Poetry

National Poetry Month: Emily Dickinson

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Howdy, howdy! How’s everyone doing? I currently have a headache and just want to hang out with the pupper, so I’ll make this short. This week’s poet is Emily Dickinson.

Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –

National Poetry Month: Dylan Thomas

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Howdy, howdy! How’s everyone doing this lovely day? Things here are okay. We left the house on Monday for a couple of errands. Even tried going to an actual restaurant for the first time since March 2020, but the patio was closed, so screw that place. Home and Hot Pockets for the win! Anyway, it’s time for another poem. This is one Dad used to recite to me when I was little, especially when I was sick or going through surgery stuff. It’s probably why the villanelle is my favorite form. Without further ado… Dylan Thomas.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

National Poetry Month: Robert Frost

~ shawnaborman ~ 2 Comments

Hello, hello! How’s everyone doing this wonderful Wednesday? It’s National Poetry Month, so I’m going to take April easy and just post a poem that I enjoy each week (except, of course, on review day). Mostly because I’m lazy and have nothing good to ramble about. Anyway, first up is Robert Frost.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Poetry Month Again

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Howdy, howdy! How’s everyone doing? I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what to blog about, but absolutely nothing is coming to me. I doubt you want another post about Mardi so soon. She’s doing good. Things are quiet. Dad’s redoing some stuff in the kitchen (pics when he’s done). It’s gloomy and there are some storms supposedly heading this way. And I’m super tired for no reason. Even my Pepsi isn’t helping. Anyway, I realized it’s April, which means it’s poetry month. Instead of rambling about nothing, I thought I would share one of my favorite Poe poems.

The Sleeper

By: Edgar Allan Poe

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

A Villanelle

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Howdy, howdy! How’s everyone doing this fine day? Things here are about the same as always. I did write some words last week! They weren’t very good and there weren’t nearly enough of them, but it’s something. I’ll keep trying to write something this week as well. The story is there, I just have to pry the words from my brain and splatter them on the page. It’s just fighting me still. This blog post is also being a pain in the ass. I’ve gone through twenty lists of prompts, but nothing is sticking out and begging me to write it. Nothing is even producing an inkling of an idea. So, I decided to trudge through some of my old poetry that would otherwise never see the light of day and pick something to post here. This is a villanelle that I wrote for my Intro to Poetry Writing class back at SMU. In case it’s not obvious, I didn’t know what to write about back then either. Please excuse its suckiness. Poetry is fun, but not my first language. I get a lot of it wrong, especially back then. As always, feel free to share your comments or critiques or whatever here or on my social media pages!

Me while trying to decide what to post here.

Writer’s Block

I don’t know what to write.
The words just won’t come
And fill that void with the contrasting black and white.

Should it be about wrong versus right?
No, that idea fills my head with a monotonous hum.
I don’t know what to write.

How about the darkness and the light?
No, I just want the parts to equal the sum
That fills that void with the contrasting black and white.

Maybe I should just go grab a bite
To eat, maybe have some rum
Because I don’t know what to write.

Maybe music can lend me some insight.
Maybe the pounding of Yuki’s drums
Can help fill that void with the contrasting black and white.

That’s enough; this is it for the night.
I’m done trying because the words won’t come.
I just don’t know what to write
To fill that void with the contrasting black and white.

Celebrating National Poetry Month

~ shawnaborman ~ 2 Comments

Howdy, howdy!  It’s (already) April once again.  Can you believe it?  A quarter of the year has passed us by.  As many of you know, that means it’s National Poetry Month.  I admit that I haven’t given poetry much of my time this past year, but I want to change that.  At least for a month.  I didn’t realize how much I missed it until my Facebook friends started posting daily poems.  So, I thought I would devote this post to a few of the ways that I hope to celebrate this month.

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1. Write a poem.  I honestly can’t remember the last time I wrote one.  But I recently had a nostalgia moment where I read through some of the ones I wrote as an undergrad, and that made me really miss the structure that poetry provides.  I used to love writing villanelles and haikus and sestinas.  Anything with strict constraints.  I liked looser forms as well, but they weren’t as challenging.  That little trip down memory lane even resulted in me submitting a poem to a contest.  Send good vibes!

2. Read a book of poetry.  Maybe I’ll read an anthology filled with different authors writing about the same subject.  It’s always interesting to see how different people tackle the same basic topic.  Then again, maybe I’ll read a collection by one author.  I like to see how a collection connects from one poem to the next (or doesn’t connect at all).  Hell, maybe I’ll read both kinds.  It’s still early in the month after all.

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3. Base a story off a poem.  I’m almost done with my current novel attempt, so I’m hoping to work on more short stories and flash pieces, that way I have more things to submit.  I know I use art a lot for inspiration, but I’ve also been known to use songs and poetry in the past as well.  It might be an adaptation, or it could just be loosely connected, but hopefully it’ll be something good.

4. Take the time to listen to some poetry.  I don’t know of any upcoming readings around here, but YouTube has plenty.  And there are always podcasts.  I’m sure if I asked my Facebook friends for recommendations, I’d come away with too many options to check out in a month.  Feel free to shoot me some podcast or other ideas for places to listen to poetry here as well!

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5. Look back at some of my old favorites.  I used to have a few poems memorized, but I can’t get all the way through any of them anymore.  From Ai to Donne to Poe, there are a lot of poems I should probably revisit.

That’s my plan for celebrating National Poetry Month.  What about you?  Are you going to read or reread some of your favorite poems?  Maybe you’ll write some of your own poetry.  What about my visual art friends?  Have you thought about making your art based around a poem?  Feel free to share your plans here or on my social media pages!

National Poetry Month

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Hello, hello!  Since April is National Poetry Month, I thought I would share a list of five poems that have stuck with me through the years.  They aren’t necessarily favorites, just ones that I keep coming back to for some reason.  I think we all have at least one, even if we aren’t the biggest fans of poetry in general.  It might be a nursery rhyme or song lyrics (because those totally count as poetry), but it’s there.  I actually have a lot more than five, but I don’t want to bore anyone.

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1.  The first poem is called “The Suicide” by Ai (if the link doesn’t take you directly to the page, it’s on page 40 in that one).  It was originally included in her collection, Cruelty.  I found this poem in my Intro to Poetry Writing class an undergrad.  The teacher gave us a list of poets and we had to pick three to read.  I wanted to see what a woman whose name means love wrote about, and I wasn’t disappointed.  I immediately fell in love with the way she made mundane things creepy and disturbing, but made the creepy and disturbing stuff beautiful.  I don’t know why “The Suicide” has stuck with me, but I find myself drawn to rereading it every couple of years.

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2.  Next up is “Acquainted with the Night” by Robert Frost, which appeared in West-Running Brook.  Pretty sure I was still in high school when I was introduced to this one.  I just remember feeling a kinship with the speaker of the poem.  Someone who was awkward, lonely, and probably a little depressed.  I still feel that strong connection to it whenever I read it.  Maybe I’m just weird.

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3.  I can’t do a list like this without including John Donne.  A lot of his poems have resonated with me, but the one that I undoubtedly come back to the most is “Holy Sonnet X: Death, be not proud.”  I don’t remember how old I was when I came across this one, but I do know that I loved it from the start.  The personification of Death has always interested me.  The idea that it was a physical being that I could talk to was creepy and wonderful even as a kid.  Then Donne goes and kills Death, which I fully admit I found a little sad.  Why can’t Death join us in eternity?  But yeah, this is one I’ll always hold dear.

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4.  The Wild Iris by Louise Gluck is another collection I discovered during that Intro to Poetry Writing class.  While I related to a lot of the poems in this book, “Snowdrops” is the one I come back to every so often.  I read it as someone breaking free of a long depression, feeling all of that weight disappear.  It gave me hope during a dark period in my life.  It still gives me the same feeling every time I read it.

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5.  And, of course, Poe is going to make an appearance on this list.  While I am drawn more to his short stories, I do enjoy his poetry once in a while.  For me, “A Dream Within a Dream” is the poem I come back to the most.  I can take or leave the first half, but something about the second part just keeps calling me back to it.  The fear and the lack of control is something I relate strongly to, so I suppose that’s why I keep going back to it.

What about you?  What poem keeps pulling you back to it?  Feel free to share your list here or on my social media pages.

Writing The Personal: Anything But That

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

Hello, hello!  I really had no idea what to write about today, so I went through a bunch of those list type blogs of “topics for writers,” which usually aren’t all that helpful.  One question that seems to show up on all the lists is “what’s the hardest thing you’ve ever written?”  You mean aside from all of these blog posts?  I don’t know.  I’ve never had a difficult time with any particular piece beyond the normal troubles a writer has.  I’m uncomfortable writing in the field of science fiction and pretty much anything with a political theme, but only because I’m not used to those genres.  There’s really only one thing I actively avoid in my every day writing: anything personal.  I mean yeah, there’s always going to be a part of me in everything I write, but I’ll probably never write a memoir or anything like that.  I’m boring.  Who would want to read about my life?

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That’s why I don’t write about myself.

I don’t care for slice of life books.  Or diaries.  Or journals.  Never have.  My life sucks enough, so I’d much rather escape into fantasy and the like when I’m both reading and writing.  Happy endings aren’t entirely necessary, but adventure and magic and awe are.  I’ve felt that way for as long as I can remember.  I’ve never really kept a diary or journal or anything like that for the same reasons.  I tried.  But it got really boring really fast.  Every diary devolved into a list of shows I watched or songs I heard.  I’m sure that type of writing is cathartic for some people, but I always preferred to avoid it.

Of course, there were times I was forced to write from a personal perspective.  You can’t take poetry writing as an undergrad without being “encouraged” (read: coerced) into writing about yourself.  I always felt dirty after it.  Especially if it was something I had to share with the class.  All the words sounded stupid as I said them out loud.  I either felt like I was bragging or complaining, both of which are things I try to avoid most of the time.  At least back then I avoided them.  I’m just an uncomfortable topic for me.

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Basically.

I still remember one assignment from my Introduction to Poetry Writing class that I ended up taking much more seriously than I ever intended to.  The writing prompt was along the lines of something as simple as “write a poem speaking to God” with the caveat that we had to take a cliché and make it our own.  We sat in a circle and somehow I ended up having to read last.  Everyone else wrote vague and super happy poems, then it came to me.  I didn’t even print out a copy because I didn’t want my mom to read it (she was snoopy like that).  I memorized it and offered to email it to the teacher who totally understood.  It was angry and personal and I have always thought of it when I thought of things that were difficult to write.  It’s part of the reason I started actively avoiding personal writing.

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Seemed appropriate.

What about you?  What’s the hardest thing for you to write about?  Is there a topic or genre that you actively avoid?

And, for anyone wondering about that poem, here it is:

Dear God

by Shawna Borman

I want to believe
That love is blind
And the world is kind
And that we all have time
To fall in love. 

But that’s a lie. 

I want to be loved
For who I am
Despite what I am
By someone who doesn’t give a damn
About the outside. 

But that’s not going to happen. 

I want to thank you
For saving me
From who I know I would be
At the price of not letting me be free
To make my own mistakes. 

But I can’t. 

Because…

I want to be beautiful.
I would be.
I could be.
I should be!
But this, this isn’t a matter of “shoulda, coulda, woulda.” 

I want to walk
With my head held high
And turn the eye
Of every guy
In the room towards me.

I want to be shallow.
I don’t care if they love me for what’s on the inside,
Because first they have to like me for what’s on the outside.
If the outside’s not for keeps,
No one’s going to want to dig too deep. 

And I want to hate you
For the way you made me.
But I don’t know your face,
Don’t know your name,
Hell, I don’t even know if you exist. 

But I need you to be a part of my life,
Because even though I blame you,
It’s still easier
To believe that I’m one of your creatures,
Than to know that I’m just a freak of nature.

A Nod to National Poetry Month

~ shawnaborman ~ Leave a comment

 Welcome, all!  I fully admit that I had no idea what to write about today, then I remembered that it’s National Poetry Month.  I could take the easy way, and post one of my favorite poems, but I won’t do that.  Instead, I’ll show you a poem that I wrote for one of my undergrad poetry courses.  There’s not much you need to know.  It was inspired by my love of Visual Kei bands, and a particular song, “Psycho Butterfly” by Kaya.  In case you’re curious, I’ll put a link to the song at the end.

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Kaya. The man (you read that right) whose song, Psycho Butterfly, inspired the poem.

Psycho Butterfly
For all pretty females of the Visual Kei style that just happen to be males.

Pretty colors mask the truth, poisonous to some.
Seduce them in then blow their minds.
            Sighs entice
            Eyes alight
            Legs ensnare
            Innocence bare
            And beaten away
You’re not what you seem.
Caught in your deceptive exterior, there’s no escape.
            Meaning disappears
            Awakening fears
            Not yet voiced
            At the sound of your voice
Helpless when you sing for their souls,
Only finding out when it’s too late.
            Hidden in your wings
            Intriguing desires
            Zap their strength
            And exhaust their mind
            Keeping them from the truth
            Inches from their thighs

Beauty that demands attention, none can ignore.
Under sun, under moon, under sheets,
            Touching gently
            Ecstatic fantasy
            Repels the time
            Until the discovery is made
They only love you until they know you.
That secret that you don’t try to hide yet
Everyone blames you for.
            Keen eyes
            Aggravate
            Your insensibility
            And push you further into your cage
Reality crashes down on their fantasies
            Masculine tendencies
            Incense their senses
            Yet drive them away
            Angry at the world
            Vying against their own desires
            It’s always that way
Fly away while they fall.
Look for a new predator that’ll play for keeps, but for now
You’ll keep teaching that love’s not skin deep.