A Pair of Potter Poems (Picked by Peter Piper?)

Here are a couple of poems.  Sonnets again.  The schtick here is that they concern a pair of Harry Potter characters.  It should be trivial to figure out who they are (although it might require a dictionary for our younger readers).

(I admit I felt compelled to put these here so that the three of you coming from Ash's poetry blog don't feel like you got put on a bus to Hoboken, Nerd Jersey.)

emerge

The boy stepped forth and took his place beneath
the brim.  A minute passed, now two, then three,
within which time the shades of bravery
and justice armed their forces to the teeth.
Though all saw brav'ry take the palm and wreath,
it lay in waiting, seeming idly:
At length, his courage glowed for one to see,
demure, as though he'd drawn it from its sheath.
It wavered, unaccustomed to the light;
it felt about, uncertain of its tread.
Till blunt necessity called out its right,
to cleave the foul ophidian at its head.
Oh say! where night left off and day began,
to slumber off a boy and wake a man.


unreadable

He stands, a glower made inscrutable,
ambiguous.  He wreaths his honest thoughts
in coronets of random noise, in knots
of truths both blank and indisputable.
The swollen ranks, beneath his gaze, bear gloom.
Their dully thronging stride stamps out the time
left to his bitter charge, and neither rhyme
nor reason can forestall his chosen doom.
Though he may carp or cavil over weights
none else has will or wherewithal to bear,
that memory, besmirched, of onetime mates
does focus his poor genius in its glare.
So pity not the fool who plays the lie--
once! twice! now thrice!--to gamble and to die.

Copyright © 2011 Brian Tung

i saw in yesterday your pretty when

I almost called this "in crude homage to edward estlin," but I thought maybe that would be too predictable.

Most people know about E.E. Cummings's free verse.  I first came into contact with his name, if not his poetry, from a poster in my seventh-grade English classroom.  (Does anyone remember Mr. Clancy from Redwood Junior High?  No?)  I don't think I actually read any of his poems until rather much later.  I did hear an exquisite (and in context, wholly inappropriate) love poem of his in Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters, entitled "somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond."

I may as well say that although his deconstructive approach to grammar is refreshing, I find some of his poems orthographically grotesque.  Not for the reasons most frequently cited; I have no problem with his lack of capitalization (I do that myself in chats), or his exuberantly nested parentheticals, or anything pedestrian like that.  No, what bothers me are the superlatively trivial things, like not having a space after commas (see above, you have no idea how that killed me to accurately reproduce his title), or before parentheses, and that sort of thing.

Anyway, because of the renown of his free verse, not many people know that he wrote sonnets, too, and intensely romantic ones at that.  Sonnet XCII of his 95 Poems is one of his better known ones; it goes

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                                    i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

(It's a good thing that all I had to do was cut and paste; I don't know that I could have elided all those spaces otherwise.)  Anyway, here's my tyro's try at the same kind of thing, and at least it's honest, it's a thing I feel (and doggone it, I shall put spaces where I will):

i saw in yesterday your pretty when

i saw in yesterday your pretty when
and past a rise your beautifully where
(i do lose during you my now and then,
and inside you(r inside) my here and there).
since draw me to your captivating why
(a finger may mislead, i have no who
that cries the how you tear), i heard them sigh
your fragile yes or maybe noes to do.
with you i have no ask or answer (no
inquire or wonder, neither no believe,
no yet or still, no if (or so, or so)
for(giving life, where is no is to grieve))
but breath demanding breath, each every day
in death for(little death) you to replay.

Copyright © 2013 Brian Tung

The Passion of the Play

Another offering for National Poetry Month.

This is for all those who feel that sports is incapable of being an art, or poetry, or beauty.  (I don't think any of those read my blog, but I suppose you never know.)

the passion of the play

You throng who find in contests but
an infinite procession of
bats, balls, and running, jumping—what
you miss!  (Look at the sky above:
Do you see only endless dots?
Or in the rolls of history,
but names and dates—bereft of thoughts
and love, and pride—exclusively?
A narrative from breath to breath
we savor in our champion's flight:
War without anger, without death;
Force without peril, without spite.
Drink you of whiskey or of wine,
imbibe you spirited design!

Copyright © 2013 Brian Tung

The Slowness of the Post

Once again, it's National Poetry Month here in the States.  (Do I have any international readers?  Actually, do I have any readers?  Sometimes it's hard to tell, hint hint.)

I can't just be posting old ones, though, so this one is kind of new.  I started this and had the opening quatrain and the ending couplet a couple of years ago, but then gave it up.  This is my rather indifferent attempt, I'm afraid, at filling up the inside.  Don't worry, I'm not giving up my day job; I like that one a bit too much.

[EDIT: And I just noticed that this poem has extra bonus enjambment.  So, umm, yeah.]

the slowness of the post

When lovers in years past took quill in hand
to add to their epistolary chain
the latest, best-wrought link, they might complain
about the slowness of the post.  They planned
their thoughts for days, while trains traversed the land
with bundled hearts and holes, delayed by rain,
or frailty, or the smugness of the sane.
(But, yes, this did make love more tragic.)  And
now, though we write in liquid crystals, though
we fancy we eliminate the tragic,
anticipation, overnight, is no
less puzzling, no less vexing—no less magic.
    Look to the sky—yes, look, her answer, soon—
    look for it ere the waning of the Moon!

Copyright © 2013 Brian Tung

In Crude Homage to Edna St Vincent Millay

[From my Facebook page, originally written in February 2010, and here lightly edited.  I've been thinking about posting poetry here a bit, especially as it's National Poetry Month and all.]

Sonnets are convenient lunchtime reading material: short, yet dense with rhythm and sense (when reasonably well written). I've been working my way haphazardly through a collection of sonnets by Edna St Vincent Millay, one of the great romantic poets—at least, so say those who would know. Not to put too fine a point on it, I like them. What's more, I've been informed that it is a prominent chick-lit marker for the protagonist taking herself (over) seriously when she reads or even quotes poetry by Millay.

Well, I am nothing if not self-aggrandizing (often in the guise of self-deprecation), so despite my obvious gender challenge—being a guy—I have taken it upon myself to attempt a quasi-imitation of Millay. ("Aping" might be more apt a word.) I have used, as she does, the sonnet form (of a fittingly quasi-Petrarchan variety), and I have also taken as my subject unrequited affection, a common enough Millay theme. I have not, however, tried generally to affect the effortless facility with which she, Yoda-like, twists normal English word order like a pretzel. (I believe that the subject is permitted to precede the predicate at most once per stanza.)

By the way, Millay's name being two and a third dactyls lends itself conveniently to the limerick form. So as a kind of appetizer, and by way of introduction:

To Ms Edna St Vincent Millay,
I now offer this humble assay.
    For her sonnets are kings
    Of romantical things
And just what they're about none can say.

And perhaps you'll find that you like the appetizer better than the main course anyway.

in crude homage to edna st vincent millay

Your lips not once did tender mine, and yet
I loved you—no, and never once your hand
grasped mine in supplicating fever, and
I loved you still—nor even did you let
your eyebrows knit, or mouth to trembling set,
and still I loved you. (Once, perhaps, unplanned,
to quell persistent pity's keen demand,
you touched my head, as one would with a pet.)
Thus singularly blessed I count those days
where in a wondrous haze I hoped (or guessed)
that glances cast in jest were courting plays
to clasp in rapt amazement to my breast.
    And so I say—in seeking Love's mad thrall—
    you loved me best who loved me not at all.

Copyright © 2010 Brian Tung

EDIT: This sonnet can be considered a kind of lame reply to this one by Millay.