Love Lies Bleeding

There is something breeding, Love-lies-a-bleeding,
Says I to the dead Amaranth,
For I’m not misleading, but I feel a breathing
That’s wrapping my neck with romance.

For something is breeding when Love goes pleading
For feeling embraces again,
But Passion is leading, her dewdrops are beading–
Men die when she’s all that remains.

But something is missing, Love reminiscing,
Says the hangman to the headman,
For you say I’m wishing, but I say I’m kissing
The lips of fair Death as deadman.

For something is missing in Amaranth’s string,
When she’s tugging him up from the ground,
But that’s not dismissing the way hangman’s hissing
With drooping black hood at her frown

There’s something completing, Love-lies-a-fleeing,
Says Death through her red velvet lips,
For lies are in meeting, and lies are in greeting,
But Love-lies-within earthen hips.

For something’s completing when Death comes defeating
Her friends and her foes all too soon,
And hangman is cheating, but it’s only fleeting,
For everyone hangs in full bloom.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on October 11, 2012 at 7:14 am  Comments (1)  
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The Way of Kings

I hate you, Brandon Sanderson. With all of my soul, I hate you. How can you write such amazing novels and only publish them one at a time?! Call it an irrational request, but would it kill you to maybe not leave your readers hanging in suspense, waiting for the next book to be published with twitching hands and hungering eyes? You’ve singlehandedly planted an unscratchable itch in the minds of millions. How do you sleep at night?

On a related note, I just finished The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson after an extended plane ride. In my ever-so-reputable opinion as a book critic, I thought the book was good. No, that does not do it justice. The book was nothing short of brilliant. I’m not usually a fan of high fantasy novels which throw in overly cryptic terminology within the first few pages, but I must say that this particular novel does a good job of easing the reader into another world without feeling overwhelming. The characters are well-developed in a world which is even more meticulously planned, making for a very satisfying read. Even the king’s Wit, who takes on the role of the cliche’d wise court jester who makes fun of everyone but still knows more than he lets on, is still a good character in his own right, and even has a subtle defense of his inclusion worked into the ending chapter. Very clever, Sanderson.

So all in all, I’d say Sanderson is quickly becoming one of my favotite authors, having already read his other series, Mistborn and his standalone novels. Not my absolute favorite, mind: I still hold a special place in my heart for Homer, dead as he may be. Either way, I should probably stop my praise of Sanderson there, before I start sounding like I’ve become a rabid follower (which would not be so bad, considering the alternatives). As impossible as it may be to make a good ending to the first book of a series without any suspense, however, I still can’t help but curse him for making me wait.

No new poems for today; as I said, I spent my travel time reading (when not peoplewatching). So, here is another one fished from my previous works (A caveat: this assumes that you’ve heard the Zen Buddhist story about The Tigers and the Strawberry (I heard it without the inclusion of the mice—he was hanging by a bush over a cliff and it was slowly uprooting))

The End

We’ve heard the story’s start, but not its end,
Where it begins with one unlucky man
Who stumbles on a tiger, runs, and then
He tumbles off a cliff, miles up from land.

But right before he makes his fatal fall
He grabs a berry bush with all his might.
Below, Death waits, above, the tiger calls,
But eating from the bush, he finds delight.

Yet there’s no ending to this fatal tale:
Does boldly he escape, or does he die,
Despite his every effort, does he fail?
Oh, does this starcrossed hero even try?

Perhaps the real adventure only ends
Whenever even better ones begin.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on December 19, 2010 at 12:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The One Time Laziness Is Acceptable

…is right now. Finals are finally over, and I’m currently on vacation. So, until I find the energy to write up something new, I’ll be posting old works fished up from the depths of time.
A poem, for those inclined to hear bitter old men:

The Muses Are Not Singing Anymore, or On Modern Poetry

The Muses are not singing anymore.
But those who listen close may find
An echo of forgotten lore
Left over from a better time,
Forgetting, when they look for more,
The Muses are not singing anymore.

These goddesses have stopped their song,
But this has not stopped mortals long:
These whispered echoes in the room
Have all been ripped to AutoTune,
And what was honey to the ears
Is now a blackened pitch to hear,
Like venom from a forking tongue
Which, seeping through the ears, becomes
A waxy, clumping, clotting ink:
Ambrosia for the dead to drink
And dream of immortality,
But formaldehyde to those who breathe.—
This is the very song we praise,
Forgetting more enlightened days,
When men still tried to find a rhyme
To join the song and dance divine,
Not giving in to draining age,
And bowing down to read a page,
Instead of bowing down to those
Who told the poet all he knows.
The Muses are not singing anymore.

And maybe this is why they stopped their score,
And why we sing in monotone:
The Muses who we once adored,
Once spurned, have left us all alone.
Whatever we now praise them for,
The Muses are not singing anymore.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on December 16, 2010 at 2:21 pm  Comments (1)  
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