In a Coming Day

Salutations.
Please excuse my absence of late as I have been traipsing about the country with my younger sister, an adventure I will later insist on imposing upon you. I am currently in the midst of a great deal of flux in my life, preparing to move to California for school, and all other sorts of difficulties. As such, although I have much to say in a fragmented way, it will have to wait for a more opportune moment. I intend to include an account of my adventures in this great country, with pictures, and my brief encounter with General Westmoreland's remains. I also have ideas for a series of posts, both of which must wait until I settle in the west. I know this post is filled with weak language, passive voice, and far too many "to be" verbs. Alas, such is my plight when I write so late at night. I guess I tend to rhyme and metre as well...and British spelling. Well, until I find myself situated comfortably in a far far better place.
Auf Wiedersehen.

Le Maillot Jaune

France.
This morning the Tour de France saw the completion of Stage 9, and the first real change in the overall standings. Lance Armstrong sacrificed the yellow jersey to Jens Voigt, from Germany, in what will hopefully prove to be a wise tactical decision. David Zabriskie, early wearer of the yellow jersey, dropped out of the race today. After finishing over fifty minutes behind the leaders yesterday, he popped out early on the first mountain and decided he didn't have it in him to climb mountain after mountain on his own. This is unfortunate as Zabriskie was my own early favorite and local boy. In a more positive note, Michael Rasmussen, a man who is most likely a distant relative of mine, broke away from the peloton after four kilometres to win today's stage. It was an exciting finish that had me cheering.
What the...
Why am I so interested in the Tour de France?
Honestly, I don't know. I do know that this is the first sporting event, probably in my life, for which I am truly excited. I care about the outcome, I care about the trivia, I watch every stage. Something about cycling, about Lance Armstrong, or about the competition turned a switch in my head and sparked my imagination. Not only that, but in some combination of inspiration and concordance with current goals, the Tour de France helped me make a rather ambitious goal for myself. In a year, approximately at the same time as 2006's Tour de France, I intend to run a triathlon. So for some reason I've been caught in a sudden fit of athletic interest that is very against my personal history. Whatever the reason, it's okay, and I'm glad of it.

2005 Copyright Notice

All poetry and short fiction posted on this site is the intellectual property of the author. Anyone wishing to repost these items elsewhere should contact the author at thesiegeperilous@gmail.com. Any other questions about this blog can be directed to the same address. Thank you.

Immigrant Blues

Irony:
As I progressed from level to level through my education I grew ever more hateful of a long abused art form once called poetry. I found the prose poetry, the formless, rhymeless mass of words combined in a mockery of good taste detestable. How could anyone write such useless prattle and call it poetry? How could they compare this to Alfred Lord Tennyson, Yeates, and others? I grew to hate this new fangled poetry to the point where I devised my own prose "poem" which I filled with sufficient stupidity to ridicule the practitioners of this "twaddle."

Life.
A balloon,
Floating through the air
Until
POP!
Death.

How can anyone think that such useless garbage is poetry? It turned me off to the point that I mounted my own personal boycott of everything poetic, good or bad. I would have nothing to do with this unfortunately maligned art form. I was anti-poetry.

Fast forward to now.

Over the last few years I have written lyrics to several songs, words for my brother to put to music, as he received his BA in Music Composition last December. We are also currently working on a musical and therefore I write many lyrics, or in other words, poetry. My night time hours are also plagued by this nagging rhythm of words that seem to express themselves poetically within the confines of my brain; words that jump and jive in my mind like the plucked string of a bass violin, or the energetic child in a summer fountain. Do I shut off this source of intrigue, this creative flow? Of course not, such would be lyrical suicide.

Thus, last night, I sat at my computer and put words to glowing electrons. I wrote a poem. Worse, this poem contains some elements of prose. In my race for words I have betrayed a belief fostered through years of education. Betrayed, or is it saved? Time has yet to tell, but I include this poetic effort below and hope my future endeavors will improve. For those of you who do read this, please comment, let me know if I have hit the mark, approached it, or fired in the opposite direction.

Immigrant Blues

Shivering waistrals assault the night,
A forlorn people intent on gathering,
This is not the end of life
Just another beginning.

Forsaken and lost they assemble here
Seeking the hope which once had died.
A face in the crowd filled with fear
Teaches of wisdom, accuses of lies.

How now? Ask the birdmen,
Atop their tall towers.
In this place you are not allowed.
Go back, turn around, leave us be.

Downtrodden and betrayed they shuffle,
No hope for the wonderer here.
They've spent all their lives in the scuffle
And approaching the gates, their hope disappears.

Copyright 2005