Poem - The Monster of Moarning

A great many ideas come and go, lost to the eternal sands of time, merely for lack of intiative. I often find myself contemplating some wonderful story or brilliant scheme only to consign it, in an instant, to oblivion for want of pen and pad. This is something that most people must struggle with in one form or another, as the human mind can be terribly fickle. This is precisely the reason why I resolutely refuse to create anything in segments, where possible, as attempting to continue an unfinished project all too often forces the artist to rekindle a long-dead fire with the hopes that the fuel burns as brightly as before. In other words, an idea is never quite the same on subsequent visits, and while this can occasionally be a very important aspect of writing a good story, it all too often results in something altogether... hazy. Thus is the origin of the following poem, my first in at least a year, The Monster of Moarning: a vivid image elaborated on and developed in a single late night spree of inspiration before consuming the night hours and growing to fruition.



While I generally refrain from weaving too much metaphor and allegory into my writing (sometimes a rose is just a rose, and sometimes a story is just a story), it's often unavoidable. The following poem actually refers to depression, or rather to those afflicted by it. Where Moarning is a play on mourning (not, as some have interpreted, morning), our monster is the subject, driving those away with it's misery until some brave souls find the courage to lend their strength. The monster ultimately, as is the case with a great many people, grows tired of their attention and demands more, driving away those who sought to give help.

And now, as promised, The Monster of Moarning:

---

To the south of the hills, in a land very far
from the land that we know of the sun's searing bars
lies a land where the dark shrouds the moon and the stars,
where a troubador's spirits would scarcely but fall;
a land full of sorrow. I'll give you this warning
all but once, you'd be wise
to fear the land known as Moarning.

For deep in this land, at the heart of this fear,
lies the ghastly, atrocious, apparently clear
executioner's nightmare, the heart of the scorning,
the vile, ferocious Monster of Moarning.

For ages the beast lay alone in this land
enraged, for its misery could only command
that the night would remain and the color would drain
from the formerly glorious green meadowlands;
that the evil inside would transform from within
and bring chaos and sorrow to a now-barren land.

Then at last when all had been long since abandoned
a sight caused the creature to let loose a roar,
for up on the hills rose an old covered wagon,
inside were the bravest the gods could have born.

From inside of the wagon the four men outpoured
at the horror and pain of the inhuman roar,
and for the first time they witnessed the poisonous land
engulfed by the suffering creature at hand,
for they were but four of the heroes of yore
embroiled for years in the Great Heroes' War,
and returning to home after long decades passed
found the truth of their homeland's unfortunate past.

But the men felt not anger, for they were greater than we.
No, they felt only pity, for how could it be
that a creature of earth, deemed unfit by the fates,
could be subject of such a miserable state?
And how could this joyously fortunate band,
having valiantly ousted the spirits of war,
let their beautiful meadowland homeland of Moarning
sink to the depths of time's dark ocean floor?

So the heroes found courage, and mounted a scheme
'neath the horrible creature's eyes' horrible gleam.
They showered the monster with tokens and gifts,
and honored the beast that we all would abhor.
And under its sickening, glowering eyes,
and dangerous claws, and glistening teeth,
they rebuilt the walls and relit the skies,
and the creature felt feelings from long since before.

With Moarning resettled, the creature a god,
favours gave out much less oft than before,
the sorrow that clawed at its conscience consumed him.
Then the offerings ceased.
Then the evil arose.

With his hunger unsated
the dread monster screamed
and he thrashed,
and he roared,
and he gnashed
'till he'd gleaned
every last morsel from every last bone,
as a demon let loose from it's demonic throne,
until after the carnage was all that remained:
the pitiful Monster of Moarning, alone.

Poem - To Fate...

At the risk of skirting the subject of my prolonged absence, I present - without further adieu - one of my earlier poems, entitled "To Fate..."

---

In such a present where every day stings,
where truths are seraphim on golden wings,
where one must suffer by another's hand
and we lose what we gained conscript from the land;
Where the people who turmoil, the strong and the meek,
can never agree, though the same things they seek;
Where promises are quite often recalled
(though in truth, friend and foe mean nothing at all);
It is these things - and more! - which we wish to repair,
and yet we just sit, decrepit, in despair.
So tell me now, friend, speak bold! speak true!
What sort of future have I to look to?

There is Hope

There Is Hope - Jonathan Reed

Featured above is an interesting video by Jonathan Reed. Reed is one of many individuals who submitted clips to the Obama in 30 Seconds contest sponsored by MoveOn.org. The contest has brought out some impressive talent. Videos can be viewed and voted for after signing up.

Poem - Needles

Despite my love of literature, English has never been one of my favorite subjects in school. No matter what level of education, I can never come to terms with the cavalcade of trivial exercises. The worst of these exercises have always involved poetry.

It was just such an exercise, oddly enough, which sparked the inspiration for the piece below. "Needles," as it is appropriately titled, was written in response to a poetry assignment in my Sophomore english class. What inspired me, I can't say, but the image of the ghastly flame haunted me for days.

---

In the darkness a lighter flares,
a golden flame for vacant stares,
a friendly beacon for leaves and paper.
There are needles on the floor.

And in this darkness a figure stands.
His eyes are glazed. With shaking hands
the paper’s lit, the flame is gone,
there’s darkness and a scarlet glow,

A gentle light contorts the figure’s face beneath the muted glow.

Pale skin and sunken eyes,
a stubbled chin whose story cries
of clear-cut forests miles wide,
of a bushman’s pilfered home.

Now the embers are softly stoked
and, for a moment, marred by smoke.
Alone, a darkened figure stands
amongst the needles on the floor.

Poem - "To Adri"

Love is among the few things that frequently moves me to creation, and can be found at the core of a good deal of my writing. The subject of this poem holds a special place in my heart not as a lover, but as a dear friend. I can't rightly say what it was that drove me to write this particular piece, but as it took form under the direction of my fingertips there was absolutely no doubt in my mind what it meant to me. The poem is a confession of love, a labor of passion, and a token of trust. For your enjoyment, I present "To Adri."

---

In a place such as this,
Such a world without bliss,
Where at times happiness is unfound,
One must gain some small pleasure
From his one single treasure:
The Angel, for her love is unbound.
With complexion divine,
Disposition benign,
And a sparkle of stars in her eyes,
There are no greater features
In such wonderful creatures
As my love, the Angel in disguise.

Poem - But Love!

Some time ago, under the auspices of some infatuation, I felt moved to poetry. This following piece was written on an especially balmy day in Summer. I'm not sure how large a part the weather played in the creation of this poem, but it was certainly a fine afternoon.

---

It is but love
as snow white doves do circles in the sky.
"It is but love!"
The man decries, as joyful tears he cries.
It is but love,
the sparkling diamonds dancing in her eyes!
"But what is love,
if one or all, that you should so surmise?"

Why, love is swelling ocean waves, crashing on the shore,
and love is future feelings, and those felt long before.
Love is every blade of grass, growing in the field,
and every blooming summer rose, so eager to appeal.
Love is on the mountaintops, rising eternally,
and even in the darkest depths, far beneath the sea.
‘But what is love?’ you ask, and I shall speak the truth,
for love is all these things and more, but most of all, it’s you.

Poem - In What Do You Believe?

Tonight I decided to share a poem that I wrote several years ago. I can't really say for certain what inspired me, but I was lying awake one night with this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, one single unifying thought that needed expression. Normally, like any sane person, I put it to the back of my mind and sleep it off; that night, though, seemed more important, so I got myself out of bed, found a pad, and started to write the rather flowy "In What Do You Believe?"

---

"In what do you believe?" I ask,
"In rolling hills? In blades of grass?
In ocean waves that caress the land?
Or in the feel of feet in sand?
Do you believe in forests, strong and proud?
Or in mountaintops, high in the clouds?
In blazing day, or cool night?
In rain? Or snow? Or lands of ice?
In temptation? Or desire?
Or stars above that glow like fire?
In jealousy and hatred, too?
That truth and love will see us through?
In good will towards one-and-all?
That one should never harm at all?"
And on I went, without subside.
When done, at last, she replied,
"It’s in all these that I believe,
and even more which aren’t perceived.
All these things combine to wend
from the beginning, until the end."

William Three-Name

Last week I read an interesting piece by American author William Carlos Williams. "Tract" was the subject of a rather mediocre paper that I wrote to meet an essay deadline, so I won't bother posting it here, but take a look at the poem if you get the chance.