Antigone: A Poem

Ismene and Antigone—two sisters

outside the gates of Thebes,

Ismene with vacillating determinations,

Antigone indomitable to the closing.

Recently returned from a journey lately ceased,

they hear their brothers both are lately deceased.

Strong Eteocles, defending his country

slain by his brother Polyneices, traitorous and greedy

in a tussle for the throne. 

The loss of two brothers once,

turned enemies at the end,

sisters too late to save them,

just in time to hear the decree,

as they heartbrokenly mourn
they hear: Polyneices never shall be borne

into the earth, left above ground. 

Their royal uncle Creon, jealous is he

Jealous of the throne, intent on bending

the population to his will, 

as he honors Eteocles as Hero

censures Polyneices as Renegade

—forbidding his burial—

vultures for the traitor will fit his bill.

Dismayed by this revelation, Antigone mourns,

the sister’s heart inside her bewailing the loss

she suffers by her brothers’ death, 

furthered by disrespect shown Polyneices.

Determined, she declares “I’ll do my best,

to honor both brothers, disobey,

and bury Polyneices.

Will you join me?”

Ismene refuses to accompany

Antigone on her wily

attempt to honor their brother,

“Why risk more woe?”

And so Antigone goes alone

to do what she may to pay respects to the dead.

Antigone lingers, sprinkling dust on Polyneices’ body

weeping, mourning the memory of her brother…

But a wandering countryman finds her handiwork,

rushing to the palace, to inform Creon,

 “Burial rites performed on Polyneices’—

but please it was not me!”

The incensed king orders the witness,

“Find that person or peril on your existence!”

Terrified, the man apprehends Antigone, caught her in the act,

and to the tyrant Creon, brings her back.

Enraged that a citizen, his own niece

disregards his will so totally

he orders her to be imprisoned,

buried alive and left to die.

Despair encompasses Ismene

fearful to live with her sister not

determined to share Antigone’s lot

But the condemned testifies to her innocence

and Creon cares only for the violator, not the sister,

—Ismene left in tears

—Antigone sealed without fears.

Remembering the crimes of her father,

destiny visiting her today for yesterday’s sin,

Antigone knows her fate, ready to

wed personified death, her expiration,

peaceful, glad, in the face of death.

Finding a rope, twists it to a knot, 

“O welcome Death! Now you have me, I am yours!”

these were her last words.

Tiresias, blind prophet, approaches,

warns Creon of his error,

“Your offsprings’s ruin,

your son for the murder of your niece,

punishment for the destruction of budding beauty.”

The gods against him, they be,

incensed by your cheek,

to make yourself into one like them.”

Creon irritated that his decree

be overturned by those holding 

greater power than he, 

he vacillates, unwilling.

“How dare you say

the gods, clear as day,

want the girl released?”

Townspeople cry, “Tiresias never lied to Thebes, 

and all his prophecies ring true,

your grief shall surely come

if you leave the girl to die, you’ll rue.”

Decided, Creon realizes

the petty risks he takes

to uphold himself, why try

if it only brings more misery?

Creon rushes to the tomb,

intent now to free Antigone to save his own.

But alas, too late:

already Antigone has strung and swung her rope,

acquiescent to death, she’s welcomed her grave, wide-armed—

Haëmon is distraught. He came

to rescue her, that they may live together,

free from his father’s limits,

but he found her dead already,

swinging on her rope.

Creon has arrived too late, 

to free her now useless,

as his flesh and blood Haëmon 

turns on him in rage

brandishing a sharp sword

but Creon springs away, does not witness

his son running on the sword in distress.

Sentry reaches royal palace first, 

announces ruin of Haëmon and Antigone,

and Eurydice, lady of the house,

struck by the sudden death 

of son and daughter both, 

whirling emotions, retreating to her chambers with a knife…

Mourning Creon enters his home,

“Oh, what have I done?”

The messenger enters—Haëmon’s suicide—

the prophecy fulfilled,

the weak-willed boy too tormented

to live without the love

his father has destroyed.

Creon anguished further,

turns for consolation,

reaching for Eurydice, a warm embrace,

only to receive more woe—

his wife—a son’s death—despair—and she has pierced herself,

slain herself like Haemon,

devastated by a mother’s grief…

All for a mistake of his proud whims,

no family or relief for him—

with wails and moans,

Creon is left alone.

.

.

.

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—I wrote this last month in place of an essay while I studied Sophocles. I particularly like it, so I wanted to share. I am currently working on a prose reworking of The Aeneid, about which I am also excited. I have really enjoyed choosing creative writing projects rather than the dry essays I typically am tasked (at least, I find them dry. I have not quite struck a balance in essays, though I am finding a groove.) Peace.

Yes, I've been a slacker. A big one.

Happy 2014! It's crazy because it still feels like 2013 is new!! I guess not :)

I've been feeling rather sheepish to post anymore, but I've  read a lot of authors' advice, and decided I'm not up to the task of writing a whole book yet. It's one thing to come up with a story and another to sort through it, and I'm a very particular writer, and it's too hard to try to think of anything the way I want to to actually get it done. So the rest of that story is postponed, for now. 

So, if I ever get any writing assignments again, I'll post them, but right now I haven't been getting any. (Hint hint, mom.) Thank you for your patience. Although I don't know, maybe whoever out there hasn't been patient at all. In that case, well too bad. 

Bookworm Roni

A Quick Note: My Writing Style

I realized that my writing style has emerged. Mommy said 2 years ago, that in starting this blog, if I wrote every day or every other day just a little, while experimenting, my writing style would emerge. That made no sense at the time. But I am noticing a pattern. At first, when I wrote poetry, each time it was different. But as I have picked it up this year again, unfailingly, if you go back to each poem, it is free verse, no set meter, rhyming scheme; it is really just as it comes. Oh, and short lines. Those are predominant. 

So my writing style is free verse poetry with short-ish lines. It is weird thinking back to "The House" and seeing how very different that is. I would never have thought that I would be a poet. Whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was an author/writer. Of what? people would ask. Anything, the answer would come. 

But now it is seeming to be more poetry than anything else. It just comes naturally to me. I have a way with words, Mommy says. I guess that is poetically.

Enjoy!

Also, it occurred to me to write a poem about the pope, maybe the papacy, the Vatican, some history... I think that will be like the Eucharist Poetry: a pamphlet-like piece of work, different styles, etc. 

Eucharist Poetry

O Lord, enter my heart,

Enter my heart so gently,

Enter with the aid of Sacraments,

the Sacrament of Eucharist.

The Sacrament of Eucharist,

Communion with Christ,

Never ending, never stopping,

Perfect join to You.

O Lord how I love,

When the priest will lift You up,

In silence I adore,

the Perfect Host of You.

You love me Lord,

That I know,

When I kneel in adoration,

adoring You in monstrance,

gold and silver, lifting You

up to Heaven,

Sweet smelling incense,

filling up my nostrils,

oh how I love You.

Prayers and prayers,

on my tongue,

begging to be released,

yet my mind unable to form words,

sits in awe, trying

trying to comprehend 

this Love,

this great great Love,

that would come down

for me, for me

in this Precious Form,

my heart knowing,

my mind resisting,

the knowledge my soul has.

Why, oh why,

Would you come down,

descend unto this bread,

this humble Form of exsistence,

Oh Creator of all,

when the priest,

as You

repeats Your words,

those holy, holy words

"This is My Body and My Blood

of the holy Covenant"

to be comsumed by me,

tainted, torn by sin;

the answer is for Love.

For love would you come thus,

To humble bread and wine,

to be with us, to live in us,

always, oh Lord Divine.

I thank You Lord, for this gift,

This great gift of Your Soul,

To join with mine,

to be with mine,

forever, ever, Lord.

- The odd capitalization was to put more emphasis on God, while detracting form other words. The long spaces between stanzas show a new "poem".

It was all written together, in about half an hour, but I could sort of sense slight differences between the way they were written and the subtle differences in style. I realized you have to have the right rhythm when you are reading it, because reading it over made me confused until I corrected my reading. Just experiment a little I guess on that matter.

This is a pamphlet of poetry for IMPACT for the Sacrament of Eucharist. Mommy told me to do a project by myself, without Architect A. The poems don't have individual names because, even though it is separate, it is sort of meant to be read together. Also, I've realized I'm a bit lazy when it comes to making names for poetry.

I have never before been able to really express myself in religious poetry before. But this came so naturally and simply to me. I am finding that even in prose, am I writing poetically. Such as then. And I think poetically, not prose-y, so it sort of feels like poetry is taking over my life, but I don't care.

Sealed in Christ

A bishop's hands,

coming, stretching,

toward my face,

dripping with oil,

chrism,

blessed to confirm,

peace and joy,

flooding my soul,

I am sealed in Christ,

the Spirit.

- I wrote this for an IMPACT project I am doing about Confirmation. Architect A is drawing a picture of a bishop confirming, and I am writing the text for the poster. And, seeing who I am, Architect A set me to also write a poem, which I probably would have done anyway.

I wrote this at co-op sitting outside on a rock, with nothing else to do. Everyone was in class and I had nowhere to go. I thought, "Oh, I'll write that poem". It came together in about the space of 5 minutes. Afterwards I felt very close to God, and rather joyful while I waited for Silly Sally to get out of class.

It is probably the shortest poem I have ever written. But it was done.

The House

When once I took a sorry stroll,

Saddned by a tale untold,

that dreary night in mid-November,

(Why I was there I can't remember),

While I stood there watching, waiting,

Waiting, watching, while debating,

Debating whether I should or not,

go home for a bun all nice and hot.

I decided no and proceeded on,

proceeding to a place now gone;

to find the house still there intact,

was quite a shock for me, alack!

I had hoped and pleaded with all my soul,

Pleading it be still not there my goal,

To see it there was troubling to my mind,

a mind that needed saneness, and things kind.

'Shall I proceed?' I asked myself,

'Should I proceed into this place of stealth,

Or turn back and attempt to forget?'

But before my mind was set,

I heard a hoot from an owl.

Looking up I saw the feathered fowl and scowled,

scowled at that annoying bird.

And there am I still, breathing not a word.

.

- I wrote this poem exactly 2 years ago. Well, I meant to post it Saturday, but I wasn't home all day. I like it so much that I felt that I should post it on my blog, and I was going to do so about a month ago, but realized I could pretend to have a reason by saying it was the 2 year anniversay/birthday whatever of when I wrote it. I've blown that obviously, but whatever.

.

Mommy decided that since it was Edgar Allen Poe's 203 birthday the day before class, her assignment for my creative writing class at SMA would be to write a 3 stanza poem with some of the same elements (e.g., onomatopoeias, alliteration, assonance, repetition, etc.) as "The Raven", by Mr. Poe. It was also supposed to have a creepy, somewhat scary feeling to it, like "The Raven".

This is what I came up with.

I cannot tell you why, but I am very proud of this poem. I just am. I have been proud of it for 2 years. Sometimes with my writing I think, "Oh, I should have done _______". But not with this.

If you haven't read "The Raven" yet, it is one of the best poems and probably my favorite (though I haven't thought about it much, but if you gave me 2 seconds to come up with my favorite, I'd say this). So here is a link to it: "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Nativity Poem

Nativity, Nativity, such a sweet word,

Bringing to mind the great joy of Christmas that comes to all the world.

In the weeks leading up to that joyfilled morn,

My family watches candles slowly burn

down, and violet, anticipating,

anticipating that day, 

that day when Christ comes down to us,

in a form as ours.

I remind myself as I wake,

That God sent His only Son to me

Because of His great unending love for me

In the freezing cold,

Where the wise men gave him gold,

(So I have been told,)

And I He shall never forsake.

On that Christmas morn I find myself desiring one gift solely,

That gift of God's Son to me,

In all my sin and loneliness,

Only to have 

him die on a tree

for me, for me!

-Mommy got an email about a Joy to the World! Prayer Contest*- well, contest. The challenge was to create a piece of artwork, essay (not really an essay, but a short paragraph; it was only allowed to be 50-100 words), or poem portraying family traditions, how you felt about Christmas, how you remind yourself of Christmas everyday, etc. I, obviously, wrote a poem. The entries have to be submitted by Friday via mail, so I wrote this yesterday, with some editing/additions earlier today.

At first I was so lost as to what to do. I started wondering,"How on earth did I write "The House" [coming soon] 2 years ago?" Well, I'll tell you how. Sitting in front of the computer for half an hour trying to come up with something. And then the words just start coming to you. Slowly, but they come. Sometimes they're just ideas that get translated to words in several seconds.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I know there isn't really a set meter, line length, or even really regular rhyming. But sometimes, and you can really only understand this if you are a poet (I'm not claiming to be up there with Edgar Allen Poe or something, just someone who writes poetry occasionally), something feels right about whatever it is, like I felt like I should add another 'old' rhyming in the 3rd stanza. It just felt right. And I had an incredible urge to do something about it until I wrote that 6th line. And it's hard to explain, and it might not make sense if you don't write poetry. I realized that while Silly Sally was looking at it and said something about "Change this to this. It'd sound better", and I was offended and she didn't seem to understand that that was the way it was supposed to be. I just realized it's like what Michelangelo said once,"In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me...I only have to hew away the rough walls that imprison it." The poem is already there, and even though I don't "see it", necessarily, when I start, changing something that's supposed to be there is like lopping off the nose of a statue, if that makes any sense.

I guess my point is, all poetry is different. I can see that looking at all the crazily different poems I've written.

*name of contest

P.S. And no, it doesn't have a name. Yet.

There Was a Child Went Forth

There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he
   became,
And that object became part of him for that day or a
   certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
.
His blue covered schoolbooks
    became a part
    of him
As greatly as his faded yellow
    number two pencil
Became a part of him,
And his quirky, strange, yet interesting friends
    became a part of him,
    and his heart.
.
And at home,
    his place at table,
    white painted and wooden-backed,
    with its cushion for sitting,
Became a part of him,
And his brown wood bedstead,
    simple and quaint,
    with its red and black-checked partchwork quilt
    cozy and warm,
Waiting for him to come
    and slumber peacefully,
Became a part of him.
.
-Another assignment. This time it is inspired by Walt Whitman's poem, "There Was a Child Went Forth", hence the name. The assignment was to write two stanzas of a poem with things the boy could've seen and become. The beginning stanza is not mine, it is Walt Whitman, who by the way, is dead. He lived from 1819-1892. The point was to use the opening stanza to create your own free verse poem on the same topic.
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I have an assignment that is sadly lost. I was trying to post it a few months ago, but I cannot locate it. Perhaps I'll just try re-writing it. Oh well.
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."There Was a Child Went Forth" link