Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 13 The Werewolf

THE WEREWOLF

This is my translation or re-creation of a poem by Christian Morgenstern. Morgenstern, sometimes called the German Lewis Carroll, wrote whimsical "nonsense" verse, often with a philosophical bent. In this poem a werewolf runs into a problem with grammar (in German Werwolf - wer means who - turns into whom, whose etc.). For English the "joke' has to be re-created.

                  THE WEREWOLF

A werewolf fled one night, just lately,

from wife and child and prowled alone

to a country teacher's old grave stone

and begged him:"Please sir, conjugate me!"

And that school teacher climbed out straight

upon his stone with its brass plate,

spoke to the wolf, whose paws were pressed

in patient cross before his guest:

"The werewolf, yes," the good man said,

"the waswolf, single past is read,

amwolf and arewolf still make sense

with iswolf for the present tense."

The wolf felt flattered hearing this,

and rolled his eyes with happiness.

"And now, please sir," he begged, "could you

put me into the future too?"

The teacher, though, had to admit

he couldn't make the verb form fit.

"True, future wolves are possible,

but 'be' must take a 'shall' or 'will'."

The werewolf rose upset, tear-blind,

no future for his wife or kind!!

But being not of learned bent,

he bowed and thanked the man and went.

From The German of Christian Morgenstern

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 12 Silent Lightning

SILENT LIGHTNING

            This short poem that also is suggestive of metaphorical meanings (I hope) refers to the phenomenon of lightning that may be so distant on a far horizon that from where you stand you don't hear the thunder.                                                    
             To quote meteorologist Jeff Haby http://www.theweatherprediction.com/habyhints/274/ If a lightning strike is a sufficient distance from the observer, sound from the strike will not be heard. These silent bolts are called heat lightning. Lightning bolts produce thunder, but the thunder sound does not travel all the way to the observer if the observer is too far away...The term "heat" in heat lighting has little to do with temperature. Since heat lightning is most likely to be seen in association with air mass thunderstorms in the warm season, the term "heat" may have been used because these flashes are often seen when surface temperatures are warm.
                The poem was written after watching such a display lighting up the far clouds.

                         SILENT LIGHTNING

A silent lightning flickers light upon

a patch of clouded night.

The quiver of detailing white upon

the sequence of the shadow sight

throws glowing, evanescent images from

the darkened generality.

A second's insight and the flash is free

to shock its shaking path from gathered thought:

that sudden and creative insight caught

when blaze of swift and dancing light is born

upon a once-unknown horizon's form.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 11 A Parting Sonnet

A PARTING SONNET

A poem in the form of a sonnet with the Shakespearean sonnet rhyming scheme (abab, cdcd, efef, gg). Some in the modernist movement believed that "freedom of form" in poetry means that no one should write in traditional forms, however I believe that freedom includes the freedom to use whatever form you wish to use or feel suits your subject. 




 

                      A PARTING SONNET

Why is it I should feel heart flame while you

Feel nothing of that hidden heat and light?

None cause the sun to rise before it's due;

None cast new, lasting stars upon the night.

So none can bring warm being to be so

If it's not kindled in some secret deeps;

For none can help another's heart to glow

And wake a longing where no longing sleeps.

So where there is an end it's best to turn

Away and know in time that time will still

That foolish spark that it allowed to burn-

Yet still I hope you will not take it ill.

      Recall I praised your presence once and smile;

      Don't think unkindly of me for a while.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 10 The Flowering

THE FLOWERING

Cactus flowers are often remarkably fine and delicate compared to the rest of the plant. This poem was inspired by seeing a particularly beautiful example of this in a plant that my brother owned. Note- I am using the Australian and British spelling of centre. "Their harsh world" refers to their original desert-like habitat. 

      THE FLOWERING

From a bulbous, dark-green cactus,

spiked in squat solidity,

three, fine flowers, sudden-full,

burst forth like festivity.

As beautiful as any

blossoms of this world,

with rings of peaked and fragile

petals, all unfurled,

that pass,

so imperceptibly,

from sheen of centre white

into a blush of light,

pale-glowing pink,

and vibrate in

the soft, south breeze

that brushes on the skin like silk;

they seem apart, hardly a part

of this stout citizen of desert heat;

light-born, ethereal as dawn,

unlike the hard and water-hoarding

body of the plant;

and yet

the seeming dull can bring

such shining to its birth;

to live the ideal needs

to spread its roots in earth.

In their harsh world the flowers last one day.

They grace the light, with night they pass away.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 9 To A Vanished Globe

TO A VANISHED GLOBE

This poem is in the form of an ode in the ten line iambic pentameter form of the Keat's odes. It is addressed to an object- in this case a small copy of some "old world" globe. A slightly different version of this was originally published in the short-lived Bulletin Supplement many years ago. Small pedantic note- I have chosen the -ize form (as opposed to the -ise form) for realize and epitomize as the ize form is permissible in British English and is regarded as the only correct form in American English and, after all, it is a voiced "s" i.e. "z". I think the theme of the poem can speak for itself- intellect without imagination is "dead". 

TO A VANISHED GLOBE

From markings many journeys could collect

The little likeness of a learned, old,

World globe stands, in a stillness, on my desk;

From times when hard adventure paid with gold,

Lands green and brown lapped by a yellowed sea,

The whole earth's semblance through the eyes of age,

Here imaged in the early seventeenth century.

Before blind pedantry had made a cage

Of false exactitude and barred precision,

This small and clumsy globe still marked a vision.

Imperfect; some that's froth of fantasy-

Seabeasts that never saw the joyful sun;

Yet each land's drawn with its own imagery,

And seas bear tree-born ships that travelled on

The will of wind and here there's bark canoes

And leaping fish; and there, like some odd flower,

A compass of sharp petals points the views

Of many lands: half-known but well-known now.

For we've no use for pictures such as these,

Our plans are clear to fractions of degrees.

Here giant Africa still carries palms

And grass-made huts and hills with shadowed sides,

And naked warriors with shields and arms;

The brown south pole has beasts with strange, green hides.

Here China's wall's so tall that Everest

Is dwarfed; Arabia's desert has camels still-

New Holland, strangely-shaped, is blessed

With its brown hunter too, spear poised to kill;

And Aztec temples rise from jungle lines,

Which oddly seem composed of firs or pines.

But our world's mapped by globe-encircling spies,

That ray the sites of instruments of death.

If this is all our thoughts epitomize,

Why did we ever bother to draw breath?

Yet though we've murdered our imaginations

And gaze upon the screen through soulless eyes,

Perhaps we can arise to new creations,

Perhaps there's time for us to realize

We're blind behind our calculated bars;

Each seed holds secrets deep as those of stars.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 8 Wind and Stone

WIND AND STONE

This short poem was partly inspired by reading Christina Rossetti's poems Who Has Seen the Wind and The Emerald is as Green as Grass. It was also influenced by the Tao Te Ching (the weak and soft overcomes the strong and hard). Patience could also be part of its theme and it was titled so in the NSW School Magazine on editorial request, though I prefer the original title that does not limit the meaning of its metaphor as much.

Devon Barker
http://devonbarker.photography
 instagram (@devonbbarker).

WIND AND STONE

The wind that blows against the cliff

Is only breath, so weak yet swift,

But carrying some grains of grit,

Like tiny hammers, to fling at it.

Thus bit by bit it wears away

The silent, stony face of gray.

The wind is weak, the stone is tough…

But being tough is not enough.

Forever comes the wind to play

And bit by bit wears it away.

The stone is strong, the wind is thin-

But in the end the wind will win.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No. 7 A Eulogy for Li- Po

A EULOGY FOR LI-PO

This is a poem about art and poetry, time and power, and also the universal human reaching across cultures and time. Li Po ( or Li Bai 701-762 c.e. ) is one of the most famous classical Chinese poets.

According to one legend he is supposed to have told the emperor that he, Li-Po, as a poet, was also related to the Jade Emperor of Heaven. For the purpose of this poem I am pronouncing his name as Lee Bore- and no pun intended.

                     A EULOGY FOR LI-PO

What's left of those long, honoured lines,

those proud, most powerful potentates

of ancient days?

Those ruthless rulers of the flower realm?

Time's swept their fame and might aside,

like lost leaves in dry, autumn wind.

Where are the gleaming courts,

the glittering displays,

the chambers of the slender concubines,

the shining weapons of the warriors,

the scrolls of ever-honoured names?

Dust of the dust of the driest of plains.

And we, whose childhood's history

is from the farthest reaches

of your most distant skyline's

dusk-golden vanishing of sun,

don't even know those rulers' names;

we cannot speak the singing signs.

I first came on the might of dynasties,

as footnotes to the poets.

And since the great march of the peasants,

even the proud, jade emperor of heaven

is cloud-bound, whereabouts unknown.

But you, illustrious Li-Po,

your spirit's working lives on, for

your quiet thoughts at night,

your silent, lunar light,

your cloudy mountain paths,

far waterfalls and swirling mists

and journeys of the secret soul

in far, far, upward flight,

are supple with humanity,

and sing in universal keys,

through carefully translating art,

within the hearing of the heart.

No petty emperor could claim

such a travelled, shining fame.

Thus from another land,

another time,

I raise salute

across the distances of seas and centuries.

Li-Po, you were right to call

the ones above your kin,

immortal of heaven as maker of song,

your body like enchanted breath-

still shimmering.