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Fear No More

Fear No More, I chose this poem for a very specific reason, fear is a theme often weaved through out literature, music,art,movies and our lives. Fear is gripping and cementing...holding on like the clutches of a dead man. Fear of being rejected, fear of being alone, fear of dying, fear losing-we face Fear every day. Now I have been having(and am still continuing to have) these really horrible dreams where I am...left alone...see people dying...losing my friends and loved ones...and being rejected by the killer. Last night was particularity bad, my parents died in my subconscious, not something you want to see, but I was overwhelmed this morning by this fear that somehow it came true. I never realized,until now, that fear is the driving emotion behind many of our decisions.
Fear No More.
Besides it's a lovely day for Shakespeare--Yes! I like it Shakespeare Saturday!
Who doesn't love "Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. "- Macbeth
Fear No More
William Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

I'm a bit more hyper at the moment---So here is a lame lame poem...straight from me to you
Steelers Love
Melissa Reyes
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm excited for the Super Bowl
How 'bout you?

My Steelers are gonna kick your butt
and make you bleed
A perfect Sunday
what more could you want or need?

Ha ha, I know I promised not "Roses are Red Violets are Blue" but I couldn't help it....I'm sooo excited for the Super Bowl you really have no idea.I almost wish I lived in Pittsburgh-I said almost- simply to be in the Steelers atmosphere.

Brown Penny

Brown Penny
William Butler Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’
And then, ‘I am old enough’;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.’
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Les Feuilles Mortes

Jacques Prévert

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes

Des jours heureux où nous étions amis

En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié...

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Et le vent du nord les emporte

Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié

La chanson que tu me chantais.

C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble

Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais

Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble

Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais

Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment

Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit

Et la mer efface sur le sable

Les pas des amants désunis.

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle

Sourit toujours et remercie la vie

Je t’aimais tant, tu étais si jolie,

Comment veux-tu que je t’oublie?

En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Tu étais ma plus douce amie

Mais je n’ai que faire des regrets

Et la chanson que tu chantais

Toujours, toujours je l’entendrai!

Dead Leaves

Oh, I would like you so much to remember

Those happy days when we were friends, and how

Life in those times was more lovely and tender,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

Dead leaves are gathering as in December

You see how one never forgets...

Dead leaves are gathering as in December,

Just like the memories and the regrets.

And then the north wind comes and sweeps them

Into oblivion’s icy night.

You see how I never forgot

That old song that you sang for me.

A song like us, birds of a feather,

You loving me, me loving you,

And we lived happily together,

You loving me, me loving you.

But life tears apart gentle lovers

Who quietly obey their heart,

And the sea invades the sand and covers

The footsteps of those torn apart.

Dead leaves are gathering, dead leaves are piling

Up just like memories and like regrets.

But still my love goes on quietly smiling

Thankful for life and for all that it gets.

I loved you so, you were ever so lovely,

How can I forget? Tell me how!

Life in those times was more sweet and beguiling,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

You were my most sweet friend and lover

,But regret is all that I can do,

And I’ll keep on hearing the song

That I used to hear sung by you.

In my french class we had this section in the middle of the chapter, a section ment to unfold the French culture before our very eyes-naturally we all hated this part because it ment one thing. Reading aloud in a French accent trying desperatley to sound like a native but sounding hoplessly and tragically American. My french teacher Mrs.Bonneville spoke french perfectly so it was pretty imtimidaing when she would turn to me and say in that lovely french accent "Melissa Faire vous a lu pour nous. " Anyway this poem was one of the many many things I had to read and I was surprised that I understood exactly what I was reading as if I knew the words for my heart. The poem was a song and was performed by slew of frenchies and non-frenchies a like , such as Yves Montand and Andrea Bocelli. To me this poem speaks volumes of Love and how things don't really turn out the way you would like them to, and no matterhow hard you try nothing can erase the love that was felt so long. Personally, I think it is very tragic to not be able to forget the pain of living without someone, but then again the memories can be of some confort-I suppose. Everytime I read this poem I think of what is was like to discover my love of the french language - and that after much practice I now sound less like an American visiting and more like an American that has been living in France for year or so.


Avoir un Mercredi merveilleux!!!

I discovered Sylvia Plath quite some time ago (err I think was 12 or had just turned 13). I read the Bell Jar and was convinced of her brilliance. On the outside she was composed, perfect student and daughter but on the inside a war of pain was raging. She kept in hidden under the mask of perfection but soon the pain crushed her and she decided to overdose on sleeping pills(she wasn't successful in suicide--this time.) I felt an instant kinship with her, at the time I was going through something similar. Hiding feelings from people for their and my benefit,we will leave it at that. It sounds a bit odd to say that the Bell Jar helped me heal after such a great lose but it's true.
I will always think of Sylvia as the person who pulled me out of the hell that is losing a loved one....this is one of my favorite Plath poems.

All the Dead Dears

Sylvia Plath

In the Archaeological Museum in Cambridge is a stone

coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons

of a woman, a mouse and a shrew. The ankle-bone of the

woman has been slightly gnawed.

Rigged poker -stiff on her back

With a granite grin

This antique museum-cased lady

Lies, companioned by the gimcrack

Relics of a mouse and a shrew

That battened for a day on her ankle-bone.

These three, unmasked now, bear

Dry witness

To the gross eating game

We'd wink at if we didn't hear

Stars grinding, crumb by crumb,

Our own grist down to its bony face.

How they grip us through think and thick,

These barnacle dead!

This lady here's no kin

Of mine, yet kin she is: she'll suck

Blood and whistle my narrow clean

To prove it.

As I think now of her hand,
From the mercury-backed glass

Mother, grandmother, greatgrandmother

Reach hag hands to haul me in,

And an image looms under the fishpond surface

Where the daft father went down

With orange duck-feet winnowing this hair ---

All the long gone darlings: They

Get back, though, soon,

Soon: be it by wakes, weddings,

Childbirths or a family barbecue:

Any touch, taste, tang's

Fit for those outlaws to ride home on,

And to sanctuary: usurping the armchair

Between tick

And tack of the clock, until we go,

Each skulled-and-crossboned Gulliver

Riddled with ghosts, to lie

Deadlocked with them, taking roots as cradles rock.

Have a Poetic Friday

Sky, another Sky!

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

Ponder this...Come to a place where nothing has been harmed, nothing ruined by sadness or silent questions, come here to my garden where all is well and nothing can hurt us.

Have a poetic day!

Dream with in a Dream
Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allen Poe is known for his bizarre and somewhat morbid views of the world. Most of his work hints to a greater and darker force- happiness is present but not for long. This is understandable from what we know of his deeply dark depressing and lonely life.
But can you not agree that our lives are passing us by with each passing minute. Powerless are we to stop it-to save it from the waves of uncertainty, happiness and that feeling of having things slip from our grasps? Edgar Allen Poe wasn't crazy, just being honest to his true feelings...what do you thing about this poem? About the fleeting feeling of Life?

This blog was inspired by the 1989's Dead Poets Society, a movie about an English Professor John Keating (Robin Williams) who inspires his students to a love of poetry ,to seize the day and to disrupt the status quot. Keating tells them about the Dead Poets Society when he was a member and his students decide to start the club again...meeting at midnight sitting by a cave near a pond and recite poetry.
This will be like the cave, accept for the fact that it is on the Internet and not in an actual cave! This blog will be a metaphorical cave...recite poetry, write poetry, and learn to love poetry!
SAPPY LOVE DRENCHED..."roses are red violets are blue"...WILL NOT APPEAR ON THIS BLOG!
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. 193.
O Captain! My Captain!
1O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

2O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead

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