Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry

Glad

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by the Swingin’ Utters

    Some sing their songs
    they’re flying on uppers
    So sweet and smug
    that I lose my supper

    Some mumble psalms
    of solace and virtue
    Hang by their palms
    Choke on the cud they chew

    I’m glad we met
    So sad you left
    Sometimes the sweetest things turn sour

    Love songs are cheap
    and only get cheaper
    They prey on the meek
    Who only get meeker

    Cliches sung by stars
    Look so good on paper
    Each bar fed to you
    A communion wafer

    I’m glad we met
    So sad you left
    Sometimes the sweetest things turn sour

    Don’t even think of being average
    You’re so much more to me than adequate
    I’m hanging on to every word you speak
    I’ll burn the torch until you come to me

    I’m glad we met
    So sad you left
    Sometimes the sweetest things turn sour

    The time we spent
    Was heaven sent
    Opened my eyes and stole my hours

History, Poetry

House Made of Dawn

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I decided to pick up a copy of N. Scott Momaday‘s classic prose in House Made of Dawn. I wonder why it is so rare to see any of the Indian story-telling or prose mentioned on sites of American poetry? His opening paragraph seems amazing to me, all by itself:

The river lies in a vally of hills and fields. The north end of the valley is narrow, and the river runs down from the mountains through a canyon. The sun strikes the canyon floor only a few hours each day, and in winter the snow remains for a long time in the crevices of the walls. There is a town in the valley, and there are ruins of other towns in the canyon. In three directions from the town there are cultivated fields. Most of them lie to the west, across the river, on the slope of the plain. Now and then in winter, great angles of geese fly through the valley, and then the sky and the geese are the same color and the air is hard and damp and smoke rises from the houses of the town. The seasons lie hard upon the land. In the summer the valley is hot, and birds come to the tamarak on the river. The feathers of blue and yellow birds are prized by the townsmen.

And of course the song:

Tsegihi.
House made of dawn,
House made of evening light,
House made of dark cloud,
House made of male rain,
House made of dark mist,
House made of female rain,
House made of pollen,
House made of grasshoppers,
Dark cloud is at the door.
The trail out of it is dark cloud.
The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.
Male deity!
Your offering I make.
I have prepared smoke for you.
Restore my feet for me,
Restore my legs for me,
Restore my body for me,
Restore my mind for meÂ…

Poetry, Security

Tiger Kidnapping

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No, it’s not what you think. Tigers are not in any danger. The British media is reporting all kinds of odd news tid-bits in the wake of the recent Kent banknote robbery, and someone must have thought a “law of the jungle” reference would be fitting. Bruce Schneier did a nice job highlighting a dramatic piece in the Times:

It did not take gelignite to blow open the vaults; it took fear, in the hostage technique known as “tiger kidnapping”, so called because of the predatory stalking that precedes it.

Now what do we call it when some kidnaps a tiger? Or maybe that doesn’t happen very often, so there’s little chance of confusion. Personally, I’m glad the topic of tigers came up since it has been a while since I had a chance to read about their predatory practices. The Chris Brunskill photography site has a nice three-part review of a tiger stalking as it unfolds in real life, but the best part is where he shows the target narrowly escaping:

Suffice to say, those 15-20 seconds are imprinted on my memory forever and it stands out as the single most exhilaring encounter I have ever had with wild tigers – No matter what you do, never give up.

Now how’s that for a reverse lesson in how to deal with terrorists and/or robbers?

The Tiger
by William Blake

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?