I hope to make this a space where you can come to chill with some poems, discussions, or just to observe and think. Inspiration comes from some fascinating places; let's make this one of them.
To start off, here's a stanza from one of my favorite poems:
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
The kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the winches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers,
Let be be finale of seem,
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Wallace Stevens was writing, of course, about the tradition in Key West at the time of service ice-cream at funerals. His characterizations of the almost mythological archetypes present, though, has always given me chills (no pun intended). Contrasts between the outward beauty of clothes and colors that barely hide the hideous truths around them, it makes the illusion that much less palpable once analysed even a little.
This is where we start, then - a discussion on illusions. We move through our time as though we had so much more of it than we do (not to be too fatalistic - I'm in very good health and work out often), we pretend that we are sinless when, in reality, we only dress the part. I am as guilty as anyone, although perhaps not as much as some :)
There's another poem I enjoy, by a poet from across the sea. Here's a snippet:
Tudo vale a pena
se a alma não é pequena.
In English this means "it is all worth it / if the soul be not small". I invite you, in perusing here, to put this message to terms with the one we've just discussed, and come up with a solution. I look forward to hearing from you!
Call
the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. - See more at:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15744#sthash.3cpjn9gS.dpuf
Call
the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. - See more at:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15744#sthash.3cpjn9gS.dpuf
Call
the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. - See more at:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15744#sthash.3cpjn9gS.dpuf
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