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B. Royce

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  1. Back in the late 70's, after overhearing two young people conversing about Narcissus, and how looking at his own reflection was considered bad, I wrote the following: Youth I lift my eyes to the mirror And see the bright goodness of life; I touch my body and spirit With thoughts that are free of strife; I acknowledge that I am my reason For asking myself to do, That my aim may be rare----hard struggle to There---- Yet entirely mine to pursue. I set my goal with my whole brain, I plan each step about me; I know that in me I've all the strength To be what I want to be. I swing out a door in the sunlight, The mountains up high I scan; Over them all I'm climbing, The future within me----"I can!" I know that not one hill is promised (There's no guarantee of free height), But that effort, and effort, and effort, At least may help set me up right. I work for the triumphs of working, Of stamping new roadways, "Done!" Of knowing my sharpness, my energy, my skill, Are many joys pressed into one. I stride the night skies of near-parted, I mark where new pass-lanes belong; Yes, I mirror the stars with more color To celebrate life so strong! Then I pause, at last, on Completion, At least, till I newly begin; For my dreams are still singing, Thought's wake-bells tingling, And gleams of new angles are in! Brian Faulkner
  2. AMERICONORMAN, since you know that you "don't put enough effort in them" to make them as good as possible, why write them at all? How can writing poetry half-heartedly be considered "the experience of writing it"? It sounds more like giving oneself an illusion. And, since you know you have much to learn about writing poetry and, at the same time, you know that it's not that important to you, I shall not waste my time pointing out your poems' problems. Brian
  3. No, this does not add to the discussion, merely surrounds it with a little music. Bitter black coffee and piping hot tea Sit a-steaming and a-boiling just for me. The java spits and sputters, and mutters in its wrath; The yellow shrieks and bellows out of its kettle's mouth. Spitter sputter, sput spit, whoo whoo wheee! Better bitter black coffee and piping hot tea When the winter wind's awailing And the hail and sleet, a-stinging, Go aslinging through the air, Than ice-cream and candy bars Under a summer night's bright stars. B.F.
  4. Now and then, religion's disapproving stance against human nakedness becomes irksome, to say the least. One short response of mine was first published in David Gulbraa's monthly Radical Romantic, 1993. Unfortunately, he no longer publishes. Who Is This? Who is this Miss Who speaks against God? Where is her divine fine lively mouth? Are her hands red with tossing of crosses? And has she kissed her fingertips all the night? Who is this god Who walks over God? Would she worship her and man in one? Does she really think she can match the sun? Ah! she comes! Her eyes are bright! Look how joyfully she walks! Her breasts gleam blessings to the earth and sky; Her flashing thighs glance and smile. And Lo! what happy feet! Lo! her swinging hands are pure white! Brian Faulkner
  5. Zeus, I'm glad it gave you joy. The time spent writing it , except for tinkering with a few lines over several days, was probably a few hours. This is of no real significance, however. I have spent days working and re-working one four-line stanza to get what I wanted. Some things only seem to get written relatively fast, but the speed is possible only because of a lot of past effort of thought and practice. When I'm writing I never think about how fast I'm writing; that would be distracting and pointless. Don't allow yourself to get caught up in irrelevancies in your own creative endeavors, whatever they may be. The following poem was written in 1980. I was experimenting with rhyme and assonance, attempting to echo beginning-line sounds with end-line sounds. To Follow One's Thought To follow one's thought in the swallow When sorrowful leaves hang low; To scatter delight like the sparrow And banish all night and woe; To enter the storms of the winter And cower back clouds with song; To flower like Spring in her power When hours of rain seem long; To walk to a wood that is calling, To edge through a hedge where it bids, To push back the leaves of old bushes And find there a shrine that was hid; To see through the house of one's being With eyes that are calm as the moon, And hear, with no reason of fleeing, The cheer-colored chime of its tune; To open the door of one's knowing And fear not the hero inside; To flow as a free wind flowing And never a true thing hide; To fashion a friendship with gladness, To sire a love that inspires; To raise, over rivers of madness, White wings of unfailing desires; To stream up the height of one's dreaming And strain beyond height, beyond star; To soar out of touch with all seeming And be_ all the joy that you are; To give not a glance to self-pity, To spring a world-challenger, true, Then stray not a day from this daring---- That flight is the light called you. Brian Faulkner
  6. AMERICONORMAN, It is not your writing that keeps me here. I would be here if I was the only one here. In regard to your poems, however, I do have this to say: it sure would be nice if you would put out the effort required to make them smoother finished products; some of them are in abominable shape---rugged uncouth word combinations and disjointed rhythms. Poetry is supposed to be a pleasure to speak; make it so. As for your personal feelings for anyone---those I am not interested in at all. Brian Faulkner
  7. About twelve years ago, after reading OPAR for the first time, I spent a very happy week writing happy songs. Here's one: Leap Champaigne I think I must be happy To dance my life away. Okay, okay, I'm happy! Happy every day! I have no time for common things; The average, it can wait. My dancing light is on all night, The only thing to rate. My Love and I are going, Like every night before, Where melodies are flowing Ceiling to the floor. The band is heating up, now, The violins I hear; There is a time for everything And everything is here. We tap, we twirl, we swing, we whirl, And now we tap again; We spin around and turn a---way Then sway on back again. And smoothly slow, and graceful, oh, While she is smiling more, She is the best, she is the most, The finest I adore! I think I must be happy To dance my life away. Okay, okay, I'm happy! Happy every day! I have no time for common things; The average, it can wait. My dancing light is on all night, The only thing to rate. We take a flame of Leap Champaigne And lightly toast our love. We say to each "You are the lofty Thing I'm thinking of". And when we toss away the glass It tinkles, crashing so; She is the best, she is the most, The finest that I know. The chandeliers are sparkling, And eyes are sparkling, too; The confidence of dancers Flashes every hue. And when a song is over The Crashing Wall is there To take a throw---oh don't you know How often we are there! I think I must be happy To dance my life away. Okay, okay, I'm happy! Happy every day! Brian Faulkner
  8. Well, It's a new day, with a lot of festivities in Jacksonville. Guess I'll have my own parade right here. The Marcher I'm marching, I'm marching, I'm marching down the street. I'm singing, I'm singing, And everything is neat. The windows are shining, And polished every door. Oh, look! there's a marcher! I couldn't ask for more. I'm dancing, I'm dancing, I'm dancing down the lane, To buy me, to try me, A drum to beat again. A storm, it is starting, I know it's gonna pour, And if there is thunder I could not ask for more. The Highnote is open, The keeper square and tall. I point to a round thing Down low upon the wall; But quickly he gets it Although his hair is gray. I flip him a gold piece And I am on my way. It's windy, it's cooler, The heavy sky does throw! The lightning's a-flashing, The people laughing, Oh! They know that their city Will never stop for rain; The trucks keep on whizzing The goods around again. But breaking now, men jump on out, conveyor wheels go; Unloading freight so grandly fast---they never heard of slow. Boxes, boxes, all about, with gloves and many a hat; Coats and shoes, umbrellas, too! unloading after that! I'm beating, I'm beating, I'm beating on my drum. And louder, and louder, I never had such fun! Oh, look! there's another Who could not stay within. Oh, Wow! what a marcher! I wonder where she's been? A piper is coming, He's coming down the street. He's piping and piping That everything is neat. And dancers are dancing, They dance down every lane. They know that their city Will never stop for rain. ---------------------------- The clouds, now, are passing And planes are in the sky. The sunlight is streaming Upon the towers high. And here comes that marcher Who could not stay within. She steps right beside me, Oh what a way to win! We're whirling, we're twirling, We're swaying down the street! We're singing, we're whistling, 'Cause everything is neat. The windows are shining, And polished every door. Oh look! there's a marcher! I couldn't ask for more! Brian Faulkner
  9. Has anyone heard the Koussevitsky direction of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise? I heard it once years ago and, because he took a much slower tempo than anyone else, it was one of the most emotionally intense experiences I've ever had. Years ago I had the opportunity to hear Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra (Rachmaninoff's favorite) play an all-Rachmaninoff concert at the outdoor concert hall in Saratoga Springs. They opened with Eugene Ormandy's own orchestrated version of the Prelude in C-sharp Minor. How powerfully joyous he made it sound! At the end everyone around me, myself included, leaped to their feet! It took a while to get to the next piece---the Second Symphony---because no one felt like sitting down. I don't know about others, but when I feel that kind of thorough, intense emotion, which only music gives, I feel like I could push walls and blocks and rocks out of my path or, if there is any evil around, it had better get the Hell out of my way, for I will wipe it off the face of the earth! I have also heard a beautiful orchestration of the Suite #1 for Two Pianos by Harkness. I forget her first name.
  10. "They call thee rich; I deem thee poor; Since, if thou darest not use thy store, But savest only for thine heirs, The treasure is not thine, but theirs." Lucilius (trans. by Cowper)
  11. Thirty years ago I walked into a small restaurant in Athens, Georgia. I was the only customer in the early afternoon hours, it being summer and the majority of the population---college students---gone. I was drinking my coffee when a young woman walked in and sat right across from me at my small table. We began talking in the most easy, relaxed manner, as if we had known each other for years. A day later I wrote the following poem: Stoned "Death by stoning"---the "fatal', "dread" decree; Rocked out of pain, slung at Death's Goliath eye, I skipped upon the waters when you stoned me. You've thrown me down a welling dream of hope; I sing, and I pebble the universe with love. The wonders of your eyes can will my soul to rise, And down upon the rock I roll the slope. You struck me with an open look; You hid nothing, and you pillared me; The avalanche of your simplicity has crushed me sure. Words? They were not words you spoke, But lava-leaves hard'ning into steel, Hot stinging little shards of freed desire. From the blossoms of your lips A merry sadness slips, A crumbling rock that flies like sand away. On the mountains of your breast A planet lies at rest, And I will travel space not any more. There are gardens in your sight With heaps of apples, bright, And earthly joys; While in your voice I hear the choiring sea. My hands gather eternity. The tiniest granule now could lightly knock me down; Some butterfly might lift me high away; The weakest wind that blows my body slay. "Free by stoning"----the great new law we see. Soaring high above, Sculpted by the pure soft hand of love, I touch the holy sky when you stone me. Brian Faulkner
  12. "Lose your way eleven times, Find your way for twenty; Profit's nine, very fine, You've a horn of plenty!" Me "Don't complain of the rain And, when in pain, Don't complain again." Me "Love yourself your whole life through And lovely things will come to you." Me
  13. "Glory to man in the highest, for man is the master of things!" Swinburne "There Is no God, O Man, if thou art none." Swinburne "Stand stranger, O Love, stand straighter, Show proudly the lust of thine eyes; The praise of the sun pours upon us--- We, the gift of the earth to the skies!" Mine
  14. A few days after writing "Wherever Eyes of Lover" I wrote this: To Beauty Who longs to hold all love within his whole live heart forever Might here now sing all joy on high. For where your fairness shines upon the dimming eyes of he who's seeking, And that rare bright ringing voice of thine impales bare beauty on his fainting ear, The touch and smell and feel of thee ache into his marrow like a blade of fear, But that no pain, but only pleasuring stainless fire that taught his soul to fly. O Love, thou art a goddess, and all thy heart is mine to worship, Mine alone to carry me uplyring through a very choir of praise, A roar of tidal rapture for thy pure unshaded thought and fiery isle of face. Yes, you, the first and true Love's lover and the star-high dreamer's dream. Yet e'en more than these are, more than any of the best of these may ever deem, A flash of eternity sparking through the night, with rosy-budded flesh to crush all through, and the gentle fragile breath that sings my lips in two, Divinest Spring-made spirit of a clear mind's cleanest light. This timeless, perfect hour, raised within your radiance, and born to be The purpose of my life, here in heart and hand shall all time's fate Command, command all joys and fames, all flight of glad good names, All triumph's height. Here at last may one man say what all men would but never could, "Now I cast all dreams away for all my life is good". Brian Faulkner I soon followed this with a sonnet: The Grandest Are you the grandest being in my life? No tidal storm could roll as grand a sheet. As oft' I look I see no held back strife, But even free sea-gazes, calm and sweet. Way-out theories sweep within your eyes; Bending light frowns bare cliffs size. (as in "to size up") But better this, and keener than the radiant sun---- The beams of your lips when a fierce way's won. And now you really come like dawn upon your way, Swift joy within your body, hands and feet---- Sighting joy, that sings to me, "Tis day! Be taking now, and make your life complete!" We swear together in our treasured strife, "You ARE the grandest being in my life!" Brian Faulkner
  15. Here is a poem I wrote about twenty years ago. I was trying to write with the smoothest flow possible. My inspiration was my girlfriend, plus a recording in ancient Greek of a poem by Sappho, which I found on a partly warped record in a thrift store. I didn't understand a word, but it was the most beautiful spoken music I had ever heard. I finally understood why English poets praised her so much. Wherever Eyes Of Lover Wherever eyes of lover gaze up into eyes of lover taking, all time's hours stop. And Falsehood's hands may cover no bare fact nor any modest innocense whip passion back, But he, lead chutist, soars freely down to rushing earth, to feign no more of fear And dream no more of Fate. The stirring grasses sigh into the heart as "Life is selfless" dies. It lies so joyfully with death the passioned chantings of a flashing bird Change to elation every banished word and "Love is my selfishness!" flies! Yes! and shall not we sing, too? Only yesterday I knew your heart in mine; I knew the truth of you. A new intentness set to send us, too, As one due day rides sunward, and your eyes in my eyes soared into A flowerwise chaining of unchained desire, a flaunting, high conspiracy That saw no end of time. We were as trees are, apart, yet rooted not to earth but to our strange brows shining, Glad with fire and mad with sight. A brighter radiance shone in May not ever, A cleaner air or a purer rain; made of our thoughts severe long wings together, Caught up our hearts in a jest of pain. Then marrow rang! Then breath departed! for only Delight there fanned and sped. 'Round every flower a freed wind wended, bent the petals from head to head; Between bold boughs strong gold descended and in young leaves old dreams arose. High swirling grasses sprang up to our thighs and brushed the veins of Paradise; Darkness saw your rare long hair wrap 'round him and knew not darkness, saw dewy lightness Sing upon your shoulders, rang out his joy, and died. Aye, I, too, I, too, knew lightness, searing lightness of strained desire, And like a half-wet flame I laughed aloud to see a gentle tree lean out to me, A yearning, stretching, smiling tree, now all aflame as I. Arms and branches swing into the sky and touch away the sunlight as a cloud. Leaves and faces seek each other's places, gaze on hidden spaces and entwine. Now four curling hands of fire rake lightning through the pyre, Uproot the tree Desire and pull the woodman down! The swirling grasses, flowing, Grow high red storms of knowing, learn love that leaps up glowing And is not bound! All over eyes of flowers the lover's eye devours, devours all Time's hours, devours Space and Light; And where Love's breath flows sighing the soul of Death goes dying, The Final Fate is flying, and burning Day is bright! Brian Faulkner
  16. non-contradictor, with all due respect, your "Vail" is not a poem. It has no pattern of rhythm or rhyme to aid in the vocal expression of the emotion, contained as an embryo, within the meaning of your sentences. At the very least I would say that you delight in the world around you and, implicitly, for your ability to see and ski. What follows is just an example of what can be done in turning your prose into verse. Note, if you are interested in writing poems, try thinking in terms of song lyrics and experimenting with different rhythms to express the feeling underlying the meaning of your ideas. Sun's golden rays light up the ground And glimm'ring crystals clinging 'round On branches dancing. A breathing cloud above my head From puffing mouth so glad and red With mists a-kissing, I fly on down the mountainside A strange new bird---- --with wings of pride My feet completing. My twinkling eyes through amber mask Gaze greatly on this frost-world passed, Soaring and soaring. I smile unseen to hold my path, And no one hears my hard glad laugh But breeze and trees. The darting pins of stinging snow Are closer now, like Vail below; Oh, slow down, slow! But moving ever faster I, I know that I can only sigh For staying, staying, Forever, forever. If your creative writing teacher is dismissive of metered, rhyming , real poetry you have every right to be dismissive of him as an unreal teacher.
  17. Americonorman, The "stanzas" under "Words for Pictures" are separate expressions for pictures I found in an old children's illustrated history of America. The pictures related to work just interested me more than others. Yes, about looking at great or large things in nature, I never had the feeling of being small. As a boy I exulted in thunderstorms; I felt they were a joyous expression of me, of my energy. As for Byron, I've never taken to him, and I especially don't like "The Destruction of sennacherib". Vanquishing one's foes via mystical "force" is so unheroic. As for the use of rhythm in the expression of poetry I love the Master-----Swinburne. Here are the opening stanzas of his "A Marching Song" from his second book of poems, "Songs Before Sunrise". A Marching Song by Charles Algernon Swinburne We mix from many lands, We march for very far; In hearts and lips and hands Our staffs and weapons are; The light we walk in darkens sun and moon and star. It doth not flame and wane With years and spheres that roll; Storm cannot shake nor stain The strength that makes it whole, The fire that molds and moves it of the sovereign soul. We are they that have to cope With time till time retire; We live on hopeless hope, We feed on tears and fire; Time, foot by foot, gives back before our sheer desire. From the edge of harsh derision, From discord and defeat, From doubt and lame division, We pluck the fruit and eat; And the mouth finds it bitter, and the spirit sweet. We strive with time at wrestling Till time be on our side And hope, our plumeless nestling, A full-fledged eaglet ride Down the loud length of storm its windward wings divide. We are girt with our belief, Clothed with our will and crowned; Hope, fear, delight, and grief, Before our will give ground; Their calls are in our ears as shadows of dead sound. All but the heart forsakes us, All fails us but the will; Keen treason tracks and takes us In pits for blood to fill; Friend falls from friend, and faith for faith lays wait to kill. Out under moon and stars And shafts of the urgent sun Whose face on prison bars and mountainheads is one, Our march is everlasting till time's march be done. Wither we know, and whence, And dare not care where through, Desires that urge the sense, Fears changing old with new, Perils and pains beset the ways we press into. Earth gives us thorns to tread, And all her thorns are trod; Through lands burnt black and red We pass with feet unshod; Whence we would be man shall not keep us, nor man's God. Through the great desert beasts Howl at our backs by night, And thunder-forging priests Blow their dead bale-fires bright, And on their broken anvils beat out bolts for fight. Inside their sacred smithies, Though hot the hammer rings, Their steel links snap like withies, Their chains like twisted strings; Their surest fetters are as plighted words of kings. O nations undivided, O single people and free, We dreamers, we derided, We mad blind men that see, We bear ye witness ere ye come that ye shall be. For sustained flight of rhythm, exalted tone and meaning, Swinburne is unmatchable.
  18. Free Capitalist, it was a pleasure to read "Lochinvar" again---one of my all time favorites---with its brave protagonist, calm and assured, his daring action and high success. The poem, with its drama, varied voices and quick change of pace in the next to last stanza, is, like Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman', both inspiring and great fun to read aloud. "Lochinvar" lives up to the dictum in Spenser's "The Faery Queen" of "Be bold, be bold, everywhere be bold!" Sir Walter Scott does a fine job of presenting just the necessary details to create a fully satisfying story.
  19. Hi. I was Brian Faulkner, now I'm back as B. Royce with a poem which was a song, but since I don't write music it's only in my head. I love its benevolent sense of life. The Pilot's Song On steel wings I sail the sky, I go. A shining line of mastery I am. I rise above the rising sun; I claim the night when he is done; The sky surrenders everything; A silver-shining steel wing am I. I fly up into the feather blue; I glide above the mountain dew; I even skim a cloud or two; A going, flowing, glowing thing am I. If storm surrounds my even way I bolt on through and burst away. With power-flash and thunder-roar I lift my wings and soar-----away! And flying, flying, flying over the land, I look below and see a waving hand. Out of the clouds, into the sun, Lookin' away, give it the gun! And speeding, speeding, speeding, I am free! To make my bank or go on out to sea. Out of the clouds, into the sun, Lookin' away, give it the gun! Now cities raise on up to me Their radiance of jewelry; I gaze, and glide on by. New factories are smokin' low To make the many things that go; I near, then veer up high. Then diving, climbing, driving over the train! It takes the oar to make another plane. Out of the earth, into the blue, Now it is old, now it is new! And soaring, soaring, soaring I do go; I love this place that has no trace of woe. Everything's fine, all I can see; Happy to sign, give it to me! On steel wings I sail the sky, I go. A shining line of mastery am. I rise above the rising sun; I claim the night when he is done; The sky surrenders everything; A silver-shining steel wing am I. I see upon a future time When next to me one, too, will climb; Her face will show the mastery, I know. We'll sail into the morning air, Or twilight air, or midnight air; We couldn't care, we go! Then diving, climbing, driving over the train! It takes the oar to make another plane. Out of the earth, into the blue, Now it is old, now it is new! And soaring, soaring, soaring I do go; I love this place that has no trace of woe. Everything's fine, all I can see; Happy to sign, give it to me! Brian Faulkner
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