Oh hi! Grab a seat right there on that bean-bag, or perhaps the stool, or would you like a pillow? Great, now that we're all comfortable, it's time for THE WEEKLY WORD.
WARNING: the purpose of poetry is to make you feel, so you may feel a emotion or to, but it's NORMAL, DO NOT PANIC.
This weeks word is an amalgam of superduper sick poetry.
Up first: William Carlos Williams poem, “This is Just to Say”
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Next, we swoon to e.e. cummings love poem, “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in”. You may also recognize the poem from the book Tuesday With Morrie by Mitch Albom when a woman recites it at his celebration of life, before he died.
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)
Lastly, I leave you with the sad, slightly weird, villanelle by Dylan Thomas about his father dying called, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”. Please notice the repeated refrain, “Do not go gentle into that good night/rage, rage against the dying of the light” and how the meaning of each line changes every time it's repeated, especially in the end when the two join back up as a couplet.
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.
HOMEWORK: Post at least two lines of poetry of a friends wall.
Until next time lovers.
