The Diary Of A Nobody

E15: The War - Dragos Radu

Dragos Radu - The War
 
Written: 2022
 
Summary & Story:
Sometimes, we are all fighting a war. A war can -internally speaking- seem, at times, catastrophically never-ending. The warrior portrays an image where each of us has found ourselves at a point where an inevitable change must happen. A point where one has to be reborn and rise from the ashes. The warrior reflects that point. The horse, or the mind, a dear companion, follows in the dark. Through the tears, he tries to evade this change, yet, that is not always possible, if at all. The eagle depicts the act of transformation. The change that is thirsty for our blood -experience- and only through blood can the eagle turn into a dove -rebirth-. I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.
 
Poem:
The war is over
The iron skies now cracked, and rays of sun overwhelm the field
that was once covered in daffodils.
A small stream that crossed the valley
and supplied it with life
has now dried out.
What was once a dreamy scenery
has now become the aftermath
of a nightmare.
The once clear waters of the stream
have now turned red 
and dry. 
Only one man is standing.
One man, lonesome, weeping.
His hair, covered in dried blood,
his armor shattered by the wrath of the war,
create an image of time standing still. 
He dismounts his black horse, dizzy
and sickened by the smell of lifeless bodies.
He walks and pulls his horse behind.
His cry is loud, breaking the silence.
Looking around, looking for hope,
he realises that there’s no one to hold.
His wounds rush shivers through his spine.
He lost too much blood.
He lost too much life.
the horse’s breath is heavy too;
he’s tired and wounded as well.
The horse stops and kneels
behind his master.
Tears roll over his dark figure
as his hero kneels next to him
and with a warm embrace
the two weep along each other,
into deep sleep.
 
A strange breeze awakens them. 
The hero hastily rushes to stand up.
With his hand on his sword, 
he’s ready to fight and defend themselves. 
But there’s nothing to be found. 
The breeze murmurs in a low tone,
voices from the past, he hears
in the deadly silence of the field.
It feels like a virus
expanding its dread inside their minds
and hearts,
restlessly demolishing everything
that has brought them to this place,
to this moment.
They have lost.
They won the battle,
yet lost the war.
 
An eagle scouts from above,
cutting through the now abyssal night skies.
His wings glimmer,
showered in the moonlight. 
His sight meets the warrior’s,
staring hopelessly at the skies
in wonder.
A sky so clear,
a mind so troubled,
a landscape so paradoxical.
Memories are not here to stay
but to navigate the wings of time.
Same as life and death,
always on the run, always here,
always there. 
The cycle moves on and on,
with its never-ending loop,
with its skies clear,
with its mind troubled,
beginning anew. 
Life is a tale, 
a mystery,
troubled minds we are, 
seeking          
our place among the skies.
Seeking home. 
Now the warrior draws his last breath
lying next to his wounded companion
in the deep eternal sleep
until the cycle will be reborn 
until the eagle 
thirsty for death
turns into a dove.
 
Credits: Dragos Radu (2022, The Diary Of A Nobody)

E14: Burnt Norton Pt. 2 - T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot - Burnt Norton Pt. 2
 
Written in: Published in 1943 in the 4 Quartets of T.S. Eliot. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Theme:
The main theme of ‘Burnt Norton is the nature of time, its relation to salvation, and the contrast between the experience of the modern man and spirituality. The lyrical voice meditates on life and the need to subscribe to the universal order. The poem’s structure and form are similar to T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, as several fragments of poetry are put together and set as one. The rhyme and meter rely on the repetition and circularity of language, which corresponds to the conception of time introduced in the poem. Light and dark, movement and stillness, and roses are some of the motifs that appear in ‘Burnt Norton’. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
 
Poem:
Garlic and sapphires in the mudClot the bedded axle-tree.The trilling wire in the bloodSings below inveterate scarsAppeasing long forgotten wars.The dance along the arteryThe circulation of the lymphAre figured in the drift of starsAscend to summer in the treeWe move above the moving treeIn light upon the figured leafAnd hear upon the sodden floorBelow, the boarhound and the boarPursue their pattern as beforeBut reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.The inner freedom from the practical desire,The release from action and suffering, release from the innerAnd the outer compulsion, yet surroundedBy a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,Erhebung without motion, concentrationWithout elimination, both a new worldAnd the old made explicit, understoodIn the completion of its partial ecstasy,The resolution of its partial horror.Yet the enchainment of past and futureWoven in the weakness of the changing body,Protects mankind from heaven and damnationWhich flesh cannot endure.Time past and time futureAllow but a little consciousness.To be conscious is not to be in timeBut only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,The moment in the draughty church at smokefallBe remembered; involved with past and future.Only through time time is conquered.
 
 
Credits: T.S. Eliot 1943 - Four Quartets and poemanalysis.com, 2022

E13: Burnt Norton Pt. 1 - T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot - Burnt Norton Pt. 1
 
Written in: Burnt Norton is the first poem of the 4 Quartets of T.S. Eliot. This quartet was published in 1936 and in 1943 appeared together with the other 3 quartets. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
Theme:
The main theme of ‘Burnt Norton is the nature of time, its relation to salvation, and the contrast between the experience of the modern man and spirituality. The lyrical voice meditates on life and the need to subscribe to the universal order. The poem’s structure and form are similar to T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, as several fragments of poetry are put together and set as one. The rhyme and meter rely on the repetition and circularity of language, which corresponds to the conception of time introduced in the poem. Light and dark, movement and stillness, and roses are some of the motifs that appear in ‘Burnt Norton’. (source: poemanalysis.com, 2022)
 
Poem: 
Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time future,And time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.Footfalls echo in the memoryDown the passage which we did not takeTowards the door we never openedInto the rose-garden. My words echoThus, in your mind.But to what purposeDisturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leavesI do not know.Other echoesInhabit the garden. Shall we follow?Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,Round the corner. Through the first gate,Into our first world, shall we followThe deception of the thrush? Into our first world.There they were, dignified, invisible,Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,And the bird called, in response toThe unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the rosesHad the look of flowers that are looked at.There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,Along the empty alley, into the box circle,To look down into the drained pool.Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,The surface glittered out of heart of light,And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.Go, go, go, said the bird: human kindCannot bear very much reality.Time past and time futureWhat might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.
 
Credits: T.S. Eliot 1936/1943 - Four Quartets and poemanalysis.com, 2022

E12: Home - Dragos Radu

Dragos Radu - Home
 
Written: 2022
 
Summary & Story:
Throughout my life, I had many moments where I missed my home. Not home in the sense of a birthplace, people or things that I've been closely acquainted with during my life, but home within, the altar within each of us. The place that always calls us back to ourselves, to inquire, to be curious. The place that is most meaningful to us as only by knowing it and not merely acknowledging it, can we get to know ourselves. This is a poem about that. I hope you enjoy it.
 
Poem:
There is a sun
I die to see again.
Not the sun that
Sets and rises,
But the one always up
And shining,
Illuminating all beings
From within.
The sun, which makes life move,
And energy flow,
Tirelessly in the soul.
I crave it so much
I crave it as a home.
Now the lights are off
And my soul is blinded
By the never-ending winter
Of the night.
There is calm,
But there’s no peace.
There is hope,
But there’s no light to guide it.
I miss the sun,
I miss its warmth and grace,
I miss my home.
 
There’s a bell ringing
In the night.
A state of alert
Established in the meadow
Where I sit dreaming
Of light and peace.
The sound breaks
My dreaming.
It awakens me
From a restless sleep,
That seemed endless at first.
As I open my eyes,
Light breaks in
So radiant, so powerful,
And with a rush of adrenaline
It stands me up,
Sun-gazing, filling every cell
Of my body with light,
Peace,
And ultimately freedom.
I now can hear the birds sing,
The caressing wind blowing
Softly through my hair,
The vibrant air of a new spring day.
 
I feel at home, and I feel safe.
I have always been.
I will always be,
Despite the depths and darkness of my dreams.
Once I open my eyes,
There will always be light,
There will always be sun.
There will always be peace
And I will always be home / I have a home waiting for me.
What is life if not just a walk in the dark,
Where one’s path is always lit up by the light of his soul. 
 
Credits: Dragos Radu (2022, The Diary Of A Nobody)

E11: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas - Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
 
Written in: 1947
Published in: 1951 in the journal Botteghe Oscure (wikipedia, 2022)
 
Theme & Story:
"In the first stanza of "Do Not Go Gentle", the speaker encourages their father not to "go gentle into that good night" but rather to "rage, rage against the dying of the light." Then, in the subsequent stanzas, they proceed to list all manner of men, using terms such as "wise", "good", "wild", and "grave" as descriptors, who, in their own respective ways, embody the refrains of the poem. In the final stanza, the speaker implores their father, whom they observe upon a "sad height", begging him to "Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears", and reiterates the refrains once more." (source: wikipedia, 2022)
 
Poem:
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at 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 theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind 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.
 
Credits: Dylan Thomas (1951 - Botteghe Oscure Journal)

E10: On Freedom - Kahlil Gibran

Kahlil Gibran - On Freedom
 
Written in: The Prophet (Knopf, 1923)
 
Summary & Story:
Almustafa (character from The Prophet) answers an orator who asks him to speak of freedom. Because people worship freedom, the prophet says, they have become like a slave to freedom. They praise what is really "a yoke and a handcuff." The desire for freedom is so great that seeking it "becomes a harness to [them]." People wish to free themselves from care, want, and grief. But true freedom comes from accepting and rising above them. True freedom is in the soul. (coursehero, 2022)
To be free, people cannot abolish, erase, or cast off the things of this world. They are part of someone and of humanity's making—things people have created, chosen, or held in their hearts. All a person would desire and all they would escape reside within, moving in pairs, like lights and shadows. When a shadow fades, the light remains. It then becomes the shadow of a greater light toward which someone climbs. (coursehero, 2022)
 
Poem:
And an orator said, Speak to us of Freedom.
    And he answered:
    At the city gate and by your fireside I
have seen you prostrate yourself and worship
your own freedom,
    Even as slaves humble themselves before
a tyrant and praise him though he slays
them.
    Ay, in the grove of the temple and in
the shadow of the citadel I have seen the
freest among you wear their freedom as a
yoke and a handcuff.
    And my heart bled within me; for you
can only be free when even the desire of
seeking freedom becomes a harness to you,
and when you cease to speak of freedom
as a goal and a fulfilment.
 
    You shall be free indeed when your days
are not without a care nor your nights with-
out a want and a grief,
    But rather when these things girdle your
life and yet you rise above them naked and
unbound.
 
    And how shall you rise beyond your
days and nights unless you break the chains
which you at the dawn of your under-
standing have fastened around your noon
hour?
    In truth that which you call freedom is
the strongest of these chains, though its
links glitter in the sun and dazzle your eyes.
 
    And what is it but fragments of your own
self you would discard that you may become
free?
    If it is an unjust law you would abolish,
that law was written with your own hand
upon your own forehead.
    You cannot erase it by burning your law
 books nor by washing the foreheads of your
judges, though you pour the sea upon them.
    And if it is a despot you would dethrone,
see first that his throne erected within you is
destroyed.
    For how can a tyrant rule the free and
the proud, but for a tyranny in their own
freedom and a shame in their own pride?
    And if it is a care you would cast off, that
care has been chosen by you rather than
imposed upon you.
    And if it is a fear you would dispel, the
seat of that fear is in your heart and not in
the hand of the feared.
 
    Verily all things move within your being
in constant half embrace, the desired and
the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished,
the pursued and that which you would
escape.
    These things move within you as lights
and shadows in pairs that cling.
    And when the shadow fades and is no
more, the light that lingers becomes a
shadow to another light.
    And thus your freedom when it loses its
fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater
freedom.
 
Credits: Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet (Knopf, 1923) & Coursehero - On Freedom - Kahlil Gibran Poem Analysis 

E9: Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep - Mary Frye/Clare Harner/Unknown Author

Mary Frye / Clare Harner / Unknown Author - Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
 
Possibly written in: ca. 1932/1934 (Mary Frye / Clare Harner) 
Note: The author of the poem has not been determined. Therefore, the poem may well belong to Mary Frye, Clare Harner, or other unknown author. The two possible authors are the only ones who claimed the poem to be written by them.   
 
Poem:
Do not stand

By my grave, and weep.

I am not there,

I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glints in snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle, autumn rain.

As you awake with morning’s hush,

I am the swift, up-flinging rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight,

I am the day transcending night.

Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—

I am not there,

I did not die.  
 
Credits: Unknown / Mary Frye (1932 ??) / Clare Harner (1934 ??)

E8: If - Rudyard Kipling

Rudyard Kipling - If
 
Written: ca. 1895 in ‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies
 
Theme and Story:
In his autobiography Something of Myself (1937), Kipling claimed that the phrase "If—" had its beginnings in the unsuccessful Jameson raid of 1895–1896, which was when British colonial statesman Leander Starr Jameson led an attack against the South African (Boer) Republic during the New Year weekend. Jameson wanted to trigger his fellow British citizens in the Transvaal to rebel against the Boer administration, but they were unwilling to do so. Instead, Jameson's poorly executed military action contributed to the environment that, a few years later, would spark the Second Boer War. Kipling knew Jameson, and recorded in Something of Myself: ‘Among the verses in Rewards was one set called “If” …
They were based on Jameson's persona and provided advice that was ideal and simple to impart. The Jameson raid's influence on "If" might easily be overstated, and it appears that Kipling's (posthumously published) memoir is the first place this connection is brought up.
If—should first and foremost be interpreted as a poem addressed to a younger man, listing the qualities a man should acquire or cultivate in order to be a paragon of manly virtue. The poem's final words, "you'll be a man, my son," suggest that the poem is addressed to Kipling's actual son.(source: Link)
 
Poem:
If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
 
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
 
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
 
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Credits: Rudyard Kipling (1895)

E7: Invictus - William Ernest Henley

William Ernest Henley - Invictus
Written in: 1875
Originally published: 1888 in the author's first volume of poetry, Book of Verses, in the section Life and Death (Echoes).
 
Theme and Story
Invictus is a poem by William Ernest Henley that translates from Latin as "unconquerable" or "undefeated." This poem is about maintaining one's dignity despite life's indignities and having courage in the face of death. 
Henley had to have his left leg amputated when he was 16 years old due to complications from TB. When he went to Margate for treatment for issues with his other leg in the early 1870s, he was informed that a similar procedure would be needed. 
Instead, he made the decision to fly to Edinburgh in August 1873 to seek the assistance of renowned English surgeon Joseph Lister, who, after extensive foot surgery, was able to save Henley's remaining leg. He was inspired to create the words that eventually became the poem "Invictus" when he was getting better in the hospital. "Invictus" continues to be a cultural classic because it is a memorable portrayal of Victorian stoicism—the "stiff upper lip" of self-discipline and fortitude under adversity, which popular culture transformed into a British character attribute. 
(source: Wikipedia) 
 
Poem:
Out of the night that covers meBlack as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance,I have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fateI am the captain of my soul.
 
Credits: William Ernest Henley (1888)

E6: Ash Wednesday - T.S. Eliot - Part Six - Final

T.S. Eliot - Ash Wednesday (part six) 
Originally published: 1930
Theme: The poem was written by Eliot as a result of his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927.   
Poem:
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
Credits: T.S. Eliot (1930)