Left Of Sean

Here’s my response to my last post!!

Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

And no I’m not drunk….yet!

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I’m growing old harshly. I don’t say gracefully because, if you know me, I’m anything but graceful.  I wouldn’t say I’m fighting it, just not enjoying it.

I think the reality has started to hit me that I’m getting older and the immortal dreams of youth are not coming true.  I was going to be great.  I was going to be a mullet-headed, spandex wearing, hot-chick pounding rock star!  I’m pretty sure that dream didn’t come true.

I was going to be rich.  I would travel the world in my personal jet with my hot secretary and I would solve all the world’s problems by throwing cash and attitude at them.  I was a Donald Trump wanna-be.  (Hey, it was the 80s!)

That’s right.  I was going to be BIG with a capital ‘S.’  {S = Stupid!} continue reading…

I usually don’t post poetry and literature on this blog but I’m going to post something I think everyone should read.

My father sent me a link to a website called Poetry Out Loud (http://www.poetryoutloud.org).  Every year they hold a national recitation contest in Washington, DC where students from each state, and the District, compete for a $20,000 prize for reciting poetry.  If you want to view videos of the winners (which I highly recommend – it’s awesome) click here.

By far my favorite from the group was a young man named Stanley Jackson from Texas who recited Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Go start the video and then come back here to read the poem along with him.

Take into consideration the time this poem was written and the harsh and brutal message it portrays.  Dunbar was a master.

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

Sympathy

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting —
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!

---

The above poem was published in Lyrics of the Hearthside by Dodd, Mead and Company in 1899. It was this poem that inspired the title to Maya Angelou‘s autobiography I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.

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Over the last couple of years I have used this blog for everything from social commentary to election politics to social absurdity and fiction.  Some of the entries have been masterpieces (very few) and some have been pure crap.

Mostly they’re just my rambling nonsense and I’m lucky enough that my readership is growing so that means that we, as a society, are getting dumber.

Lately I’ve been on a poetry kick.  It started with Poe and is quickly ascending into Frost, Byron, and Whitman.  Yes, there are others too.

I know what you’re thinking, “Goddamnit, I was actually enjoying his ridiculous posts and then he throws this poetry shit into the mix!”  Yeah, I know.  It’s horrible that I want to push a little education your way.  Suck it up and remember my motto:  If you don’t like it, change the channel.  But I hope you won’t.

I’m going to leave you with a piece of art that is moving, spectacular, simple, and compelling all at once.  Read it several times to take it in.  Savor it.  And tell someone else about it.  Who knows, maybe they’ll love it too.

I would I were a careless child by Lord Byron

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! Take back these cultur’d lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this – again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne’er design’d for me:
Ah! Why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth – wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I lov’d – but those I lov’d are gone;
Had friends – my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart – the heart – is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank of Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous Joy is but a name.

And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men –
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.

I hope you enjoyed it!

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In honor of our little snow storm this past week, I thought I would write a little poem about it.  Remember, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.  I really didn’t like poetry until several weeks ago when I dug out my Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe and started digging through that monster in search of something fun.

As a side note, The Cask of Amontillado was one of my favorite Poe tales of all time.  It was the first one I re-read when I opened the book.  Here’s a link to the complete story on LintUponTweed so you can read it too.

A Winter Poem by Left Of Sean

Snow white and winter gray
I look outside; a shitty day.
Cold as hell, my balls are frozen.
I rub one out; the blood now flowing.

I walk outside, shake my head twice.
It’s three inches thick; the fucking ice.
I slip and slide and bust my ass.
The sheet of ice covers the grass.

Scraper in hand, I begin to chisel.
Ice on my windshield, fo shizzle nizzle.
It won’t come off, too fucking thick.
I get real mad, pick up a brick.

Reason wins and down it goes.
I dropped the brick on my frozen toes.
Fucking winter; die bitch, die.
I think I’ll go inside for pie.

I stand at the window; glaring eyes.
I eat my pie and curse the ice.
When what should appear before my sight?
The sun came out and shone some light.

The ice is melting, puddles, streams.
I realize now it’s just a dream.
I come awaken by something cold.
I’ve peed the bed; just couldn’t hold.

I hate the winter, dark and gray.
I want the heat to come and stay.
In a few short months the Spring will come.
Until then, I remain loathsome.

I know.  It’s destined to become a Winter Classic.  You’re asking yourself, who is this incredibly wise man who wrote this?  Let me meet the one who pees his sheets! It is I, LoS, who brought you this spectacular piece of poetry….and I, LoS, who you can blame for the reduction in IQ points!

Sorry…

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