Whether or not words speak louder. . .

Whether or not words actually do speak louder than actions, they are still very powerful.

Though the 21st century is slowly ushering in a new era- of over-sized, interactive, colorful advertisements and people: not enough time to call, so they text: not enough time to type three letters, so they type one- I still love embarking on a journey throughout most anything that a writer has given a deal of thought to.

As a child I would journey to the library on a hot summer's day and check out as many books as my young arms could hold. Then I would pile into the back of my mom's jeep. I would spend the rest of the entire day reading in my tree fort until all of the books were through. There was many a time when I would find myself making my way through several books at once. I have always loved a good story.

Though my life in 2009 is much more demanding than as a child, I still find time for words. I mostly find myself aching to discover poetry that I never knew existed, and searching for poems I haven't read or better translations of poems that I have read by some of my favorite writers. Some of these are: D.H. Lawrence, Pablo Neruda, e.e. cummings, Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, T.S. Elliot, Mona Van Duyn, Joseph Brodsky, H.L. Mencken, Langston Hughes, Jack Kerouac, and many, many others. . .

My goal in writing this is to share a small, medium, or large snippet of carefully put together words on a near-daily basis. Maybe if I am brave I will even share some of my writing. I think it is fitting if the first poem posted is the one that this blog takes its title from, which is a poem by D.H. Lawrence called "Under the Oak". To me, the speaker of this poem seems to be addressing a young lover any type of acquaintance. The young person's response "the night is wonderful" is incredibly naive and ignorant of all the terrible things predicted by the stars. The line, "but who are you twittering to and fro beneath the oak" is brilliantly juxtaposed with the heavy urgency and importance of lines preceding it. Anyways. . . Here it is!

YOU, if you were sensible,
When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,
You would not turn and answer me
“The night is wonderful.”
Even you, if you knew
How this darkness soaks me through and through, and infuses
Unholy fear in my vapour, you would pause to distinguish
What hurts, from what amuses.
For I tell you
Beneath this powerful tree, my whole soul’s fluid
Oozes away from me as a sacrifice steam
At the knife of a Druid.
Again I tell you, I bleed, I am bound with withies,
My life runs out.
I tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,
Gout upon gout.
Above me springs the blood-born mistletoe
In the shady smoke.
But who are you, twittering to and fro
Beneath the oak?
What thing better are you, what worse?
What have you to do with the mysteries
Of this ancient place, of my ancient curse?
What place have you in my histories?