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H I MacLean's Book of Verse

Page history last edited by H.I.M. 13 years, 5 months ago Saved with comment

Heidi's main page


Some verse.


written a year or two ago:


The Solemn Observer


Fall leaves gather around my feet.

I watch them falter from the air

As they search for that place where

Both heaven and earth at last meet.


I'm standing on the side-road

Watching fall turn to winter

And winter to spring to summer

And summer back to fall.


In the end I may wonder

How and why I spent my days

In such complacent obscurity

Like the leaves that on the ground gather.


I may never know what could have been

The fruit of persistent labour

But instead I chose the path

Of the solemn observer.


I am rooted here, but for it all

I wish the passerbys not to cry

For I will neither shed tears

Until I know that this will be the last Fall.






No name, no image, always hiding face.

No voice be seen, on the edges gleans,

But casts his gaze into the noisy waters,

Learning, observing, taking time

To understand the psyche of the band.

Lurker he is, a ghost of data,

Anonymous entity, an unheard name;

He looks down despising vanity and fame.

Never the elitist, never the popular,

He values dignity in knowledge

For the rest is but passing air.


-Written about the same time as the above poem.

*Popular would be pronounced "pop-you-lair"



Prospective titles: 

A Rhythm Guitarist Rants


Supertonic, Locrian, modal progression
And all that jazz.
Pound your head with theory
Until it rolls off your tongue
And the simple you make weary
Like we were doing
Cycles of Fifths
For the next five years
Because, after all,
It's what the big cats do
Until it comes out their ears.

I could play my scales
And try to become someone
In your wise eyes.
I could do Two-Fives
'Til my calluses open
And my fingertips bleed.

But honestly
I just don't give a damn
To follow the upper-crust.
So just let me sit on my ass
And let me play in the way that says
"This is me, this is who I am."

It's like another religion,
Like another cult,
Where you do it this way,
Or else you're cut.

Your fancy passages
And technical scales
Never did much
To make my songs come alive
Or attain that soulful vibe.

From day one
When I was the n00b sort of dumb,
I wrote songs which impressed
The ear, the heart,
And now, quite frankly
I don't care if I seem smart,
Because I'm so sick of living in my head,
Analyzing until I awake and find myself dead.
This, to me, is escape from my mind.
And if I should find that my heart’s a child
And if it's true that children ought not be heard,
I still think my feelings have the right
To speak out even if it goes against
Your hypocritical, categorical herd.


-Something I pounded out Spring 2009 after being frustrated with my jazz band instructor.


Thanks, Trina.  I am actually working on this one to publish in the literary journal I have mentioned under announcements for Sigma Tau Delta (there are a few more weeks until submissions are due, though at this point, we have a number of submissions so anyone thinking of submitting should do it ASAP).  I still have things I probably need to fix grammatically (and revisions can be sent in after initially submitting), and I am debating flow and where I should break stanza (this is obviously unstructured...giving it an improvisational feel, which everyone agreed was fitting.).  I might put this on a separate page to encourage feedback, advice, and the like.



The Garden That is Called Love


Hand in hand, two souls unite
In the midst of a garden where
The sun seems to always shine
Within its narrow gates,
And a gentle breeze carries
The sweet fragrance of a rose
To two corners of a lonely world.
A pair of mortals receive its calling
That beckons them to come and enter
This garden called "Love."


So they run into the safe haven
Of this sought after land,
Escaping the frigid winds
That haunt a desolate earth.
Drawing closer, hearts beat faster,
But just as quickly, hope is dimming.
And with falling countenances
They observe their grim surroundings
Littered with roses of brittle thorns,
And fallen petals of blackened red.


Then images flash of time past
When these flowers bloomed
Into magnificent physique,
Full of beauty manifest.
Their thorns were not so sharp
And their aromas once aroused.
How so flawlessly they stood,
Seemingly to always remain
Without taint or mar.


Though time is a thief
Who turns joy into apathy.
He causes beauty to wither,
And innocence to rust.
Wholeness's light vanishes,
While unification is split in half.
He takes the wonder of love
And brings it to forever fade,
Into a memory forgotten,
Replaced with a hollow present.


So could it be destiny
That these lovers find
Their rose to be just another
That wilts and dies?
Or should they continue on
Closer towards one another,
Taking each step in faith?
Still, this they do know,
That no matter how long or short
Their fervent embrace be shared,
God's love for both remains forever.


Even though they may
In the end fail love's test,
They can always be one,
Together bound in a love
Which exceeds far
Past time, past age.
A love that reaches
Beyond mistakes,
Beyond hurt and pain,
Farther than life or death.


This love of God,
So divine and warm,
The only love that could melt
A heart frozen in ice.
His love teaches two spirits
How to endure and hold fast
Past the light and the dark,
The good times and bad,
The contentment and sorrow,
That comes with every day of season.


Whether it be in spring to summer
When the days are long and warm,
Or should it come to fall and winter
When the air is chilled and hostile,
And the night transcends day by far,
God's love, brought with His Spirit
Will come to take them by the hand,
And tenderly will He lead them
Back to where they first met,
Into the garden forever called "Love."


---Added as I have recently been more open about sharing this poem and have received quite a lot of positive feedback.  An example of one of my best earlier works, especially when I was cultivating my spiritual side within the first two years of caring about such matters.  Also written in response to some events which became extremely influential in my life.


-I just searched through my google docs and e-journals from the years and FINALLY found this drabble verse-

Changing, shifting, drifting
between East and West;
I know not which is best.
You know how I'm passionate.
Sometimes reason is blinding,
but things of the heart are so binding,
yet all the same, this road is winding.
Who am I?
Who I am.
Egyptian or Roman,
which one is it, then?

---Inspired by Antony and Cleopatra  (the play, of course).


From Seven


Lamento de Ponce

Fountain of Youth, bearer of immortality,
I have crossed long and tumultuous seas to see
Your holy waters of eternity.
I have fought and  have given weighty thought
To the altar sacrifice of men's blood and savage blood
To awaken Gilgamesh's dream, to mark the road to Eden,
To banish time from Time, to rectify the Fallen Scene
And all death and decay it'd bring.

But nay, I, to find thee, fought much.
Combat's touch leaves me bloodied, broken.
I suppose this be conquest's token.
For to presume wealth and health
Should always stay to be the same
Is but child's play: a childish game.

So, o' fount', to you I this say:

Played my cards and marbles and bet it all,
I, the man who thought he could hold to eternity,
Will only attain so under a stone who's for me to say,
"From cradle played not to visit this coffin,
T'was in vain for I, now, hath lost the game."




My comments (feel free to disregard...I am specifically thinking of you, M. O'Neill): The concept was to do a piece with the idea of fountains thrown in because we were dedicating our compilation to the benefactors who provided the funds for USFSP to install the fountain. 

I agreed to a bet initiated by a friend of mine in Sigma Tau Delta to write a poem (seeing as I wasn't sure if I wanted to be involved in the project) utilizing the "I lost the game" meme while being relevant to fountains and so seeing if I could troll people with my poem.  Seeing as we were taking Modern Florida together, I got the idea to incorporate the meme to some Neo-Classical-esque poetry related to the legendary historical account of Ponce de Leon (in other words, the false account) seeing as such refers to the Fountain of Youth. 

So I took an hour or so in Davis Lobby, blocking out the noise, and came up with my draft, went through a few revisions.  I figured I'd comment on the logic behind the piece since I find that a lot of people aren't nerdy enough to get the reference and so get pissed at me whenever I recite the poem.  And I'm guessing you thought this was originally meant to be a serious/mature poem.  Hardly.

Comments (1)

kms said

at 9:57 pm on Sep 10, 2010

Heidi - I love what you 'pounded out' due to frustrations with your jazz band instructor. My cousin, who had a a jazz band in Chicago "Rush Hour" probalby would have loved it, too; may he rest in peace.

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