An Unpolished Gem

I love the few minutes right before a storm starts. 

I wrote this sometime last year during a difficult period of my life, and it was meant to be the rough draft of an epic, perfectly rhyming poem with beautiful meter.

I never got around to finishing that poem, but I read the notes recently and decided I kinda liked it the way it was. Ignore my previous post if you want to. ;)

Blue twilight

heart heavy with love and longing

glance out window

beckoned by stirring leaves and dust

breezes blowing away the heat

distant thunder

cool color

aching heart, uplifted eyes, wind embracing

warm house at my back, cool night on my face

Inhaling the salty scent of heavy clouds and rain-struck earth.

Storm is my friend

knows how I feel without the words

lose myself in the joy of the storm

wind chime swings

rain dampness blows in

thunder closer, rain increasing

heart releasing

whispered prayer

house retreat

sound cut out.

blue twilight behind window-glare

heart not calm,

but now glad.

Amy Young, 2013

It's Poetry

Hello, this is Amy. As you saw in my bio, I attempt to catch some of the beauty of the world with poetry, so I was delighted to be asked to contribute to Carmina. This is not my first poem, but I wrote it recently, and it is about poetry itself, so it seems most fitting to be my first post.


Arrange the words like this and see:
What do you have? 
It's poetry.
The way the lines are loose and free
What is that?
It's poetry.

Even a poem
that does not rhyme
is poetry
just because
the words do not just speak
but somehow 
sing.

Feel the meter as you read,
Like pounding hooves upon the ground.
The rhythm beats into your heart
Almost music, without a sound.

Corny rhymes like "tree" and "we"
Do not make it
Poetry.
Place each word deliberately,
Then you'll have
Some poetry.

So whether your poem rhymes or not,
However the meter starts and stops,
Set your mind at liberty,
Make each word ring beautifully,
And we who read will all agree
That what we see
is poetry.


Amy Young, 2013

The Second First Poem

Long ago, the first poem was put forth on Carmina. Many, many decades have passed (all right, maybe a little more than a year) and many things changed. My poems have changed; I'm sure Camille's have as well. A delightful new member has joined our adventure. It's our hope that things will be more exciting (certainly more active) around here.

Thus we begin.

I, Allison, wrote this several months ago and, not able to arrange it all perfectly to my satisfaction, I stuck it away in a file and forgot about it. Later, and more recently, I got over the imperfect lines and stuck it on my personal blog, where it was well received by an extremely small audience. With perfect timing came the re-starting of Carmina. So, here you are. Feel free to throw in title suggestions (or any other remarks) in the comments.

A pale sphere hangs in star-flecked night

An incandescent sapphire light

Hung by an unseen silken strand

Held by an unseen steady hand

Never swerving, ever true

Swirled by clouds of white and blue

Finer gears than any clock

Finer pins than any lock

They ever turn behind sight’s veil

Steadying a perfect scale

Every motion aptly made

Not a balance ever swayed

This sapphire hangs detached, alone

Rarely thought but ever known

Whirling, yet serenely still

Bustling, silent, thriving, chill

Who could form this cloud-swirled ball

Its workings, orchestrate them all

What man could hang it by its line

Its flawless midnight course align

What hand could bear its unthought weight

Or dare to hold the threads of fate

How could a humble man believe

That chance perfection could achieve

How dare the ones beneath the sky

Convince themselves of such a lie

A silent sapphire screams the truth

Look anywhere and see the proof

And still we turn our heads away

Refuse to hear the words they say

The heavens never hide their dance

We’ve eyes to see the night’s expanse

To gaze and see what has been made

A Maker’s glory is displayed

Can we deny this perfect jewel

Is under high and perfect rule

There it hangs for all to see

Accusing us eternally.

Allison Young, 2013

Starting again!

Hello, friends!

I am pleased to say that Allison and I, with our new contributor, Amy (check the Contributors page for her bio) will be starting up Carmina once again. We are excited to begin this endeavor and, hopefully, to keep it going. See you soon! :)

Camille

For Now...

Dear Readers,

It's been a long time since the last poem. On behalf of us both, I (Allison) would like to explain that we're both very busy right now with church, tons of music, and hectic summer stuff ... too busy, right now, to post regularly. We'd like to put the blog on official pause for a while, and hopefully pick back up again in a little while. Feel free to check back here in a month or two (maybe more, maybe less). Meanwhile, we'll be living life and trying to write some worthwhile poems in our spare time. Until then...

Sincerely,
Carmina

The Night I Played With An Orchestra

Hi all here is the long awaited poem about me playing with the orchestra. Don't be afraid to tell me what you think you will not hurt my feelings. I hope you enjoy it. And here it is.

The Night I Played With An Orchestra

I walk into the auditorium heart beating like a drum,
there seem to be a hundred seats, where a hundred
people will sit when they come.
                         
I go backstage cello in hand, I can hear people arriving,
there are musicians everywhere, I start feeling faint and
think this is not like playing in a band.


I make my way to my seat on stage, there are people
everywhere, I am feeling scared, I check to make sure
I am on the right page.


I warm up on my cello I play a few scales, everyone is
playing something different, it makes quite a weird sound,
the lights dim and I hope no one fails.


The conductor comes on stage and I know this is it, he
motions for us to begin, we played the first song well,
there was nothing to it.


We play one song then two and three, I feel quite confident
calm and cool, then all is silent and I wonder why, I gasp and
realize they are waiting for me!


I lay down my cello and walk toward the piano, my legs feel
weak I feel light headed, I am getting scared and very nervous,
but I need to do this more than you could know.


I sit at the piano my heart beating as if my chest it would break,
I play my piece and soon I am quite at ease, the conductor tells me
he is so proud, I take my bow and then my hand he does shake.


I go back to my seat and pick up my cello and bow, I sit and play
again feeling quite relieved, we start the last song and the end
is near I know.


We play the very last strain we take our bow and look around,
we see the audience on their feet they cheer us on and say
well done, what an amazing sound.


They ask for an encore but we have none to give, the conductor
thanks them for being there, he says "Peace be on your way,"
this will be a treasured memory as long as I shall live.


Once more I walk backstage and put my cello in its case, I go
to look for my friends and family, I see them standing there,
when I get to where they are they see a smile on my face.


I look once more at the stage where I just played, I see all
empty seats, I see the grand piano, I see a grand place where
a wonderful memory was made.


I turn and leave the greatest night ever, with a sigh of content
I walk out the door, don't know when I'll be back but this much is
true, the night I played with the orchestra I will remember forever.
                     

Camille Sterzer, 2012

That's Beautiful

When I come across an iris on my walk across the grass,
when a rose catches my vision with its brightness as I pass,
that's beautiful.


When I sit down with biology and finally get it done,
when my math sticks in my brain and it's somewhere close to fun,
that's beautiful.


When I groan about the morning, then realize it's Saturday,
when I complain about tomorrow, then remember yesterday,
that's beautiful.


When I'm crying and my glasses keep on getting in the way,
when someone's throwing up and the sky is gloomy gray,
when my skirt is ripped, my drink is spilled and much to my dismay
I'm irritated at my siblings, who just won't go away,


That's ... beautiful?


My tears will dry, the sickness ease, the sun will shine again
I'll mend my skirt and wipe the wet and won't I realize then
these troubles are so very small, and even were they not,
God's grace is on and in me, and His will He has well wrought.


And that's beautiful.


Allison Young, 2012

Dad

He is the one that watched me play, He is the one who makes a blue sky from gray.

He is the one who picks me up, He is the one who helps when I'm stuck.

He is the one who does not see my faults, He is the one who likes to make malts.

He is the one who will walk me down the aisle, He is the one who makes me smile.

He is the one who gives advice, He is the one who always smells nice.

He is the one that I have always had, Who is he, he is my dad.

Camille Sterzer, 2012

Apology

On behalf of Carmina, I would like to apologize for the second week-long silence in the brief history of this blog. It was completely unintentional (which doesn't make it any better) and is much regretted.

Over the weekend, Camille was involved in a phenomenal orchestra and piano performance, which accounts for her failure to post. It also inspired her for a new poem, which she intends to post here, so keep your eyes open for it.

As for me, I have no excuse, but will try to fulfill my duty better next week.

Bubbles

This is a conglomeration of thoughts and happenings of various spring afternoons of my life, and proof that being a big sister is worthwhile.

Bubbles

Blowing bubbles on the porch ...
Ava! Where do you think you're going?
Little darling.
Chasing circles of rainbow light,
my camera never quite catching them ...
a blur here,
a gust there,
and why do they always vanish as soon as I click the button?
Putting the camera down, scooping Ava up
and blowing a slow bubble.
Angie squeals at the size,
Ava reaches and daintily pops it with her baby-finger,
and laughs.
Grinning back, sitting down on the step
getting chalk on my jeans ...
She squirms out of my lap and points to a ladybug 
in excitement.
Bright black dots on shiny red ...
as Angie blows bubbles that float up
and are lost in so much sky.


Allison Young, 2012

Love

What is this thing I feel, what is this thing that is so real.
What is this thing that makes me feel warm inside, what is this thing that I cannot hide.
What is this thing that makes me want to fly, what is this thing that brightens the sky.
What is this thing that is everywhere, what is this thing that is in the air.
What is this thing that is soft as a dove, what is this thing it is love.

Camille Sterzer, 2012

The Grandmother

 Please excuse our mutual lack of postings last week. We were clobbered by life.

The Grandmother

Why, hello, dear! Are you all right?

No room for weariness tonight.

How would you like to rest with me

and watch them all dance merrily?

I’ll tell you something you won’t believe.

(My dear, you’ve crumbs upon your sleeve.)

I was once a bright young girl

who joined the dancers in their whirl

of silks, of laces, of perfumes

and glittered, flashing feather-plumes…

now, don’t you laugh, my graceful dear!

I’d say, ‘It’s getting warm in here,’

to make my partner look aghast

and soon suggest a slight repast.

I’d laugh and let him give me cake

and happily his heart I’d break.

My dear, don’t be as I once was;

when you dance, and when you pause,

be kind to those who give you cake

and don’t delight in what is fake.

Now, off you go, miss mademoiselle—

yes, of course, you look quite well.

Ah, what a sight she is out there,

with happy eyes and flying hair!

I hope she has with pleasure learned

the lesson I so badly earned.

If I have helped her just this time,

the trade of my own youthful prime

will be well worth these silver locks

and all the hours of all the clocks.

Allison Young, 2012

Convergence of the Twain

It's my turn to post a poem, dear readers, but at the moment I don't have a suitable one written. Also, Camille and I ran across a truly amazing poem in British Literature class this afternoon. In combination of these two factors, what I'm going to share with you today is not original material; rather, it's far better than anything I could do. It was written by Thomas Hardy, an English poet and novelist who died in 1928. You can read more about him here.

Before I give you the poem, I think it will be helpful to understand what's going on in the first five stanzas (at least, it was for me). As we learned this afternoon, Hardy is describing the wreck of the Titanic lying at the bottom of the sea. He then switches to telling about its earlier existence. And now for the poem...

Convergence of the Twain

In a solitude of the sea, 

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her stilly couches she.

Steel chambers late the pyres 

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mate

For her—so gaily great—

A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be.

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history.

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event,

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said 'Now!' And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.


Thomas Hardy, 1915

Nine Eleven

Hi all here is my first poem for our new blog! Enjoy!

Nine Eleven

He was a firefighter big and strong, he fought fires all day long. On September eleven two thousand and one, he was sent to a fire that in the Twin Towers had begun.The air was hot, dusty and stale, as people passed him scared and pale. But he kept climbing right up to the top, for there was a fire that he must stop. When he got to the fire he was in for a shock, a moment later the tower began to tremble and rock. He began to hurry down to the ground, where his friends were safe and sound. Then the debris started falling on his head, and soon he knew he would be dead. He cried out to God, "Take care of my family, my children, my wife, and all of my friends who are a part of my life." The tower then fell down to the ground, where in the debris only a few were found. Many firefighters went in the towers were trapped and died, many a soul went to hell because from God no one can hide. But he was one of the blessed few who went to heaven, on that day we call Nine Eleven.

Camille Sterzer, 2011

Lessons from a Bee

I, Allison Young, am pleased to bring you Carmina's very first post. We are now officially commencing our weekly poems! For most of you, this is your first time to visit, so please explore! There's not much to see yet, but read all about us and link back if you like what you read.


And now for the first poem.

Lessons from a Bee


Walking by an apple tree, 

I came upon a honey bee.

She rubbed her legs and flicked her wings

with the charm of all small things,

then drank the nectar of a bloom

within its airy petal-room.

I bent and watched, beneath the tree,

my happy black and yellow bee,

until she fell up to the air

and floated off without a care.

I thought about her for a while,

wand’ring down a grassy aisle.

I should have pondered on my ills—
on burning hearts and clashing wills;

yet I could not rid my mind

of this small bee and of her kind.

If I could be as meek as they,

I’d drink from flowers every day;

and men perhaps would learn from me

what I’ve learned from this little bee.

Allison Young, 2012