Entranced

I glance out the window
Through the darkness of the night.
Movement catches my eye,
Shadows pluck the strings of sight.
Four deer across the street
Grazing in the grass,
Peace at once envelops me.
I stand entranced before the glass.

Sometimes before I go to bed, I look out the window and see deer in my neighbors' yards. Whenever that happens, I can't help but stand there and watch them for a little while. 

The Stronger Poetry of Life

I could craft new verses everyday,
Until they fill the blank and waiting pages
Of notebooks stacked so neatly on my shelves.
I could read as well the wisdom of the sages,
And surely, it would be enlightening.
But though I’d learn of wonders deep and true,
My song would not be near as strong
As if I’d spent one afternoon with you.

It's been a while since I've posted a poem - teaching has been keeping me very busy! I got a chance to see some friends and family over Thanksgiving, which is what gave rise to this one. It's a reminder that, while great ideas can come from thinking, reading, and writing, living life and interacting with one another can often be the strongest source of inspiration and wonder.

In the Midnight Glades (Into the Woods)

Where are you going tonight?

The woods are dark and obscure your sight.

The evening sprites, you say,

Tell stories that bite, too hard for day,

But worth being heard.

In the midnight glades, life’s shades of gray

Abound with every word,

But knowing you’re not alone will light your way.

 

Similar to last week, this poem was inspired by something musical - in this case, an entire musical instead of a single piece. I recently watched a recording of Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods with the original Broadway cast, which I really enjoyed. When I was part of this musical in middle school, I enjoyed its humor, but I don't think that I fully appreciated its complex narrative themes and structure.

A Glimpse of Unknown Beauty (The Swan)

Gracefully, a swan goes sailing,

Stately, with her head held high,

Gliding like on liquid glass,

Lakeside forests passing by.

Glancing back, she wonders why

Watchers wait on shoreline grass,

Following her floating trail. She

Slowly spreads her wings to fly.

 

This poem's inspired by the classic cello piece "The Swan," which is part of Camille Saint-Saens' suite The Carnival of the Animals. Last year, I wrote an arrangement of the piece for four cellos (with one playing the melody and the other three providing an accompaniment that's a bit different from the normal piano accompaniment that Saint-Saens wrote). Once I'm back in the states, I'm hoping to start making and sharing some recordings of this and other musical stuff I've been working on.

Stories Falling from the Sky

Upon the starry pond, a lily pad

Shivers as the ripples travel by,

Created from the falling of the leaves

Floating now like flecks in liquid eye.

As tears well up within my windowed soul,

Silver waves enfold my weary feet,

Awaiting you beyond what dreams I meet

Beneath the stories falling from the sky.

 

 

Occasionally, I'll write a poem without a clear theme in mind. I'll just start with a line or a phrase, and let each line come out of the previous one. This poem was definitely like that, and I have to say that I'm still not sure of how exactly to interpret the final product. My thought, at this point, is that the second set of four lines relates to the first set - I correspond to the lily pad, being affected by the stories (leaves) falling from above, which inspire dreams of those close to me (ripples)...maybe.

First Rain

Some say, when creation came, the days were dry,

As creatures from the sea first crawled to land.

The sun beat down and stung each squinting eye,

While vapor rose from trails of wetted sand.

Many were not yet ready to there abide,

Taken by dehydration, life threads waning.

So the sky cried for those who died,

Not knowing its tears would save the ones remaining.

 

This poem is sort of a made-up myth about how rain first came to be. Like most myths, I tried to have it speak to some universal truth or lesson. In this case, the idea is that hope can come out of failure and sadness, and what we learn can help us move forward.

As New Wings Fly

Too young some souls are taken from our sight,

Too soon before the lungs of life have filled,

While we remain, it seems, to question why

Their beating hearts by chance or fate were stilled.

But who am I to say what time is right

Or understand the depths an angel delves?

Though maybe, searching, we, as new wings fly,

Remember what they taught us of ourselves.

 

This poem is about the sad circumstances when we lose those close to us, particularly when that loss happens sooner than we expect. While providing comfort for those remaining is paramount, the poem's words are more focused on thinking about how those people who've been lost might still be with us in some way, helping us to see how to move forward and better ourselves.