Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 50 Shell on the Shelf

SHELL ON THE SHELF

The shell shows its remarkable geometry in its spiral- a shape which has been described as the spiral of growth. To quote from Wikipedia-

A logarithmic spiral, equiangular spiral or growth spiral is a self-similar spiral curve which often appears in nature. The logarithmic spiral was first described by Descartes and later extensively investigated by Jacob Bernoulli, who called it Spira mirabilis, "the marvellous spiral".

Spira mirabilis, Latin for "miraculous spiral", is another name for the logarithmic spiral. Although this curve had already been named by other mathematicians, the specific name ("miraculous" or "marvellous" spiral) was given to this curve by Jacob Bernoulli, because he was fascinated by one of its unique mathematical properties: the size of the spiral increases but its shape is unaltered with each successive curve, a property known as self-similarity. Possibly as a result of this unique property, the spira mirabilis has evolved in nature, appearing in certain growing forms such as nautilus shells and sunflower heads. Jacob Bernoulli wanted such a spiral engraved on his headstone along with the phrase "Eadem mutata resurgo" ("Although changed, I shall arise the same."), but, by error, an Archimedean spiral was placed there instead.

SHELL ON THE SHELF

A sand-snail shell rests on the shelf,

with time-traced whorls of growing’s curve,

a swirl of logarithmic spiral.

And so it sits in still completedness,

far from the vast, wave-rippled ocean,

so purely formed, brown and alone,

far from its forming, slow creation,

where curves of water, time and life

were gradually gathered into stone.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog no 49 Walking Through Suburban Streets, Night Coming Down

WALKING THROUGH SUBURBAN STREETS, NIGHT COMING DOWN

At first sight this poem seems merely descriptive or evocative of an atmosphere. Yet it is also a comment on the strangely-alienated world we have created in the suburbs of a lot of the western world where you can be surrounded by people but walk through streets and see almost no-one. This is contrasted with the natural worlds of sky and earth.

WALKING THROUGH SUBURBAN STREETS, NIGHT COMING DOWN

The sun’s already sunken, yet

departing rays still redden borders

of rising, storm-arousing cloud.

I walk the pathways of the dusk.

And westward, over final fire,

out-streams a gleam of growing whiteness.

Reflection from another world

is planet starlight: far nearby.

As twilight tires, Venus seems,

in one clear spot, a perfect glow:

a beacon from a world beyond

the fading houses down below.

Then other lights flash by on high

with roar that seems to bore through sky,

as half-concealed in cloud, a jet

bears others to far destinations.

In dwindling dusk the dark condenses

upon the cool, rain-boding air;

and donning my grey coat I stroll

through dimming, silent streets; I stroll

past grassy, private yards, past small,

still gardens on dark human-scape;

past all, not seen and never seeing

through walls of brick and curtained windows.

With final darkness, rain arrives;

leaves greet and gather nourishment,

and hidden, branched and clinging roots

absorb it from the ground of life.

Past window-bright, domestic walls,

I walk on wet road blackness, through

the silence of the suburb’s night

where nothing moves but windy rain-

until I turn a corner where

the glaring of a sudden car,

brief-lighting rain’s down-streaming sheets,

is dazzling to the dark-set sight.

Returning towards my own room’s shelter,

I walk past peopled, night-walled spaces,

past house-sealed lives within that are

all hidden here- nearby but far.

A figure, shadowed by the rain,

strides by to be away from night;

away from weave of dark and weather,

back to the spaces of set light.

Through harmonies of nascent darkness

is spread our strange-depressed design;

while sullen clouds, moon-covering,

are lit with white, ghost hues of time.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 48 Late Afternoon Stream

LATE AFTERNOON STREAM

In Australia most streams smaller than a river are called a creek. This poem is about a

creek in the late afternoon with imagery mixed in with a little philosophy. The metre is dactylic that is stressed, unstressed, unstressed (x / / Lightly, late sunlight is glittering bright) with a stressed or stressed, unstressed syllables at the end for the rhymes. This metre (waltz rhythm) has something of a flowing quality but is rather tricky to create in English which tends towards the iambic metre (unstressed, stressed, / x). The Eastern Water Dragon ( Intellagama lesueurii lesueurii ) is a fairly large (up to slightly more than a metre) but shy lizard with strong legs and claws that hangs around water and dives into it to escape if disturbed.

LATE AFTERNOON STREAM

Lightly, late sunlight is glittering bright,

Goldening glistenings on the small stream;

Lightly as light, even lighter than light

Breeze that is brushing the ripples that gleam.

From the light sky, from high clouds that bright sun

Called into being, the free raindrops flow-

Seeping from hillsides they finally come

Down to the path of the valley below;

Down to one path that is always the low;

Following gravity's down-given course,

Yielding to overcome; letting them flow

Onward and onward, without using force.

Silky oak leaf-cluster patterns are bold,

Lit by the lowering shafts of day's beams;

Slow-rustling gum trees shimmer white gold,

Gleaming with sun on their foresting greens.

What is a stream but the flowing- the growing

Form of the flowing forever ongoing,

Leaving its legacy shaping the ground,

Like a slow, snaking shape oceanward-bound?

What is its shimmering beauty but glowing?

Mirroring heaven-set heart of the light?

Water takes coursing without any forcing,

Gathering shining in passing my sight.

Small water dragon swift-slides with a slither

Into the water's concealing, safe flowing;

While a black wood duck slow-glides with a shimmer,

Rippled in vee shapes that follow her going.

Standing in silence now, in the late light,

Watching in silence the green and gold sight,

Dappling of shadow and shine on the scene,

Gurgle and trilling and gush of the stream,

I am hearing its music; soft sounds' imbrication;

I am seeing its intricate dancing of light:

Sight of a moving through stillness and quiet,

Sound of a flowing through silent creation.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog 47 Sonnet- Time is a Treasure...

SONNET- Time is a Treasure

The Shakespearean sonnet falls into 4 parts, in a sense. The first four lines (rhymed a,b,a,b) tend to introduce the subject, the next (c,d,c,d) develop the subject, the next four come to a sort of conclusion (e,f,e,f) and the last two lines, a rhyming couplet (g,g) bring it to a final conclusion or suddenly reverse the direction of the rest of the poem. This sonnet on time illustrates this process I feel.

SONNET (Time is a Treasure)

Time is a treasure that can be but spent,

Not heaped up like the miser's hidden gold,

Not stored against some distant ill event,

No matter how we'd like to hoard and hold.

The minutes trickle through the open hand

Like glittering gold dust, too fine to keep;

And even heaped as hours they will not stand,

Stolen by passing winds, even as we sleep.

But if it be well-spent, though seeming gone,

It is returned, enriched, like something lent

With interest, that still goes working on;

That still remains, though it may seem it went.

         The memoried growth, the deeds that make good measure,

         Forever shine as everlasting treasure.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 46. Experience (after Hugo Von Hofmannsthal)

EXPERIENCE

Hugo Von Hofmannsthal was an Austrian writer born in 1847 in Vienna. Almost all his lyric poetry was written before the age of 24. Later he abandoned it in favour of dramatic poetry and wrote the words for several operas with music by Richard Strauss. However, his strange and original lyric poetry, influenced by French symbolism, has remained a permanent part of late romantic literature.

This poem "Erlebnis", with its emotive evocative imagery and famous final lines, is one of these. Translating and trying to re-create a poem like this in English is quite an interesting "experience" in itself.

                  EXPERIENCE

The valley was all filled with silver-grey,
Soft fragrance of the dusk, as if the moonlight,
Through clouds, were trickling. Yet it was not night.
With silver-grey scent of the dusk-dark valley,
My dusky-dimming thoughts began dissolving,
And quietly I sank down into the weaving,
Translucent ocean and let go of living.
What wonderful, rare flowers there were there,
Their chalices so darkly-glowing! Thickets,
Through which a gold-red light as that from topaz,
In warm streams flowed and gleamed. And there the whole
Was filled within with such a deeply-swelling,
Melancholy music. And this I knew,
Although I did not grasp it, yet I knew it;
That this is death. Which is transformed to music:
Such powerful yearning, sweet and darkly-glowing,
Akin to deepest sadness.                       

                          But, how strange!
A nameless, strong homesickness soundless-wept
For life within my soul; wept as one weeps
If faring on a great, sea-riding ship,
With giant, yellow sails against the evening,
He passes by his town of birth upon
The dark-blue, moving waters. There he sees
The alleyways, hears fountains rushing, smells
The scent of elder bushes, sees himself,
A child still standing on the shore with child's eyes,
Eyes which are anxious and would weep; he sees
Through open window light into his room-
But the great, sea-faring ship bears him away,
On dark-blue waters gliding soundlessly
With yellow, strangely-shaped and giant sails.

After the German of Hugo Von Hofmansthal

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog no 45 Moth

MOTH

Grasping scientifically detailed reality is, in some ways, a type of thought and observation that only works with the non-living, the inorganic. In any case, life and living remains, to some degree, a mystery to us. These thoughts and perhaps some others lie behind the form of this poem.

                                MOTH

A moth,

in death, has fallen

from air-life to the floor.

I turn it over in my palm,

the tiny carcass,

and note

minute and creamy hairs

that mass beneath the thorax;

its topside exposing

brown, armouring plates;

the window light,

a round blur of white,

on spherical,

multi-faceted eyes;

thin legs folded

in death's rigidity;

abdomen striped

with horizontal brown.

Wings are unbeating,

transparently frail,

like haze-deepened moonbeam made visible,

differentiated by a thousand scales,

veined like a leaf,

pale, golden brown.

If, some night,

from tenebrous invisibility,

it had flitted into sight

towards the consuming

fascination of a gleaming filament;

all detailed view might be missed,

all but the mystery of moving life.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog no 44 Shade of Afternoon

SHADE OF AFTERNOON

    This short poem goes from the bluish shade on the hills to the darkness and night and sleep. Of course, night follows afternoon but it is interesting to note that the original character for yin meant the shady side of a hill (yin and yang being the complementary but interrelated polarities of existence in Chinese philosophy). Full forms semantically specify yin 陰 "shady/dark side of a hill" and yang 陽 "sunny/light side of a hill"-Wikipedia. So as well as the "yang" of day, light, activity, we need the yin of night, dark and rest. 


 

SHADE OF AFTERNOON

 

As the sun sinks low

Trees and bushes throw

Patterns of shade

Over the hills.

 

In the shadows colours fade

Into a deeper hue,

Details merge with darkened blue,

Like the coming night that fills

Life with waves of darkness- silent, deep;

Eyes with seas of stars and sleep. 

 

 

 

 

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 43 Once There Were No Spoons

ONCE THERE WERE NO SPOONS

I heard this phrase at the beginning of a creative writing exercise ( a story on an object ) and it struck me that it was, of course, perfectly true- so many things we take for granted have only come to us from the history of humanity. Therefore, I think it is true that our real strength is co-operation, not isolation or competition. 

ONCE THERE WERE NO SPOONS

Once there were no spoons

in any land, in any spot,

no human mind had thought

to fashion such

from wood or metal, clay or stone.

Once there were no words

on any air in any land,

no tales to tell of time's becoming.

No human voice had spoken and

no pen had ever crafted lines.

Once there were no names for stars,

no measuring of time and space.

And once there were no paths;

no names for any place.

Once there were no harps,

no flutes and no guitars,

no singing of the violin,

no human music on the air,

no human art, no singing prayer.

These are ours and only ours

because we share;

because we find ourselves

in what we learn from other's care.

How foolish then

to see ourselves

as though there were no other tunes

but one we hum alone.

Once there were no spoons.

And all we know was never known.

Once There Were No Spoons