But Not I

Can a man be a fraud?
Sure! When his honor's at stake,
not everyone measures up.

But not I

Can a man be a cheat?
Yeah! If profit's at stake,
we all want our share.

But not I

Can a man be a liar?
You bet! If a man's in a pinch,
he'll worm his way out.

But not I

Can a man be a sloth?
Oh yes! To choose play over work,
is what everyone does.

But not I

Can a man be complete?
Why not! It seems everyone has
a woman of their own.

but not i

Yes, I know, this is outdated. I do have a wonderful girlfriend now and I love her to death. Anyway, there was a point in time where I was rather down-trodden and a little lonesome. I am glad that has passed, and I'm glad I got at least this poem out of it. Hope you all enjoy! 

Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

Robert Frost - Wind and Window Flower

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.



Hi everyone! So today's little touch of love comes from the great Robert Frost (aptly named, as a lot of his poems had ice themes. Go figure). Frost has some of my favorite imagery, and he does so well personifying some rather obscure items; in this case wind and a potted plant. I'm pretty sure we're supposed to sympathize with the wind in this poem, rather than the plant. I'm not really sure, but the plant sounds really aloof. That might just be me though. This wind is looking in on her every night (wow, that came out really stalker-ish) and all she can do is sit there and think "wow, I'm a plant. Go me!" When she finally realizes that the wind wanted her, she falls over and pouts. Go figure. Anyway, moral of my story today: don't be a plant or the wind, they both suck.


Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

The Poppy and the Pansy

Quiet, the Poppy walked into the room;
her sight so soft and delicately hued.
Silence hung in the air, fragrance imbued.
Chills spread, ripples of her softest perfume.

The tired old cantank'rous Cattle, whom
if he's observed is shown as coarse and lewd,
hides his face, and like all of those so shrewd,
appears to be a flower, full in bloom.

Now if this Bull was naught but coarsely grown
the Poppy must refuse the Bull's advance,
for if the Bull's allowed a second thought
the Pansy's love is caught twixt fought and flown.
And Poppy's life now ever shall be caught
in Cattle's hell, bereft of Pansy's chance.

So, I apologize for missing my post on Thursday, it was kind-of a hectic day and I didn't get time to post. This poem I decided to write after reading a novel about a woman with two suitors. The novel was all about the story from the woman's point of view, so I wanted to throw in a poem about the story from the suitor's perspective. In the novel the suitors didn't really have characters, they were more images or symbols than people, and I felt that rather unfair. Yes, I know, this usually occurs with the genders switched around, but it does happen this way so don't snark at me about it. 

I don't know how many of readers have experienced this situation in their life, but I have on multiple occasions. There are a few times where I've finally plucked up the courage to ask someone out, only to find that they're already taken. Once it happened before I actually asked her, but the other times I had have the awkward "Oh, well, I'm already taken" conversation. If you haven't already experienced this, I envy you and hope you never have to. Anyway, enough jibber-jabber for now. See you all tomorrow with another poem! Happy Saturday 

Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

Coming Home

Memories leave a bad taste in my mouth

That tequila went down so smooth long ago

But leaves a bitter odor on my lips this morning

And a raging creature pounding in my head

The ghost of you is everywhere

You’re voice rides along the ocean breeze

Brushing my face softly, caressing my poor soul

It’s not the salt in my eyes that triggers a tear

You cut my hair like Samson’s

And no one could doubt you improved me

You made me your own, but without a column

What am I suppose to hold onto?

Maybe I shouldn’t have told you anything

For you’d rather the history books forget

But I can’t destroy the memories, I am weak

Clinging only to the wind and empty sheets

Happy Sunday erryone! Hope you're ready for Monday (cuz I'm totally not, lol oops). 

For a lot of people, especially college students, going home is the best thing in the world. And yeah I can agree it's pretty great, I love seeing my mom and sister, and my dad too. They are all so wonderful and supportive and I couldn't get through a day without thinking about them. Recent days have been really stressful and calling my mom and sis really helped. My friends too. I miss them to death and I can't wait until summer break to go and see them. There's just a lot of people I need back in my life who are miles away. There's one person specifically that I haven't seen since Christmas break and it's driving me insane. I'm glad I'll get to see them in, like, 5 weeks I think though. 

But there are, how to put this, bad memories in that house. My room specifically. I hate my room because that's where I went throughout my middle school and high school life when I felt lonely and sad and depressed and anxious. And now it's as if the walls have absorbed that and are now emanating it.

I've always found the story of Samson really interesting. As a kid I remember learning that he couldn't cut his hair or have wine or else he'd lose his strength. I think it's actually cut his hair and women? I don't know, there are a lot of variations. The main point is the hair. According to scriptures, a temptress named Delilah seduced him and cut his hair causing him to lose all of his powers. His weakness was women and he couldn't see the trap that had been laid for him so that he couldn't destroy the columns or something like that (Idk the story 100%). 

But let's think about that. I think all adults, at least men (some ladies), have an affinity for wine and women. And it seems to me that that is what adulthood is about, or at least it plays a significant roll. It also means responsibility, accountability, and other things but I want to save this theme for another post. God gave Samson strength and told him the parameters, but what is a meer mortal to God? I don't care if you're athiest or not, but gods do not fall to pressure, they just don't. Humans do: they are imperfect. Just because they are created to God's image, doesn't mean that they perform the same actions. Gonna throw some science at this situation and say just because they have the same genotype doesn't mean they have the same phenotype.

Anyway, Samson told Delilah that his weakness was hair and she cut it. 

There's a song called "Samson" by Regina Spektor (aka one of the best artists in my opinion). Here are part of the lyrics:

Oh I cut his hair myself one night

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light

And he told me that I'd done alright

And kissed me 'til the mornin' light, the mornin' light

...

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down 

Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one

And the history books forgot about us

And the bible didn't mention us, not even once

You are my sweetest downfall

I loved you first

It is apparent that the songs is sung by Delilah. But it is not sung by a temptress. It is not sung by an evil women. They seem to have a relationship, they seem to love each other through this. And he doesn't seem to care that his hair has been cut. He likes it. He doesn't want the responsibility to have God-like strength. He wants to be human, he wants to have Delilah, and is that so terrible?

Another song is Hallelujah (where the best version, again my opinion, is the one by Jeff Buckley) where he sings,

But remember when I moved in you

And the holy dove was moving too

And every breath we drew was Hallelujah. 

Every breath they drew was Hallelujah. That sounds heavenly, that sounds rejoicing. There's nothing wrong in loving someone and loving someone so much that you'd give up anything to be with them, including a God-given gift. But this poem, the one I wrote forever ago before this rant happened, is about how, yes, I let someone cut my hair (metaphorically and physically-ish) and yeah, I came to actually prefer it. I didn't mind that they changed me in fact I like to think that they made me a better person, a stronger person than before. Maybe Samson felt that way too, that Delilah made him a better person. It's when she left him that he lost his strength. 

So this has turned into analyzing a biblical story so I'm going to stop now. But please, let me know what you think, of the poem or the analysis in the comment section.

I hope you all have a great week and I'll post again soon-ish. (I'll try not to make it so long next time). 

Godspeed. ~Sarah

A Rush

Write me a love letter

And I’ll write one for you

My will eager soars for a chance with romance

To the point of foolish rhymes

My tender dizzy aspirations climb

I sigh

For moments to meet words with a flurry of blush

Deepened with a natural flush

Of blood pounded out by fevered heart

I can feel your nearness and our possibility

I will make you melt with thoughts of me

I’m

            Itching

                        Fingers twitching

My lips bite themselves thinking, guessing, wanting

Wondering

            Will you hold me

                        All night long?

Will the way you speak my name make me believe in God?

Whispering I’m waiting

Small slips of my soul reaching

Feeling a sort of empty

That doesn’t cut too deep

Because, I swear

            When I close my eyes and think of you

                        I taste heaven. 

Happy Wednesday erryone! Haven't posted in a few days so I thought I would. 

This poem is really unlike most things I write since it doesn't end in dark and doom. Normally I think this kind of writing is tacky and teenager love crap, but I'm going to share it with you anyway to show that I like to try new things sometimes. It's so easy to convey angst, it's so easy to write when you're angry because it's so concrete. You can boil in anger if you're not careful, and write pages upon pages about it as it festers. But writing when you're happy and not make it sound like you're from Kansas (you know, because corn?), is hard. Granted, everyone has felt that irrational (maybe rational) feeling of love (or lust) in their life and can understand such writings, but that doesn't make them any less nauseating. I hope this poem didn't make you feel sick.... 

In hind sight, here are some religious motifs in it, not sure if on purpose or not, nor if they are intended to be blasphemous or apprehensive about love and stuff but... Please critique if you'd like or give me an opinion, I like hearing other people's views, and I hope that y'all have a great rest of the week! Godspeed. ~Sarah

Sylvia Plath - Daddy

Daddy

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe 

In which I have lived like a foot 

For thirty years, poor and white, 

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. 

Daddy, I have had to kill you. 

You died before I had time-- 

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, 

Ghastly statue with one gray toe 

Big as a Frisco seal 

And a head in the freakish Atlantic 

Where it pours bean green over blue 

In the waters off beautiful Nauset. 

I used to pray to recover you. 

Ach, du. 

In the German tongue, in the Polish town 

Scraped flat by the roller 

Of wars, wars, wars. 

But the name of the town is common. 

My Polack friend 

Says there are a dozen or two. 

So I never could tell where you 

Put your foot, your root, 

I never could talk to you. 

The tongue stuck in my jaw. 

It stuck in a barb wire snare. 

Ich, ich, ich, ich, 

I could hardly speak. 

I thought every German was you. 

And the language obscene 

An engine, an engine 

Chuffing me off like a Jew. 

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. 

I began to talk like a Jew. 

I think I may well be a Jew. 

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna 

Are not very pure or true. 

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck 

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack 

I may be a bit of a Jew. 

I have always been scared of you, 

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. 

And your neat mustache 

And your Aryan eye, bright blue. 

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- 

Not God but a swastika 

So black no sky could squeak through. 

Every woman adores a Fascist, 

The boot in the face, the brute 

Brute heart of a brute like you. 

You stand at the blackboard, daddy, 

In the picture I have of you, 

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot 

But no less a devil for that, no not 

Any less the black man who 

Bit my pretty red heart in two. 

I was ten when they buried you. 

At twenty I tried to die 

And get back, back, back to you. 

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack, 

And they stuck me together with glue. 

And then I knew what to do. 

I made a model of you, 

A man in black with a Meinkampf look 

And a love of the rack and the screw. 

And I said I do, I do. 

So daddy, I'm finally through. 

The black telephone's off at the root, 

The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- 

The vampire who said he was you 

And drank my blood for a year, 

Seven years, if you want to know. 

Daddy, you can lie back now. 

There's a stake in your fat black heart 

And the villagers never liked you. 

They are dancing and stamping on you. 

They always knew it was you. 

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.


From The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, Harper & Row 1981


So this poem has to be one of my favorite poems by Sylvia Plath. I know it seems creepy and almost masochistic, but hidden deep in the dark prose is a little bead of hope. Much of this poem is about the way the speaker's father was abusive, so she created herself "a model of you" and "said I do, I do." In essence, her father was abusive, so she found herself an abusive husband. The little grain of hope comes from the end, with the line "I'm finally through." This point turns the abuse from the present to the past, and makes it seem that she has broken off her relationship with this abusive husband. She also seems happy about it, acknowledging that "Daddy, you can lie back now," indicating that her father no longer controls her life. I think anyone who finds themselves in an abusive relationship can take solace in this poem, realizing that other people have been in the same situation, and perhaps for the same reason. These people were also able to find a way out of these relationships, so it is not a fruitless endeavor to work to better your life. Take heart, ye emburdoned friends, and carry thyselves to new and magnificent heights! (I have no idea why I decided to wax into Olde English, but it somehow fit the mood. I'm also writing this while listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack, so that might have something to do with it.)

Anyway, another lesson I like to take from this poem is that even from the darkest things, we can still take something positive. This is an exceptionally dark poem; even so, it has a positive outlook in the end where people are able to better themselves, no matter the situation. I feel like this is a good way of thinking about things, no matter the situation. I hope all of you enjoy the rest of this wonderful Thursday and the rest of Poetry Month!

Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

(Untitled)

Staple me to a cross 

Pierce my side with a broken promise

And I will bleed all the crippled reasons

Why you deserve one more chance.

I whispered you stardust,

I spoke you into sunflowers,

I dipped my hands in forever,

Touched infinity,

Treated you as if you were the last molecule

Of oxygen inside a gas chamber;

I was good to you

I swallowed my pride and then it clawed its way out of my mouth.

If I could I would tie your arms to a daydream

And auction you off to my fondest memories,

I write this in my own spinal fluid

And put it on the backbone of a white flag

So before you read it you know that I’ve given up.

I’ll just keep you here

Shackled to the most important chapter of my life story,

Pressed to the basement of my eyelids like liquid salvation

So I remember you beautiful

With amazing underneath your wings and a sly smile.

You linger on my lips and kiss me with stuttering apologies

Taped to the roof of your mouth.

I still remember you like a dream

Tattooed to the inner walls of a long term memory,

But some days I wonder if

You existed at all.

Yet you still want to know how I got these scars

I got these scars the day I fell in love with you

I landed face first.

Happy National Poetry Month everyone! I hope you at least kinda liked my poem. I wrote it a while ago but it has enough feels in it to be an adequate first post to this blog (even though it lacks a title, don't judge me!)

A lot of the time, I write poems when I can't find colloquial phrases to express how I'm feeling to human beings, so a Microsoft Document is always a dear friend of mine when I'm feelin' bummed or, in this case, a little heart broken. Love is tough, it's maddening, it's amazing, it's terrifying, it's traumatizing, it's unreasonable, it's everything you want and all the memories come back and crash on the shore again and again when you just want to sleep. We fall, and sometimes you get pretty banged up by it, but why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves back up. 

Anyway, that's what the poem is about I guess, analyze it as you will, my fellow poetry lovers. But for now, I hear my homework beckoning me. Until next time. Godspeed. ~Sarah

Galway Kinnell; After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

For I can snore like a bullhorn 

or play loud music 

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman

and Fergus will only sink deeper 

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, 

but let there be that heavy breathing 

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house 

and he will wrench himself awake 

and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together, 

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, 

familiar touch of the long-married, 

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens, 

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on— 

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, 

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child. 

In the half darkness we look at each other 

and smile 

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body— 

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, 

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, 

this blessing love gives again into our arms

from A New Selected Poems by Galway Kinnell, Houghton Mifflin, 2000

If anyone wants to hear it read aloud by Mr. Kinnell, go here

I just want to start off my saying happy birthday to my mom, and to apologize if I ever did this as a child. I personally love how much is crammed into this little poem, the imagery, and emotion. This poem wasn't written in 2000, it was written in the mid-1970s. Kinnell himself was a strong political and civil rights activist, as well as a globetrotter and appreciator of music. Many of his books, notably The Book of Nightmares (1971), are extremely politically relevant and focus deeply on the problems of the time. This poem holds little of the political nature of his other work. 

The most vivid part of this poem is the imagery. Not only the sexual imagery, but the imagery of the little six year old in the pajamas that are too small for him. I am currently young enough to remember a pair of pajamas that I had to wrestle over my head every time I put them on. But I loved them, so I kept wearing them until they became so threadbare that they were little more than rags of fuzz. That youthful exuberance and naivety tend toward the caring and maternal/paternal nature of the reader, rather than making us feel annoyed or angry (as most people would after being interrupted in this position). 

The other major point in this poem is the humor. It is supposed to be funny, with all the sarcasm and bantering. He qualifies sober with "reasonably," what is reasonable for an irishman? Probably not very sober at all. The sarcasm of "and he will wrench himself awake" resounds cleanly with the reader's sense of humor. Even the title, with its almost scandalous nature, provides some humor after we realize that the footsteps belong to a six year old. I personally thought it was going to be a cuckolded husband or something. Boy was I wrong.

There are a few key spots in the poem that I want to point out. 

First: "familiar touch of the long-married"

This line shows something very deep about this poem. Not only is this couple together and has a child, they have been married a long time, and still love and care for each other deeply. Not only do they not get disgruntled by their 6 year old (yes I looked that up) climbing into bed with them, it only serves to strengthen their relation as husband and wife.

Second: "and smile"

BAM! complete turnaround. The first part of the poem seems annoyed but understanding, with "but let there be... and he will wrench himself awake." This smile radiates the love that these two people share for each other, and it is because of this child and his childish ways that they are able to fell that so strongly at this moment. 

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I did, and I will see all of you again on THURSDAY!

Happy Poetry Month!

Signing off  ~Sam Zimmerman