Faith

Cormac McCarthy's play, "The Sunset Limited" is an absolute masterpiece of literature. It asks a lot of questions of us as a people, and how we view our world. Many of these questions, it is nearly impossible to answer all of them. One major question raised is, "what truly is faith?"

When we think of someone and their faith, we think of someone attending church, but can one be faithful to something other than a god? What of Death and Nothingness, can one be truly faithful to those notions. It seems this way for the Professor in "The Sunset Limited." Compared to Black's true devotion to Christ, The Professor is completely devoted to this blissful nothingness, he worships the notion of a Void, and the Death that leads him there. But is that true faith? And how is that different from worshiping a deity such as Christ?

I could go on for pages and days talking on this subject, so I shall end it here. But it is an interesting question to mull over for the next few days. This play challenges a lot, and could ruin you if you dwell on it too long.

Topic for my poetry essay.

For my poetry essay, I plan on writing on the poem/song by Bob Dylan, "Mr.Tambourine Man." I found this poem quite fascinating, and saw something in it I think few have, which ties in with my thesis. I intend to prove that this poem is actually talking living with depression and the hardships that come from it. Many people speculate if Dylan actually suffered from chronic depression, as the science of the time was nowhere near as refined as it is now. But, I can see a lot of evidence for that in this poem, and I wholly intend to prove it so.

Villonous Intent

The Buddha's grand revelation was that all of life is suffering. Specifically, this suffering was born of desire of the material world, and the behaviors that fuel that, such as hatred, manipulation, and selfishness If indeed these traits are the cause of suffering, then what effect do they have on the world around us? That is one of the many things addressed in Phillip Levine's poem, "Baby Villon."

   Indeed, in this poem, we can see a theme of a quiet outrage from a life tainted by other's hatred and selfishness. We get a view of this in the first couple of stanzas, when the speaker describes the subject talking about all the discrimination he has experienced. It culminates with the speaker saying, "He holds up seven thick little fingers/To show me he’s rated seventh in the world"(Levine), showing his placement in the world, below all of the major cultures, below everything. And indeed this supports the theme of this quiet outrage, for the stanza follows with, "And there’s no passion in his voice, no anger/ In the flat brown eyes flecked with blood" (Levine). A person so discriminated, and so hated in this world just approaching it silently is not uncommon But rather they just hold it in, a quiet fury brewing under the surface, the calm before the storm.

We continue to see more of this person's tragic circumstances, and the world that shaped them. In the next stanza, we see that he has been part of a war, and the tragedy that came from it. "...he talks of the war/In North Africa and what came after,/The loss of his father, the loss of his brother" (Levine). We can see the speaker showing that the subject has lost his father and brother as a result, but how the speaker presents this is what is most important. He presents this very blandly, without emotion or embellishment  If the speaker indeed is relaying how the subject told about these circumstances, it ties perfectly with the theme of quiet outrage. When one typically looses a family member, they are utterly devastated, but the subject shows no discernible emotion when it comes to this.

The detail of how the subject relates to the speaker near the end of this poem is evident of the theme of quiet outrage as well. Near the end of the poem, during this meeting between the speaker and the subject of the poem there comes this touching scene of a personal interaction between the two. "Sadly his fingers wander over my face,/And he says how fair I am, how smooth./We stand to end this first and last visit" (Levine). This seems more sad and touching than filled with brewing anger,but we can step back and see that isn't quite so. It is at this point we seem to get a tone shift from outrage focused through the subject to focusing it through the speaker. We see the speaker meeting with the subject and seeing his absolutely horrid quality of life, and how terribly he is treated. We see this in such detail that anyone would be enraged at the world for treating someone this way, and giving them a life that no one deserves. This last touching gesture before their meeting ends is filled with sadness on both ends, and one can pick up a very subtle sense of outrage brewing in the speaker's heart after all he knows now. The speaker ends on a note that shows how we all can be forced into this state, ending the poem with, "Myself made otherwise by all his pain" (Levine). It's a fitting line, showing how excessive pain, can turn anyone into a rage filled monster.

From this, we can see the theme of quiet outrage is clearly evident in this poem, though it is subtle at times. This is important, because it not only shows how any perfectly normal person can be turned into a hate filled sub-human; but also how our actions, our collective actions as human beings can cause people to become this way. We must learn form the examples in this poem, and take a page from the Buddha. Do away with our selfish desires, and we do away with creating so much outrage and villons in our world.


"Baby Villon." By Philip Levine : The Poetry Foundation. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Oct. 2012. <http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178145>.

I Would Love You If I Could

There seems to be a gap in thought,
A missing portion of my mind,
Where romantic intention would be.

What wraith on me had life wrought,
That in such pathetic state I find,
Such a crucial piece missing from me.

And now I know you my sweet,
Enchanting to the very soul,
I’d do anything, I would.

But my very heart is effete,
I am far less than whole,
But I would love you if I could.

I may want to postpone my trip to London...

We all tend to get a rather pleasant image in our mind's eye when we think of London, kind of gray but still a lively and vibrant city. Quite contrary images come to mind when one reads William Blake's "London" though.

The first thing I noticed in this poem was it's almost contrary nature in presentation versus content. The use of rhyme, meter, and iambic pentameter give this poem an energetic, almost cheery rhythm when reading it. When you apply this rhythm to the content of the poem however, you get a much more contrary feel. Perhaps it was to create a kind of darker image, of the use of playful structure to display such grim sights as "... the hapless Soldier's sigh/ Ruins in blood down palace walls" (Blake). Yes, Blake's portrait of London is far from the pleasant images that come to mind. To the speaker it is a city of woe, filled with cries of desperation from  men to infants, from soldiers to harlots. Personally, I think this  is not a commentary of London itself, but rather the roles one can lock oneself into, thinking that this is your solitary fate. In the second stanza we see that, "In every cry of every man,/ In every Infant's cry of fear,/ In every voice, in every ban,/ The mind-forged manacles I hear" (Blake). This is a city filled with people's cries, lamenting their fates and woes, trapped in the prisons of the roles they take. But with the last line in that stanza, we see these are not prisons they are forces to take, but rather their manacles (or handcuffs for those who do not know the word) are just mental. They are an illusory prison created by both ourselves and society.

I believe Blake was trying to say in one way or another, that in a vast and diverse environment such as London, one is not necessarily trapped to lament their sad role, but rather can break free of those shackles. That is just one thing I took from it thought. Quite a good poem though, if you did not read it, I'd recommend it.

Blake, William. “London.” The Norton Introduction to Literature.10^th ed. Peter Simon.  New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2011. 483.

The Phoenix's Lover

My Love, I would carry you upon rainbow wings,
Across the sky through all visible spectrum,
For though I resonate with all color imaginable,
They are merely shades of grey without you.

My Love, if you were to feel the slightest chill,
I would shed all my feather and down.
I’d sacrifice my every ornate plume,
To give you the warmth you bring to my heart.

My Love, if you were ever trapped in the dark,
I’d set myself ablaze for you.
I’d burn myself to nothing but ash,
And rival the very sun, just for you.

My love, I’d do this all for you,
And yet I am heartbroken as ever for you,
For I am damned to being the only one of my kind,
And yet all I want Love, is you.

Way to make me feel bad every time I hear "Mid-Term Break"...

Whilst perusing the poems for this section, I was surpised to see one entitled "Mid Term-Break." The title is admittedly deceptive, and I thought I'd be reading a silly little piece about someone's antics during their break. I was proven wrong in the first line, "I sat all morning in the college sick bay" (Heaney). Right away, you get the feeling that something is wrong, no one spends all day in a health center unless they have to. It already sets the tone as something a little less than mirthful.

And by the beginning of the second stanza, we get a feeling that is going to be a very sad experience for the reader, and the speaker. It starts with "In the porch I met my father crying-" (Heaney), and reading that somewhat jolts one. In countless narratives and stories, the father figure is rigid, stoic figure who does not cry at all unless the situation they're reacting to is of the utmost tragedy. And that's what it signals to the reader, that this is beyond a student simply not feeling well, and it centers around tragic events. This is proven true in the rest of the stanza, where we learn that this is taking place at a funeral, but at the moment, we do not know for who.

Then, the beginning of the third stanza struck me as something so out of place from the rest of the poem. "The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram" (Heaney). This seems to misdirect us from the tone already established, but it could merely be symbolism. Here we have a baby at a funeral, life and death side by side. The child, so innocent, does not know what is going on, and instead finds joy in this new world, while others are rocked by tragedy.

In the fourth stanza, a little more light is shed on the circumstances. We see that "Whispers informed I was the eldest, away at school..." (Heaney), and the curtain is pulled back a little more. We do not know for sure, but casually mentioning the speaker is the eldest means that in context, the events revolve around one of the younger siblings. This would explain the father crying, and the mother's own reaction, "... as mother held my had/ In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs." Yes, next to the father who is so overtaken with grief we have a mother who has not shed a tear. To some she may seem merely impatient and unmoved by the tragic events, but when we see in the context established, she is just the opposite. She cannot shed a tear, because she is too angry with a life and world in which something so precious to her must be taken away.

By the end, we get the full reveal. We see this is about someone who was killed when a car struck him. "He lay in the four foot box as in his cot/ No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear" (Heaney). So now we get a picture of what has happened, and it seems like a freak accident that has rattled a family to it's core. Of course, the final line cements the heartbreak for the reader, "A four foot box, a foot for every year" (Heaney).

Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.

The Misfit's Gambit

Flannery O'Connor's short story, "A Good Man Is Hard To Find," takes place in the South in the early 50's or so (it is never mentioned in the text, but that is the general consensus of the time period). It features a mildly eclectic family, with a slight focus on the grandmother, the mildly racist, judgmental, manipulative, hypocritical, "set in her ways" grandmother. By far the most developed character in the story, the narration seems to lend itself a bit to her own perceptions and biases. Nonetheless this tale begins with this eccentric family headed off on a trip and encountering interesting people on the way. When first reading it, it reminded me slightly of the movie Little Miss Sunshine near the beginning. But near the end we encounter the big ol' bad guy (and excellent use of Checkov's Gun), The Misfit. The Misfit and granny get into a nice spiritual debate, which end up with *SPOILER ALERT* everyone in the family dead.

What intersted me the most about this story was the dynamic of The Misfit and the grandmother, and what their debate entailed and really meant. After all, this is a thief, a criminal, and murderer talking about Jesus with an old lady as her family is murdered by his posse. With this exchange, this interaction, I think this was the story's attempt at pointing out the skewed morality of modern day Christianity. They touch on this directly, when talking about how Jesus rose the dead, with The Misfit saying, "and He shouldn't have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him." (P. 408) This is actually a section in The Bible, one which states that the followers of Christ should abandon all their earthly possesions and follow a life of absolute piousness. But, compared to the modern day view, even the one exemplified by the grandmother, does that really seem like the morality is held? Or is it simply a pick and choose view by this society to selfishly serve the self and morality be damned? It strays far from any sort of true absolute morality, and maybe that could be yet another symbol for The Misfit, the truth of the absoluteness of any type of religion, versus the self serving societal view of the grandmother, who could really be representing all of society. When you look at it this way, it becomes ever the more grim, and humorous (in an admittedly dark way) when The Misfit says, "She would have been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life." (P. 409)
O’Connor, Flannery. “A Good Man Is Hard To Find.” The Norton Introduction to Literature.10^th ed. Peter Simon.  New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2011. 396-409.

Two Quatrains About Humanity

To hear the songs and see the lies,
Of anarchal thoughts that make up our minds,
One must disect the gossamer lines,
Of the Archon’s knot that we all comprise.

But what of tangled beings we weave,
When every thought does touch deceive,
And only at our new being’s eve,
Do we take our knowledge and let our body leave.

Made of Text

I am a purely typographical being,
I only make sense in written form,
I am only understood, when written,
I only inspire, connect and attract,
When I comprise of myself of ink and letters,
My most comfortable, my prime state,
Is when I’m made of text.

To some, this is blessing,
To me, this is a curse,
For this world we live in is not illiterate,
But they lack comprehension of reading,
Letters are just letters to them,
They lack multiple insights to a single word,
Let alone a text comprised being,
So my chances of being read,
For someone to do what I want them to do most,
To read and to truly understand me fully,
Is so little, it inspires hopelessness.

I am made of text and yet not read,
A dusty book on a shelf,
Awaiting a reader that never comes.

This Amontillado Is Exquisite...

Upon reading Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado," a question popped into mind. Not about the irony of the story, nor the motivation of vengeance, nor even the odd choice of names. No, the question that popped into my mind was, "why was wine so stressed in this story?" Seriously, it played a major role, and I for one picked up on it. Now, I'm not one for wine, don't care for the stuff, and I find the wine "connoisseurs" (which one must always pronounce with a silly French accent, otherwise you just sound ridiculous) just snooty and annoying. So to better grasp this story, I did a little research.

Here's a funny thing, when Fortunato keeps scoffing that Lechresi "cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry," well, that's actually somewhat ironic. You see, apparently Amontillado is actually a type of Sherry. It's darker and only had the slightest difference in structure and taste from other types of Sherry. In fact, some wineries only categorize Amontillados by a their difference in color. For your comparison, here's a basic glass of Sherry:

And here is a glass of Amontillado:

Only slightly darker. But, what bearing does that have on the story? Well, bear in mind it was intoxication that allowed for Fortunato to be lured to the chambers of his demise. His knowledge, his expertise in the field, his arrogance and chastising of others as such played into said doom. This could be a commentary on the futility of the "overcultured," those who have too much time to waste on frivolous things that breed arrogance about the pointless. I believe in some way, Poe (who had exposure to that kind of lifestyle) was trying to show that kind of lifestyle and mentality only leads to horrible and ironic doom. It just shows that a little knowledge (and too much wine) can sometimes be a dangerous thing. 

"So this blind man was on the way to stay the night..."

The title of the post, it almost sounds like the setup to the joke? Change the location to a bar, and you'd be expecting a laugh. But, that's actually the setup to Raymond Carter's "Cathedral." The story itself, was interesting, and it really makes one think upon reading it.

What was most interesting to me was the characterization and point of view. This story takes place mainly through the eyes and in the head of the unnamed protagonist. Raymond Carter's style in this story really pays off, for the presentation of the story is very "stream of consciousness." By that I mean it looks like you're viewing the character's thoughts in real time. His thought process is choppy and filled with non sequitrs, much like the human thought process. This does jar the reader, or at least it did to me, on the initial read through, but on another one can acclimate to it and get into the near-perfect stream of thought.

But the character himself, he's a rotten, horrible human being really. He's a cynic, a bigot, and really (for lack of a better term) just and all around asshole. He's in a pretty much loveless marriage where he can't understand the basic things that makes his wife happy.  He's callous and cold to his guest, a blind man to boot who seems like a friendly and stand up guy from the get go. And is there really any growth of character by the end of the story? Maybe a little, but not enough to change him greatly I imagine. He's just one of those people you just learn to love to hate, and that's part of the story's appeal I believe.

Song of Still Air

Can you hear the song of still air?
Take a listen, see if you can.


Did you hear it?
A song that weeps for every sorrow,
That cries in the dead of night,
Of every sin and sorrow that had been done,
A song of tears that fall as waterfalls,
A song that radiates from the dark of night,
That knows the secrets of the skies,
That sings of them to better their lives,
And warn them of the heartaches they could avoid.
It is a terribly sad and mournful song.


And yet so few hear,
And so fewer will to listen.

Lies of an Angry Ocean

The ocean shouted at the clouds,
“You’re pathetic you know?”
“With no connection to anything,”
“You’re just shallow fools,”
“Floating about in your airheaded ways,”
You’re useless, every one!”

And the ocean’s waves crash and turn,
Frothing in an angry rage,
Disguising the lies it so passionately shouted,
Lies rooted in anger,
At those vapors that escaped from within,
That left it sitting there, abandoned,
While the went on their ways, without a care,

For what use is depth,
Without freedom?
What use is depth,
Without care,
What use is it,
Without someone to explore it?

And if clouds are free to go on their way without consequence,
What use is an ocean?

For the Sake of Knowledge

Step forward into the institution,
Do it for the sake of knowledge,
Information is a powerful thing,
You should get some sort of edge.

Learn about all the things in the world,
To learn some sort of skill of trade,
Do it under the watchful florescent lights,
You can’t learn anything in unregulated shade.

And learn all our norms and conditions,
In that trial and error way,
We can teach you anything you need to know,
But it’s with time and pain you’ll pay.

Everything, except how to live,
How to be an exceptional human being,
We’ve no use for anything of that sort,
It’s not a sight worth seeing.

And in the shades are those,
Who learn for knowledge’s and life sake.
Education can make you learn,
But never teach you what’s really at stake.

Self Worth

In order to know the worth of self,
You must learn your worth from others,
And from what you may take of that,
Start questioning who you are,
And the answer never is all that clear,
For like all pursuits of knowledge,
One answer raises more questions,
And you never really know the true value,
Of what you are worth to you.

Of Mice and Men

I took a shovel once again,
Splinters of sadness piercing through my hand,
And with heavy sigh escape my head,
I began to bury my best laid plans.

I hated being by your damned charm,
That I dulled senses with every available tool,
But desires pierced through smoke filled mind,
And I went and made myself a fool.

But plans themselves are not foolish work,
The idiocy was in believing in you,
For I’ve filled a graveyard with hopes and plans,
Every headstone marked with your name and rue.

And I can’t help but think you’re a bit cruel,
For dragging me along on this ride,
Every plan that I have to bury,
Makes me die a little on the inside.

I took a shovel once again,
Splinters of sadness piercing through my hand,
This work won’t end until I’m dead,
Buried in the corpses of best laid plans.

At the Dawn

At the dawn of a new era, when all things that are old can again claim newness, do I stand alone yet again. In the crackle of artificial stardust that dies in an instant, many do celebrate, but I stand alone yet again. I’ve been cast and tempered in this forge of shadows and isolation so many times, that I have been hardened to the feeling.

But, as the night of the past year draws to a close, and the dawn of something new begins, I feel it resonate within me yet again. For what is time or age to someone with no memories and too few attachment? Can one who straddles that line of life and death become reborn on that resetting of the calendar?

There is no answer.

For like everything in life, such questions are left to invisible patterns and chaotic games of chance, all one an do is leave it to hope. But hope is hard to muster when things have followed a pattern of sadness and disappointment for one’s entire life. But is is the sign of a weak man to be so defeated, even after being beaten down for a lifetime.

At the dawn of a new era, I am cautious, but not defeated. And I allow the first rays of sunlight to hit me, and use them to guide my path yet again.

I'd Do That Kind of Stuff for You (A NSFW Poem)

Lock lips so tenderly,
Twirl our tongues and then you’ll see,
How softly my hand slides down your hip,
As I gently bite on your lip.

Though I want to push forward,
That goal that I’ve been pushing toward,
I refrain, and continue my onslaught of tongue,
And taste the sweet breath coming from your lungs.

And when I figure it will not hurt,
I slowly slip under your shirt,
And then I find myself at your chest,
Deftly caressing your tender breast.

Your pulse quickens, your flames being fanned,
By the work of tongue and hand,
And your pants I then doff,
Because our pleasure’s end is quite far off.

The scent of you hits my nose,
Drives my desire beyond where it normally goes,
And when my peak does arrive,
Headfirst into you do I dive.

I find myself intoxicated by your taste,
And thus do not act in haste,
As I explore your as much I can,
Your euphoric pleasure is my plan.

And when our goddess does eke,
And I feel you reach your peak,
I do not give up, but continue on,
Until everything but ecstasy from you is gone.

And after your are rocked by orgasm many times,
Do I even attempt for that act so sublime,
And I’d do it time and again, it’s true,
I’d do all that stuff for you.

Love Me Do

Love me do,
But you don’t,
I want you to,
But you won’t.

But I can still,
Live without you,
But I can still wish,
For you to love me do.

Positivity

Maintaining a bit of positivity,
Is a difficult thing to muster for some.

When the coin keeps landing on tails,
You find it hard to bet on heads.

But without some positivity,
You find it hard to live.

So with the deck stacked against you,
You have to keep playing the game.

And it then seems like positivity,
Is something based in illogic.

The (Failed) Education of Romance

Can you blame humanity,
For their terrible behavior,
In the name of love?

After all, their education in the subject,
Has been failed and flawed,
And they know nothing about it.

Their first role models are their parents,
Who fight and are riddled with flaws,
And just seem nonsensical together.

They then turn to our romantic stories,
Where if you were to act upon what they teach,
You’d end up in prison.

And the only way to learn,
Is to fail so many times,
You eventually get it right.

The Somatic Mind

The somatic mind,
Is so much a thing of beauty,
A blazing ball of electricity,
That gives us everything about ourselves,
Turning the weapons of Jupiter,
Into a gift of life,
That is the miracle,
Of the somatic mind.

Damned Lust

Lust can be good,
But also a damned thing,
It can drive you to step forward,
But also step too far,
It makes you plan and scheme,
And think of things most foul,
And the only thing that can cure lust,
Is to let it succeed,
The damned thing that rules our lives.

A Memorable Night

Lets make this evening a memorable night,
Our time together is so fleeting,
I fear you may forget me,
And I’d do so much for you,
That I’d give everything in my power,
To create one unforgettable memory.

For to be forgotten,
Is a fate worse than death,
For the dead live on in our hearts and minds,
But the forgotten do not even exist,
And to you who I feel so passionately about,
I shall try my hardest to make you not forget me,
So I cannot die to someone else,
Not again.

So my dear,
Come with me to create,
A most memorable of nights.

Distorted World to an Illness Riddled Mind

Cramps and queasiness fill me,
Nausea is about to kill me,
This illness that will not cease,
On my mind and body it does fleece.

Sitting down to a boring and bland meal,
Hoping to break this sickness’ seal,
When the illness begins to take control,
And made my perceptions of things unroll.

Time jumped forward in leaps and bounds,
Then slowed to a crawl, and even rewound,
The walls’ colors began to fade away,
And sounds began to linger and stray.

And just like that it was all gone,
And left me without a semblance of what went on,
A distorted world to an illness riddled mind,
Is something no one wants to find.

Plans, Schemes, and Anticipation

Anticipation is a driving force,
In that mysterious thing called fate,
And it is one of the few things we have control over,
For our anticipation makes us plan and scheme,
To get more of what we desire our of life.

But is our anticipation for the best?
Though we act out of our desires,
What we want may not actually benefit,
Any others, or even ourselves,
So can we call anticipation a good thing?

The simple truth is it is neither good nor bad,
But simply a part of out nature,
For we will always plan and scheme,
Always trying our best to come out ahead,
So why not anticipate our outcomes?

Less Crazy

Can one really know,
How much more or less crazy they are,
Until someone else confirms it?
It makes you wonder,
If you were that crazy to begin with.