June 25th, 2013
pejmanyousefzadeh

In Which Edgar Allan Poe Pays Homage to the Chicago Blackhawks

After the Chicago Blackhawks triumphed over the Boston Bruins, winning the Stanley Cup in a six game series, the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe visited me and demanded that I take down the following poem that he composed in praise of my hometown Blackhawks. I offer it now for your reading and reciting pleasure. Admittedly, Poe is out of practice when it comes to composing poems, given that he has been dead for 164 years, but I think that he still has enough of the old magic left in him to make poetry lovers sit up and take notice.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you Poe, resurrected: 

Once upon an evening dreary, with the Bruins, beat and weary,
With their faces sad and teary and hearts dragging on the floor.
While the Blackhawks celebrated, the Bruins to their foes migrated,
Even though they truly hated what for them was now in store.
"Tap, tap tap," did the Bruins on the Blackhawks’ locker door.
"Away," said the Blackhawks. "You saw the score."

"Oh Blackhawks," said the Brui
ns. “You have brought us woe and ruin.
"Brought shame upon our crew and have achieved a higher score.
"But now, we’ve come to ask you, to charge, request and task you.
"Corey Crawford, put on your mask, you, and let’s go and play some more.
"Give us another chance at Stanley, and let’s go and play some more."
Quoth the Blackhawks, “NEVERMORE!”

"Blackhawks," said Team Boston. "Your obstinance is costin’
"Us redemption. We know we’ve lost and we’ve no right to anything more.
"But upon us take some pity, because our souls now feel quite s****y,
"There’s despair within our city, another shot we do implore.
"To take the Stanley Cup another shot we do implore."
Quoth the Blackhawks, “NEVERMORE!”

"Blackhawks," cried Team Beantown. "You know, you’re being mean now.
"If only you could have seen how Bostonians are sick and sore.
"We are beaten now in hockey, but Solo said ‘don’t get cocky,’
"Clubber Lang once gave Rocky a chance to even the score.
"We’re admittedly not from Philly, but we want to even the score."
Quoth the Blackhawks, “NEVERMORE!”

"Blackhawks," screamed Massachusetts. "We know that it’s quite useless
"To chew your ears off since we’re toothless after hockey fights galore.
"Instead, your ears entreat we, your championship conceit we
"Seek to use to cause deceit; we want to play one series more.
"Oh come now, in your hubris, consent to just one series more."
Quoth the Blackhawks, “NEVERMORE!”

And with that, the Bruins scattered, with the Blackhawks not quite flattered
To think that Boston’s begging mattered. There wouldn’t be one series more.
Lord Stanley’s Cup made bolder the great City of Big Shoulders,
Which has the Field of Soldiers where the Bears will Packers gore.
Let’s now look to autumn, when the Bears will Packers gore,
And win Chicago championships more.
January 30th, 2013
pejmanyousefzadeh

theparisreview:

On January 29 in 1845, “The Raven” was published in the New York Evening Mirror. It obviously follows that we should bring you a recording of Christopher Walken reading Poe’s poem.

Well, it is a day late, but yes; it does indeed follow.

Reblogged from The Paris Review
January 22nd, 2013
pejmanyousefzadeh
To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
Lord Byron, born 225 years ago today, on originality (via explore-blog)
Reblogged from Explore
January 13th, 2013
pejmanyousefzadeh

davidajohnsonart:

And it is enough for the poet to be the guilty conscience of his time.
Saint-John Perse

December 15th, 2012
pejmanyousefzadeh
for all that remains of the children,
their eyes,
staring at us,      amazed to see
the extraordinary evil in
ordinary men.

Lucille Clifton, from “sorrow song” (via proustitute)

So terribly apt.

December 5th, 2012
pejmanyousefzadeh

theferocity:

“It is difficult / to the get the news from poems / yet men die miserably everyday / for lack / of what is found there.”

Reblogged from
November 6th, 2012
pejmanyousefzadeh

laphamsquarterly:

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and
show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor
your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic
geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor
Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still
small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the
quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland—
Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the
peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart
pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

Walt Whitman, “Election Day, 1884”

Reblogged from Lapham's Quarterly
October 31st, 2012
pejmanyousefzadeh
Poets are worshipful men, who never traffic with treason:
Both our vocation and art keep our characters pure,
Free from the greed for gain, out of the clutch of ambition,
Scorning the market place, fond of the study and shade.
But we are easy to hold, we burn with the strongest of passions,
Only too well we know loyal devotion in love.
Our native gifts are refined by the gentle art we practice,
Our behavior, of course, fits with the ways we pursue.
So be kind to us, girls, be gracious, always, to poets;
In them divinity dwells, they are the Muses’ own.
Ovid.
September 6th, 2012
pejmanyousefzadeh
theparisreview:

“Robert Frost once made a witty definition of poetry. He said: ‘Poetry is what gets lost in translation.’ Since every word in a poem is precious, every syllable counts, and every pause gives a certain effect, it’s difficult to translate poems, because different languages make different sounds, and words with the same meaning may differ in their associative auras. In fact, so often a great poem is just sheer good luck because the language permits certain effects to be made by someone with long discipline in the use of language, who has a flash in which the words and ideas just fall in a particular way. If you have the instrument in good order, and you’ve worked at it for a long time, and are disciplined by long practice, even by a lot of five-finger exercises, work that was thrown away—you may be blessed by having things happen that are a little beyond you. ‘Chance aids the ingenious artist,’ as Proust has said.
—John Hall Wheelock, The Art of Poetry No. 21

theparisreview:

“Robert Frost once made a witty definition of poetry. He said: ‘Poetry is what gets lost in translation.’ Since every word in a poem is precious, every syllable counts, and every pause gives a certain effect, it’s difficult to translate poems, because different languages make different sounds, and words with the same meaning may differ in their associative auras. In fact, so often a great poem is just sheer good luck because the language permits certain effects to be made by someone with long discipline in the use of language, who has a flash in which the words and ideas just fall in a particular way. If you have the instrument in good order, and you’ve worked at it for a long time, and are disciplined by long practice, even by a lot of five-finger exercises, work that was thrown away—you may be blessed by having things happen that are a little beyond you. ‘Chance aids the ingenious artist,’ as Proust has said.

John Hall Wheelock, The Art of Poetry No. 21

Reblogged from The Paris Review

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