You, Me, and Haiku - 9/29/08

Thick is the old snow
Crunching hard beneath my shoes
Like shattered bones bleached

-David Yuen

You, Me, And Haiku - 9/23/08

The transfer of warmth
Through the passage of old air
An eye to eye smile

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 9/15/08

Lethargic the moon
When harvest comes crawling old
Autumn trees stand gaurd

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 9/8/08

Spirals of color
Dance in obsidian pool
The spilled engine oil

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 9/1/08

Colors stir and blend
Like fresh falling autumn leaves
In the white tea cup

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 8/25/08

Colors stir and blend
Like fresh falling autumn leaves
Into the tea cup

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 8/18/08

Mountain of fire
The sudden mosquito sting
Sore skin swelling red

-David Yuen

Shakespeare, Sesame Street, and Captain Picard

What do they have in common? Nothing really. Until now.

"B or NOT a B!!!"

You, Me, and Haiku - 8/11/08

Hot liquid hardens
From pooled skin to brittle shell
A burnt candle wick

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 8/4/08

Bright as sun-specked waves
A stainless blade cuts through flesh
Fish eyes stare like glass

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 7/30/08

A short breath of light
Perfumed in ash and iron
Hammer strikes anvil

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 7/28/08

Long jewels of salt
Run clean over day worn bronze
The young field worker

-David Yuen

Artist Showcase: T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Personally, I never understood T.S. Eliot. In fact, I never really liked his poetry that much. Maybe it's because in college I had to do a paper on interpreting his "Prufrock" poem and I couldn't make heads or tails of it.

But then, one day (which is actually today), I ran into this video of Michael Gough (Alfred from the first few Batman movies) reading this poem and now I'm considering giving Eliot another look.

Overall, I still can't make heads or tails of the "Prufrock" poem without going to Wikipedia. But because of the way Michael reads it I think it's enough to captivate any audience. The actual poem itself is typed below the video. Please note that this is a LONG poem, so if you love reading as much you love listening, this is definitely your poem. Enjoy!



The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

-T.S. Eliot

You, Me, and Haiku - 7/21/08

Sweet caustic fumes
Over the drone of the pump
Money down the drain

-David Yuen

You, Me, and Haiku - 7/14/08

Fragrant as flowers
The ripened peach in the sun
Rots pungent inside

-David Yuen

A Mad Hermit Disclaimer

I'm just writing this disclaimer to let people know where I stand with certain things that I post on this site.

For those of you who have been following "The Mad Hermit", every now and then, I have the habit of posting videos or various "art" pieces (namely in the artist's showcases) that I find either amusing or poetically crafted.

But I have to note that, just because I may promote certain pieces from select artists, it does not necessarily mean that I promote or share the same views of those said artists/performers.

FabledVerse, for example, is one artist who, although I enjoy some of his pieces, I do not share the same views as him based on what I saw from his other Youtube posts.

So I just wanted to clear that up for everyone out there just to be "safe".

Happy reading!

"A Time to Talk" by Robert Frost

A Time to Talk

WHEN a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

-Robert Frost

Beware of Poetry.com!

For all you young and eager poets out there who might be dying to get their poetry in print, here’s a word of advice from someone who’s been there--DO NOT fall for the poetry.com scam.

Once in a while you might see an advertisement in the paper or on the net about how your poem could win a $10,000 prize or something like that. If it has any connection to poetry.com, “The International Library of Poetry", “The International Society of Poets”, or “The International Poetry Hall of Fame”, DO NOT bother applying for it.

If you do, the following will most likely happen:

- You’ll get a flattering letter or email telling you that you’re a semi-finalist (which doesn’t make you anything, since they send this letter out to everyone who applies).

- You’ll also get a letter about spending at least $50 to buy the anthology that your poem is “published” in.

- You’ll then get a letter to show up at an awards banquet, which you have to pay for entirely (travel, room, board, food, etc.), in addition to additional expenses (admission and even the purchase of your own “trophy”).

Beware of this scam. When I was in early high school, I was unfortunately naive enough to fall for it. But it was a good thing I decided against going to the “awards” banquet before later finding out that the whole thing was a sham.

So be warned, people, and do not fall for any of this. For any other publication that you might run into, here are some signs to look for in order to distinguish them as scams:

1.) If the company asks you to purchase the publication that your work is featured in for a hefty sum.

2.) If the poetry contest is “free”. A good portion of legitimate poetry contests require an entry fee to pay for judges and prizes. So if any contest advertises itself as free—be wary.

3.) If their response letter is over-flattering. Legitimate publications, whether you get accepted or rejected, keep their letters professional and business like. There’s no time for ego-masturbation on their part.

To learn more, here are a few links:

http://www.eliteskills.com/writing_scams/poetry.com.scam.php

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry.com

http://www.sfwa.org/beware/contests.html

Artist's Showcase - Shakespeare's "The Tempest"

This is a performance of the epilogue from Shakespeare's "The Tempest". I don't know who the performer is, but if anyone out there can give me his name, I'd be happy to mention it, since he does such a wonderful job!



Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.

-William Shakespeare

StellaScript Blog

Just the other night, I stumbled onto a very interesting writing blog called, "StellaScript".

It's run by Stella Carter and it features writing tips on books, scripts, fiction, etc. It also has some interesting features including occasional poetry and haiku. The link to this site is below:

http://stellascript.blogspot.com/

From now on, this site will be listed under the "Links" section.