flahute » reflection

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 11:20:04 +0000

SONNET 100

In night when colors all to black are cast,
Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;
The eye a watch to inward senses placed,
Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,

Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,
Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,
Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,
Doth forge and raise impossibility:

Such as in thick depriving darknesses,
Proper reflections of the error be,
And images of self-confusednesses,
Which hurt imaginations only see;

And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,
Which but expressions be of inward evils.

— by Lord Brooke Fulke Greville

THE HAG

     The Hag is astride,
     This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
     Through thick, and through thin,
     Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

     A Thorn or a Burr
     She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
     Through Brakes and through Bryars,
     O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

     No Beast, for his food,
     Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
     While mischiefs, by these,
     On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

     The storme will arise,
     And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
     The ghost from the Tomb
     Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

— Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674), English Poet.

Sunday mornings

flahute — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 17:10:04 +0000

I’ve always enjoyed Sunday mornings … from going to Sunday School and then services at First Baptist Church of Chattanooga, Tennessee with my great-grandmother when my age was still in the single-digits, to my current more adult-oriented fare (no, not porn) of double cappuccino, CBS Sunday Morning, Face the Nation, and the New York Times.

Even when I’m getting ready for a bike ride or a ski day, my Sunday mornings are supposed to be slow and easy and relaxing … sometimes so slow and easy and relaxing that before I know it, it’s Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes, when the weather isn’t really conducive to being outside, the remainder of the day will be spent listening to music and reading, or watching movies, preferably on IFC or the Sundance Channel; documentaries such as Microcosmos or Genesis, quirky indie films like The History Boys or foreign dramas like Zwartboek (Black Book) or Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others).

Today, I’m watching what I think is one of the greatest movies of all time … The Shawshank Redemption.

Whether spent alone or in the company of friends, my Sundays are a time of reflection and introspection; for thought and appreciation, rather than simply action and reaction.

I may not be a religious man, but I do set aside part of my weekend to appreciate not only all gifts that life has given me, but what it has given others as well, be it a talent for filmmaking, music, art or poetry; the ability to handcraft a fine bicycle frame or wristwatch; the ability to think and observe and yes, even to appreciate the ability to appreciate life itself.

Poetry Friday

flahute — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 03:39:02 +0000

The Wine-Drinkers

The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.
Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.
They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,
      the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.

Let us commend them on their conversations.
One says “oh” and the other says “indeed.”

The afternoon must be prolonged forever,
      because the night will be impossible for them.
They know that the bright and very delicate needles
      inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins
      will work after dark—at present are drugged, are dormant.

Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.

One says “no,” the other one murmurs “why?”
The cousins pause: tumescent.
What do they dream of? Murder?
They dream of lust and they long for violent action
      but none occurs.
Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum
The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.

  — Tennessee Williams (1911 – 1983), American playwright and poet.