Tag: Poetry

  • sound of sky

    I hear the skies screaming

    As swifts follow the wind

    From east of the sun breasting

    The air in never-ending abundance

    As the sun declines in the twilight

    Moving the flow of time beneath their wings

    And fill with unknown longing my heart.

  • cry raven

    What is a cry of a raven?

    To the left, you hear

    To the right, you whisper

    In the meanders of night

    Afoot to the enchanted forest

    You rove thru the moonlit paths

    Willing, following Dog Star

    That leads you to the raven

    Murmuring to his divine master.

  • ‘The Lives of the Poets’, by Samuel Johnson – review

    The Lives of the Poets by Samuel Johnson

    My rating: 5 of 5 stars


    Great writers are not necessarily great people in the integrity of their characters, which perhaps most of us know, and yet cannot help but associate the excellence in letters with the personal attributes of the writers simply because we are enchanted and gobsmacked by the mind. Samuel Johnson, an eminent English cultural critic of the 18th century, also knew about these somewhat restively volatile facts about famous writers and poets of his time. The result was these entertaining and informative composite biographies of the poets of his time with his trenchantly honest eyes and esteemed erudition to disembarrass the person of the poet from the genius of the poetry.

    Originally written as a referencing preamble to an edition of The Poets of Great Britain complete from Chaucer to Churchill, Johnson’s supplementary prefaces became so popular that the booksellers decided they were worthy of separate publication under the subject title of this review. And there were reasons that make Johnson’s biographies of the eminent poets attractive among the insipid panegyrics to the famous. A good bio is read in a way a good novel or short story is enjoyed with characters that are differentiated from the common because of their recalcitrant individualism that gets away with the intellectual attraction and personal flairs despite their flaws. In this regard, Johnson’s wit and sagacity play an essential role in being an objective judge of the characters and their works to the extent that none of his subjective poets could escape from his hawk-eyed criticism, be that ever great or small. Johnson’s biography resembles Herodotus’ parataxis in narrating the accounts of people and events. It consists of a summary of the subject’s life; accounts of their personalities and analyses of their works. The individual narrative account became a history of the poet, which showed something about his work and indicated the person himself.

    For example, Johnson’s take on John Milton was so freshly revealing that it upended my view on the creator of The Paradise Lost. I used to think of Milton as a benevolent-looking wise poet whose blindness didn’t stun his will to knowledge and creativity and whose fatherly tenderness toward his daughters encouraged them to be his eyes and hands when the visions of the world became blackout totally for the poet. Instead, Milton was one of those who clamored for the liberty of others but did not grant liberty to others. He was an arrogant intellectual who disparaged the works of others whom he regarded as less intellectually esteemed than his standard, which was despotically biased in terms of impressive academic credentials. Milton’s poetry was intrinsically intellectual and not for the light-hearted pleasure of the heart roving through the meanders of fairyland. His elevated soul ascended in the sphere of the Form, the perfect beauty that was unattainable in this real world.

    Johnson also cast somewhat contradicting masks on the creator of Gulliver’s Travels, Jonathan Swift. Like Ben Jonson’s iconic characters in his plays, Johnson’s Swift appeared to be both miserly and munificent, flaunting and humble, aloof and social. I particularly liked Swift because, unlike other writers of his time and of our time, he was not an ace student with flying colors on academic subjects. Swift was, however, a great student of learning, always pursuing and laboring to learn however long it might take. He was a man of industry and diligence, which made him all the more human and imitable because his genius was hard-won, not easy born. Methinks that Swift’s resilient spirit tinged with feistiness for an Anglican Church priest had to do with his Irishness. He was an Irish man at heart, in nature and soul. Johnson also attributed the protean imaginativeness and admiring independence of ideas to his Irishness that resulted in wondrous creatures during Gulliver’s travels.

    There are other poets than Milton and Swift in the book, and you do not have to read about them all if you are unfamiliar with them or their works because that would go against Johnson’s purpose of the writing. Or you can read the book as an admirer of Johnson’s signatory witty and erudite writings from which you can learn a lot about his subjects and himself. The book serves as an eighteenth-century intriguing exclusive close-up documentary. It is about celebrity poets whom someone like Johnson, who was something of Roger Ebert in the criticism of the art of literature, could unpick and reconstruct as they might have been sans the mindless blinded paeans to their works without even being read. Undoubtedly, Johnson’s views on the poets have been and will be subject to criticism too, but his writings piled with a bonfire of splendidly sparkling expressions and apposite vocabulary drawn on his natural faculty of mind are nonetheless worthwhile to spend your time reading.



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  • Agony and Ecstasy

    The Castle West of the Moon has two marble sculptures:
    One is Ecstasy of Saint Teresa and the other Laocoon,
    The works of Art in the image of Perfect Form
    As though the makers of such Art had seen it in a dream;

    The divine ecstasy swept chaste Teresa in fiery passion
    Tearing a thin veil of hidden desire beneath a cloak of faith
    As Cupid’s Arrow of Desire thrust her heart in and out
    And teased her with a recalcitrant paroxysm of ecstasy;
    The eyes half-cast to the exhilaration of flowing streams
    Of wanting, asking, giving, wanting it all in growing rapture
    As the lips opened to the truth of the sensation she had denied.
    How incredible Teresa’s devotion to God was wreathed in glory!

    Whereby Laocoon, the Trojan priest of Neptune, stood in agony
    Frozen in marble ice as the Serpents coiling his ribs and thighs
    Towering in their divine glory that the gods bestowed upon the beasts
    And his two young sons coming to aide in filial haste in pitiful vain
    Watched their righteous father perished in punishment for the truth
    Against his audacious enemies for Helen treading upon his beloved Troy.
    Twice round their bodies the Serpents’ long and winding volumes rolled,
    Twice round their breaths the Serpents’ insidious and portent venoms gushed,
    The Father and Sons dissolved into one great monument of struggles for life
    As the Serpents wreathed them with their mighty power in triumph.

    The Queen of the Castle looked at the marvelous wonders of Art
    In a surge of indomitable compassion for Laocoon and his Sons
    For the painful death was beyond the reason of justice and sense
    Even though it mattered gods, and gods and God were selfish always,
    Whereby Teresa’s Ecstasy was deliciously dreamy in a sweet delirium
    Glistening like dewdrops reflecting a rainbow on the gossamer cobweb.

  • grave of the fireflies

    I remember when they were happy,

    I remember when they were lonely.

    When only two of them left, there

    I saw the light glowing and growing

    in the silence of darkness of night

    Frolicking in the twinkling starlight

    Becoming two fireflies on the grave.

  • Seashells

    She wished her dreams secretly
    Sitting on the rock by the shore
    Lest the spirits tear them anon
    And keep her a hostage to fortune
    Until her spirit left her in surrender
    To the mercenaries of death in the pact.

    Luck was a stranger, so was Faith.
    But Hope always stayed with her
    On the rock against winds and waves
    As a Friend like Pellas and Athena
    giving the light of Hope to Despondence
    reviving Breath of Reason to wait still.

    One day Hope told her to write a letter
    To Heaven about her Seven Wishes
    So that the West Wind would carry it
    On his feathered wings like Pegasus’
    To the Palace of King direct and express
    And He would open and read it at once.

    So she wrote her letter to King
    Of Seven Wishes sealed in secret
    Stood and flew a lithe kite carrying
    The wishes in words fluttering in the breeze
    And waited for the West Wind to come
    And deliver them upward further higher

    Alas! The Wishes sent to the skies
    Fell from the wings of the wind,
    As her heart’s whispers were wafted
    Downward, leeward, seaward
    Until mermaids caught in their outing
    And treasured them in the shells.