A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day

I don't think I've posted Emily here before. And I don't think I've really posted poetry on here for a while either. There is another post inside my head, too...has to do with another thing we have been created for. But it's not ready yet, and I need to appease my avid readership. :) So I give you Emily.She is pretty amazing and there isn't any other poet that writes with the same style of verve. So I hope you like this poem by her. Supposedly, this posthumously famous poet captures the unhealthy adulation of millions of guys who read poetry...I can somewhat see why, but she hasn't gotten me yet. :) So, without further ado, I present:

A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day
Emily Dickinson

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish,--some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I've met the thing before;
It just reminded me--'t was all--
And came my way no more.

Into the Valley of Death...

This is one of the poems I grew up on...the rhythm and repetitiveness are effective and part of what makes it a great classic poem. Think about it...


Charge of the Light Brigade-Alfred Lord Tennyson
"Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Sometimes the best thing to do is do something and not think about how stupid it seems. There is Somebody who knows what He is doing in charge, even when it seems like a mistake.

Ogden Nash wise words

Hello readers! I don't feel motivated to write a "deep" post, so let's have some fun with Ogden Nash, a genius with words who has no equal in his field, which only contains him. Without further ado:

Oh To Be Odd! by Ogden Nash

Hypochondriacs
Spend the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of
the Adirondriacs.
You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac
If you're dipsomognac.
If you're a manic-depressive
You don't go anywhere where you won't be cheered up, and people say
"There, there!" if your bills are excessive.
But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with
your nose to the sawmill.
If you're nawmill.

Introspective Reflection by Ogden Nash

I would live all my life in nonchalance and insouciance
Were it not for making a living, which is rather a nouciance.

A Word to Husbands by Ogden Nash
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.

What Almost Every Woman Knows Sooner Or Later by Ogden Nash

Husbands are things that wives have to get used to putting up with.
And with whom they breakfast with and sup with.
They interfere with the discipline of nurseries,
And forget anniversaries,
And when they have been particularly remiss
They think they can cure everything with a great big kiss,
And when you tell them about something awful they have done they just
look unbearably patient and smile a superior smile,
And think, Oh she'll get over it after a while.
And they always drink cocktails faster than they can assimilate them,
And if you look in their direction they act as if they were martyrs and
you were trying to sacrifice, or immolate them,
And when it's a question of walking five miles to play golf they are very
energetic but if it's doing anything useful around the house they are
very lethargic,
And then they tell you that women are unreasonable and don't know
anything about logic,
And they never want to get up or go to bed at the same time as you do,
And when you perform some simple common or garden rite like putting
cold cream on your face or applying a touch of lipstick they seem to
think that you are up to some kind of black magic like a priestess of Voodoo.
And they are brave and calm and cool and collected about the ailments
of the person they have promised to honor and cherish,
But the minute they get a sniffle or a stomachache of their own, why
you'd think they were about to perish,
And when you are alone with them they ignore all the minor courtesies
and as for airs and graces, they uttlerly lack them,
But when there are a lot of people around they hand you so many chairs
and ashtrays and sandwiches and butter you with such bowings and
scrapings that you want to smack them.
Husbands are indeed an irritating form of life,
And yet through some quirk of Providence most of them are really very
deeply ensconced in the affection of their wife.

Solitaire: I play this game a LOT

You'll also notice (if you're observant) that I've posted all of the songs I've ever posted on here in the sidebar, in one place, altogether, so that you can pick any of them to listen to if you've missed some or want to listen to some again. Enjoy, and I love Grooveshark!

Endless games of solitaire

Only illustrate how little I care

About the way I spend my time.

Seeking ways to make words rhyme,

I spend too long inside my mind.

My thoughts are as decaying

As a rotting melon rind.

I watch as my life turns old,

Like hair goes graying;

There’s nothing I can find

To make me glad,

And no one who will hold

Me close enough to staunch the myriad

Doubts and fears I hide.

Places where I used to fit

Have become like torment.

Minute by minute and bit by bit

I’ve slipped away, now discontent

With the life I’ve always known.

Do I have the power to disown

Everything I’ve ever thought?

I’m cautious of being caught

By the eyes of everyone I see.

I don’t know if I’ll ever break free.

Busyness, Longing, and Matthew Arnold.

     So I think this has been the longest period between posts since I started this blog, and for that I am sorrowful. I am committed to posting, though, so don't think I've finished regularly updating. I'll try and put more time into a post soon, but this last week and this coming one have been and will be incredibly busy (last week due to set work and this week due to rehearsals and performances of Pocahontas...COME to it!). Throw in the fact that March Madness is finishing up its first weekend of amazing basketball, and the Kansas Jayhawks have advanced to the Sweet Sixteen...(YES!), and I haven't devoted much time to thinking up posts or writing poetry. So today, I'll have to post a great poem by Matthew Arnold, an English poet. I like this poem a lot....

It's called Longing:

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again.

For then the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,

A messenger from radiant climes,

And smile on thy new world, and be

As kind to others as to me.

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth.

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say - My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again.

For then the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

Life is about pain and how we deal with it

So my life right now involves a lot of self-inflicted sadness, pain, and what a lot of people call depression. And I think a lot of maturing that happens in life is how we deal with pain. Because pain will come. There's no doubt about it, and you'll lose every argument saying that there's no such thing as pain. But pain can help us, if we're willing to let it work, and if we use it to shape us in a positive way. My thoughts are scattered right now and I can't really focus, but I think what I need to do is channel the pain in my life into the want-to to change. This poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a great illustration of the fact of pain:

The Rainy Day
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

My mind works in music, and so I'm displaying this song by REM. It's not especially helpful for dealing with the pain, because I don't think comforting ourselves in the realization that everybody else has hurt too will ultimately change us.

Pain should give us the motivation to change and not let the same thing happen again.

Good Poetry Is Hard To Write

Well, all, I'm sorry for the longer-than-usual space between posts. I can tell from the absence of any kind of comments that you missed it terribly. Anyway. I wrote a poem. And it's brilliant. Hehe. Just try and tear it apart, and you'll realize the brilliancy of it. Because if it's a good poem, then good. And if it's a bad poem, then it makes its point. So, without further ado, here it is:

Good poetry is hard to write;
It’s hard to make it bite.
Good poetry is always right,
It never sounds too trite.
Good poetry is always real;
Whether it’s hard as steel
Or smooth as satin,
If it’s right, the reader wins,
And the poem sings.