Found via GrrlScientist, here's a poem I'd never heard of, by one Nazim Hikmet, a Turkish author I'd never heard of either. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever read.
I'm in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. So let's cap off this month with one of Hugo's most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there's just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain's flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail.
I'm in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. So let's cap off this month with one of Hugo's most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there's just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain's flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail. This work is full of larger-than-life mythical figures and over-the-top emotions accompanied by violent weather, as befits a Romantic poem. The meter is flawless (alexandrine verse? oh yes), the language is exquisite, the images are gripping. Truly, a masterpiece.
— Je suis trop près, dit-il avec un tremblement.
— Arrêtons-nous, dit-il, car cet asile est sûr.
Étends de ce côté la toile de la tente.
Et Caïn répondit : — Je vois cet œil encore !
Cria : — Je saurai bien construire une barrière.
Et Caïn dit : — Cet œil me regarde toujours !
Bâtissons une ville, et nous la fermerons.
On mit l'aïeul au centre en une tour de pierre.
Et lui restait lugubre et hagard. — O mon père !
L'œil a-t-il disparu ? dit en tremblant Tsilla.
Et Caïn répondit : — Non, il est toujours là.
On fit donc une fosse, et Caïn dit : C'est bien !
Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I'd never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact.
Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I'd never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact. At the time I wanted so much to write like she did, fierce and unapologetic and flowing straight from the heart. The following is from her first collection of poetry, Not Vanishing.
I just remembered it's National Poetry Month. Last year I posted an old poem of mine, but this year I thought I'd showcase the works of real poets. Now, I read very little poetry, but there are few poems that have made a strong impression on me.
The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams.
The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams. The first four stanzas are the most often quoted, and it's the last line of the fourth stanza that guarantees its immortality. I found this a quietly moving tribute to the scientific profession. There is a deep respect for science, its virtues and rewards, but also, perhaps, the price one pays for practicing it. Mind you, I'm not aware of any scientist whose career is as lonely and thankless as this fictional astronomer's… but, we'll chalk it up to poetic license. Enjoy.
What, for us, are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles?
To conclude National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post the first and only poem of mine that ever got published. It appeared in the Fall 1994/Winter 1995 edition of The Radical Chameleon, OPIRG-Ottawa's newsletter. I wrote a number of other poems over the next few years which I never tried to publish anywhere except this Web site—and then took offline for the current version because, well, I don't think they're all that good anymore. Except this one.
To conclude National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post the first and only poem of mine that ever got published. It appeared in the Fall 1994/Winter 1995 edition of The Radical Chameleon, OPIRG-Ottawa's newsletter. I wrote a number of other poems over the next few years which I never tried to publish anywhere except this Web site—and then took offline for the current version because, well, I don't think they're all that good anymore. Except this one. Even after all this time, I still feel it's pretty special, so I'm resurrecting it.
Call me Hesitant To Write This.
Coming out is hard to do.
Call me Shy, and A Private Kind Of Guy.
For a heart to be.
So call me Forging Ahead Anyways.
First call me In Denial, and I mean seriously.
Never connected them with myself.
And who was there to listen?
The dam broke, the truth came out.
I am homosexual. I am gay.
Call me Alone With My Secret.
Alone at least for a while.
And still afraid to speak out, speak about.
"It's a symbol of gay pride." Loud and clear.
Don't want to look at pictures of naked women.