Reflections on Creativity

"To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong"- Pearce

Creativity demands open mindedness- a strong spirit and a willingness to free yourself of fear. Fear binds other to the ordinary, lacking in the originality that is expressed through a creative mind. Creativity comes from the soul, the heart. It is not earned or gained, but born through freedom of one’s self, unhindered by constructions of fear in the mind or lack of self assurance. Creativity in itself frees from fear. The ability to create and enjoy creation breaks the boundaries that fear instills in the mind and soul. Creativity is the expression of one’s self- the innermost thoughts, feelings, and being. It is the exhibition of a naked self, born through passion. It is passion that makes it, forms it, and controls it: expression and feeling creativity’s very core. Fear does not appear because of a lock of wanting to create; however, it is the fear of expressing one’s self and knowing one’s self that is truly the most frightening thing.

My offer

My Offer

My heart beats fast, my chest grows tight,
Chaotic is my mind,
Swamped of doubt and try as I might,
The truth I cannot find.

Words are melodic from your voice,
But thoughts I cannot see,
Is this fate, or is it choice?
And will your choice be me?

Sweet surrender I offer you,
My heart is fragile once more,
But your past haunts all you do,
And is reason for the pain I bore.

Look to the future, not the past,
I'll be all you'll ever need,
My love for you will forever last
Return it and we'll succeed.

Dana Mercer
November 27, 2004

On Herrick

In response to lecture on Monday, I thought I'd try and tackle one of Herrick's works and see what I could come up with... so here it goes!

"The Argument of his Book"

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of Youth, of Love;--and have access
By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King.
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall
Of heaven;--and hope to have it after all.

This poem has a carpe diem theme that is progressive in that it moves from concrete to abstract objects. It moves from the rural and natural such as blossoms, birds, and flowers, and moves towards material things such as oil and spice, then progressing to the supernatural and spiritual. This is accomplished by using alliteration in enforce a catalogue or list, also reinforced by the use of censuras within each line. The poem is metrical, and uses rhyming couplets that are straight forward until the last couplet, which ends in both an eye and slant rhyme, perhaps to show tension in the fact that the speaker only hopes that he will have heaven, but it is a fact he is not quite sure of.

In Remembrance...

The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabers bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the saber-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had faught so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

The thing that is so striking about this piece of poetry to me is not only the dramatic story and history that is told, but it is the metre mostly that gives the poem a driving force. The metre makes the poem sound as if the words are galloping like horses. The repetition of metre is constant throughout the poem and really does create the feeling of a war cry. The repetition is usually in three's, usually starting with the stressed syllable to imply perhaps the feeling of marching. This poem has always caught my attention due to the metre and the way in which it reads. I hope everyone else can get something out of it too!

Ring Out Your Bells

Ring Out Your Bells
Sir Phillip Sidney

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread,
For Love is dead.
All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain;
Worth as naught worth rejected,

And Faith fair scorn doth gain,
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Weedp, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead?
His deathbed peacock's folly
His winding sheet is shame,
His will false-seeming holy,
His sole exec'tor blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,...

Let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead.
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress, marble heart,
Which epitaph containeth,
"Her eyes were once his dart."
From so ungrateful fancy,...

Alas, I lie, rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead.
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind,
While she his counsel keepeth,
Til due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a franzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Well... I happened to come across Sidney's poem while just flipping through the anthology this evening. I tend to read more modern poems; however, I know that Sidney is classified as one of the great poets of his time, so I thought I'd give him a shot! I really enjoyed the repetition and simplicity of the line "For Love is dead". I'm not too sure how to explain how this struck me, yet its bluntness was so realistic and catching that I couldn't help but read on. I think that its those qualitities throughout the poem that captivated me: lines like "infected with plauge of deep disdain" and "let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read". These lines were so sorrowful and straightforward that there seemed to be a true honesty that emerges. The general rhyming scheme was easy to follow, yet was slightly irregular at times (mostly the beginning and end), but from what I could tell, it was a,a,b,c,b,c,d through the central portion of the poem. The epiphany of the last stanza "love is not dead, but sleepeth" offers hope to balance the negativity of the rest of the poetry. Overall, I throughly enjoyed the overall mood and style of this particular poem, and I am struck by the fact that it was written in the 16thc and yet I found it so relevant and interesting! Silly ignorant me! I think I may have to explore some more....