Poem: "I Love U2 Brother"

"I Love U2 Brother"

An old diddy I wrote back while I was backpacking Europe when I was 20. My brother was, and still is, a huge U2 fan so I wrote this for him. If you know some U2 songs, you may even like this poem.

I have a Brother,

As he has one too.

I shouldn't complain,

But sometimes I still do.

Sometimes our fights,

Are more than I can bear.

We sew it up,

But you can still see the tear.

We are one yet,

So little's the same.

I'm running away,

And he's glad I came.

I seek refuge,

In my dark holes.

Where as my Brother,

Has soul sweet soul.

We've had our ups,

We've had our downs.

But when he calls,

I come around.

And sometimes I miss him,

I don't see him for days.

What I fail to realize is,

Brotherhood moves in mysterious ways.

All in all,

What I'm trying to say,

Is when you're around,

It's a beautiful day.

written under the influence by

jeffc

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part II

If you have not read "Part I" of this poem, please do now by clicking here. One wouldn't want to digest the entree prior to the appetizer so carefully plated.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTING

Adieu, adieu! to history's winds do we,

Bid farewell to history's sprawling tree.

For a new tree grows now called The Present,

One you'll find was scarce more pleasant,

Than the past our hero was sore victim to,

Nay, this present was but a present to few.

Like a true soldier's faith did he march on,

And still from social circles was withdrawn,

To the point where awkward silence lied,

In every council and tête-à-tête he tried.

For the past had no mercy, nor the future would,

Have such charity for but a boy misunderstood.

Leaving school early he soon became,

Nothing more than a tradesmen of pity and shame,

The seasons of life so soon changed for,

The best of our subject's time spent yore.

For he fell in love for a time first and last,

From which time he forgot his entire past.

His childhood was a memory vague at best,

To recall a fond memory he was pressed.

But when love knocks on one's iron door,

And that fist belongs to one they adore,

One's past becomes nothing but idle fiction,

To be condemned to a novel crucifixion.

And one's future then dost become,

A fountain of dreams that dost flow from,

A spring of imagination so long ago sprung,

When our subject was so innocent and young.

Here an internal conflict did boil and brew,

And there his resentment grew and grew,

For the life for himself he had so actively built,

So the loathing and spirits doused his guilt.

But when he would peer into his true love's eye,

He saw a faith and solace if he were to defy,

Would haunt and linger each and every thought,

That he thought when he should have fought,

Against his disdain and against his fears,

That would up till now rule his years.

On one hand; submission. The other; dreams.

He grew to tolerate a life of extremes.

To the horizon he searched for a way out,

To his dreams, to his wants; he craved route.

The course became clear, the direction ahead,

Was to be one of a path often tread,

By those with minds and bodies strong,

So to this group our subject did not belong.

With his reckless abandon and parent's pride,

Nay! only in his true love could he confide,

That his one true passion was far from trade,

Ay! it was a passion in which most often played,

Those with money and power and idle of both,

Both of which our subject hadn't the growth,

So from a different launching pad must he,

Sculpt the shape of the newfangled tree.

He took a step back and thought once and for all,

That nothing could stop him, storm nor squall.

Now his relationships were on the mend,

With his father, brother, foe and friend.

And his mother continued to show support,

And with his true love did he so cavort.

But as all youths learn when of age they grow,

That there is more to life's ebb and flow,

Like jobs, cars, money earned and spent

No matter where the spender says it went.

The fog of reality crept in more each dawn,

Like the due of fidelity on one's lawn.

This well orchestrated dance did he so view,

But something told him that he knew,

A healthier alternative to the status-quo,

One where creativity could freely flow.

After reading the classics, books upon books,

Of mad scientists and buccaneer crooks,

Our subject took to the pen and to the write,

And in taking to such indulgence ignite,

A second true love that he'd give his all,

So many poems and fictions he did scrawl.

With each poem and each fiction penned,

He would less, and even less, comprehend,

The way the world worked outside his doors,

The riots, the politics, the future and wars.

His writing, his woman. His booze by his side,

This man, still young, tried to in vain divide,

His imagination that was so early sprung,

From the fellow inhabitants he was among.

Part III will soon follow, if you are interested, in my mind's hollow...

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part I

THE PREFACE

Adieu, Adieu! yon silver night sky,

For 'tis tonight that I dare to ask why,

It is that I only now say a fair hello,

To the man I am and do not know.

A self portrait of sorts must all artists do,

Whether or not they know exactly who,

They are inside when the brush dips in,

The paint of life from wither all begin.

Yet here shall rest a medley of rhymes,

That act as a portrait detailing my crimes,

Against my self for which I do so revel,

While reveling beside me sits the Devil.

For I have little idea of the man I am,

So through this poem I shalt try to exam.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTED

He was born to a Mother and Father proud,

And so a cloud of pride did enshroud,

This outcast, this pariah as he grew,

Into the child who so little knew.

As a boy born of freedom so oft' does,

He had nary a sense what struggle was.

At the year four, his parents so split,

From the vows to which they did commit.

And so this boy would know a broken home.

As a childhood home that was his own.

Too young to know what to make thereof,

This apparent abandonment of true love,

He would float throughout spans of time,

In his imagination so sublime.

His Brother who was his senior two years,

Would so feed off his younger's fears,

In response to the lack of figure Father,

The older would take upon himself the bother,

Of teaching and guiding our poem's subject,

Through youth in hopes of being correct,

When it came to the life he knew nothing of,

Nay, he was but two years in age above,

Our boy, so what could he possibly know,

About the knowledge he tried to bestow.

For now our boy was without two things;

The Brother of Princes. the Father of Kings.

Now to his mother he looked and prayed,

And to her side he loyally stayed.

In this pattern he sailed through youth,

Not knowing the fiction from the truth.

Out of many schools he was wretched,

Due to how his Mother's dollar stretched.

So friends were a pleasure not to be had,

By this child whose thoughts were sad.

When his age into double digits crashed,

His awareness of life left him abashed.

Within a few years a girl showed to the boy,

That after all this still to be had was joy,

From relations with people besides those,

That live with he and that he knows.

T'was a new era for our tortured subject,

That in the part following we will upon reflect.

For the next few years and years beyond,

A new style of life of which he grew fond,

Was that of one he should have known before,

And to make up time he began to explore,

At a pace perhaps some would deem risky,

That involved vodka, gin and whiskey.

Before reaching twenty years of age,

Against the machine he deemed fair to rage,

And so his few friends began to wane,

Leaving him to roam his own domain,

Within a psyche diseased from the start,

That should have taken notes from his heart.

Ay! 'Tis here our child became a man detached,

From his future ahead and his past snatched.

No stranger to lust but one to new love,

He grew fast into a being devoid of,

Social skills that would be needed soon,

In his broken life's quarter life swoon.

Caught in a web of anxiety and hate,

He found it increasingly hard to relate,

To those around him in school and play,

That seemed to effortlessly show and display,

The skills that were needed from one his age,

To preform on the unforgiving adolescent stage.

There wasn't a woman he failed to want,

But all he wanted seemed to flaunt,

The fact that other men clearly waived,

What these women so clearly craved.

After knowing many women abound,

And drinking many spirits around,

He began to wonder what the purpose was,

To this life. A thought he thought because,

Nary an answer had been proposed to he,

Who was never given a guarantee,

That life would give those who longed,

A reason to forgive those who wronged,

He when he was to young and did wonder

If man was held criminal for every blunder.

Through many a phase our man sped through,

And many an experience he did accrue.

Tis time that we bid fair adieu,

To the past we have fallen into.

PART II, coming soon.... if you so care, to follow through...

Poetry: "Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

This was written over the course of a few hours during which I posed for a photo shoot as an 1800's Absinth endorsing writer and muser. I hammered away on a 1894 Underwood typewriter, which turned out to have a rather steep learning curve when the typist is accustomed to 'delete' buttons and 'edit undo' functions. Never the less, I powered through and managed to hunt and peck out the following stanzas. Now, it must be said, being a lover of authenticity, and a enthusiast of all things spirited, I did, whilst in the middle of the photo shoot, enjoy a glass or more of the traditional one part spirit, two parts water with a burnt sugar cube rendering a cloudy yet potent transport for the green fairy; Absinthe. When I came to the next day this is what I found on the tea stained paper which was wretched out of the cold dead hands of the Underwood at the end of the shoot. (unaltered)

"Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

There goes all my money like dust in the wind,

Up in the air.

Left shoulder down, right shoulder up,

It's just not fair.

A man summons a cab, a singer summons a note,

A skier the snow, the sea captain his boat.

A date summons his train and a child his toy,

A soldier the action and a priest ever joy.

Deserts summon rain as it's crosser his water,

The farmer his crop, the mother her daughter.

The dog companionship, the debater the contrary,

But Alas! The writer, above all, The Green Fairy.

That was a poem you may like it or not,

If you don't, then well join the lot.

Nay, I have never claimed nor have stated,

With a large fan base my thoughts are related.

High numbers aren't the best offer,

Don't believe me? Go ask the golfer.

Tis better to have a devoted few,

Than it is to watch fandom undue.

Ay! For peoples admiration is so soon,

Harkened back to face it's doom.

written under the influence of 'La Fee Verte' by,

jeffc

POETRY: "Home Is Where The Art Is"

"Home Is Where The Art Is"

One's home is a complex notion,

whether one is at home or not.

Can a home follow one's constant motion,

or is it anchored in one spot?

Is a home where the heart is, or,

is a home where one rests their head?

Can one have two homes, three, or more,

or does one's home have to house their bed?

If one lives abroad is their home the world,

or is it the hotel, the suite or plane?

Is it the house from which they long ago hurled,

and, at that point, is one's travels in vain?

Perhaps one lives where they were raised,

but finds more solitude in some him or her.

Is home to them then where their parents praised

or in the arms of the person they prefer?

Is a home where one's majority of time is spent,

if so, is the cell to a prisoner that prisoner's home?

By that calculation, after all the years that went,

Most of our homes would be over a desk or tome.

I look around and see less homes than houses.

If you have the ladder, the former with it does not come.

Just as I do, I see less love than spouses.

As with the houses, one can be bought, the other must become.

It is this irony that causes me to question so.

Is the idea of a home that of a fleeting one?

Excuse my pessimistic manner of speaking though,

From a broken home I do come,

but of a broken family I am no son.

Can one be alone is one's home,

or must one have a crowd?

And do we only ever have one place,

that we can call a home aloud?

I have a family and I have true love,

but for a home I still do look.

When or how or if or what of,

are but answers only found in a book.

So my book I continue to search and write,

and it's page's I slowly fill.

But it's up to me to turn them in spite.

of the emptiness that haunts me still.

written by jeff campagna

POETRY: "The Boy With The Glass Eye"

A poem I wrote this evening inspired by the life and death of Michael Jackson. It may be a cliche and even a bit tacky to write a poem for such an event, but unfortunately it's my only form of expression.  When I came home and opened up my facebook home page every single status update, link, post and comment was regarding Jackson and his life, controversy and contribution to modern music and dance - One can't ignore such a widespread effect on mankind, and so, using my only tool; words, I have created somewhat of a narrative poem in tribute.

"The Boy With The Glass Eye"

A boy lived once, with glass in his eye.

    A delicate soul rich in force and care.

No one could spy and always wondered why,

    The boy refused to share his obvious despair.

Many brothers and sisters he was born into,

    and close with them he was.

Though all who had their very own view,

    would commonly applause.

The boy with the eye had talent and spry.

    and certain magical flare.

He could sing and dance and with ease supply,

    all the villagers with a joyful affair.

 

Though his siblings with him would take the stage,

    it was always commanded by him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

    on how a bright future could be so grim.

Older the boy grew and more fragile the glass,

    and the villagers began to crave,

More singing and dancing which led to, alas,

    A life less his own and more of a slave's. 

His family stood by and watched the boy cry,

    and supported him best they could.

But, when a beast wants to be fed a feast,

    there's little account for common good.

So harder he danced and louder he sang,

    and the thinner the glass eye got.

For but a boy the bell of manhood rang.

    and to cling onto his boyhood he fought.

The boy was now caught up in the middle,

    of boyhood ignorance and manhood bliss,

Always would his real dreams play second fiddle,

    To the biting paranoia and fear of remiss.

His voice got louder and his feet more swift,

    but the villagers began to grow tired,

Of his singing and dancing so he began to drift.

    Into a world where to be inspired was not required.

The people of the village started to wonder,

    if perhaps there was more to know.

About the boy who was torn asunder

   and who had shown them only his show.

Poked and pried and snooped and dug,

    the villagers would not give up.

When they found nothing swept under the rug

    the villagers would make things up.

Within a short span it came to village vs. man,

    and they forgot he could sing and dance.

The stage went empty and a witch hunt began.

    He hadn't a chance nor second glance.

He influenced some and changed lives of more,

    he became one of a kind.

Passion in his projects he'd always pour,

   and love in his art you'd find.

After years of torment and endless critique,

    his heart began to grow weak.

A character of mystique had always been meek,

    his life began to grow bleak.

One day before taking the stage,

    his heart finally failed him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

    on how a bright future could have been so grim.

The glass in his eye shattered not,

    though it always showed its flaw.

Of a wrong doing he was never caught,

    But it's as human to err as it is to awe.

written by jeff campagna

June 25th 2009, 9:04pm

POETRY: "Advice Given, Patience Taken"

"Advice Given, Patience Taken"

People oft' tell me things that I already know;
  like always tell the truth, and you reap just what you sow.
    But they never seem to care too much about my current woe.

Instead they try their very best not to undergo,
  the same position they see me in that effects me so.
    For, to them, I serve the purpose of a cautionary foe.

Once I was told, in matter of fact, bet high and sell low.
  Then when my money disappeared they said go with the flow.
    Both phrases hold the same weight as don't eat yellow snow.

Whether the sun will rise tomorrow or the rooster crow,
  are happenings that are nothing more than nature's status quo.
    So with every small piece of advice does my patience thinner grow.

written by jeff campagna

POETRY: "For A Man Has To Age"

"For A Man Has To Age"

The summer breeze blows with despair,
  and what often blows back to,
are more stronger gusts with darker musts,
  that lack every bit of fair.

It is these summer days and nights,
  that fill my mind with sorrow.
And they come and go with little flow,
  and leave little lust for tomorrow.

When I was a younger more eager man,
  and my heart was filled with hope.
My days and nights and aft's and fights,
  were also lacking scope.

It was these nights and longer days,
  that made the man I am.
Though none to proud, I say it loud,
  for every and all to exam:

Here I lay, for you to hear me say,
  that I've had very little success.
And though to speak at all seems far to tall,
  to write it out seems best.

When we are young and dream of old,
  we seem to think of light,
All the places and faces that make it hard,
  to ever win a fight.

And when we grow we come to know,
  that wrong indeed were we,
For now we must with a summer's gust,
  commence to beg and plea.

Our grand dreams and lofty schemes,
  begin to give great way,
To what we became and the lofty shame,
  that shadows us every day.

If aware were we, and ready to be,
  something we'd come to hate,
Perhaps with tact and matter of fact,
  we'd have changed the course of fate.

The shadow now rests and follows me best,
  when my mind is weak and frail.
And however I fend or try to comprehend,
  the shadow must always prevail.

So to read this with youth might bare some truth,
  and save your life it may.
For when it's to late, sealed is your fate,
  and help it wont to pray.

written by jeff campagna

Writers I Now Love

So, it has been eleven or twelve blogless days while I have been traveling around Scotland and Ireland. Sorry to say, I am now back and with a certain refreshed outlook on the literary world and those who reside in it.... or have resided in it more specifically. 

There was one thing I really appreciated about Edinburgh and Dublin and that was their loyalty and gratitude towards the writers than were born in their cities and their talents that were born out of them.  It was never hard to find a monument, statue, bastille, museum or plaque that had been erected in their names. And for good reason, the class of writers that I am referring to were sick with talent, technical skill, originality, swagger and most of all paved the way for the literary world as we have come to love or hate it today.

Robert Burns

One of the worlds most famous poets, Robert Burns lived in the mid-late 1700's in and around Edinburgh and truly did posses a way with words.  He is a pioneer of the romantic movement and his works embody the beauty and elegance of his homeland.  He has taught me that true poetry should have a flow and rhythm and not always just appear as a collection of words that may or may not have some remote meaning to their author - something I am guilty of myself.

Sir Walter Scott

Another 1700's writer hailing from the land of Scotts, Walter Scott was the talented, intelligent and ballsy  author of classics such as "Waverley", "Ivanhoe" and "Rob Roy"... to name a few. There are many things about Scott that intrigue me, beyond his apparent literary prowess. One is the fact that he wrote the first many of his major works anonymously, even after it was obvious that there would be no issue with claiming the authorship. Apparently, he kept up this facade out of fun, which is just plain cool. Secondly, he has the largest monument in the world ever erected for a writer, you should see this thing, it's like a damn war memorial.

James Joyce

Yes, we all know James Joyce. Or at least we all know of James Joyce. What fascinates me most about Joyce, aside from his great work, is the fact that he seriously disagreed with the literary movement that was happening in the city of Dublin at the time, around 1904. Because this movement seemed so false and unmotivated to him, he went into self-imposed exile first in Zurich, then on to Trieste and Paris. Yet, Dublin still treats him as his own. His works include "Dubliners" a series of short stories, "Ulysses" and "Finnegan's Wake" which took 17 years and is written in an idiosyncratic language making it a hard read.

Oscar Wilde

The most quotable man in the world... Yes, more quotable than the movie "Dumb and Dumber". Wilde pretty much revolutionized the notion of the celebrity. He fast became known outside of artistic circles in Dublin and began writing plays, many of which are still celebrated today. Later in life he was imprisoned for two years on 'gross indecency' charges relating to his homosexual behavior. He had more than enough time to flee the country before his jail time, still he stayed, willing to do his time. Later, after his imprisonment, he would flee to Paris where he could live the life he chose. Can you say Roman Polanski? Anyways, if you want a great example of Wilde's poetic skill read the poem "The Ballad Of Reading Goal" which is one of the only pieces he wrote after his prison sentence. 

Brendan Behan

One of the original Bad Boy's of literature, it isn't so much Behan's writing that fascinates me, but why he started writing in the first place. As a young man he was part of the IRA and served lots of prison time because of it. It was in prison that he started writing poetry and published it in the IRA news letters. It is rumored that he began writing pornography to pay the bills once out of prison. His drinking problem worsened throughout his life, and as the fame came at him harder, harder to the drink he went. Notorious for drunken public episodes on television and stage, the people began to love and crave his escapades - a love that would soon diminish and leave Behan as a lonely drunk who could no longer write. "There's no bad publicity except an obituary" - Brendan Behan

writing under the influence of greatness,

jeffc

Poetry From When I Was Young and Wished I Knew What I Know Now

In high school I wrote poetry, but nothing that anyone would ever see. Poetry wasn't cool, and I wanted to be cool - so I wrote it, and hid it. Before we got rid of our old Pentium 2 I remember printing all the poems I wrote out, so, just incase any of them were any good, I wouldn't lose them forever. And so all my poems sat lifeless in a stack of white printer paper and as I moved, they moved with me. This morning I found them while looking for a Glycemic Index book for my mother. I sat in my underwear and read them, and starting now, will be publishing some of them right here on my blog - mainly because, whether it's cool or, I just don't give a shit now.

Now I know why people kill themselves... Their sick of life. Sure, you could have told me that, but I feel their pain. I'm tuned to the agony of lack of enjoyment. I had flare, once, and now it's vanished. Where? I don't know really. I'm sure it will be back, it's just a matter of time I guess. People feel like life has nothing left to offer them, they've gotten their fill, their fix. There's nothing more pathetic than a man at the depths of an ether binge. The cool evening breeze keeps me from sliding south. It's life's little idiosyncrasies that keep me sane. Sometimes I feel so sane... it drives me crazy. Ironic I know, but then again sometimes the only reason why I write is to stop the cursor from blinking.

There you have it. Volume 1 of "Poetry From When I Was Young and Wished I Knew What I Know Now". As you can see it lacks even the rudimentary forms of a poetry, it does not rhyme, it hardly makes sense and posses not even a title.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Leap And"

Four pints of Double Vodka + Rockstar later; the newest addition to "A Writer Under The Influence" is born; "Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer". Truly written under the influence, and, at the time, a porthole into my inner workings.

Leap And.

Stand on the edge.

Feel the winds of constant change,

As they bite at you with fear you try to ignore.

Close your eyes.

Feel your body sway sardonically,

The ebb and flow of liberation.

Open your mind.

Widen the corridors of your thoughts,

Allowing heights to be raised and reached.

Inch forward.

It's okay, others do it.

I'll show you. The fall isn't that bad.

The closer you inch to the edge, the more appreciation you gain for it.

Lift a foot.

Like a flower,

Let yourself blow in the breeze.

Commit.

I don't care what anyone says.

I'm gonna love this dream like no other.

Breath deep.

For it may be your last.

Take in what earth has on offer.

Open your heart.

Fall forward.

Leap and the net shall appear.

If the net fails you, like it has others, enjoy the fall; for it's something that not many feel.