POETRY: "Stand whoso list" by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Stand whoso list* upon the slipper* top
Of court's estates,* and let me here rejoice
And use me quiet without let or stop,*
Unknown in court, that hath such brackish* joys,
In hidden place so let my days forth pass
That when my years be done withouten noise,
I may die aged after the common trace,*
For him death grippeth right hard by the crop*
That is much known of other, and of himself, alas,
Doth die unknown, dazed, and with dreadful* face.



list - cares to

slipper - slippery

estates - high position

And use me quiet without let or stop - Comport myself quietly without hindrance or impediment from others

brackish - distasteful, unpleasant

trace - way

crop - throat

dreadful - fearful

MUSIC: "Country Girl" by Carolina Chocolate Drops

Not much to say here...a very good song that'll make you wish that you grew up in the South for a little bit.

MUSIC: "Futura" by Battles

The album Gloss Drop by Battles has been out for several months now, but I just got around to listening to it, so give me a break. "Futura" is one of the best songs on the album - it hooks you right away and keeps you mesmerized for six minutes, after which you will want to hear it again.

MUSIC: "Swerve... the reeping of all that is worthwhile (Noir not withstanding)" by Shabazz Palaces

I've yet to listen to Black Up, the LP by Shabazz Palaces, but after listening to "Swerve..." I am really gonna have to make it a priority. This track just makes your ears feel good.

POETRY: "A Part of the Forest" by Tomas Transtromer

This is an example of what you might call a prose poem. Prose poetry is a very loosely defined area of poetry -- essentially it is a poem written in prose form instead of verse form. Well why isn't it just prose then? Good question. Supposedly there are some lingering poetic qualities that mark it as prose poetry, but all of the good prose I read has scores of poetic qualities.

So prose poetry is difficult to define, but that doesn't change the fact that "A Part of the Forest" by Tomas Transtromer is a beautiful piece of writing. I sincerely hope you know a part of a forest somewhere like the one described in this poem. I think it's something that everyone needs.



A Part of the Forest

On the way there a pair of frightened wings clattered up, that was all. There you walk alone. It's a high building completely made of narrow cracks. A building that is always swaying but never falls. The thousandfold sun slips in through the cracks. In the play of light an inverted law of gravity prevails: the house is anchored in the sky, and everything that falls falls upward. You can turn around there. You can mourn there. There you dare look at certain old truths that otherwise are always kept packed away. The parts I play deep within float up there, hang like dried skulls in the ancestors' hut on some remote Melanesian island. An atmosphere of childhood around the spooky trophies. It's so mild in the forest.

MOVIE TRAILER: Holy Shit This Is Awesome

Okay, that's not actually the name of the movie. It's actually called The Raid. Here is the official description:

Deep in the heart of Jakarta’s slums lies an impenetrable safe house for the world’s most dangerous killers and gangsters. Until now, the run-down apartment block has been considered untouchable to even the bravest of police. Cloaked under the cover of pre-dawn darkness and silence, an elite swat team is tasked with raiding the safe house in order to take down the notorious drug lord that runs it. But when a chance encounter with a spotter blows their cover and news of their assault reaches the drug lord, the building’s lights are cut and all the exits blocked. Stranded on the sixth floor with no way out, the unit must fight their way through the city’s worst to survive their mission. Starring Indonesian martial arts sensation Iko Uwais.

POETRY: Gods, Pt. II

More of my poems, these being from all different periods in my life...


Beauty

I dreamt of Beauty,
Shining bright,
She would fall and touch me,
And she would bring
Much-needed rest
And comfort when she loved me. 



Evanescent

As a kiss,
Given in spite of itself,
Given because that's what they do in the movies.
As a touch remembered,
From a time when touch was still unsure
And charged with significance.
As our conviction --
About what, I don't know. 



Untitled
After Langston Hughes

“What happens to a dream deferred?”
It does not die, not quickly at least,
It remains, sagging like rotten meat,
Reminding us of its existence
At every opportunity.
Its weight, its whispers --
Sometimes subtle, so subtle
That we could pretend we didn’t hear them,
That we didn’t feel a thing.

Sometimes not so subtle --
Our faces tense and twist and others see
The grinding at the center of our brains.
And we snap, and sneer, and do anything
But tell them of our dream deferred.
Some days we hate the dream for being born:
We retrace the steps from its conception,
We think terrible things about it.
It cries and screams for attention;
We wish it would mind its own business
Or else dry up and explode.

We couldn’t justify or explain why
Our dream was set aside.
Was it foolish? Inconvenient?
Not a one of us could say.
We don’t know why we gave it up,
We only know we’ll get to it someday
If they’ll just leave us be;
Do they think we enjoy the endless grinding
Of dream against reality?



Poetry

Your voice:
How do you speak to yourself?
How do you tell yourself who you are?
Poetry is your voice.

Speak soon, my friend:
The second song is always best.
My friend --
Speak soon.