimmers.

Shortly thereafter, I ventured inland to visit the moors, hoping to admire the gently undulating landscapes from an idyllic village.

On the moor:
thick fog obscures
all but my feet.

As the verse makes clear, I was unable to enjoy the view owing to the fog that set in. Instead I made do with a hearty lunch at a country pub.

[Crocefisso]

Though not a poem of mine, this one by Yamabe no Akahito is so wonderful that I am going to post it here anyway.

To my good friend
Would I show, I thought,
The plum blossoms,
Now lost to sight
Amid the falling snow.

[Crocefisso]

Muhammad Edhem (1680-1757)

Muhammad Edhem is a creation of mine, a poetic persona I have created for my own amusement. I have created for him an alternate place in history, in order that I can have him inhabit a world altogether similar to ours but free of circumstantial details that might be limiting; I have in my spare time rewritten the history of the Ottoman Empire from the treaty of Karlowitz in 1699, and have thus far got up to 1769. For the purposes of Edhem, this is already twelve years after his death. There are reasons I wanted to create a character in a tradition that has been established-  ie, the Islamic world - but in his own timeline, but they are many and too dull to be of interest to most.

As far as concerns the long biography of him I have devised for his 77 year life, you need not know much. Muhammed Edhem was born in Jerusalem in 1680, the son of the Turkish trader Imameddin Edhem (1653-1725), who would served as the governor of Palestine from 1693 to 1707, and whose brother Abdurrahman (1651-1727) served as the Grand Vizier to the Ottoman Sultan for a quarter of a century (1701-1726). Muhammad avoided being called to arms to fight the Habsburgs and their allies in the war of 1683-99, though he was eligible in its latter stages, but after an abortive career in the bureaucracy he enrolled in 1701. After a distinguished performance as the head of an artillery regiment in the war with the Safavids (1708-12), Muhammed was promoted to orgeneral in 1713. The only time he saw service was in the Ottoman-Mameluke War (1722-1724), when he led the Ottoman invasion force into Egypt, subduing it within a year and a half. Egypt had been lost when the British threatened war over control of the region in 1702, using their large navy, harbouring an invasion force, to force the Sultan into major concessions; yet in 1712, after having lost vast sums of money, men and resources in abortive attempts to take Cyrenaica, Tripolitania and Tunisia, all of which failed, the weakened British were ejected from Egypt by a popular uprising led by an octogenerian former military officer who promptly proclaimed himself Sultan. It was this small and impoverished state that the Ottomans targeted in their expansionist war.

Edhem spent the rest of his life between Cairo and Alexandria, acting as the governor of Egypt until retiring in 1739, finally dying in Alexandria at 77 years of age. In 1735, the occasional poet published a divan of his life's work. A decade on, his innovation within the spiritual and aesthetic restrictions of Islamic poetry was starting to gain attention. A second edition, with a large amount of new material and a preface by Edhem, appared in 1749. By the time of his death in 1757, Edhem was recognised as an important figure in the Ottoman literary canon. A third, definitive divan was published in 1758.

It is my aim to slowly upload the poems I write as Edhem over time, starting tomorrow.

[Crocefisso]

The Divan of Muhammad Edhem (3rd. ed., 1758): (I will be adding to this post slowly over time - do check back, say weekly, if interested)

To my family I am son and brother,
Amongst my friends I am just another.
Which am I? If God can have ninety-nine,
Can I not I choose which name is truly mine?

*

Vainly and in vain, men try to steer
Life’s boat, in aid of those lives they hold dear.
Men cannot choose if the Nile breaks its banks –
All they can do is offer it their thanks.

*

Even the reddest roses are bedecked in thorns
To catch the wine-filled drunks, trampling at dawn.
Even the most delicious fish has bones
To choke those careless and greedy old crones.

*

This wine, fragrant as a rose, is for me.
In Quttrabul, do the vines grow for me?
Are the grapes pressed solely to my tastes
By little feet of slaves, working with haste?

*

Stop me, God, right this instant, where I stand,
And guide me back to you with your firm hand.

I am tarnished, a rug exposed to the desert sand,
Treading this wayward path from your command,

Still seeking you, God, in this distant land;
A clue, a star – these are all I demand.

Ridvan guards the gates to the promise land,
But who holds me down before I can stand?

I gallop in circles, a horse unmanned:
Muhammad begs that he may understand.