Apart from being a criminologist I also like to consider myself a writer, and poetry is of course very suited for a blog because the narratives I write are both too long and still require too much work to post here without me feeling anxious about them.
This is a poem I wrote two years ago.
Luxor
As though the Gods alone could create
That which bears such historical weight
Sphinx and ram bordering the lane
Guardians of faith and priests' long-held reign
Bronze are the sands pouring into the Nile
Biblical river offering soil so worthwhile
Red spotted heights topping off the King's Valley
Approached through the desert's lonely alley
And at the end of the stairs that amazing sight
Looking over the city from royal height
Site of the temples of Gods long past
Oh, how they perceive time flying fast
Wonderous city of one-and-thousand dreams
How far and yet near our last meeting now seems
It was mainly inspired by those great fourteen lines by John Burgon, part of his 1845 poem about the desert city of Petra in Jordan. I can only wish to write so beautifully as he does, but I'll keep practising and though this blog is meant for serious criminological and sociological pieces, every once in a while instead I'll try and post a poem.
Petra
by labour wrought as wavering fancy planned;
But from the rock as if by magic grown,
eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,
where erst Athena held her rites divine;
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,
that crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,
that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe,
which Man deemed old two thousand years ago,
match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,
a rose-red city half as old as time.
Naturally I should've copied that wonderfully rhythmic "eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!", that's just marvelous, as marvelous as the comparisons with Greece and nearer churches and cathedrals - I should've compared stuff too.
And though I've never been to Petra and so can't judge whether Burgon's poem is in any case truthful, I dare say that he is right in claiming that things of that level of beauty seem to be particular to the Middle East and parts of North Africa.
So, poetry. Because criminology can get really depressing sometimes.
Roosevelt (22 February 2013)
Roosevelt
Dreams are memories
Where the new mimics the old
And where the old maintains the new
Where the sun shines in the rain
And time just rattles on
Where summers spend
Where Freedoms were made sacred word of Citizens
Where Freedoms were made sacred word of Citizens
And the town fears life within the night that never rests
And gowns do not wear gowns but twice per annum
Where destructed bricks
Were once before rebuilt
Were once before rebuilt
The town is an isle harbouring an isle
A silent bubble never to be popped
Imperial March (01 March 2013)
What is the Imperial March?
It is, for one, a brilliant piece composed by John Williams as Darth Vader's leitmotif in the original Star Wars trilogy.
It is also a month to be spent exploring evil characters and deeds in fiction and other forms of art, as well as reconsider what evil supposedly is and does, and whether what you or anyone else considers to be evil is evil at all.
Who invented the Imperial March?
As said, the symphony was written by John Williams.
Imperial March as an event first celebrated by EvilCo in 2012.
What is EvilCo?
EvilCo is a group of people looking to celebrate villains in art and fiction, it has existed since 2011 and at any point in time holds a maximum of 13 members.
Can I also celebrate Imperial March?
Yes, please do! Life would be terribly boring if morality was static.
Even if I'm not an EvilCo member?
Especially when you're not an EvilCo member!
How do I do it?
Any way is possible. There are no rules. However, EvilCo and myself specifically do not endorse harming other people or animals or property in any way.
In fact, that is one of the reasons to celebrate Imperial March - we hold the opinion that violence, gore and immorality in fiction and art - this includes films and video games - removes the need to carry out harmful acts "out there". Imperial March offers a safe and harmless way to explore such things in a manner that has no impact on others unless they choose it for it to have an impact - but, as with all things, if they choose for some expression of evilness in art to have an impact on them, those people have no right to complain.
If, however, you wilfully exert an evil influence on other people, those other people have of course every right to rebel and retaliate as though you were actually Darth Vader/Lord Voldemort/Sauron.
Do you promote immorality and evilness?
Only to express in fiction and art.
As a sort of carnival so evil impulses don't need to be expressed in real life.
And now, for this year's first contribution, a poem:
The Malevolent Muses
Nine in total, Muses of art
And nine in vicious counterpart
The Malevolent Muses
To whom Everyone loses
Nine in total, Muses of wrong
Muses as evil in life's epic song
One for villains of the writ
One for truly painful wit
One for stage and silver screen
One for things that once have been
One for light and paint and rock
One for slowing down the clock
One for song and rhyme
One for wasting time
One for wasting time
One for life's regret
These Muses hold to us terrible debt
And regardless of their wrong or right
They are so very much a plight
When things go wrong and one so chooses
One should blame the Malevolent Muses.
Poems (23 October 2012)
I'd like to share some poems with you, some of my favourites.
The first is Italian, and I just love the cadence of the words as well as what they mean. I've tried in the past to do a translation; my Italian is a little rusty, but I think I got by well. It was written by Gabriele d'Annunzio.
O falce di luna calante
Che brilli su l'acque deserte
O falce d'argento, qual mèsse di sogni
Ondeggia al tuo mite chiarore qua giù!
Aneliti brevi di foglie
Sospiri di foiri dal bosco
Esalano al mare: non canto, non grido
Non suono pe 'l vasto silenzio va.
Oppresso d'amor, di piacere
Il popol de vivi s'addorme
O falce calante, qual mèsse di sogni
Ondeggia al tuo mite chiarore qua giù!
Roughly translated it means something like
I'd like to share some poems with you, some of my favourites.
The first is Italian, and I just love the cadence of the words as well as what they mean. I've tried in the past to do a translation; my Italian is a little rusty, but I think I got by well. It was written by Gabriele d'Annunzio.
O falce di luna calante
Che brilli su l'acque deserte
O falce d'argento, qual mèsse di sogni
Ondeggia al tuo mite chiarore qua giù!
Aneliti brevi di foglie
Sospiri di foiri dal bosco
Esalano al mare: non canto, non grido
Non suono pe 'l vasto silenzio va.
Oppresso d'amor, di piacere
Il popol de vivi s'addorme
O falce calante, qual mèsse di sogni
Ondeggia al tuo mite chiarore qua giù!
Roughly translated it means something like
Oh sickle of the glittering moon
That shines over deserted waters
Oh silver sickle, whose harvest of dreams
Waves down here under your gentle light!
Brief desires of leaves
Sigh from flower to forest
And exhale at sea: I sing not, I cry not
No sound breaks the vast silences.
That shines over deserted waters
Oh silver sickle, whose harvest of dreams
Waves down here under your gentle light!
Brief desires of leaves
Sigh from flower to forest
And exhale at sea: I sing not, I cry not
No sound breaks the vast silences.
Oppressed by love and peace
The people of life fall asleep
Oh glittering sickle, whose harvest of dreams
Waves down here under your gentle light!
As you can see, if you have any grasp of Italian, I had some issues with the first two-and-a-half lines of the second stanza, but that does not make the poem any less pretty.
I have a thing for mild, descriptive poems, especially when they feature landscapes that tell us something about people, or landscapes which are used as a metaphor for human actions. Take for instance my two favourite English language poems (which are terribly well-known, I know, but still), Daffodils and Ozymandias. The first, of course, is by William Wordsworth; the second, of course, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, husband of Mary Shelley (who of course wrote Frankenstein, one of my favourite Gothic novels also because I don't enjoy Dracula. I do enjoy Polidori's The Vampyre, though, so perhaps I should just stick to stories written by those having attended the 1816 meeting at Byron's house in Geneva for Gothic literature...).
Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils
I especially like the phrase 'flash upon that inward eye' because I know what he means, and also how pleasant it is to just walk (I can't wait for the Heidelberg conference to put on some hiking boots and just taking off into the German hills... who cares about academics when you've got trees and flowers).
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
Now, of course, having been to Egypt a handful of times (I can't wait to go again, but I'm saving up so I can stay for a couple of weeks after they open the new museum in Gizah - ooh, think of all the forgotten treasures that re-appear from the vaults of the old museum in Cairo once they start transporting stuff! So little of it has actually been catalogued back then! - and also so I can visit Alexandria, where I've not been yet, and also maybe Deir el Medina because frankly, how can I have been in Luxor twice and not have visited Deir el Medina?!) I picture the plateau behind the Gizah pyramids for desert - I love the desert - and I'm also slightly in love with the tyrannical arrogance of 'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' because I love villains (even though Rameses the Great was far from being an actual villain in real life). So yeah.
My last favourite is just arguably the most famous Dutch poem ever (except for maybe Mei by Gorter: Een nieuwe lente, een nieuw geluid, ik wil dat dit lied klinkt als het gefluit... but no one ever knows more), Herinnering aan Holland by Marsman.
Herinnering aan Holland
Denkend aan Holland
zie ik breede rivieren
traag door oneindig
laagland gaan,
rijen ondenkbaar
ijle populieren
als hooge pluimen
aan den einder staan;
en in de geweldige
ruimte verzonken
de boerderijen
verspreid door het land,
boomgroepen, dorpen,
geknotte torens,
kerken en olmen
in een grootsch verband.
de lucht hangt er laag
en de zon wordt er langzaam
in grijze veelkleurige
dampen gesmoord,
en in alle gewesten
wordt de stem van het water
met zijn eeuwige rampen
gevreesd en gehoord.
Loosely translated it becomes
Memory of Holland
Thinking of Holland
I see wide rivers
Flow through
Endless lowland,
Rows unthinkably
Thin poplars
Like plumes stand
On the horizon,
The people of life fall asleep
Oh glittering sickle, whose harvest of dreams
Waves down here under your gentle light!
As you can see, if you have any grasp of Italian, I had some issues with the first two-and-a-half lines of the second stanza, but that does not make the poem any less pretty.
I have a thing for mild, descriptive poems, especially when they feature landscapes that tell us something about people, or landscapes which are used as a metaphor for human actions. Take for instance my two favourite English language poems (which are terribly well-known, I know, but still), Daffodils and Ozymandias. The first, of course, is by William Wordsworth; the second, of course, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, husband of Mary Shelley (who of course wrote Frankenstein, one of my favourite Gothic novels also because I don't enjoy Dracula. I do enjoy Polidori's The Vampyre, though, so perhaps I should just stick to stories written by those having attended the 1816 meeting at Byron's house in Geneva for Gothic literature...).
Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils
I especially like the phrase 'flash upon that inward eye' because I know what he means, and also how pleasant it is to just walk (I can't wait for the Heidelberg conference to put on some hiking boots and just taking off into the German hills... who cares about academics when you've got trees and flowers).
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
Now, of course, having been to Egypt a handful of times (I can't wait to go again, but I'm saving up so I can stay for a couple of weeks after they open the new museum in Gizah - ooh, think of all the forgotten treasures that re-appear from the vaults of the old museum in Cairo once they start transporting stuff! So little of it has actually been catalogued back then! - and also so I can visit Alexandria, where I've not been yet, and also maybe Deir el Medina because frankly, how can I have been in Luxor twice and not have visited Deir el Medina?!) I picture the plateau behind the Gizah pyramids for desert - I love the desert - and I'm also slightly in love with the tyrannical arrogance of 'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' because I love villains (even though Rameses the Great was far from being an actual villain in real life). So yeah.
My last favourite is just arguably the most famous Dutch poem ever (except for maybe Mei by Gorter: Een nieuwe lente, een nieuw geluid, ik wil dat dit lied klinkt als het gefluit... but no one ever knows more), Herinnering aan Holland by Marsman.
Herinnering aan Holland
Denkend aan Holland
zie ik breede rivieren
traag door oneindig
laagland gaan,
rijen ondenkbaar
ijle populieren
als hooge pluimen
aan den einder staan;
en in de geweldige
ruimte verzonken
de boerderijen
verspreid door het land,
boomgroepen, dorpen,
geknotte torens,
kerken en olmen
in een grootsch verband.
de lucht hangt er laag
en de zon wordt er langzaam
in grijze veelkleurige
dampen gesmoord,
en in alle gewesten
wordt de stem van het water
met zijn eeuwige rampen
gevreesd en gehoord.
Loosely translated it becomes
Memory of Holland
Thinking of Holland
I see wide rivers
Flow through
Endless lowland,
Rows unthinkably
Thin poplars
Like plumes stand
On the horizon,
And sunk into
The vast space
The farmsteads
The vast space
The farmsteads
Spread across the land,
Copses, villages,
Copses, villages,
Pollarded towers,
Churches and elms,
In a grand unity.
The clouds are low
And the sun is slowly
Smothered in gray
Colourful fumes,
And in all provinces
Is the call of the water
Of eternal disasters
Feared and heard.
That concludes my set of poems for now. Maybe I'll post some poems of my own in the future. I'm off to bed now, though, so maybe a little Christian, Dutch, rhyme that I gleaned from one of my mum's childhood books that, despite me not being religious, I still find very charming and sweet:
Ik ga slapen, ik ben moe
'k Sluit mijn beide oogjes toe
Heere houdt ook deze nacht
Over mij getrouw de wacht
Zorg voor de arme kind'ren Heer
En herstel de zieken weer
Ja voor alle mensen 'saam
Bid ik u in Jezus' naam
Churches and elms,
In a grand unity.
The clouds are low
And the sun is slowly
Smothered in gray
Colourful fumes,
And in all provinces
Is the call of the water
Of eternal disasters
Feared and heard.
That concludes my set of poems for now. Maybe I'll post some poems of my own in the future. I'm off to bed now, though, so maybe a little Christian, Dutch, rhyme that I gleaned from one of my mum's childhood books that, despite me not being religious, I still find very charming and sweet:
Ik ga slapen, ik ben moe
'k Sluit mijn beide oogjes toe
Heere houdt ook deze nacht
Over mij getrouw de wacht
Zorg voor de arme kind'ren Heer
En herstel de zieken weer
Ja voor alle mensen 'saam
Bid ik u in Jezus' naam
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