Unpredictably Irregular Poetry Exposure #11

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time 
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, 
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time 
As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean
But be.

-Archibald MacLeish 

Cure for the Swine Flu!

I am going to a TMBG concert on the 10th of October (do what you will with their lyrics, I just like them), and this was on their website recently.  At this concert, they will be playing the entirety of their album "Flood".  I have never heard this album, and, though tempted, will not be purchasing it on iTunes before the show.  Why?  I like the idea of going to a concert and being interested, not singing along and bobbing my head.  Do you think Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov had his audience listen to a pre-recorded portion of his music:



(By the way, this, along with part 5, is my favorite song of ALL TIME!!!  Take the time to listen.  I don't care what you are doing, this will improve your life more.)

Slavophilism Only Goes So Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ar

I am a self-proclaimed part-time Slavophile.  I can't help it.  If you offered me an American Cheeseburger or Russian Borscht, I'd take the Borscht--not because I like borscht (I've never actually tasted good borscht), but because its Russian.  I would rather say "dos vidanya" than "goodbye".  I didn't live through the Cold War and don't really care about Gorbachev (except that he was Russian).  But I think I've reached my limit here.

Last Saturday I went with my wife to see Russian immigrant, Regina Spektor, in concert.  Before then I was only passively in disdain of her songwriting style.  I think, over the past few days, as I have heard the concert replayed on our iTunes account over 15 times, that disdain has grown into an active hatred.  Let's check out her most popular song, one that has gotten over 12 million views on YouTube:



Really.

Let's follow the lyrics and ask logical questions of them.  "I never loved nobody fully..." Hmmm...  My ability to analyze lyrical writing just decreased dramatically by way of deficient brain function.  What poetic ploy was she trying to pull by inserting the double negative?  I am not very well versed in my Russian, but I think even an immigrant would resist the urge to bludgeon the listener with the first line.

"And by protecting my heart truly,/I got lost in the sounds."  I am going to start protecting my heart falsely from now on, how about you?  I also think if I were to write a song that garnered 12 million hits on YouTube I would avoid blinding cliches like getting lost in the music (or is it merely the random beating of your psychotic heart that you get lost in?).

We are intentionally skipping over the whole part about schizophrenia (by the way, one time Alex and I (and Liz) were trying to figure out which one of us was the true person and the others just parts of their personality, this after watching Identity).  Although, I think she may just be coming out about her Idiot-Savant tendencies...

Then we come to the greatest lyrical moment of the song: "And it breaks my hea-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-art/When it breaks my heart."  I think one of her personalities is a broken record.  Or maybe she is just giving them each a chance to vent.  Whatever the case, I think she is very correct in saying that this "it" (by which I am going to assume she means either the music (very fitting) or the lack of love?), breaks her heart when it breaks her heart.  I think.  The last time something broke my heart, it didn't break my heart.  Maybe I didn't experience the right "it".

So, did anybody else think of the line in The Mummy Returns, where the guy says, "This is cursed, that is cursed!  What is it with you and curses?"  Suppose this, suppose that, what is it with Regina and suppositions?  Well, I suppose I should never ever try to analyze a Regina Spektor song.

"All my friends say that of course/It's gonna get better" betta betta betta!  Ah yes, those voices in her head give very good advice, don't they!  If the voices in my head were all a bunch of yes-men, I would get some new imaginary friends to play with, but that's just me.

Well, after that we get to hear more of the beautiful ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-arting (coincidentally, I sing along to this part in a harmonic "and I break my fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-art".  I am such a hypocrite!).  There is a theme in Regina's songs where she likes to echo herself in random-m-m-m-m locations.

So maybe we are supposed to ignore the lyrics and just go for the nursery-style bouncing rhythm and childish tune.  I dunno.  Honestly, my Slavophilic tendencies led me to expect more out of an internationally trained daughter of Russian musicians.  I am convinced she was a genius before they forced her to move to New York.

While I love Russia, I have a secret (and not uncommon) vendetta against Canada.  Yet recently I've been replaying the history of Spain's expatriate king, who apparently has chosen to reside in the unfortunate Great White North.  Maybe the stick-in-your-head kind of tune (reminiscent of my dad's 80s A Capella records) helps keep Regina's bleating out.



Maybe I like it just because I have always wanted to joke around with the OPEC leaders, or drive a Zamboni.

On a side note, Regina's music seems to be somewhat "anti-folk" indie-pop, a style that almost recalls Keane, yet she cannot legally be clad in indie armor, as she has signed with both WB and Disney (she had a song in the Prince Caspian disaster last year).  Definitely defines "sold out".

Nativity of the Theotokos (also Unpredictably Irregular Poetry Exposure #10)

 "The Mother of God"

The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare
Through the hollow of an ear;
Wings beating about the room;
The terror of all terrors that I bore
The Heavens in my womb.

Had I not found content among the shows
Every common woman knows,
Chimney corner, garden walk,
Or rocky cistern where we tread the clothes
And gather all the talk?

What is this flesh I purchased with my pains,
This fallen star my milk sustains,
This love that makes my heart's blood stop
Or strikes a Sudden chill into my bones
And bids my hair stand up? 

-W.B. Yeats

"Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell"

Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
the innocents just His own age and those
unnumbered others waiting here
unaware, in an endless void He is ending
now, stooping to tug at their hands,
to pull them from their sarcophagi,
dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas,
neighbor in death, Golgotha dust
still streaked on the dried sweat of his body
no one had washed and anointed, is here,
for sequence is not known in Limbo;
the promise, given from cross to cross
at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn.
All these He will swiftly lead
to the Paradise road: they are safe.
That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food--fish and a honeycomb.

-Denise Levertov 

Subjective Halos

Halos may be divided into subjective and objective.  The latter will be considered under physical colours; the first belong here.  These are distinguished from the objective halos by the circumstance of their vanishing when the point of light which produces them on the retina is covered.

Theory of Colours - Goethe, #89