The Possibility by James Fenton

The lizard on the wall, engrossed,
The sudden silence from the wood
Are telling me that I have lost
The possibility of good.

I know this flower is beautiful
And yesterday it seemed to be,
It opened like a crimson hand.
It was not beautiful to me.

I know that work is beautiful.
It is a boon. It is a good.
Unless my working were a way
Of squandering my solitude.

And solitude was beautiful
When I was sure that I was strong.
I thought it was a medium
In which to grow, but I was wrong.

The jays are swearing in the wood.
The lizard moves with ugly speed.
The flower closes like a fist.
The possibility recedes.

There is danger in believing solitude is the all encompassing escape, refuge, and inspiration of originality and creativity. And perhaps staying in a place for so long that the magical qualities are gone and becoming disenchanted with the once wonderful is just as important. This poem strikes a chord with me because I could see myself becoming in the future a botanist or forester, which would require immense amounts of solitude. The thing is, I am not scared of solitude, but rather I find comforting at times, just as at times a large crowd can become a frightening and/or dull place. I believe that Fenton was conveying the necessity of being brutally honest with ourselves, which is exemplified by stanza four, and especially when “I was sure that I was strong.” If we are not careful, we can isolate ourselves in an environment that is not suited for us “in which to grow,” but will stunt us and stifle us, whether that is in Isolation, like the environment of the poem, or in the opposite spectrum Publicity, which can be almost just like Isolation,  but with different lizards and flowers.

The Coming of Wisdom with Time by William Butler Yeats

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

Why would I choose such a short poem? Probably because something so small is often ultra-concentrated. Or maybe I just chose this poem because perhaps I’m feeling a bit melancholy. Is not the Truth the best thing for everyone? Is not it the most wonderful thing? Best I can tell, Yeats disagrees. To find out, one must pick the poem apart. With the poem being so short, one must take the poem one line at a time.

            “Though leaves are many, the root is one.” Straightforward. Any plant one is likely to find is made up of this. The leaves that in the summer convert the sun to usable energy, and the root, which stores the energy and collects nutrients from the ground.

            “Through all the lying days of my youth” The highlight is lying, which can mean either that he was telling un-truths in his youth, or that he (or the day, depending on who one interprets the subject is) is resting (beneath the shade of a tree perhaps?)

            “I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun” This brings an image of life, whether the swaying is celebration, dancing, or something else vibrant. Also, note the sun, which gives nourishment.

            “Now I may wither into the truth” Now the lying is revealed. No longer is he alive with a lie, but dead, dying, or at least retreating into himself, with the truth to stark for life to grow. The winter has entered his soul, and there is no sun.

The Halo That Would Not Light by Lucie Brock-Broido

When, after many years, the raptor beak   

Let loose of you,

                           He dropped your tiny body   

In the scarab-colored hollow

                           Of a carriage, left you like a finch   

Wrapped in its nest of linens wound

With linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box.   

Tonight the wind is hover-

Hunting as the leather seats of swings go back   

And forth with no one in them

As certain and invisible as

                           Red scarves silking endlessly

From a magician’s hollow hat

                           And the spectacular catastrophe

Of your endless childhood

                                                    Is done.

Oh what a despondent poem. From the very beginning, it has the sorrowful tone of something lost. And from the poem, the best guess of what is lost is a child. Take the title “The Halo That Would Not Light.” What beings have halos? Only things that are pure and gentile, ‘a little angel’ also comes to mind. But it would not light? Something is wrong. Brock-Broido uses these “once removed” clichés through her poem. (This sadness is not uncommon for her poems, a common subject of her poetry is death and mortality, according The Poetry Foundation.org) The second line says, “the raptor beak let loose of you.” What other Avian species are associated with birth? Only Raptor suggests something much more violent. After this, the childish diction continues, with “tiny body,” “carriage,” “linens,” among others, but is followed closely with more foreboding words, words that suggest at least dried-out-and-forgotten, like “scarab-colored hollow” (Egyptian mummy?), “linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box” (which by the way are heart shaped leaves) and no one in swings to be pushed. However, the real decisive factor is that the child never even lived is the very last line. If a childhood is endless, it means that the child never grew up. Moreover, if it is done, they are never going to grow up

A Personal Poem

Commentaries

Moves without ripples

Splashes with a

Devil may care

Lives for calm

Feels the tempest

Sees the

Tranquility

Flown

With the Outer Most

Stars

                        &

Find the Emptiness in Between

…***…

“

So You think you can tell

I hurt Myself Today

I know I’ll never be Lonely

Where was I?

A face of Puzzle Pieces

has a Madman

got a Quick hand

i can see the Magic in the Day

I’m on It

finding out about

it’s so re-arranged

WHY YOU IN SO MUCH HURRY-IS IT REALLY WORTH THE WORRY?

I’ll make out The Tides gonna turn

thefirstthingirememberihearditwasyourbirthday

There is a Light that will keep on shining

Just a little bit Shy

The Atmosphere is less than Perfect

Can You put your hands in my Head(?!)

Get a hold on Believe it

I Came To See The Light

Feelin Alright

if the course is right

\

…dlrow eht elur ot desu I…

/

That’s the way it seemed

something I Feel

No  Joke

͜͜

I don’t know how to tell

That

I’m at my wit’s End

”

“He’s like a Radio…”

Sure.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

I see in Color

Not because I always want to

My head hurts

I’ve Run

            For a Long Time

Just as much to as from

But mostly for the In-Between

To feel that feeling

of sweet-sour

Pain

and see it too.

A book is an aggregate escape

But it rips my Life away

pours some more in

a poor consistency

My life is pretty Plain

The Blind will see

Tomorrow
Is frightening

Infinity in more

or less

is

uncomprehendable

Mindbender

A spiral

Galaxy

Smallest of small

largest

to the edge of light

to come back

a clash

 of interest

more than that

paradigm

Red Shift

blue-shift

All the colors a-whirl

Proof that begs existence

All claim that, Don’t they?

                    t

All A sigh of a seashore.

Rockets Blazing

Cannons Razing

Fire Hazing

            the sky

Scholars Booking

Men Farming

People Looking

            to the sky

From the seed, Stem

Violent Flower

Bearing Fruit soon

I expect it to be sweet.

The mind is

Unfathomable

terribly deep well

A much better Window

But outside

It’s

so

foggy

            A Coating

            of

           

Stardust

…