Friday Poetry Reflection, 2nd May

Another week has come and gone, and I have to pick another poem to post! Today I have decided on another poem I studied at school, “Mirror” by Sylvia Plath.

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful —
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with Sylvia Plath’s Poetry (and Emily Dickenson’s!) as some poems can be very dark, while others can be quite enlightening like this one. I like this poem as it shows how we change yet the mirror dosent and how we turn to tricks of light to try and make ourselves look younger. Though these days its no longer trickes of light, if surgery or injections! Any way enjoy the poem and I hope you age gracefully!

Friday Poetry Reflection, 25th April

This weeks poem, is yet another peom I studied at school. This time it was for my Junior Cert English exam. I have chosen Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Note: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” translates as, it is sweet and right to die for your country

Dulce et Decorum est is argueably one of the best known World War I poems. I sat my Junior Cert way back in 2001 (now I feel really old) and this poem still brings back memories of the class room. This poem had effect on me from the first time I read it. This turned me into “dove” to use cold war terminology. At times there is ‘good’ reasons for war, defence of ones country for example, but it is the patriotism, or brainwashing, of the young we have to be careful of. It happened again of course during World War II in Germany. Strangly enough and by coincidence today is actually ANZAC day, so its fitting to post a poem about WW I

Poem: My Name: Is Meth

This was written by a young Indian girl who was in jail for drug charges, and was addicted to meth. She wrote this while in jail. As you will soon read, she fully grasped the horrors of the drug, as she tells in this simple, yet profound poem. She was released from jail, but, true to her story, the drug owned her. They found her dead not long after, with the needle still in her arm

My Name: “Is Meth”

I destroy homes, I tear families apart,
I take your children, and that’s just the start.

I’m more costly than diamonds, more precious than gold,
The sorrow I bring is a sight to behold.

If you need me, remember I’m easily found,
I live all around you – in schools and in town.

I live with the rich; I live with the poor,
I live down the street, and maybe next door.

I’m made in a lab, but not like you think,
I can be made under the kitchen sink.

In your child’s closet, and even in the woods,
If this scares you to death, well it certainly should.

I have many names, but there’s one you know best,
I’m sure you’ve heard of me, my name is crystal meth.

My power is awesome; try me you’ll see,
But if you do, you may never break free.

Just try me once and I might let you go,
But try me twice, and I’ll own your soul.

When I possess you, you’ll steal and you’ll lie,
You do what you have to — just to get high.

The crimes you’ll commit for my narcotic charms,
Will be worth the pleasure you’ll feel in your arms, your lungs your nose.

You’ll lie to your mother; you’ll steal from your dad,
When you see their tears, you should feel sad.

But you’ll forget your morals and how you were raised,
I’ll be your conscience, I’ll teach you my ways.

I take kids from parents, and parents from kids,
I turn people from God, and separate friends.

I’ll take everything from you, your looks and your pride,
I’ll be with you always — right by your side.

You’ll give up everything – your family, your home,
Your friends, your money, then you’ll be alone.

I’ll take and take, till you have nothing more to give,
When I’m finished with you, you’ll be lucky to live.

If you try me be warned – this is no game,
If given the chance, I’ll drive you insane.

I’ll ravish your body, I’ll control your mind,
I’ll own you completely! , your soul will be mine.

The nightmares I’ll give you while lying in bed,
The voices you’ll hear, from inside your head.

The sweats, the shakes, the visions you’ll see,
I want you to know, these are all gifts from me.

But then it’s too late, and you’ll know in your heart,
That you are mine, and we shall not part.

You’ll regret that you tried me, they always do,
But you came to me, not I to you.

You knew this would happen, many times you were told,
But you challenged my power, and chose to be bold.

You could have said no, and just walked away,
If you could live that day over, now what would you say?

I’ll be your master, you will be my slave,
I’ll even go with you, when you go to your grave.

Now that you have met me, what will you do?
Will you try me or not? It’s all up to you.

I can bring you more misery than words can tell,
Come take my hand, let me lead you to hell.

Powerful stuff and it really shows the dangers of the drug.

———
Links:
Source
Previous Posts on Cystal Meth

UN International Day for Tolerance

First they came for the Jews

and I did not speak out –

because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the communists

and I did not speak out –

because I was not a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists

and I did not speak out –

because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me –

and there was no one left

to speak out for me.

UN International Day for Tolerance 16.11.06

Found that on the USI website and i really like it so i said id post it up.

Favourite Poems

I’ve started to add my favourite poems to my blog on bebo.
check it out on

I am – Anonymous


I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don’t believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.

I am the guy who came out to the entire school in his senior speech and got a standing ovation for his courage.

I am the girl who kisses her girlfriend on the sidewalk and laughs at those who glare.

We are the couple who planned and studied and got a damn good lawyer and BEAT the state that wanted to take our child away.

We are the ones who took martial arts classes and carry pepper spray and are just too dangerous to gaybash.

I am the transgendered person who uses the bathroom that suits me, and demands that any complaining staff explain their complaint to my face in front of the entire restaurant — and shares with my other trans friends which restaurants /don’t/ raise a stink.

I am the mother who told her lesbian daughter to invite her girlfriend over for dinner.

I am the father who punished his son for calling you a fag.

I am the preacher who told my congregation that love, not hate, is the definition of a true follower of God.

I am making a difference. Hate will NOT win.,