Poetry for Moths

HAMLET - POLONIUS’ LAST MONOLOGUE – “Fie, fie, on’t! Wounded my heart remains.” Act III, Scene 4 Iambic pentameter Decasyllable AA B CC B DD E FF E GG H II H JJ Fie, fie, on’t! Wounded my heart remains. Oh dear, oh dear, oh god – I have been slain, A foe hath worn his sword to pierce mine flesh; No longer sane, that sprout his mind hath lost My death, on Denmark, casts eternal frost. And now I take my leave, all has been said, But fie, oh fie, first I must say goodbye To my most honoured King, to my dear child, To my Ophelia, I wish thee well. Do keep thyself most pure, most true, most fair; With all, my wisest words, I prithee share. My kin, speak for thine father at the well; Do save Polonius’ some prayers. Peer down, But watch thyself, have care, thy must not… frown; My life, of love has been most plentiful. Weep not, I say, weep not, for my most sacred Soul; rather watch stand his weapon, naked. Of all, my death, my end, ...

AND PANG [I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,] [some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.] [I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.] And pang it hit me with the sharpest feeling, Away and away at my core it was slowly eating. Accept the facts! It screamed, Consequences always accompany dreams. And pang it hit me again in the chest, That feeling, I thought I put to rest. Where am I, from and where does one belong? When from home one is long gone. Lovely home, whatever you are, buried deep in my mind Through sleepless nights, the thought of you comes alive.

Poem for the fallen "And the dark wind is murmuring that nothing ever happens" Why do they say the dark wind murmurs nothing? Jody died. I didn't know him. But is it nothing, to cease? Some metaphor might have been appropriate, But that day we excused figures of speech. Poetry seems disgusting, No cathartic response good enough for the audience sat in their seats. This is real. This is death. No words can substitute, or sing, no words in their fancy-dress. - For Sorcha.

Being lost in an unknown place is scary. Being lost in a place you ought to recognise is mortifying. There I stood, frightened amongst familiar faces, again with that feeling of déjà-vu. Where am I? I asked a stranger. Le métro de Paris, she replied. I recognised her voice. Oh, I muttered, am I far from the 17th arrondissement? You mean the place where you've lived for four years? I didn't quite know what to say, but yes, I suppose that was what I meant. I woke up, sweating.

             No fue un día extraño. Ni siquiera era frío ese día. No había ninguna señal de melancolía, y nada para prepararme para cualquier cosa. Era un miércoles y me acababa de despertar. Me conecté al internet para revisar mi correo electrónico y mis mensajes de Facebook. Eran las seis de la mañana, y por eso no era tanto raro que no había recibido ninguna notificación. Sin embargo, un minuto después, oí un clic , y me di la vuelta. Apareció un nombre en mis mensajes que no había visto en al menos dos años. - Sé que no hemos hablado en, o sea, un año, y no se porqué. Y no se lo que está pasando. Con ella. Todo lo que quería decir es, ¿ has oído? Sabes lo que pasó? Demasiado orgullosa para contestar que no sabía de que hablaba, respondí que claro que sabía lo que pasó. Que ella me cuenta todo, y que no necesito que alguien que ahora no conozco me diga lo contrario. Como puede ser que este tipo sepa más que yo sobre mi mejor amiga. N...

      It was cold in England, and it was a Wednesday. It was December, and it was 2012. The road to Wimbledon Village had been entirely blocked off by the snow. London, in its entirety, was frozen and disconnected. No one would be visiting tonight, it seemed. Outside, the rain poured down. Seven thirty in the afternoon. Her cracked fingers were running across the broken wood of the walls. The red paint that had once masked the deterioration already present in the house long before it’s renovation was peeling off at the slightest touch. The furthest window at the end of the east wing hallway had been stripped of its glass by the storm last winter. Occasionally, the breeze would whip back her uncombed hair and her face could be seen, which was rare. It was dark now; although the sun would do her face no justice. She was beautiful, but in a distraught, tormented kind of way. Her eyes had been perpetually filled with sorrow as if they were small teardrops in glass cups ...

Jeu 29 Nov 2012: Réécriture  Le Rapport de Brodeck: Incipit À travers la vitre poussiéreuse, le soleil brillait, laissant une bande de lumière claire se former au milieu de la chambre. Dans cette fine bande on percevait les bords de certains meubles, et une chaise importée d’Angleterre qui datait de 1846. La pièce était serrée, petite, sombre, et rempli de feuilles vergées. Il y avait une douzaine de papiers, tous déchirés et chiffonnés, tachés par de l’encre de chine, étalés sur le lit minuscule devant la petite fenêtre. Sur la table singulièrement grande, devant la chaise anglaise, se trouvait la machine éreintée, couverte par un tissu de soie verte. La machine, elle aussi était très vieille. Elle avait été fabriquée à la capitale, très loin d’ici, à Menscheim, en 1910. Les touches « S » et « W » étaient cassées à force d’être utilisées, on se trouvait donc obliger d’utiliser les touches « Z » et « V » à la place. Les autres touches s...