golempoem

DAYBREAK

Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;

The day breaks not; it is my heart,
Because that thou and I must part
Stay or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.

John Donne

Music & video by Populele

Video kudos: yoleandrogonzalez

1. Wake up with an overwhelming urge to write 2 clerihews, one on Jacques Derrida, the other on Willy Loman.

2. Remind yourself: no urges are strange. And, after all, there are many things that are even more absurd than clerihews. Consider writing an essay on why no urges are strange.

3. Check for Derrida and Loman in Henry Taylor’s absorbing collection of clerihews. Find the one on Derrida:

Jacques Derrida
forgot where he’d–ah,
then he remembered:
deconstructed need not mean dismembered.

4. Relax, it’s still morning and half your work has already been done by Henry Taylor.

5. Read Henry Taylor’s book in its entirety. Twice. Memorize Taylor’s clerihew on Preston Sturges:

Preston Sturges
was subject to urges
whose nature and history
remain shrouded in mystery.

6. Relax. The day’s not half done and all you’ve got to do is write a clerihew on Willy Loman.

7. So what would Bruno Latour think of Taylor’s clerihew on Louis Pasteur?

Louis Pasteur
kept his libido astir
by pretending to disrobe
in the presence of a microbe.

8. Notice that Latour and Pasteur might be solid clerihew material. Jot that down somewhere.

9. While still pondering, entertain thoughts of grandeur (Latour-Pasteur-grandeur and ?)…Write a proposal for a book of clerihews, one for each of the knights mentioned in Mallory’s Morte D’Artur. (At least we’d find out how many there really were.)

10. Now it’s getting late. Begin to panic on the Willy Loman clerihew.

11. Scale down the book idea. One clerihew. About a man named Skarphéðinn.

12. Time’s up. Don’t give up. Feed the cats. Then write:

Willy Loman,
a broken showman,
quietly died and barely knew
how fit he was for the clerihew.

Right. OK, your turn.

Video kudos GeorgeMcKenzie1982

Photo credit: Sailboat at sunset by villoks

L’INVITATION AU VOYAGE
Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l’ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
À l’âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l’humeur est vagabonde;
C’est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.
–Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D’hyacinthe et d’or;
Le monde s’endort
Dans une chaude lumière.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

–Charles Baudelaire

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Photo credit: Wiki commons image of Parmigianino’s painting

Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola (”Parmigianino,” born 11 January 1503)

Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand
Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
And swerving easily away, as though to protect
What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,
Fur, pleated muslin, a coral ring run together
In a movement supporting the face, which swims
Toward and away like the hand
Except that it is in repose. It is what is
Sequestered. Vasari says, “Francesco one day set himself
To take his own portrait, looking at himself from that purpose
In a convex mirror, such as is used by barbers . . .
He accordingly caused a ball of wood to be made
By a turner, and having divided it in half and
Brought it to the size of the mirror, he set himself
With great art to copy all that he saw in the glass,”
Chiefly his reflection, of which the portrait
Is the reflection, of which the portrait
Is the reflection once removed. Read more »

Poem by Tim Burton.  Video kudos: Forsaken011

The poet reads in Arabic, and then his translator (the poet Peter Cole) in English. (6:44)

Video kudos: grdodge

WILL HER LOVE REMEMBER?
Will her love remember his graceful doe,
her only son in his arms as he parted?
On her left hand he placed a ring from his right,
on his wrist she placed her bracelet.
As a keepsake she took his mantle from him,
and he in turn took hers from her.
Would he settle, now, in the land of Spain,
if its prince gave him half his kingdom?

–Wife of Dunash ben Lavrat (Andalusia, 10th century)

Translation by Peter Cole

Photo credit: Anonymous by Moche
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Photo credit: nebelstrasse by Juergen Kurlvink

AQUÍ

Mis pasos en esta calle
Resuenan
En otra calle
Donde
Oigo mis passos
Pasar en esta calle
Donde

Sólo es real la niebla

–Octavio Paz
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