Invictus

I have been thinking a lot lately about how life takes its many turns, and of the things that can happen to us. As I was doing so, I was reminded of this poem. To me it is not so much a disregarding of the influence of God in our lives, or our need to rely on Him, but rather an affirmation that we are indeed free to choose. May we all ever be the "captain of [our] soul."

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

~William Ernest Henley~

Tenders of Affection

We have all heard of Shakespeare's Hamlet.  For those of us who have read it, you may recall the love story of Hamlet and Ophelia.  If you are like me, you were disappointed at how it hints at their love, but doesn't tell of it in detail.  Ophelia mentions certain "tenders of affection" that the prince Hamlet had given her in token of his love, and it is stated that they wrote back and forth to each other.  Yet in recording the play, William didn't include more than a quote or two from their love letters, ones which, if viewed in their fullness, surely would have revealed a love that rivaled that of Romeo and Juliet!
Well, here are a few of the long lost letters!  Just recently coming to light, these very pages were the inspiration for the play, and they shed more light on the true love of Hamlet and Ophelia!
The first and third are in the hand of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.  The second and fourth were written by the fair Lady Ophelia. 
The first two are their declarations of mutual love for each other.  The third was written (some time later) by Hamlet after they were estranged, though tragically it never made it to his love, having been intercepted by her father, Polonius, before his death.  The last was penned by the bank of the river were Ophelia, in despair for love lost, is believed to have drowned herself.  Sadly, it is uncertain if Hamlet saw it before his death at the hand of Laertes.  Beautifully preserved, and legible despite the centuries since their creation, here they are for the world to see!

Author's Note: The above is in satire.  I wrote the four sonnets in Shakespearean style, and then inked them in calligraphy form on parchment paper as part of a school project.  I hope that you have enjoyed them!

Perfectly Not

I know it has been awhile since my last post; though poetry is never far from my heart, life has a way of pulling me away from my pen for entirely too long of periods of time.  I am making my way back though.  Here is my latest poem.

Perfectly Not

Oh, my dear, I adore
you in every part:
body, mind, spirit - though
most your tender heart.

Never was there on earth
a being quite like you;
were I to sing your praises now,
I never would be through!

But yet I must confess,
one more thing I feel:
most of all I love your flaws -
they show me you are real.

For each I had to hunt
(they are hidden well),
but they brought me such joy
I cannot fully tell.

Oh, you are an angel,
one whom I adore!
I love you in your strengths -
in your faults the more.

Each a bit of ballast
that keeps you here, you see.
You may not be perfect,
but you're perfect for me.

~David Jamison~

Where You Wear

I was considering a old suit that I owned, and how it was wearing thin in places.  Then I got to considering how we choose to wear out our lives.  This is what I hope will be said about me when I wear out.

May your knees wear out in prayer,
Or the shoes upon your feet;
Wear these thin you may,
But don't wear out your seat!

 ~David Jamison~

What Is This Thing Man Calls Death?

I heard a wonderful poem about how death isn't the end.  It was written by one of my heroes, and someone who had known loss while still remaining positive.  As it is copyrighted, I am including the link to it here.

https://www.lds.org/ensign/2010/02/what-is-this-thing-man-calls-death?lang=eng

Death Came to Me Last Night...

In recognition of today being Halloween, I thought I would post one of my more somber (almost macabre) poems.  It features Death, with all his persuasive charms and hidden terrors.  I wrote it at a very introspective moment (during a bout of insomnia), while considering how dying can be viewed with either horror or longing, depending on what someone has to live for.  I hope that it makes you think, and that you come to the conclusion that I did - that life offers enough for all to spurn Death's advances when he asks us to join him before our time runs out.

Death came to me last night,
and oh, I could naught but stare!
‘Stead of what I thought might,
what visage greeted me there!
 
He stood not in a shroud,
but in a plain, simple cloak,
not drifting in a cloud,
but walking as other folk.
 
The scythe he carried not,
only an untitled book.
“The Book of Life,” I thought,
but I did not dare to look.
 
He towered not o’er me,
but near level with my height,
and Death’s face I could see –
oh, what a puzzling sight!
 
His features were pleasant,
his smile welcoming, warm.
His face held no portent,
no violence was in his form.
 
Yet, looking in his eyes,
I knew surely he was Death –
a coldness beyond guise
that fast stole away my breath.

The cold of deepest space,
yet the beauty of the sea,
hid beneath gentle face
and gazed out, blue, towards me.
 
He spoke and beckoned me,
and extended his free hand,
“Come with me now to see
the wonders within my land.”
 
The best of salesmen,
oh, how persuasive was he!
The visions he did lend
made me want to go and see.
 
He opened up his book,
and with a skeletal quill,
invited me to look
and therein my name to fill.
 
Parchment, yellowed and dry,
‘cross the pages drifted sand,
but this caught not my eye,
and I took the pen in hand.
 
Then thoughts of what Death lacked
restored curiosity.
I asked, not counting tact,
how he came thus garbed to me.
 
“Tonight I come gently,
for your sand has not run out.
But, oh, why go slowly?
Join me on my evening route!”
 
He opened a portal
and urged me with him to come
where could go no mortal.
Forth called the rattle and drum.
 
But I could not turn back
if I stepped over that rim;
in it showed his soul, black,
and I shrunk way from him.

Then, shaking slow his head,
he stepped in and disappeared;
leaving behind the dread,
taking the beauty I feared.

Now, I know he’ll return
on a not-too-distant day,
but now life’s candle burns
and choice holds my death at bay.

~David Jamison~

Walt Whitman Award

Last night I submitted my first book-length manuscript of poetry (many of the pieces have been posted on here) to a contest for publication!  It is through the Academy of American Poets' Walt Whitman Award.  Really hoping I win it!