one of my new favourite poems

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness 

 - e. e. cummings

Social anxiety like no other

We're studying T.S. Eliot in English class and have recently been looking at Eliot's poem titled "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." There are a few lines in the poem speak so well to me; 'the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table' is so still, so heavy. The entire stanza about the yellow fog-cat is fantastic (and reminds me a lot of this poem by Carl Sandburg.) The similarities to "Seasons of Love" from Rent excites me as well. Love it!

Here is the poem. If you don't feel bad for poor socially anxious J. Alfred Prufrock, you might want to consider going on a nice search for your heart.

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 etherized 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. . .                               10
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,                               20
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;                                30
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—                               40
[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,                       50
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?                    60
  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!]
Is it 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              70
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?                  80
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,                                             90
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,                                           100
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."                                          110
        .     .     .     .     .

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 . . .                                              120
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 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               130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


                                                              [1915]

The Ballad of King Leir and His Three Daughters

Starting to study for exams has reminded me how much I love the course material and specifically, Shakespeare's King Lear. While I bask in Will's beautiful eloquence (Who am I kidding? Considering I am not an actress, it is somewhat absurd how many lines I am capable of reciting verbatim.), I just thought I'd share a ballad based on King Lear, or Leir, if you go by one of the pre-Shakespeare spellings of his name.

Here are the lyrics below.

A Lamentable Song of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters

TO THE TUNE OF 'WHEN FLYING FAME'

King Leir once ruled in this land
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Amongst those things that nature gave,
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.

So on a time it pleas'd the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content,
Quoth he, then let me hear,
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.

To whom the eldest thus began;
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.

And so will I, the second said;
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
That sweet content and quietness
Discomforts may remove.

In doing so, you glad my soul,
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.

And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find.
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.

Thy elder sisters loves are more
Then well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.

Thus flattering speeches won renown,
By these two sisters here;
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:

Untill at last in famous France
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.

Her father king Leir this while
With his two daughters staid:
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.

For whereas twenty men were wont
To wait with bended knee:
She gave allowance but to ten,
And after scarce to three;
Nay, one she thought too much for him;
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.

Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell:
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.

Full fast he hies then to her court;
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.

When he had heard, with bitter tears,
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
I will return again, quoth he,
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.

Where when he came, she gave command
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boy set by.

But there of that he was deny'd,
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread.
To hills and woods and watry founts
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents,
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance;
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
And by a train of noble peers,
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed,
To repossesse king Leir
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear.
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain;
Yet he, good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battle move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.

The lords and nobles when they saw
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents;
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.

Narcissus and Echo

Shall the water not remember     Ember
my hand’s slow gesture, tracing above   of
its mirror my half-imaginary      airy
portrait? My only belonging      longing;
is my beauty, which I take       ache
away and then return, as love       of
teasing playfully the one being     unbeing.
whose gratitude I treasure        Is your
moves me. I live apart         heart
from myself, yet cannot         not
live apart. In the water’s tone,      stone?
that brilliant silence, a flower      Hour,
whispers my name with such slight      light:
moment, it seems filament of air,       fare 
the world becomes cloudswell.     well.

- Fred Chappell (b. 1936)

Fred Chappell's beautiful poem, Narcissus and Echo, is a combination of two poems into a third. Based on the Greek mythology surrounding Narcissus, a vain young man who falls in love with his reflection, and the beautiful nymph Echo, who lives under the curse of only being able to repeat the words of others.

I've always found the story a striking one. There is something very sad about not being able to express what you as an individual think. Chappell's Echo, however, is capable of self-expression; even though she does only repeat the sounds that leave Narcissus' mouth, she forms her own ideas, her own expressions. She speaks.

If you want to read more about the Greek myth behind Chappell's poem, there is a brief summary at this website: http://thanasis.com/echo.htm

Wordsworth's Daffodils

My close friend H came back from her vacation from the March Break with two lovely souvenirs for me and our friend M. They are adorable miniature turtle carvings. Being English geeks to a ridiculous degree and having just come from an English class on poetry through the ages, M and I decided that we would name our turtles after two great poets: Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) and William Wordsworth (1770-1850). Thus, Edgar and Wordsworth are now quite happily sitting in our rooms.

In honour of our new friends, I thought I'd post a poem by Wordsworth. Often considered Wordsworth's most famous poem, "I wandered lonely as a cloud" (also known as "Daffodils" or "The Daffodils") was first written in 1804.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

Interestingly enough, Wordsworth's sister, wrote about walking with her brother among the daffodils just a few years prior to Wordsworth's poem. Here are her words below.

When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park, we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. We fancied that the lake had floated the seed ashore and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road.

I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing.

This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again. The Bays were stormy, and we heard the waves at different distances and in the middle of the water like the sea.

— Dorothy Wordsworth, The Grasmere Journal , Thursday, 15 April 1802

a person who thinks all the time

a person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about
except thoughts
so,
he loses touch with reality
and lives in a world of illusions.

-Alan Watts (1915-1973)

If you don't have something to live for, how will you have someone to play for?

1984

About a week ago, I read George Orwell's 1984. I did the majority of my reading on in the airport, in the plane, in the car, and in the hotel in Halifax. Living in in the GTA, I would have thought I would have spent more time enjoying the outdoors of Halifax (especially considering the spells of nice weather that we had for two of the four days spent in Halifax), but I spent most of the time indoors at Dalhousie University and the University of King's College. The time I spent outside was mostly the 20 minute walks to and from the university and the hotel. I would have gone out more often, but it always seemed to be quite late when I finally came to the hotel, and by that point, my parents were quite tired to go with me, and they did not want me wandering around an unfamiliar city on my own at night.

So, I spent my evenings reading. Orwell's 1984 is a captivating and fast-paced dystopian novel. It is a social critique. Published in 1949 and set in the then-future 1984, the novel follows protagonist Winston Smith as he quietly attempts to challenge the oligarchical dictatorship of Big Brother's Party.

The premise of the dictatorship is the Party's ability to limit all thinking. There is no critical thinking in the society of Oceania. The language, Newspeak, is so limited in its vocabulary that it lacks all the beautiful subtleties and colours of today's English, known derogatorily as Oldspeak. Newspeak users speak in a quick staccato, and the language's quickness makes it so much easier to rush over the meanings of the words. You don't dwell on the words meanings because you don't have time. The word "Minipax," for example, which refers to the Ministry of Peace (which, oddly enough, concerns itself with war), is so easy to roll off your tongue that you don't think about the word "Ministry" and its meanings of institutions and hierarchical judgement. You don't think about the word "Peace" and its corresponding ideas of contentment, values, safety, security, and its opposing associated ideas of war, violence, discontentment, etc.

The book makes me wonder about Tumblr. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good (few hours?!) spent on Tumblr -- there are some posts that are absolutely hilarious! I wonder whether the pace at which we scroll through Tumblr though means that we don't have time to actively think about the images and text that we see and read. Instead we just digest it, without any sort of critical thoughts. We talked about this in English class a bit. It stuck with me, and came up again while reading 1984.

There's no such thing as a setting sun.

Canadian hip hop musician Shad is the man behind Keep Shining, a beautiful video with beautiful music. As someone who listens mostly to Classical and contemporary music, smooth jazz, indie pop, alternative rock, and pieces that can only be categorized as easy-listening, I was surprised to find myself so enraptured by Shad's hip hop piece. The music and video is centred around eliminating prejudice and empowering women to speak out and speak up; having only men in the rap industry means that only half the truth is being spoken.

My favourite part of his lyrics are posted below.

Well, you can’t be everything to everyone,
so let me be anything to anyone.
The world turns, and there’s clouds sometimes,
but there’s no such thing as a setting sun.
It always keeps shining.

Listen to his work on YouTube at this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3nbTB2KHuM

A draft of the introduction to the play that I am writing

Dim lights. A clarinet plays a light melody with a pure tone.

A large wooden chest is on the stage, just off the centre and to the right. It is deep brown and is perhaps made of mahogany. It gives the appearance of being altogether mundane, antique, and oppressively heavy. A lock keeps it tightly closed.

With slow and deliberate movements, a girl enters the scene. She appears about twenty-seven, although she could be older. Still, there is something in her movements that make her seem sixteen or seventeen years old. Perhaps it is her light step.

Eventually, she notices the wooden chest. She steps towards it, but hesitates. She takes one long, visible breath, and then approaches the chest, bends down, and touches the lock.

GIRL: It's funny how we forget some things and how we remember others.

Silence. There is no one around to answer her. She jiggles the lock lightly.

GIRL: I don't remember them giving me a key.

Objectiveness and Emotional Investments

I'm currently reading Shakespeare's masterpiece King Lear and have been thinking about how emotional responses to characters and empathy with characters can often cloud our argumentative judgement. If we're trying, for example, to analyze the character Cordelia, it is difficult to remain objective if we have emotionally invested ourselves in liking her character. Such is especially the case when viewing a well-acted and well-made film interpretation of the play, such as the PBS Great Performances series of King Lear directed by the talented Trevor Nunn (which can be watched at http://www.pbs.org/wnet/gperf/tag/trevor-nunn/). We are often moved to empathize with all of the characters in the play; the relationship between the Fool and Lear makes our hearts wrench, and some sympathy can even be felt for Lear's antagonistic eldest daughter, Gonoril.

The same can be said for life outside of literature. Our ability to empathize with the people around us is what makes us more kind, more compassionate, and more human. Empathy is often the basis of philanthropy. However, empathy is also often the basis for bias. How can we objectively analyze a situation, a person, or ourselves if we have become emotionally invested in a certain viewpoint or perspective?

New Name, New Focus

Earlier today, I decided to change the title of this blog to Roundabout Contemplations. Inspired by Henrik Ibsen's master play "Peer Gynt" and Grieg's famous music to Peer Gynt, this change of title reflects a shift in focus. After much thought, I decided that a blog focused solely on my love for music isn't what I'd like to devote my writing to. I want this blog to not only be about music, Classical or otherwise, but also about the various thoughts that come my way and give me a new and different understanding of the world.

Of course, this focus change doesn't mean that I'll stop writing about music; after all, so much of my life revolves around playing piano, playing cello, studying music history, listening to Beethoven, Wagner, Jason Mraz, Dispatch, and much more. However, with this new blog focus, I will have a wider span of writing topics in which I may indulge.

It is also worth noting that along with the name and focus change, my blog will now be located at the following URL: http://roundaboutcontemplations.blogspot.com/

Please continue to enjoy my blog.

Recall

I'm trying to recall your face,
I haven't managed yet.
Why are half-remembered things
The hardest to forget?

- by JonArno Lawson

"Recall" is one of many of Lawson's short but thought-provoking poems in Think Again, illustrated by Julie Morstad. In only four lines, Lawson evokes the very particular feeling of struggling to remember something, be it a person's face, someone's words, a thought that you planned to write down but never got around to finding your pen, the name of someone important to you, the time you were supposed to meet him or her, or perhaps the name of the song whose melody haunts your mind.