A Touch of the Bright Side
Friday, December 23, 2005
Invictus By William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903 United Kingdom)An English poet, critic and writer. William, at an early age of 12, got a disease called tuberculosis of the bone and was subsequently admitted at the Edinburgh Hospital where he stayed for the next 24 years. His crippling illness though did not stop him from achieving an incredible feat in the field plays. His best known poems include England, My England and this poem, Invictus, which was written in a hospital bed.
Why I liked this poem
The title of the poem, Invictus (Latin word for unconquerable), is about living our life firmly especially in times of adversities. No matter how hard life may seem, one must still find the strength to go on and not to succumb to these trials. I think the very essence of the poem applies to my very own life. I always stand firm on the ground and do not let [roblems and alike to overcome myself. I consider also myself as a brave person so this poem is perfectly fit for that description.
Invictus
By William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
Submitted by: Edwin Marlon C. Basmayor
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The Difference by Grace L. NaessensThis poem reminds me to start each day with a prayer. Prayer is an important aspect of our spiritual life. Through prayer, we are able to communicate with God and his works. I agree that when we fail to pray, all the simple things in life would seem harder and complicated. Thus, we are all called to a life of prayer that will surely open us to fountains of spiritual blessings from God.
I got up early one morning and rushed right into the day;
I had so much to accomplish that I didn't have time to pray.
Problems just tumbled about me and heavier came each task;
"Why doesn't God help me?" I wondered He said, "But you didn't ask".
I wanted to see joy and beauty but the day toiled on, gray and bleak;
I wondered why God didn't show me. He said, "But you didn't seek".
I tried to come into God's presence; I used all my keys at the lock.
God gently and lovingly chided "My child, you didn't knock".
I woke up early this morning and paused before entering the day.
I had so much to accomplish that I had to take time to pray.
I had so much to accomplish that I didn't have time to pray.
Problems just tumbled about me and heavier came each task;
"Why doesn't God help me?" I wondered He said, "But you didn't ask".
I wanted to see joy and beauty but the day toiled on, gray and bleak;
I wondered why God didn't show me. He said, "But you didn't seek".
I tried to come into God's presence; I used all my keys at the lock.
God gently and lovingly chided "My child, you didn't knock".
I woke up early this morning and paused before entering the day.
I had so much to accomplish that I had to take time to pray.
Submitted by: Bea Santos, R08
Sylvia Plath published her first poem when she was eight. Compelled toward perfection in everything she attempted, she was, on the surface, a model daughter, popular in school, earning straight A's, winning the best prizes. Sylvia's surface perfection was however underlain by grave personal discontinuities, some of which doubtless had their origin in the death of her father (he was a college professor and an expert on bees) when she was eight. In 1956 she married the English poet Ted Hughes. On February 11, 1963, she killed herself with cooking gas at the age of 30.
This poem speaks to me not because I find myself in the same situation (it’s quite easy to sense that the poems talks about death and the act of suicide) but because it makes me imagine myself in the same situation. This is the type of poem that haunts you even in your sleep. It sounds so much like a chant, that it reverberates at the back of your head even when the noise surrounding you tries to overpower its effect. The language the poet used is quite simple and distinct that it makes the emotions brought about by her words easy to absorb. At the same time, the emotions are enveloped in such an intensity that the poem reaches out to the reader as if crying for due attention and understanding.
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Angela M. Casauay
050605
Lit 13 R08
The poem is written by a 14 year old girl from USA, Pennsylvania named Myranda. She has written and posted 8 poems in the internet available for the public to read. She usually writes either about love or friendship.
I prefer this poem I found in the net titled “A WOMEN not a girl” written by an amateur. It’s funny that the title is in wrong grammar, I’m not sure if it was intended but I feel the writer simply made a mistake while typing it. And it’s even funnier that it contains curses in asterisks.
DON'T call me a GIRL ,
a BABE or a CHICK .
I am a WOMAN.
Get it?, you D***!?!
It isn’t about anything dramatic like death or problems in the society, I have had enough of that in the news already. It is good that the poem is not complicated and that it is straight forward. It’s about a girl, I mean a “woman”, speaking out her thoughts on how she is and how it is more fun and easier to be a woman than to be a guy.
A WOMEN not a girl by Myranda
I shave my legs,
I sit down to pee.
And I can justify
any shopping spree.
Don't go to a barber,
but a beauty salon.
I can get a massage
without a h***-on.
I can balance the checkbook,
I can pump my own gas.
Can talk to my friends,
about the size of my a**.
My beauty's a masterpiece,
and yes, it takes long.
At least I can admit,
to others when I'm wrong.
I don't drive in circles,
at any cost.
And I don't have a problem,
admitting I'm lost.
I never forget,
an important date.
You just gotta deal with it,
I'm usually late.
I don't watch movies,
with lots of gore.
Don't need instant replay,
to remember the score.
I won't lose my hair,
I don't get jock itch.
And just cause I'm assertive,
Don't call me a b****.
Don't say to your friends,
Oh yeah, I can get her.
In your dreams, my dear,
I can do better!
Flowers are okay,
But jewelry's best.
Look at me you idiot...
Not at my chest????
I don't have a problem,
With Expressing my feelings.
I know when you're lying,
You look at the ceiling.
DON'T call me a GIRL ,
a BABE or a CHICK .
I am a WOMAN.
Get it?, you D***!?!
submitted by:
Dana de Guzman
Maltbie Davenport Babcock (1858-1901, New York)
Babcock was known to be a good student and musician. However, he chose to be a pastor at the First Presbyterian Church in New York and later on was called to Brown Memorial Church in Baltimore. He had a lot of wit, knowledge, and dramatic ability which made him famous as he preached in numerous colleges. His wife, Catherine, was the one who collected his works and published them only after he had died of brucellosis. This included the famous hymns, “No Distant Lord Have I” and “This is My Father’s World.”
This poem talks about courage, something that we all need but do not always have. Most of the time, I am not ready to face my fears. I always try to escape. In reality, life is not all about playing and being happy. Whenever something goes wrong, I can’t help but think that I must give up on life. I always get to that point when nothing really matters to me anymore. I stop caring about anything. The title of the poem already gave me the best advice I could use in life, “Be Strong.” Courage is the way to go through all these challenges in life. I should not give up, it is the only way life could actually be meaningful.
Be Strong
Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle-face it; 'tis God's gift.
Be strong!
Sat not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?"
And fold the hands and acquiesce-oh shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name.
Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not-fight on! To-morrow comes the song.
Janella Kristina Alix
ID # 050125 R08
December 5, 2005
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939, Ireland) is a winner of the 1923 Nobel Prize for literature. He composed some of the most respected poetry of the 20th century. Central ideas in his works include those of Irish nationalism, occult studies, and art. One of his most famous poems is “The Second Coming”, which prophesies an imminent Armageddon.
In the following poem, I was fascinated by the way the persona still finds the girl “a beautiful lofty thing” in spite of her apparent insanity. She is being portrayed as a creature in an almost wretched condition, singing to herself, oblivious to the outside world. The persona’s observation about her having a “soul in division from itself” perhaps is the reason why I can relate to her. The persona tries to convey the idea that apart from her pathetic state there is still a splendid aspect of her that remains untouched. It is in the same way that I would have liked to be distinguished—as someone who may seem to be vulnerable to almost anything, but can still stand gloriously for herself despite all adversities.
That crazed girl improvising her music,
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling she knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea.’
submitted by:
Sunshine Villanueva
R08
Gemino H. Abad, Philippines
Neither his stories nor poems are made to be in order that is how Gemino Abad described his work. A University Professor in English and associate for poetry in the University of the Philippines. Abad's works are of thought, feeling and or incident set in motion. They are works of imagination--- to probe the feelin and seek to define our humantiy as Filipino.
One of my favorite poems by Gemino Abad in the poem "Two Women Chatting Up the Stairs". I am a woman therefore, I can relate to this poem. And if you're a man, you can relate to it too. It shows how women can be of burden; it shows how women could be of helo. The contrast between men and women are also seen in this poem, the fight of the two genders. Abad wrote it in such a way that this simple 4-stanze poem can touch the heart and make it laugh.
Two Women Chatting Up the Stairs
Why are women so slow?---
They're holding hands, chatting up the stairs, and I---
I'm just behind them, I can't get through.
They take their time, take time out. Time is repast---
without syllables its text runs free--- and I,
vestige down the immovable stairs, must bear
the weight of time's passing
I can't slip through the cordon of their chatter
They lightly hold hands, swinging between themselves
a metronome to their negligent climb.
What must absorb their mind's gaze of which their words
and scatter are shards and sparkle of their cheer.
I count the steps for self-control, now six.... seven...
My time is drying upon the stairs, I lose their number. How,
how do I break through their vivacious plot against
my race with time to meet my own day's need?
The stairwell! Clearing the freedom- I must be quick,
Veer to the right, turn--- askance phantom to their curious
glance---- just one foot lodged ahead on the next flight,
At last, away! Unhindered motion in my own space,
and time--- that urgent dynamo of my down day's
appointments,
thos numberless items need, their hurtle and scurry...
I look back; they have stopped mid-stairs,
laughing over a ticklish gem of their endless confidences.
I feel strangely estranged, just entering my own time again
From their side, the idling engine of their secret cheer,
And light-headed up the fast-paced stairs
of my day's concerns, I am emptied on a sudden
of thier vivacious will. I can't look back again
to see the drudge on their uncomprehending state.
Submitted by Charina de Asis, R08
John Milton (1608-1674)
He was an English poet, whose rich, dense verse was a powerful influence on succeeding English poets, and whose prose was devoted to the defense of civil and religious liberty. Milton, born in London on December 9, 1608, is often considered the greatest English poet after Shakespeare. He became totally blind in about 1652 and thereafter carried on his literary work helped by as assistant. Of the poet’s personality, memoirs written by Milton’s contemporaries indicate that his was a singular blend of grace and sweetness and of force and severity amounting almost to harshness.
Microsoft® Encarta® Reference Library 2002. © 1993-2001 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
I chose this poem because it made me reflect on where I am in life at the moment. This poem has opened my eyes to what I am supposed to do with the gifts God has given me. In the end no excuses will I be able to find for not living as God has expected of me to live. These obstacle sin life that get in the way of our serving God with everything we have are mild hindrances therefore we are to go past these and those who are able to serve God despite these obstacles are those whom God is pleased by.
- Eloise Pena
Sonnet 19: In His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
William Ernest Henley was born on August 23, 1849 in Gloucester, England. As a kid, he had tuberculosis that lead from the amputation of a leg. He wrote a lot of free-verse poems that led to the establishment of his reputation. His other poetry collections include "The Song of the Sword" (1892), "London Voluntaries" (1893), "Collected Poems" (1898), "Hawthorn and Lavender" (1901) and "In Hospital" (1903). “Invictus” (1875) is his best-known work.
I like this particular poem because of the strong vibe it can give when you read it aloud. It can make you feel stronger and more powerful over yourself. While reading the poem, I always imagine myself in a ship cruising around an ocean with strong waves with the ship having me as a captain. It’s a bit childish but that is how I appreciated the poem.
- Marc "Shooli" Yee
Invictus
William Ernest Henley
1849–1903
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
e.e. cummings (1894-1962) – Edward Estlin Cummings was a poet, playwright, essayist, and painter who had over 900 poems, 2 novels, several essays published and a number of drawings, sketches, and paintings that received critical acclaim. He graduated magna cum laude from Harvard University in 1915 and was awarded the prestigious Charles Eliot Norton Professorship, among several other highly coveted awards, in 1952 that allowed him to become a guest professor at Harvard. In 1926, his father, a fervent supporter of his poetry, died in an automobile accident – an event that had a great impact Cummings’ artistic growth. His name often appears as “e.e. cummings”, although Cummings, himself capitalized his own name.
(Biography paraphrased from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings)
I had a conversation with my sister the other day. She told me that she couldn’t understand why I did not grab a-hold of my very available opportunity to study in America. I told her very simply that I love it here and even though I could always come back here after studying, I just wouldn’t be able to bear that thought. Love influenced my decision to turn my back on the great land of overflowing milk and honey and I will blame love if one day I suddenly realize that I chose to stay on the soils of pancit canton and canal water. But I know that love will always come to my rescue, pick me up, dust me off, fix things, and remind me why I listened to it in the first place. Love, like money and art, is a double-edged sword – I can’t possibly live on it alone, but there is no chance in heck that I will be able to live without it and it is (or is it should be?) by far the most important thing in my life.
- Kathleen Subijano
why
don't
be
sil
ly
,o no in-
deed;
money
can't do(never
did &
never will)any
damn
thing
:far
from it;you
're wrong,my friend. But
what does
do,
has always done
;&
will do alw
-ays somthing
is(guess)yes
you're
right:my enemy
Love.
by e.e. cummings
Monday, December 19, 2005
The LightA Touch of the Bright Side: poems that talk about inspiration. Not only that but empowerment, having a stand and then learning something. Representatives, just log-in and post the poems, pictures and reactions. If you're having a hard time, contact me.
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---Cha-Cha