Ozymandias' Daily Writings

[Ozymandias]

Hi.

So I'm going to post some kind of writing here every day. This first one was thrown together two days ago. Subsequent poems will most likely be written on the day that they are posted.

Satyr

Among the midnight satyrs roaming free
A lone, nostalgic face looks through the grove
A subtle half-smile rising pleasantly
Like musky steam straying from a stove
The invitation all at once unlocks
A memory, a scab now picked afresh
Loosening my moors from splintered docks
Shackling my vision to its breath
Chilled yet burning, arousing yet rancid
Beckoning my return to that place
Where minds knew little lies and little guilt
But I turn away and stand taller.

If this experiment works, there should be a daily poem.

[Ozymandias]

Morning.

Tried writing something. I was somewhat satisfied at first, but the more times I read it, the more I think, "Meh."

Oh well, you win some and you lose some.

Better than Sex

A faithful wife
Suspiciously quiet
Yells a war cry and attacks
Maple leaf hair draping over my eyes
Sheets blossoming away like splashed water
Her child-like heart steamrolling my breath away
Her face reappearing, head cocked back with laughter

[Ozymandias]

Word.

So I'm gonna cheat a bit today, but I feel justified doing so. Rather than write an original poem, I translated a famous Korean poem, 단심가 (Danshimga) by 정몽주 (Jeong Mongju).

You'll need some background to appreciate this poem. Jeong Mongju lived in the 14th century and was a high-ranking official in the Goryeo dynasty of the Korean peninsula. I'm short on time, so I'll quote the rest of the story from Wikipedia:

Jeong was murdered in 1392 by five men on the Sonjukkyo Bridge in Gaeseong following a banquet held for him by Yi Bangwon (later Taejong of Joseon), the fifth son of Yi Seonggye, who overthrew the Goryeo dynasty in order to found the Joseon Dynasty. Jeong was murdered because he refused to betray his loyalty to the Goryeo Dynasty. Yi Bangwon recited a poem to dissuade Jeong from remaining loyal to the Goryeo court, but Jeong answered with another poem that affirmed his loyalty.

The original Korean poem (Jeong Mongju's response):

단심가

이몸이 죽고 죽어 일백번 고쳐죽어
백골이 진토되어 넋이라도 있고 없고
임향한 일편단심이야 가실 줄이 있으랴

My translation:

Red Heart Poem

Though I die and die again; though I die a hundred times;
Though my bones are ground to dust; whether my soul exists or not;
My crimson heart knows only my Lord. Its loyalty will go on forever.

EDIT:

Okay; I won't cheat. Here's a poem I just wrote.

Recipe for Life

Half a pint of water on a pair of denim jeans
One official warning after running two red lights
Twenty hours pushing, breathing, pushing, breathing, pushing
Half an ounce of moisture from a stillborn cheek, still flushed
Forty days of hollow conversations on the job
Forty nights of staring at a wall or at a ceiling
Twenty minutes yelling blasphemies without remorse
Eight long hours crumpled to one's knees in spoken prayer
Countless drops of blood and the dregs of a bitter cup
One part peace, two forgiveness, especially to oneself
Shake well; serve immediately.

[Ozymandias]

Happy Sunday. Just finished this.

Lights

Awake! Let eyes divide the light from dark; let august souls discern the shining spark
that lights, illuminates, reveals a stark reality, as felt by noble souls.
Untie the girdle, let the fetters fall, shake off the dust, no dauphin comes to crawl
From dusk to dawn without a hope enthralled by courage, by the sweet celestial goals.

Look back! You'll see the world's foundation throe as spirits join with flesh, in embryo.
The ancient luster sets our hearts aglow to help us face the world as noble souls.
Discover who you were before your birth, your promises, your cov'nants, tokens worth
eternity, but all fulfilled on earth by courage, by the sweet celestial goals.

Thus kingdoms, principalities and powers, all heights and depths exceeding mortal hours,
and exaltation bright are rightly ours when we decide to act as noble souls.
Most wretched men may feel the shining spark of heritage divine as they embark
to unknown lands where light destroys the dark by courage, by the sweet celestial goals.

[AspiringVictory]

Damn you Ozy, don't cheapen it. Is it not sacred, this thing we do? But you've always been this way, and it may very well be your secret. It pains me to see it, these "daily exercises" full of serious things. You're not filling out a daily crossword puzzle. Gone is Ozy the killer, the young stud who strode through the Corner with the thunderbolt and laughed.

I like Satyr, minus the musky steam line. It kills what you did in those first three lines. I want to steal those lines and take them to some other place, some other poem. It would be a poem about these satyrs, about this face. Magical!

In Lights, I hate how you repeatedly use "celestial goals". I hate that so much. Even one use of that would be too much. I hate it. I put it under my feet and stomp on it over and over again, with wild flailing hair.

[Ozymandias]

Kukulkan

I found a partisan, its blunted blade
caked orange with rust. The sturdy balsa shaft
was snapped in two, its outer layer flayed
and robbed, gem by gem, of its former craft.
Its pedestal glinted through the rubble
with a lone, cracked panel faintly reading:
"Behold Kukulkan, the feathered serpent:
Unfeeling beheader of kings and gods!
Drop to your feeble knees and beg for death!"
Nothing else was left in the barren tomb,
towering walls caving in with fresh dirt,
a monument to nothingness.... AND SWEET CELESTIAL GOALS*.

*Last four words sold separately.

[Ozymandias]

Hometown

Sometimes I remember
a green hose
slapping water
against a dirt driveway

The mud was
thick and wet
and very cold

It made my feet
glisten in the sun
until it dried
and cracked

On a side note, I'm considering altering these daily posts. I've been doing good on writing frequently, but have fallen short on reading poetry in general.

Therefore, instead of just writing my own poems, I may also post poetry that I like/dislike and make comments on it, making that a "daily writing" for some days. This would give me the responsibility of both writing and reading.

[Ozymandias]

Here's a poem I ran across:

I Am!
by John Clare

I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.


Likes:

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

I really like the use of the word "shipwreck" here.

And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.

This line is quite profound. I have felt the social isolation that he is describing here, as I'm sure many others have.

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

First, I like the word play with "untroubling" and "untroubled." Second, I like the parallelism in the last line: "the grass below—above the vaulted sky.

Dislikes:

They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;

The second line is semantically clunky. The phrase "death's oblivion lost" just comes out of nowhere; it connects poorly with the previous phrases.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,

This is probably personal opinion, but I dislike how his poem implies that heaven is a place without happiness or misery, a sort of nothing-state.

[Ozymandias]

Okay, so this post is to make up for not posting yesterday. It is lyrics from "The Impossible Dream" from The Man of La Mancha, a musical based on Cervantes' Don Quixote.

I feel that the lyrics are poetic enough to be posted here, because of the incredible use of parallelism and hyperbole throughout it.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

I'll probably edit an original poem into this post sometime today.

[AspiringVictory]

One reason why I've never liked poetry is because it takes the most serious, the most deep and profound, the most personal things in the universe, and sets about making a play of words. To introduce form, and rhythm, demeans the true content. Even with the best intentions in mind, it always seems too contrived. Poetry is the restaurant built atop the pristine mountain. Poetry is the edibleness of the spiritual.

For some poems, this is far less the case than with others.



But what I really want to say right now is that these La Mancha lyrics are simple, and admirable. I won't get carried away with it, but I must say that such simple living, to strain for an impossible dream, to make that war with everything that everyone says and knows can't be beaten; this is a true adventurer's code. This is how it should have been, and we all suffer now who must watch our blades grow dull. In some faraway place of the mind and memory, watching the sun set over the horizon; staring like the eagle, our thoughts hidden; we're still there, still poised and ready.

I don't care about the "paralellism and hyperbole". This is a message. Someone left a note. And to think of the legendary Don Quixote, whose namesake text I've never read, but I know something about; to imagine this old man, glazed in others' perceptions of foppishness and senility, chin up, feeling these words. Believing in his soul more than his mortal flesh. Making a pact with himself, old as he is, to reach for the unreachable star; an old beast could do such a thing, but we would not glorify him so. In this old man, we can imagine his eyes of understanding, his comprehension, and also his drive.

"To run where the brave dare not go."- This is so fascinating. I would like to read Don Quixote, truly.

[Ozymandias]

I think you've hit the nail on the head concerning one of my weaknesses. I've been seeing more and more the effect that my Bachelors in Linguistics has had on how I view poetry. As any linguist will attest, we don't listen to what people say-- just how they say it.

I'll probably press pause on this daily experiment and ask a question, open for discussion for the two people that actually look at this thread (that number includes me): Does analysis enhance or dampen the enjoyment of poetry, not to mention the ability to write it?

I've had people articulate the reasons that certain writings and arts are beautiful, discussing them in such a way that the works became beautiful to me as well. However, I'm not sure how the personal arts and writings of these great teachers fared. They could see the beauty in others' works, but, in my opinion, they never met that same degree of beauty in their own work.

I also completely agree with your statement about those lyrics being a message. Thinking back on my old poem you mentioned, Contentions, I am fascinated by the fact that, upon reading that poem, it brought me back to a memory I had well forgotten. There was a personal, poignant experience encapsulated in that poem.

[AspiringVictory]

I knew I'd be able to find a way to "pause this daily experiment" of yours.

To answer your question: I think it would be impossible to determine that across the board. Like many things, it is completely subjective. Speaking for myself only, I think poetry analysis dampens my enjoyment of it more often than not. There can be exceptions; when something that doesn't necessarily sound good to the ear is then looked into, one can ascertain a greater appreciation of its meaning. Depending on your definition of analysis in this case, I would also mention the reading of foreign, or old english, texts. Studying these in order to understand them can definitely enhance one's enjoyment of them. Analysis is definitely good for bettering one's own poetic writing ability, but one must be careful to remain original, otherwise we're all aiming at the same mark.

Regarding your "teachers" paragraph: It would seem sad, indeed, to be a mere critic. I have to always remind myself to not lose my own perspective, because that is so very valuable in the world of creativity; no matter who you are. I would think that talent and ability and potential are dark, cutting, unforgiving things. In the film, "The History Boys", Dakin says that all literature is consolation. I might suggest that, too, of critics.

"Thinking back on my old poem you mentioned, Contentions, I am fascinated by the fact that, upon reading that poem, it brought me back to a memory I had well forgotten. There was a personal, poignant experience encapsulated in that poem."

A personal, poignant experience? How good of you to put it so politely. Here, then, was your original explanation of Contentions eight years ago:

"That first stanza is just a fancy description of my midnight boredom. The sloth is my laziness. The pride is a friend of mine, whom I talk to when I'm bored. The lust is porn I look up. The gore is the explicit movies I download.

When I wrote that poem, it was after my egotistical online friend *****ed at me. You see, a particular girl shut him down and instead came to me. And we hit it off.

That's all. It was just a melodic way of saying, "I'm bored, I like porn and gore-- and hahaha, I got the girl!!" =D"

[Ozymandias]

That explanation was written at a time when I grinned at misery.

[AspiringVictory]

When we were masters of the universe, and coy en coquette. But then yet we knew we yet knew nothing. One can't see over the mountain, can one? Can't see what's on the other side. And now you float in the depths of Provo. In the hollow of some bonfire's glow.



get rid of that fucking avatar or I will smack you

[Ozymandias]

Alas!
Alone again
This six-walled box hides a joker
With no hole to escape from
Cramped and contained, ad nauseum
What hand will crank my dial?
But that one, who's off, escaping the world
Leaving me here
----