Tag Archives: poetry

Oct 22 2014
Leave a comment
Poetry

Canadian Poetry

Some very bad business that transpired in Canada today, fellow book bloggers.  Let’s take a moment to remember our Neighbors to the North.

This is a literary blog and I wanted to pay tribute by posting a Canadian poem.  The problem?  I have zero knowledge of what is considered good Canadian poetry and or literature.

So I googled away and I came up with The Wind Our Enemy, a 1937 by Canadian poet Anne Marriott.  After a brief read, it seems to discuss survival in a harsh world.  But I’m being up front on this one – I know nothing of Canadian lit so I have no idea what Canadians would consider to be a good poem.

That’s why if you’re a Canadian, you should educate me on what your favorite Canadian poet and/or other literary work is in the comment section.

Take care, Canadians.

THE WIND OUR ENEMY

BY: Anne Marriott

FIRST PUBLISHED: 1937

I

Wind
flattening its gaunt furious self against
the naked siding, knifing in the wounds
of time, pausing to tear aside the last
old scab of paint.

Wind
surging down the cocoa-coloured seams
of summer-fallow, darting in about
white hoofs and brown, snatching the sweaty cap
shielding red eyes.

Wind
filling the dry mouth with bitter dust
whipping the shoulders worry-bowed too soon,
soiling the water pail, and in grim prophecy
greying the hair.

II

The wheat in spring was like a giant’s bolt of silk
Unrolled over the earth.
When the wind sprang
It rippled as if a great broad snake
Moved under the green sheet
Seeking its outward way to light.
In autumn it was an ocean of flecked gold
Sweet as a biscuit, breaking in crisp waves
That never shattered, never blurred in foam.
That was the last good year. ….

III

The wheat was embroidering
All the spring morning,
Frail threads needled by sunshine like thin gold.
A man’s heart could love his land,
Smoothly self-yielding,
Its broad spread promising all his granaries might hold.
A woman’s eyes could kiss the soil
From her kitchen window,
Turning its black depths to unchipped cups—a silk crepe dress—
(Two-ninety-eight, Sale Catalogue)
Pray sun’s touch be gentleness,
Not a hot hand scorching flesh it would caress.
But sky like a new tin pan
Hot from the oven
Seemed soldered to the earth by horizons of glare. ….

The third day he left the fields. ….

Heavy scraping footsteps
Spoke before his words, “Crops dried out—everywhere—”

IV

They said, “Sure, it’ll rain next year!”
When that was dry, “Well, next year anyway.”
Then, “Next—”
But still the metal hardness of the sky
Softened only in mockery.
When lightning slashed and twanged
And thunder made the hot head surge with pain
Never a drop fell;
Always hard yellow sun conquered the storm.
So the soon sickly-familiar saying grew,
(Watching the futile clouds sneak down the north)
“Just empties goin’ back!”
(Cold laughter bending parched lips in a smile
Bleak eyes denied.)

V

Horses were strong so strong men might love them,
Sides groomed to copper burning the sun,
Wind tangling wild manes, dust circling wild hoofs,
Turn the colts loose! Watch the two-year-olds run!
Then heart thrilled fast and the veins filled with glory
The feel of hard leather a fortune more sweet
Than a girl’s silky lips. He was one with the thunder,
The flying, the rhythm, of untamed, unshod feet!

But now—

It makes a man white-sick to see them now,
Dull—heads sagging—crowding to the trough—
No more spirit than a barren cow.
The well’s pumped dry to wash poor fodder down,
Straw and salt—and endless salt and straw—
(Thank God the winter’s mild so far)
Dry Russian thistle crackling in the jaw—
The old mare found the thistle pile, ate till she bulged,
Then, crazily, she wandered in the yard,
Saw a water-drum, and staggering to its rim,
Plodded around it—on and on in hard,
Madly relentless circle. Weaker—stumbling—
She fell quite suddenly, heaved once and lay.
(Nellie the kids’ pet’s gone, boys.
Hitch up the strongest team. Haul her away.
Maybe we should have mortgaged all we had
Though it wasn’t much, even in good years, and draw
Ploughs with a jolting tractor.
Still—you can’t make gas of thistles or oat-straw.)

VI

Relief.
“God, we tried so hard to stand alone!”

Relief.
“Well, we can’t let the kids go cold.”
They trudge away to school swinging half-empty lard-pails,
to shiver in the schoolhouse (unpainted seven years),
learning from a blue-lipped girl
almost as starved as they.

Relief cars.
“Apples, they say, and clothes!”
The folks in town get their pick first,
Then their friends—
“Eight miles for us to go so likely we
won’t get much—”
“Maybe we’ll get the batteries charged up and have
the radio to kind of brighten things—”

Insurgents march in Spain

Japs bomb Chinese

Airliner lost

“Maybe we’re not as badly off as some—”
“Maybe there’ll be a war and we’ll get paid to fight—”
“Maybe—”
“See if Eddie Cantor’s on to-night!”

VII

People grew bored
Well-fed in the east and west
By stale, drought-area tales,
Bored by relief whinings,
Preferred their own troubles.
So those who still had stayed
On the scorched prairie,
Found even sympathy
Seeming to fail them
Like their own rainfall.
“Well—let’s forget politics,
Forget the wind, our enemy!
Let’s forget farming, boys,
Let’s put on a dance to-night!
Mrs. Smith’ll bring a cake.
Mrs. Olsen’s coffee’s swell!”

The small uneven schoolhouse floor
Scraped under big work-boots
Cleaned for the evening’s fun,
Gasoline lamps whistled.
One Hungarian boy
Snapped at a shrill guitar,
A Swede from out north of town
Squeezed an accordion dry,
And a Scotchwoman from Ontario
Made the piano dance
In time to “The Mocking-Bird”
And “When I grow too Old to Dream,”
Only taking time off
To swing in a square dance,
Between ten and half-past three.

Yet in the morning
Air peppered thick with dust,
All the night’s happiness
Seemed far away, unreal
Like a lying mirage,
Or the icy-white glare
Of the alkali slough.

VIII

Presently the dark dust seemed to build a wall
That cut them off from east and west and north,
Kindness and honesty, things they used to know,
Seemed blown away and lost
In frantic soil.
At last they thought
Even God and Christ were hidden
By the false clouds.
—Dust-blinded to the staring parable,
Each wind-splintered timber like a pain-bent Cross.
Calloused, groping fingers, trembling
With overwork and fear,
Ceased trying to clutch at some faith in the dark,
Thin sick courage fainted, lacking hope.
But tightened, tangled nerves scream to the brain
If there is no hope, give them forgetfulness!
The cheap light of the beer-parlour grins out,
Promising shoddy security for an hour.
The Finn who makes bad liquor in his barn
Grows fat on groaning emptiness of souls.

IX

The sun goes down. Earth like a thick black coin
Leans its round rim against the yellowed sky.
The air cools. Kerosene lamps are filled and lit
In dusty windows. Tired bodies crave to lie
In bed forever. Chores are done at last.
A thin horse neighs drearily. The chickens drowse,
Replete with grasshoppers that have gnawed and scraped
Shrivelled garden-leaves. No sound from the gaunt cows.
Poverty, hand in hand with fear, two great
Shrill-jointed skeletons stride loudly out
Across the pitiful fields, none to oppose.
Courage is roped with hunger, chained with doubt.
Only against the yellow sky, a part
Of the jetty silhoutte of barn and house
Two figures stand, heads close, arms locked,
And suddenly some spirit seems to rouse
And gleam, like a thin sword, tarnished, bent,
But still shining in the spared beauty of moon,
As his strained voice says to her, “We’re not licked yet!
It must rain again—it will! Maybe—soon—”

X

Wind
in a lonely laughterless shrill game
with broken wash-boiler, bucket without
a handle, Russian thistle, throwing up
sections of soil.

God, will it never rain again? What about
those clouds out west? No, that’s just dust, as thick
and stifling now as winter underwear.
No rain, no crop, no feed, no faith, only
wind.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,
Oct 15 2014
2 Comments
Poetry

#tweettheraven

Through my twitter handle – @bookshelfbattle (which you should totally be following for tweets of a booktastic nature) – I have started a new thread – #tweettheraven

Yes, throughout October, I am going to tweet the text of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven.

I’m doing this either a) to educate the masses about a beautiful work of poetry or b) I have no life.

I haven’t decided yet.

Tagged , , , , , ,
Oct 14 2014
Leave a comment
Poetry

Halloween Literature – The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Welcome to Boo! kshelf Battle.  Halloween is around the corner.  Time to discuss some spooky lit.  First up:  The Raven by quintessential Master of Horror Edgar Allen Poe.  I’ll post the poem today and come back later with some analysis.

THE RAVEN
BY:  EDGAR ALLEN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Tagged , , , ,
Sep 05 2014
2 Comments
Poetry

The Poet’s Battle – “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

If you caught the Every Simpsons Ever Marathon on FXX, you might have seen the episode where Grandpa Simpson laments that “Death Stalks You at Every Turn.”   He then mistakes everyone from Maggie to the family dog for being the Grim Specter of Death.

It is something I try my best to not think about, but the sad reality of life is that it is limited.  If life went on forever, people would probably be a lot happier.  Haven’t accomplished your dreams yet?  Don’t worry, you have unlimited time.  Except, the truth is, you really don’t.  The epic struggle of chasing your dreams vs. finding any job that will pay the bills so you can survive is something we all face and can often lead to regrets at the end of life when the latter inevitably wins out.

Several years ago, I was the caretaker of a dying parent.  The experience left me with a negative view of our hospital system.  Once they declare an old person to be a goner, doctors tend to act like you’re wasting their time if you ask followup questions to the effect of “What if we try this?”  or “What if we try that?”  They say it delicately, but they essentially let you know that your loved one is old and this is what happens to old people so get over it.

Like the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon, death is a natural part of life and yet, I don’t know about you, but I’ll never get over it.  There are many parts of life that are difficult.  But then – sometimes I see a nice sight – like a river, or a mountain, or just a nice sunny day and it makes me sad that all that is great in the world is dangled in front of me and yet one day I’ll have to let it go.  Even worse, the complexities and difficulties of everyday life will probably keep me from experiencing most of what’s out there.

Here’s what one poet told his dying father:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

BY:  DYLAN THOMAS

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wavy by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sand the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, the grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Ironically, Dylan Thomas died at the age of 39, only two years after his father died.  It has been said that the poet may have succumbed to alcohol poisoning.  I suppose one could argue that turning to alcohol to cope is the very definition of giving in to the dying of the light, though I don’t presume to know or understand what Thomas was going through.  In any event, it is good advice.  Life is limited but take care of yourself and try to stick around as long as you can anyway.  It always bugged me when doctors shrugged off questions about my mother.  I get that to them the questions were obviously answered by a “No, that’s not going to save her” – i.e. they were simple to the point that they felt bothered that they were even asked, but they need to be asked anyway.  Struggle against the dying of the light, because whether that struggle buys you five more minutes or five more years, you’re still in the light.

Don’t forget – this advice can be applied to anything.  Having a hard time at work?  Don’t give up, fight to do better.  Upset over some situation?  Don’t throw in the towel, try to fix the problem.  Whatever the light i.e. all that is good disappears, you’re in the dark and that’s it, so fight to have that goodness in your life for as long as you can.

What choice do you have?  The alternative is to be left in the dark.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,
Aug 17 2014
9 Comments
Poetry

What Will Your Verse Be?

All week long, I have wanted to write something about Robin Williams. With his zany, madcap energy and mile-a-minute comedic riffs, he was the very last person you would expect to check himself out early, wasn’t he? Much has been speculated on as everyone tries to figure out the why of it all – depression, drugs, a Parkinson’s Disease diagnosis. Truth be told, only he knew why and he didn’t choose to share with us the reason.

And that’s ok. He shared with us so much else.

For several months now, I’ve been trying to figure out my own voice on this blog. It is primarily a book blog, to share with you my thoughts on the latest novels I have been reading. Alas, life often gets in the way, weeks go by and I find that before I know it, much time has passed and the next book I planned to read and talk to you about is just sitting there on my shelf, growing dusty. Work, family commitments, general duties of taking care of myself and others – the business of life, it more often than not comes first.

For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of being a published author. Double Alas, it has yet to happen. Such is life. I find myself often wishing that I could go back in time – back to the days when I was picking a college major – and become an English teacher. That way, at the end of my life, if my dream of getting published never pans out, I could at least say that I spent my time on this planet being involved with something I love – reading books and talking to people about them. Maybe in a smaller way, that’s what I’m doing here.

Robin, you were an alien, a genie, a wacky doctor, an unconventional President, a down on his luck shrink, a DJ in Vietnam, and yes, you were even a divorced man who had to stoop to the level of dressing up like an old British nanny just to see his kids. But for the purposes of our little online community of literature lovers, your stint as an English teacher is what I’ll leave my readers with today:

The “What Will Your Verse Be?” Speech from Dead Poets Society (1989)

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, ‘O me! O life!…of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless..of cities filled with the foolish, what good amid these, O me, O life?’ Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

As always, fellow Bookshelf Battlers, thank you for reading. I wish you the best of luck in finding your verse.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,
Aug 03 2014
1 Comment
Poetry

The Poet’s Battle – “The Road Not Taken” – Robert Frost

Choices – they are the bane of our existence, aren’t they? To do one thing is to NOT do the other. To choose profession X is to forego profession Y. To marry person A is to never meet person B, C, or D. To eat at McDonald’s for dinner is to bypass Burger King.

Have you ever thought about the concept of timelines? I have for awhile. Sure, we all think about “what might have been.” Chances are, if you think about it as much as I do, you’re second guessing some of the decisions you’ve made in life. You wish you’d of bobbed instead of weaving. You wish you’d of ducked instead od covering. You wish you’d of taken the blue pill instead of the red.

“Regrets, I’ve had a few,” as Frank Sinatra would say. Heck, had he ignored his desire to express himself through song, he’d of never even said it. I would have had to of think of another quote to express myself just now. Thanks Frank.

Here’s what the poet Robert Frost had to say about the subject:

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

By: Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

That’s some powerful imagery, isn’t it? Imagine yourself walking down a path through the woods when all of a sudden the road forks into two directions – you can either go left or right. Your mind starts racing – “What if I pick the left road and it’s full of bats and zombies?” “What if I pick the right road and it’s full of daisies and adorable bunny rabbits?” “What if, after the daisies and adorable bunny rabbits, the right road leads me straight off a cliff?” “What if the road full of bats and zombies leads me to a life in a magnificent mansion?” “What if both roads are scheduled for demolition and I’m screwed either way?”

Life is all about making difficult choices – to do X is to forego Y. And sadly, you never find out whether or not X was a good decision until you’re smack dab in the middle of it and to get out of it would be a nightmare and a half. Y never presents itself as the better option until it’s too late. And even then, you never know for sure if Y would have been a better option.

Perhaps a verbal illustration is in order. You meet a nice woman at a party. (Ladies, you can play along and just imagine you met a nice man.) You two hit it off. You date for awhile. She starts talking about marriage. You’re now at a crossroads. Choice A leads you down a road where you’re married to this woman, you have kids with her, you’re tied to her for life. MAYBE it will be great and you’ll end up an old man pleased with yourself for choosing a woman who looked out for you for so many years. Or, maybe she’ll turn out to be a beast-and-a-half, and you’ll end up living in a one room apartment because she took all your money in a brutal divorce, your kids end up being raised by Fabio the tennis instructor she dumped you for.

Before you chose Choice A, to marry this woman, you also had Choice B – to tell her no thanks and remain single in the hopes that someone else better for you comes along. And maybe someone better does come along. Or, maybe you never meet anyone else for the rest of your life and end up with a lifetime of regret, kicking yourself daily for allowing the woman from choice A to get away.

Then there’s the wild card possibilities that will hurt your brain if you even try to think of them. Maybe you marry the woman from Choice A and she’s wonderful, but to marry her means you move to a new city you’d of otherwise never been interested in living in, and while there, you are hit by a bus you’d of otherwise never encountered. Maybe you stay single in Choice B and your feeling sad for a few more years until one day, you go to a convenience store at 3 AM (the wife from choice A would have never allowed you to stay out so late), buy a lottery ticket on a whim and win a million dollars.

Forget women and dating altogether. You’re trying to pick the profession you want to enter. You think you might be better suited for Profession X, but Profession Y makes more money. You pick profession X and you never make it past the entry level arena. You kick yourself – “Had only I picked Profession Y, I’d of become a star of that profession.”

If only we could have some kind of magical clairvoyance that allows us to see into the future to help us make our choices. If only we could consult a real live fortune teller. “Don’t marry Woman A – she’ll be nice for a few years then will cheat on you with the milk man. By the way, milk delivery will make a come back. Fear not, for if you hold out only two more weeks, Rebecca Romijn Stamos will get lost, pull up next to you at the gas station to ask for directions, and fall madly in love with you.”

I feel like Robert Frost’s infamous poem is often used to teach people to take the hard road in life. Don’t take the easy way – take the one that involves a lot of hard work and determination. Your legs will get really tired but you’ll be really pleased with yourself once you get there. It’s kind of like taking a road trip on the highway – you can stop at the creepy HoJo with the Jo part broken so the neon sign just reads, “Ho” and all the beds haven’t had the linens changed in a year because the maids are lazy – OR you can keep driving for five more miles and there’s a perfectly lovely Marriot to stay at.

I think the uniform translation of this poem is that the speaker is happy with the choice he made – “and that has made all the difference.” Overall, that was probably the message Frost meant to convey – but keep in mind, at no point does the speaker come right out and say, “Holy Crap, am I happy with the choice I made and how! The road I took was great! I skipped along it the whole time like a happy idiot and it was just all kinds of wonderful the whole time!”

“And that has made all the difference” – was it a good difference? A bad difference? An indifferent difference? We don’t know.

Sadly, the bottom line is – WE WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN. You kind of have an inkling, but usually you never start yearning desperately to go back in time and choose choice Y until it turns out that choice X sucks big time. You never wish you stayed single until the milk man until you look around your breakfast table one day and say, “Well I’ll be damned if my children don’t bear a striking resemblance to the milk man!” You never start to wish you’d of chosen Profession Y until your boss from profession X starts making you stay late every night and not only never pays you more but cuts your salary to less. You don’t start second guessing yourself until your first choice craps out.

My advice – it is perfectly normal, even logical, to think about what might have been, but not helpful to torture yourself and be angry at yourself for not taking the alternate choice. A) You HAD to choose something and you made the best choice you did given the information you had at the time. B) You really don’t know for sure what would have happened had you made the other choice. Might have been great. Might have been even worse. C) At least you took a choice and didn’t end up as one of those people who just spends their entire lives staring at the fork trying to figure out what to do.

The point is – if you’re unhappy with the road you took, stop looking in the rear view mirror and start looking for an exit ramp. (That means find a new choice to make, for you people who are metaphorically challenged).

Thanks for reading, and by the way – you have the choice of following @bookshelfbattle on Twitter or not and I think doing so would be a really great choice.

(C) Copyright Bookshelfbattle.com

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
Jul 30 2014
2 Comments
Monthly Wrap-Ups 2014

Previously on Bookshelf Battle…July 2014 Wrap-Up (Game of Thrones Edition)

Here’s what I wrote about in July 2014, told in Game of Thrones style:

LORDS VARYS AND BAELYSH walk through the empty throne room, the IRON THRONE looming large in their presence.

VARYS: My little birds tell me there’s an idiot out there who doesn’t know how to run a book blog.

BAELYSH: Yes, he’s supposed to be writing about books, not about TV and movies. Why is he boring everyone with his rants about Fargo and Better Call Saul?

VARYS: I confess I know not. Perhaps he thinks he’s the next Roger Ebert.

BAELYSH: To aspire to be the next Roger Ebert is a dangerous goal – like a man reaching for the sun and forgetting to keep his footing on the treacherous ground below him.

VARYS: Even worse, he apparently thinks he’s some type of comedian – making light of Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. Does he think he could do be better if Hollywood gave him a budget and a crew?

BAELYSH: My whores could make a better movie than that if they were given a budget and a crew.

VARYS: Stupid lowborn.

BAELYSH: Idiot eunuch.

MEANWHILE ACROSS THE NARROW SEA:

The KHALEESI sits on a throne inside a pyramid. SER JORAH is on his knees, begging.

KHALEESI: You spied on me! You sent information about me and my child to the usurper!

JORAH: The info was mostly about your brother and come on, my lady, let’s be honest – he was kind of a dick.

KHALEESI: Even worse, you subscribed to a book blog that ONLY REVIEWED ONE BOOK IN JULY! Only one single, solitary book! How dare he call himself a book blogger if he can’t be bothered to produce more book reviews?

JORAH: But surely everyone wants to read a review of Fletch, Khaleesi!

KHALEESI: Don’t call me that! Leave at once, or I’ll have your head! Don’t come back until you’ve found a book blog that reviews at least TWO books a month!

BEYOND THE WALL…

YGRITTE: You know nothing, Jon Snow.

JON SNOW: Not true. I know all about the poem, Invictus thanks to a poetry discussion on bookshelfbattle.com

YGRITTE: We never should have left that cave.

JON SNOW: We had to. There was no Diet Shasta Strawberry soda in there.

ACROSS THE COUNTRYSIDE:

THE HOUND: All your relatives are dead, nobody to pay me my money, what in Seven Hells are we to do now?

ARYA: I don’t know. Maybe we could sing some Batman Day Carols or watch a Weird Al Music Video

THE HOUND: I’d rather borrow another one of me brother’s toys without asking again.

AT TYRION’S TRIAL

TYRION: I wish to confess. I saved you. I saved this city – and all your worthless lives. I should have let Stannis lecture you all into boredom about whether or not life is a tale told by an idiot.

I didn’t make Joffrey read about “A Plague on Both Your Houses!” though I wish I had!

AT THE FIGHT BETWEEN THE RED VIPER AND THE MOUNTAIN:

RED VIPER: You followed @bookshelfbattle on Twitter! You followed http://bookshelfbattle.tumblr.com/ on tumblr! You liked the Bookshelf Battle page on Facebook! Admit it! I’ll hear you confess! Who gave the order?!

THE MOUNTAIN: YEAH I FOLLOWED ALL THE FABULOUS BOOKSHELFBATTLE SOCIAL MEDIA!!! AND I DID IT JUST LIKE THIS! (Smashes the Red Viper’s computer into a million pieces).

As always, thanks for reading. Looking forward to entertaining you with more booktabulous goodness in August.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jul 13 2014
3 Comments
Poetry

Poetry Shelf Battle – Invictus

The Bookshelf Battle Shelf is not a place for the feint of heart. Just the other day I saw The Grapes of Wrath give an uppercut to War and Peace over a prime piece of real estate on the bookshelf. All the other books looked on in horror.

Yet, despite all the chaos, once in awhile I find some time to put some poetry on the shelf. Whenever I feel down, this is a poem that helps me feel better:

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 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.

In other words, blogarinos, life is full of a constant, neverending slew of roadblocks and obstacles getting between you and what you want. You wake up one day. You say, “I wanna do X!” And you go along, you start doing X and then before you know it the world tosses a monkey wrench into the gears of your plans and shouts, “Ha ha ha, no you will do Y instead!” When you’re young, you think anything is possible – that you can be an astronaut, a champion football player, a famous actor, lead guitarist in a rock band, professional stunt car driver, whatever. Then you grow up and the realities of life get in your way. Work, responsibilities, family – so many things need your attention that you run out of time to practice that guitar or whatever it is you really wanted to do before you discovered how tough the world really is.

What Henley is saying is that no matter how difficult life can be, YOU are in charge of your reaction to it. Will you let it get you down, or will you try to find a way to achieve your dreams in the face of adversity? After all, as he says, you are the master of your fate, you are the captain of your soul.

Random tidbit of info – this poem was a source of inspiration for Nelson Mandela and he claimed it helped him get through the difficulties of his life. It was featured prominently in the Clint Eastwood directed film about Mandela and the South African rugby team, starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon, also called Invictus.

SHAMELESS PLUG – Thanks to all the Bookshelf Battle readers out there. Feel free to follow me on Twitter @bookshelfbattle for the latest updates in the world of awesome booktastic bookery.

Tagged , , ,
Newer posts →