Flightless

Lots of people post reflections around the holiday time.  If you've been keeping up with my blog you'll note what I put up on my blog on Christmas day.

Insanity.

I've discovered that the holiday travels were all that was keeping my depression and fright at bay.  I feel like a flightless angel - one with a deformity.  Or a lack-of-formity.  At the moment, I feel like I have only one wing.  Like my feet are firmly stuck to the ground.  I'm sure I feel this way because I've crashed.  Because my other wing was broken off.  When?  I have no idea.  I just know it has happened.

Earth bound,

Feet on the ground,

Longing to fly,

Take me, sky:

One-winged Angel.

I feel so trapped.  I feel Life pressing in on all sides and smothering me like I never have before.  And I know that in several years I'll say the same and look back on today as cake...and I know that the Big Guy upstairs has all this figured out, but somehow it still doesn't take away with fear.  I'm scared.  And I can't just fly away and make it all better.  At least not yet.  And even then...it won't be all better.  Like Icarus, if I grew enough Wing to fly, the sun waits to burn me if I fly too high.

Some people call this being dramatic.  Just shut up and face life like a man, they say.  I disagree.  This is being Real.  Not enough people can just say how they feel without fear of reprimand or advice or smh-ing.  So this is me.  Telling you I'm afraid.  And not being afraid to do it.

Ironic.

Considerations of the Letter 11

Today I am considering things that start with the letter 11.    But in all seriousness, nonsensical, and homicidally verbagiousness (that’s the characteristic of verbing you know, and not technically upon my considerations as it does not start with the letter 11), the musings and mischiefs of Carroll and I (specifically of Alice and JTY), have made its way into my imagination and Scarlequain, AH, 11!

Slayed the Jabberwock,

Put the Question to Spock:

 Why is a Raven like a writing desk?

Hatter, Harry, Hammer, to the test:

J.T.Nonsensical.Y.

Life is better with the wing of an angel around one’s neck, I daresay.  Indeed, a little known fact of Poe’s crow and the cow’s low is just that.  You suppose Alice slayed the Jabberwock in a day?  Wing your way up the spiral stair, and away from Absalom’s stare.  Where is your Muchness, young one?  Why is a Raven like a writing desk?  Why do all the Spocks in the world know An Answer?  Is there an answer?  Did Poe write on both?  I’m more inclined to think there is a B in both and an N in neither.

And now Much One Young, you shake your bean and mutter something mean.  But being mad isn’t bad, in fact you’ll be quite happy, if not sappy, to realize that the best usually are.  Mad, I mean.  And probably saps too, if the two winds blew blue too.

Is there a moral to this story, this ridiculous tirade?  Something Deep you can dive in, some philosophical spin?  More than you know, your Muchness.  I hope you’ve found it by now.  I hope you’ve answered your Question.

Eh what?  Wake up you say?  My friend, you just heared the time of day.  But I’ll tell you a nary, this old storator will.  There once was a boy.  And not just any boy.  This boy had powers untold.  What were they?  Well, I’m sure you’ll find out; today I am considering things that start with the letter 11.

An 8va Above the Rest

It is very seldom that I compose a Scarlequain that is simplistic, but at the same time, so deep that I have trouble putting it into words.  Let me explain.

My semester at Bryan has just come to a close.  The last week was spent stressing my brains out, losing sleep, and crying harder than I have in years due to some of my closest friends parting ways with me.  When these hard times hit, it is a normal thing for me to write some form of self-motivation on my left wrist - just to sorta remind myself to be thankful, keep pushing, or stay sane, and the one that kept making its way on to my skin was simply "8va."

Now to those of you who aren't as musically interested as others who read this blog, 8va means, "to play one octave higher" than the notated material.  For those of you who still have no idea what that means, Google it.  You'll learn something.  Even if you do understand, you have to be a trumpet player to know the significance of playing something up the octave.  8va is the prize at the end of the rainbow.  It is the ultimate achievement.  It is a sign of manly awesomeness that cannot be gained in any other manner.

The problem with taking something up the octave is that it is extremely risky.  You see, the higher one goes up the trumpet's range, the more difficult the notes become to form, and the more likely you are to sound awful.  But then...if you hit it...

The culmination of all things perfect.

So, why did I write this on my wrist?  Still seems pretty nerdy...

Glad you asked.

8va is something every trumpet player will be attempting all of his/her life.  And it is something in which even a pro experiences a level of uncertainty.  Anyone can crack an 8va, no matter how many hours of practice.  But we never stop trying.  We never step down from an 8va, even if we're exhausted.  Because taking something down is a jab to our pride...to our honor.  It is something anyone can do at any time.

I suppose it may be a silly comparison, but I tried to apply that same attitude to my life during the last few weeks.  What if I approached everything I did...friendships with people leaving, my school, my spiritual life...with the same attitude that I do an 8va?  I know I wouldn't hit it all the time.  I know it's even more difficult when I'm exhausted...but when I do hit it...when it really sails up there, high and brilliant...it's worth it.  And when that attitude affects other people, when the pride disappears and all that's left is the drive to be an 8va above the people around who are just playing just to play, that's when the music...when Life...really sings.

My little sister, in my honor.  The drive that affects others.

Bright and high,

Heartsails fly,

Set above the rest,

Risk; greatness; test:

8va.

Prosaic Torture by a Tory for 200 Years

Sometimes the best way to escape the sheer terror of the stress mounting everywhere around you is to ignore it and pretend it isn't there, if only for a short time.  This is me doing just that, in my haven at Harmony House.

Welcome to hell week.

Thumbing through my leather book of scribblings, I've noticed that many of my Scarlequain deal with historical figures, be they operatic performers/reformers, serial rapists, or random men of the French Revolution.  ...it is with an ashamed demeanor that I admit my love of immortally binding these people with my words is very Wilhoitesque.

At any rate, I figured I could share a few of those poems with you as a tribute to those people who have lived and died, and yet who did something with their lives that was significant enough to make us remember them.

First of all (because let's face it, from the instant I mentioned the two words "serial rapist" that's all you've been thinking about): Don Giovanni!

*insert extreme groan of disdain from every Bryanite musician who has slaved under DW's tutelage.*

Fashioned after the Spanish player Don Juan, Don Giovanni is an Italian playboy who boasts of having laid around 1,200ish women in his travels and escapades, and ends up getting sent to hell for his raucus lifestyle (because I totally didn't use the word raucus in my paper on DG...).  Yes...we had to write a paper on this guy.  So here you are, for your pleasure.  A tribute to Don Giovanni, star of the opera buffa (hint, hint, freshies...), and by implication, the great Mozart, and the suffering we all endured in his name.

Don Giovanni and the Commendatore

Don Juan,

Will gone,

Shoot me now,

To torture voluntarily bow:

Music History Paper.

I decided I should write a poem for this next guy because, let's face it...how many people actually know about operatic reformers?  I'm a music major and had no idea who this guy was previous to about a month ago (thanks DW).  At any rate, Christoph Willibald Gluck was the most famous of operatic reformers.  He decided opera's music should serve the poetry and plot of the libretto (the guy who writes the words), and he restored the role of the chorus (the big conglomeration of peeps who sing aside from the soloists), integrated an orchestra, and added much more variety to the solos that were sung.  Props, Gluck!  With a name like that...you need to be remembered for something.  ...other than your name.

Christoph Willibald Gluck

Serve the story,

In the Whig of a Tory,

Music was torn,

Need operatic reform:

Enter Willibald Gluck!

I recently found the first Scarlequain I wrote in Music History class, where this all began, and chucked a bit to myself.  Even after flipping through my Music History notes, I couldn't find who this poem is about.  I do recall the details, however.  It seems there was this one chap who was just before Gluck (who, upon further consideration, is my hero), and wanted opera to be based solely on prose and not poetry.  Being the beatnik/hippie/romantic/weirdo that I am, that sort of set me off, as it were (that's for you, Dad).  So I wrote this poem about my distaste for that fellow, for prose, and for the Enlightenment in general (if only just for this one aspect of it):

 Here is a picture of Kant.  Because Enlightenment.

Prosaic demoniac,

Raging maniac,

Poetry, not prose,

Mere dirt in your toes:

Enlightenment buzz.

Finally, and probably the sole inspiration for this post, here is my homage to the two great composers who were born in 1813, and consequentially, celebrate their 200th birthday this year: Giuseppe Verdi and Richard Wagner (ri-CARD VAHG-ner.  See, you learn something new every day.)  Both men were extremely important and influential in their respective nations: people used to cry "Viva Verdi" (used as an acronym for the King of Italy during the Revolution that was stirring in the 1850-60s: Viva Vittorio Emanuele Re D'Italia), and, believe it or not, Hitler got much inspiration from the antisemitic writings of Wagner, and was deeply inspired to "preserve the motherland" after hearing one of Wagner's operas and visiting his grave site.  Despite these seemingly undesirable associations today, these men remain two of the greatest composers of the 19th century.

(Time out before I celebrate these two great men.  Let me say that it is a sin that Carrie Underwood is starring in a redo of The Sound of Music.  Just...no.  It should NEVER be redone.  Ever.)

At any rate, happy birthday to them both:

Giuseppe Verdi

Richard Wagner

200 years,

Raise Euro beers,

Salute the greats,

Despite Hitler's hate:

Verdi and Wagner.

And now you have been introduced to one of the largest areas of my life.  I am a musician, and I love it.  Will it pay?  Will I continue down this path after I leave the Hill?  Right now, I don't know, and I don't care.  Pardon me while I take another sip of my coffee.

Literary Horcruxes

"You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older."

- Amouk Aimee

I heard someone ask the question recently, "What is real Beauty?"  It was obvious to me that they were asking about beauty with a capital "B."  And I admit I still don't have an answer.  I'm just glad they weren't asking me.  And when I read the above quote in a little book of positive sayings I have (another aspect of my beatnikness, I suppose), it sort of festered in the back of my mind.

Not to sound overtly morbid, but I chuckle at the fact that most poets, philosophers, and "great people" don't really become famous until after they're dead.  At the height and cessation of their age, they finally achieve real Beauty.  Made me think of the following by Peter Van Houten, from John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (a book that you must read if you haven't already):

"Witness...that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense.  When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.  You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them.  Language buries, but does not resurrect."

I guess that's the Beauty of being a poet: we pour our heart and soul (...if I had a soul, being a Ginger) into our work, and once we die, we are lost.  But much like a Horcrux, a part of us lives on in the little things we poured ourselves into.

The Literature lives.

This also made me think: what part of myself am I leaving behind?  Once I'm gone, what will people think of me based on the soul I left behind in my words?  As I said in my last entry, I noticed that many of my Scarlequain aren't exact the brightest and happiest of things.  So I'm trying to do better on that account.  I've also learned that one's day is greatly improved upon thanking your Heavenly Father for the simple things.  A friend asked the question "where would we be if we woke up the next day with only the things we had thanked God for the previous day?"  Made me think.

Cognitive thought,

Freckles and spots,

Life and breath,

A day stayed death:

Thankful, Gratis.

 Not everything has to be happy and thankful.  Life is rated R, and sometimes we need to know that there are hard things people go through.  And sometimes we need to know the silly things too.  They keep us Human just as much as the simple and the hard things.

Up in your face,

Put in your place,

As if we care,

Where's his hair...?

Just before break.

A blog I read ends every post with three things they're thankful for.  I don't plan on doing this much, but I thought it appropriate today.  So here you are:

1. A music prof. who stretches me and makes me see life in ways I never could without him, and who consequently inspires TONS of poetry.

2. The hard things in life that push me back to the simple things and to Him.

3. Literary Horcruxes.

Be Still My Soul (Inspired by Home, Siblings, and Steven Sharp Nelson)

"The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."  -William Faulkner

When I first read that part of his Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech in the year 1950, I was assuming Faulkner was talking about the deep things of life that keep us all going.  The Heavy things like eternity, glory, and heroism.  But now, as I sit in front of our fireplace in the home I spent most of my life in, listening to cello music by Steven Nelson, and musing over everything in my life up unto until this point, I realize that some of the props of man aren't necessarily super deep or even "grey" things.

This house and this city are full of memories for me.  Some of them are very good memories, but a lot of the recent ones have been difficult.  I've written about the long line of people that I've injured in the recent past, and most of them live around here.  I have a tendency to dwell on those things; but as I catch up with a few friends with whom things never change, I become aware of the great memories: the pillars that keep me supported when I feel like I'm falling.  Grandparent's house, good food, the deep connection I've developed in the past few years with my siblings - I love them more than ever, and they're some of my best friends - the wonderful friends I've met on the hill who love me dearly: all these things come rushing over me as I warm myself by the fire.

Food galore,

Relax and snore,

Love and care,

Cure from wear:

Grandparent's house.

  

And while the feelings of wonder and trepidation aren't gone, the fact that I am surrounded by such great friends and a loving family fills me with an awe that is difficult to put into words.  When I feel nostalgic like this (as visits to home generally make me), I like going through old music I used to listen to, or reading old poems, and just thinking about the good things that have happened to me here, and I stumbled across this:

I am one in seven, a piece of a heart,

That is separated for just a beat.

Goodbye isn't forever, though ways we part,

Lord thanks for dear friends, them bless and keep.

I wrote this poem last year for my dearest friends, and I think of it every time we're separated...but today it makes me thankful for them all, and thankful for friends past, and thankful for friends to come, and thankful for friends who will be with me forever...specifically my family.

I guess it's cliche to say such things so close to Thanksgiving, but things become cliche for a reason.  Sometimes I think we forget what that reason is.  The world we live in is bound to be full of wonderful cliches, because there are so many things in our lives that are worth becoming so.

I realize that the previous poem wasn't Scarlequain, and flipping through my little leather book of poems and sayings, I also realize that most of my Scarlequain are not happy or musing on the brighter sides of life.  But then, as I've told many of my friends who take the time to listen, the happier things are the hardest to write about.  They're the things that are so profound that words cannot begin to fathom them.  And a part of me is satisfied to leave it that way.  Let the happy things Feel.  They are too deep to be constricted by words.

Hello, Void.

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? ...I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."

-Kathleen Kelly, You've Got Mail


I feel as if I've drastically changed in the two years I've attended Bryan College.  I hesitate to say that I'm a better person now - I've made mistakes and choices that I never would have even thought about four years ago.  I'm a different person.  And today, sitting in my little safe haven of Harmony House once again (Luke diligently studying Western Civ across from me, a coffee mug in my own hand), I feel as if I'm being bombarded by this different me.  The image that comes to mind is a small child hugging his knees in the dark, being confronted in his dreams by an unknown and scary person, but this time that person is me.  Who is this man?  What does he love?  What does he hate?  Where is he going?  What is his Purpose?

Bend and tear,

Break and wear,

Vicarious pain,

Nothing plain:

Decisions.

I know I have time to make the life choices that seem to shake the foundations of the beloved building in which I now sit.  People tell me I have time quite often.  But how much time do I have to figure out who I am?  The person I am is not waiting on me to decide how I will act or who I will be.  He runs rampant on the world and community around me, influencing people constantly.  Very few people remain unhurt by him.  By Me.  And one of the people who understands him (better than I do myself) asked me today "We complain about life screwing us.  What about the people we screwed?  We can't handle what we dish out... What's wrong with us?"  And to be honest I wonder the same.  While I'm sitting here trying to figure out who I am and what I believe, the very man I don't understand is screwing people around me.

Focus intent,

Passions spent,

In all the wrong place,

Now just saving face:

Distractions.

Quite often I get upset at people who write this sort of crap on the internet.  And I realize that "crap" is most likely the least classy adjective I could have used in this situation, but it's true.  However, like Kathleen Kelly, I don't really mind if you could care less what I'm struggling with, or thinking about.  Sometimes the Void is kinder than most.

I believe we all have a Purpose that is endowed upon us by our Creator.  I Know that.  And I Know that all things work together for good to those who love Him.  But I don't know who I am.  And as I hurt the people around me who I love the most, I look Inward and ask "Who are you?"  And I hear nothing but the echo of my own words.  I Need something.  Obviously He is included in that.  But I don't know what that something is.  I pray I find it soon.  Before the damage gets worse.

I don't ask for encouragement.  But if you're reading this and you know exactly what this Feels...know that I'm here searching too.  At the very least, you're not alone.

Ism after ism,

Brand new schisms,

Satan's great Fair,

Speak if you dare:

Deep Human nature.

Insane Insomniac Inspiration: Literary and Musical

As I sat awake on my bed this morning at 4:17am staring into the darkness, I wondered how many people experience an interestingly horrifying phenomenon: dreaming in music and literary phrases.  As I've made fairly obvious, I'm a music major, and just as evident, I love poetry. Why does this matter?

So glad you asked.

Inspiration comes to me all the time.  In lots of different forms.  But sometimes I sincerely wish it wouldn't.  When I say I dream in music, I mean just that - whatever music has been on my mind throughout the day (during the production You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, that was all I heard in my head for over a month), that is the same music that plays during my dreams at night.  All night.  And sometimes it's only one phrase or motive of music.  And this has been happening as long as I can remember.  At first it was interesting.  Then it was annoying.  After literally a month of restlessly dreaming in the song "Book Report," I felt/feel stark raving mad, and the best I could describe it was something like this:

Dancing with sprites,

Worse than brightest lights,

Constant sound,

Not a moment's peace be found:

Dreaming in music.

And that's not all.  Oh no, not by a long shot.  You know that feeling you get when a friend is going through something hard, or you are going through something hard, or something bad happens to you (or even sometimes something good), and it's just so profound that you can't possibly put it to words?  But you know that it needs to be put into words somehow, just to do it justice?  That happens to me all the time.  My poetry is just my method of struggle against such feelings of injustice.

Apparently there are repercussions for ignoring said injustices.  Last night, I dreamt in literary phrases and ideas.

Imagine looking down on yourself.  Imagine being able to see the thoughts in your mind bouncing around in the dark...but instead of physical manifestations of those thoughts, all you can see are the sentences describing them.  They're like little grey animals in the blackness, gnawing away at your sanity, and not quite white enough to be distinguishable from the darkness itself.

That was my night.

Millions of words,

Few ever heard,

Die in the dark,

Without Inspiration's spark:

Insanity's catalyst.

Upon considering the fact that many normal people will read this blog post (ok...maybe not many...but at least a few), I realize that I sound like a lunatic (in fact, Eugène Ionesco's The Bald Soprano comes to mind...you know, the part where everyone is running around screaming nonsense into the dark?).  I guess most people who seriously write sound that way in their own heads.  A friend calls me a beatnik...and I admit to that title.  Although I'm not quite sure if this is me speaking, or the NyQuil I took last night sometime after 4:17am to drown all the little grey creatures that were eating away at my mind.

Simple Harmonies

I feel very safe here.  It is as if this building is a safe haven from all the cares and worries and struggles we encounter on a day to day basis.  There is the soft drizzle of rain gently tapping on the roof and windows, Norah is crooning to me in the background, and I have finished my homework for the day.  My best friend sits on the couch beside me, and I marvel at the simplistically profound beauty that is all around me.

It has been a difficult week for both of us: papers, homework, practice sessions, life choices...you name it, we've probably been there.  And upon getting out of my last class for the week, I decided we needed some quality time at the local coffeehouse, owned by John Piatt, a man about whom I could write books.  He is quirky beyond all reason (something that attracts me to people instantly), and is always willing to share advice about life, the finer qualities of a stellar barista (he would use those words), and things he has recently discovered on his own spiritual journey towards Christ.


Today, John asked us a simple question: What if we could feel the satisfaction we experience at the commencement of the weekend...all the time?  What if we went about our lives experiencing and physically manifesting to others the satisfaction I'm feeling right now, having completed a week of work and looking forward to the next few days of rest?  What if we daily lived in light of who are as a part of the Imago Dei?

I feel very safe here.  Reading my P.G. Wodehouse, writing poetry, and basking in the warmth of the simplistically profound beauty that is all around me.

Deep advice,

Chase away, Vice,

Melt in the Rain,

Simple beauty plain,

Harmony House.

Grammar, Heartstrings, and Nuances

Have you ever Google Imaged the word "nuances?"  Interesting results apparently the physical manifestations implied by the word are nothing similar to what I had envisioned.

Anyway, today I'm writing because I wanted to warn against a certain method of composing Scarlequain.  As I've previously pointed out, I want this particular form to be short, succict, and conveying a message in as few words as possible.  A good example would be something like the following:

Finer grammar,

Slight stammer,

You and I's,

It's just my's:

A whole nother.

Although extremely silly, I'm conveying a point: "a whole nother" is not good grammar (nor is "you and I's" or "my's."  And yes, all of these were said by my professors.).  Short, simple, and describing the fifth line in some way.

Yesterday I found myself toying with an idea that I wanted to convey in a poem.  You've most likely heard of one's heartstrings being affected whilest watching a movie, a happy friendship, or reading a sad part in a book.  Being a musician, I envisioned the heartstrings as an instrument and wanted to suggest that in a poem.  However, being a difficult concept to encapsulate, I only came up with the following:

Another instrument to the list,

And one more girl kissed.

Practice: fingers bleed,

God what do I need?

Heartstrings played.

"Oh dear," you're saying.  "He's gone and gotten all angsty on us, as all poetry eventually does."  No, says I.  I am merely trying to characterize a deeper subject that I've fiddled with.  And I am by no means satisfied with the product.  This is my warning: the poem I've shared with you is pushing the limits of Scarlequain.  The first two lines are too long.  The third and fourth lines are iffy; if any line is ideal in this poem, it is the third and the fifth (the fifth line is insteresting...it does not assert blame to any particular party in the playing of the heartstrings.  The rest is up to interpretation.).

"What a waste of time," quoth thee to me through your screen.  "I don't even care."  I apologize if you're still reading and indeed could care less.  Perhaps you should reevaluate your life choices.  Go Google the word "nuances."

Simple Things: Happiness Is

"From the heart, may it go again to the heart."  Interestingly enough, my experience with Music History III has simultaneously been a mode of torture and a venue for intense inspiration.  In the midst of academic frustration in that classroom, I find minute glimpses of stark and brilliant Poetry, as is evident in the latter quote by Beethoven.

My Scarlequain ranges from insignificant rants about Music History (I have written several of those such as the following: Don Juan, Will gone, Shoot me now, To torture bow, Music History paper.), to the deeper things of life that I muse about from time to time (such as: Classic, ethereal, Philosophical cereal, Gracefully demean, What does all this mean?  Words: Life.).

Today, however, is a day full of Beauty.  It is a day in which I realize the potential for depression or woe or frustration, but I open my eyes to the incredibly simplistic Beauty that surrounds us on a day to day basis.  Small crescendos of this Beauty can be found in many of my compositions (the line "Coffee Stains, on Scarleqain" comes to mind), as I recognize these Simple Gifts as things that are profoundly wonderful, even if we routinely take them for granted.

Perhaps one of the hardest aspects of writing Scarlequain is attempting to encapsulate every facet of the fifth line in so few words.  I hope you enjoy my attempt at describing the simple things I am happy and thankful for today.  May it remind you that we live not only for the fortes of our life: we live daily because of the Simple Gifts we are given.

A storm of leaves, 

Riding gentle breeze,

A smile, a touch,

Simple things such:

Happiness is.



A Word on Inspiration

I suppose it should be fairly obvious that all writing takes some form of inspiration, whether it be in the form of strong emotion, caffeine, lack of sleep, or just a random collection of words and ideas that slaps one upside the head, we are all inspired.  I've always found that concept interesting, and I thought I may as well enlighten you as to the inspiration and context behind Scarlequain. 

The first time I began to write short poetry was in my Sight Singing class my Sophomore year of College here on the Hill at Bryan College.  It was a class with Dr. Wilhoit, and it was generally highly embarrassing as we all had to sing in front of the class.  To distract myself from the feelings of great discomfort, I would write short poems in the margins of my book, describing the situation that was going on, or certain people in the class.  This tradition carried over into another Wilhoit class (Music History 3), and I began cataloguing my work on my Instagram account under the hashtag "#Scarlequain" and "#poetryonnotes," since I wrote my poetry in the actual class notes (I still update my Instagram nearly once a week with new poetry.  If you would like to keep up with them past this blog, check out the hashtags.).

At any rate, in keeping with my tradition of avoiding the awkward situations in class, I write poetry.  The more awkward the situation, generally the more obscure the poem.  For your enjoyment, one such poem:

When chopping heads,

Best be wasted.

Good for libertines,

Advent: Guillotine!

French Revolution.

Obviously, since these poems are written in a music history class, they may contain references to obscure operatic reformers or revolutionaries who changed the psychology of romantic composers.  In short, Scarlequain is full of historical and musical characteristics that require a certain amount of taste and nerdom.  Enjoy at your own risk.

-J

A New Form of Poetry?

It is difficult to know where to begin discussing the relevance and purpose of this blog.  As an amateur writer I have a tendency to ramble, and such ramblings have brought me around the literary genre "block," if you will, and along the way, I picked up a form of poetry I can find no name for.  This blog is a place I will showcase this poetry I have named "Scarlequain."

Scarlequain is strikingly similar to Cinquain and even Haiku in its structure, but the emphasis relies on a simple AABBC form instead of syllabic meter.  Further, the first four lines describe the fifth line, much as a riddle would, and the fifth line is usually no longer than three words.  Below are two examples of Scarlequain:

A simple mystery,
Spiritual music history?
Coffee stains
On Scarlequain:
Romanticism defined.

and...

Immortalize, defame,
Always leaves a stain.
Villain or hero,
All reduced to zero.
Time.

The second poem is a prime example of the form I'm striving for, specifically with the first four lines describing the last.  The first poem is more vague, focusing more on the author's experience at the time; however, all of the aspects of the first four lines are indeed connected in some way (albeit loosely) with the last.

The long and short of this blog is this: if you know what this form of poetry is actually called and I have just missed it in my research, please tell me.  If, however, this is indeed a new form of literary expression (HURRAY, HUZZAH, and SOUND THE TRUMPETS!), then this is the place I will continue to write, critique, and tweak the form as I mature as a writer.  And even if it is a current form, I will probably continue to post.  Merely for my own pleasure.

There you have it.  I hope you enjoy my scribblings as much as I do.  Until next time.

-J