Poetry of the Week: Ending 2016 in Fire

Few of us have been fond of 2016. Mentioning the year itself has taken on a cursed quality in the media, in private conversations. Even foes on vehement sides of political divides can share sympathy about the past twelve months.

For myself, it's been a personally difficult year. I've attended two funerals, lost the last of my grandparents, said goodbye to a beloved pet of 14 years, dealt with various more complicated and personal issues, and I'm still not fully equipped to talk about how this last election has shaken me. Suffice to say that I came out under an administration that progressed human rights and made it feel like we were moving forward as a world and a community, and now people I know are getting targeted and harassed, and my existence is once again a matter of debate and public opinion.

But for the lowest of lows, there were also highs. I attended two funerals, but also two weddings. I spent time with friends I haven't seen in years, and strengthened friendships both new and old. There are people who rely on me, and people who will be there to support me when I need it. I don't mean to hide how terrible this year has been overall, but despite all of it, if I look back to December 29th, 2015, I felt lost and alone in ways that I don't any more. The world may not be in a better place now than it was then, but tired and bruised though I am, I'm better off.

So I'll accept the pains and trials and lessons of this year, and consign the rest to the fire. Fires of cleansing, of anger, of passion. Fires of trial. Fires of death and rebirth. Maybe 2017 won't be any better than 2016, but life and growth continue regardless, sometimes the stronger for having survived.


Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.


Fire - Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do
To use our little light
Before, in the piercing wind,
It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,
To grudge not, but to give
Whatever we have of strength,
That one more flame may live.


You cannot put a fire out - Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a fire out;
  A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
  Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood       
  And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
  And tell your cedar floor.


To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire - William Butler Yeats
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


Keep your lanterns burning and your hearths warm. I hope your winter is filled with folks who love you, and that you have a happy new year.

Poetry of the Week: Alone

As is becoming usual, this week's poem is not what I was looking for, but still feels sufficiently relevant to share.


Alone - Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Poetry of the Week: A Curse For A Nation

I'm pinning this poem here to remind me of its existence, and in the hope that it reminds me of goals I've had in the past and ways I'd like to help in the future.

Slightly unrelated, looking up poetry from and about early America has been fascinating. Much of the poetry I know and find is what was lauded and now survives. At some point next year I'll make a concerted effort to gather modern poetry.

A Curse For A Nation - Elizabeth Browning

I heard an angel speak last night,

And he said 'Write!

Write a Nation's curse for me,

And send it over the Western Sea.'

I faltered, taking up the word:

'Not so, my lord!

If curses must be, choose another

To send thy curse against my brother.

'For I am bound by gratitude,

By love and blood,

To brothers of mine across the sea,

Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

From the summits of love a curse is driven,

As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore

My heart is sore

For my own land's sins: for little feet

Of children bleeding along the street:

'For parked-up honors that gainsay

The right of way:

For almsgiving through a door that is

Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

'For love of freedom which abates

Beyond the Straits:

For patriot virtue starved to vice on

Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:

'For an oligarchic parliament,

And bribes well-meant.

What curse to another land assign,

When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Because thou hast strength to see and hate

A foul thing done within thy gate.'

'Not so,' I answered once again.

'To curse, choose men.

For I, a woman, have only known

How the heart melts and the tears run down.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Some women weep and curse, I say

(And no one marvels), night and day.

'And thou shalt take their part to-night,

Weep and write.

A curse from the depths of womanhood

Is very salt, and bitter, and good.'

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,

What all may read.

And thus, as was enjoined on me,

I send it over the Western Sea.

The Curse

Because ye have broken your own chain

With the strain

Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,

Yet thence bear down with brand and thong

On souls of others, -- for this wrong

This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight

In the state

Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,

Yet keep calm footing all the time

On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime

This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in God's name,

With a claim

To honor in the old world's sight,

Yet do the fiend's work perfectly

In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while kings conspire

Round the people's smouldering fire,

And, warm for your part,

Shall never dare -- O shame!

To utter the thought into flame

Which burns at your heart.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations strive

With the bloodhounds, die or survive,

Drop faint from their jaws,

Or throttle them backward to death;

And only under your breath

Shall favor the cause.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men draw

The nets of feudal law

To strangle the weak;

And, counting the sin for a sin,

Your soul shall be sadder within

Than the word ye shall speak.

This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect

That Christ may avenge His elect

And deliver the earth,

The prayer in your ears, said low,

Shall sound like the tramp of a foe

That's driving you forth.

This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,

They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,

As if carried too far.

When ye boast your own charters kept true,

Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do

Derides what ye are.

This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,

Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate

As ye look o'er the wall;

For your conscience, tradition, and name

Explode with a deadlier blame

Than the worst of them all.

This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,

Go, plant your flag in the sun

Beside the ill-doers!

And recoil from clenching the curse

Of God's witnessing Universe

With a curse of yours.

This is the curse. Write.  

Poetry of the Week: To My Enemy

This isn't exactly what I went looking for when I wanted poetry for this week, and isn't a sentiment I currently feel, but I think it has value and may speak to some of my friends and followers. Perhaps when I am through feeling small and fearful, I'll borrow some of Lucy Montgomery's defiance.



To My Enemy - Lucy Maud Montgomery
Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon* grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy! 

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do. 

I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer. 

Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day. 

And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!


* A reward or recompense.

Poetry of the Week: Let America Be America Again

I'm not doing well this week, between personal and familial tragedies and the tenor of the dialogue that's surrounded our recent election, but life has to continue, and at such times art becomes even more important. I've seen this classic poem shared in a few places this week, and I can't think of anything more fitting for the hopes and fears and raw emotions of the country right now.


Let America be America again - Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again! 

Poetry of the Week: Halloween

On the week of my favorite holiday, I asked around a few places to see what poems people associated with ghosts, ghouls, and goblins, that I hadn't already recommended here. A few old favorites popped up in the list, but also two I'd never read before! So I'm sharing those here, albeit a bit belatedly.

Her Kind - Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.

Her Strong Enchantments Failing - A.E. Houseman

Her strong enchantments failing,

Her towers of fear in wreck,

Her limbecks dried of poisons

And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness

Begins to shrill and cry,

“O young man, O my slayer,

To-morrow you shall die.”

O Queen of air and darkness,

I think ’tis truth you say,

And I shall die tomorrow;

But you will die to-day.

Poetry of the Week: e. e. cummings

It's been a while. I owe you a month of medieval poetry and a variety of posts about tea and books. I owe myself some time with a sword in hand, and I owe other folks a variety of thanks and obligations. But until then, some e. e. cummings:


[suppose]
suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a café
smiling,a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters,life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent.—”Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep,on his head
flowers,always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
                    yes,
                              will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
,pas chères”)

and my love slowly answered I think so.  But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death,is slender;
likes flowers.



[my mind is]
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.



[a connotation of infinity]
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night

when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream

down eager avenues of lifelessness

consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought

is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—

on such a night the sea through her blind miles

of crumbling silence seriously smiles



[the hours rise up putting off stars and it is]
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is
dawn
into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems

on earth a candle is
extinguished   the city
wakes
with a song upon her
mouth having death in her eyes

and it is dawn
the world
goes forth to murder dreams….

i see in the street where strong
men are digging bread
and i see the brutal faces of
people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy

and it is day,

in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror

and it
is dusk   on earth

a candle is lighted
and it is dark.
the people are in their houses
the frail man is in his bed
the city

sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes
the hours descend,
putting on stars….

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

Poetry of the Week: Nothing is Lost

My Gothic spree and writing period has ended, to be replaced with a few weeks of medieval poetry, since I've been out camping with SCAdians. But first a poem more immediately relevant to my life.

Be well and safe, and tell your people you love them.

Nothing is Lost - Noël Coward
Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

Poetry of the Week: Edgar Allen Poe

Swinging back to spooky this week with some classic Poe. "The Tell-Tale Heart" was my favorite short story in elementary school, and of course "The Raven" is one of the better known poems in the shivers-to-spines genre. I'll include it here for completeness, as well as a few lesser known hauntings.

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys 

   By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace- 

   Radiant palace- reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought's dominion- 

   It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

   Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

   On its roof did float and flow, 

(This- all this- was in the olden 

   Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

   In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

   A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

   Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically, 

   To a lute's well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

   (Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well-befitting, 

   The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

   Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

   And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

   Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

   The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

   Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow 

   Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 

And round about his home the glory 

   That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim-remembered story 

   Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

   Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms, that move fantastically 

   To a discordant melody, 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

   Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever 

   And laugh- but smile no more. 

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone --

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude

    Which is not loneliness -- for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

    In life before thee are again

In death around thee -- and their will

Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

For the night -- tho' clear -- shall frown --

And the stars shall look not down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given --

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever :

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish --

Now are visions ne'er to vanish --

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more -- like dew-drop from the grass:

The breeze -- the breath of God -- is still --

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy -- shadowy -- yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token --

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries! --

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- 

                Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- 

                Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- 

                This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- 

                Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- 

                Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 

                'Tis the wind and nothing more!" 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- 

                Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore- 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

                With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before- 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 

                Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

                Of 'Never- nevermore'." 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore 

                Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, 

                She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- 

On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- 

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- 

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

                Shall be lifted- nevermore! 

Poetry of (Last) Week: Wild Geese

I owe you a spooky and/or Gothic poem from last week, but work and life swamped me, so have an uplifting poem that crossed my path a few days ago, instead. We'll get back to ghosts and gloom on Wednesday.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Tea Update: Hiatus Ending

My tea updates fell off the map, and I still owe you a Wonder blend for my Crossover LARP collection. The reason for that is that I ran out of both the bases for my Joy and Sorrow teas, and was putting off doing a full tea order until I did a full audit of my tea cabinet, which was a mess.

But a week ago I went through it, pulled out every last tin, jar, and bag, cataloged what was empty or mislabeled, and organized everything by type for future ease of reference. I now know that I am in fact out of lapsang, as I'd assumed, but I have significant quantities of mango and Earl Grey, and more plain white and yerba mate than I'd expected. I'll be putting together a tea order in the next few days, and then we should return to our regularly scheduled mucking about with mixes.

In the mean time, gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair (of my shaky photography skills)!

The top shelf is for blends of various complication, particularly if I can't name all the ingredients. Second shelf is blacks, including flavored blacks. Third shelf is mostly greens, but with whites, oolongs, and mates all huddled together on the left. Fourth shelf is herbals, and the last shelf is mix in ingredients and empty tins.  

Our previous organization system had more to do with container than tea type, which didn't work for me at all. This I expect to be far more maintainable, and way easier to experiment with when I don't have to dig through dozens of mystery canisters to find a good tisane for my caffeine free guests, or the particular type of green I think would taste good with whatever I'm trying that day.

Poetry of the Week: Blake, Hope, and Cynicism

William Blake is one of the strangest of the Romantics. He's most known for his Songs of Innocence and Experience, but within that set is more known for "Tyger, Tyger! Burning bright..." than the collection as a whole. (I don't know how often people read The Tyger's companion piece The Lamb in conjunction?) The theme of the collection is, as you'd expect, a series of poems and songs that are soft and loving and speak of faith and angels, paired with a series of songs and poems that portray violence, cruelty, poverty, and the harsher sides of human nature. I recommend reading it, and giving some thought to his pairings and the changes between the two, though I don't personally know how I feel about them.

If you keep digging into his poetry, though, it helps to spend time learning about the vast and elaborate mythology he set up, describing a series of god-like beings based around aspects of Man and the struggles and wars between them. That's a woefully inadequate description, and again I don't know how I feel about his choices here, but they're fascinating. And illustrated with his own etchings and engravings. Perhaps one day I'll cover them here.

But this is all wildly off topic, and Blake isn't a Gothic poet anyway, so why are we here? We're here because when I think of dark poetry contrasting despair of human nature with the sweetness of love, faith, or innocence, I do still tend to think of Blake.  So have some darkness, and unlike his organization, we'll end on some light.


The Clod and The Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please, 
Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease, 
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." 

So sung a little Clod of Clay 
Trodden with the cattle's feet, 
But a Pebble of the brook 
Warbled out these metres meet: 

"Love seeketh only self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 
Joys in another's loss of ease, 
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite." 


The Human Abstract
Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;

And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpillar and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain


On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,        
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?        
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,        
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;        

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;        
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;        
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone        
He doth sit by us and moan.



The Night
The sun descending in the west,  
  The evening star does shine;  
The birds are silent in their nest.  
  And I must seek for mine.  
    The moon, like a flower        
    In heaven's high bower,  
    With silent delight  
    Sits and smiles on the night.  

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,  
  Where flocks have took delight:  
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move  
  The feet of angels bright;  
    Unseen they pour blessing  
    And joy without ceasing  
    On each bud and blossom,  
    And each sleeping bosom.  

They look in every thoughtless nest  
  Where birds are cover'd warm;  
They visit caves of every beast,  
  To keep them all from harm:  
    If they see any weeping  
    That should have been sleeping,  
    They pour sleep on their head,  
    And sit down by their bed.  

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,  
  They pitying stand and weep,  
Seeking to drive their thirst away  
  And keep them from the sheep.  
    But, if they rush dreadful,
    The angels, most heedful,  
    Receive each mild spirit,  
    New worlds to inherit.  

And there the lion's ruddy eyes  
  Shall flow with tears of gold:  
And pitying the tender cries,  
  And walking round the fold:  
    Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,  
    And, by His health, sickness,  
    Are driven away  
    From our immortal day.  

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,  
  I can lie down and sleep,  
Or think on Him who bore thy name,  
  Graze after thee, and weep.  
    For, wash'd in life's river,  
    My bright mane for ever  
    Shall shine like the gold  
    As I guard o'er the fold.'

Poetry of the Week: Emily Brontë

The first story that springs to mind when I think of Gothic novels is always Wuthering Heights. The haunting tale of Catherine and Heathcliff, told over generations across the moor. It's far from my favorite, but you could fill a list of classic Victorian Gothic tropes purely with selections from Wuthering Heights.  So it seems only right and proper to devote a week in my Gothic month to selections of Emily Brontë's poetry.


The Night is Darkening Round Me
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go. 


I see around me tombstones grey
I see around me tombstones grey
Stretching their shadow far away
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread
Lie lone and lone the silent dead

Beneath the turf beneath the mould
Forever dark forever cold
And my eyes cannot hold the tears
That memory hoards from vanished years

For time and death and mortal pain
Give wounds that will not heal again
Let me remember half the woe
I've seen and heard and felt below
And heaven itself so pure and blest
Could never give my spirit rest

Sweet land of light thy children fair
Know naught akin to our despair
Nor have they felt nor can they tell
What tenants haunt each mortal cell
What gloomy guests we hold within
Torments and madness tears and sin

Well may they live in ecstasy
Their long eternity of joy
At least we would not bring them down
With us to weep with us to groan

No - Earth would wish no other sphere
To taste her cup of sufferings drear
She turns from heaven a careless eye
And only mourns that we must die

Ah mother what shall comfort thee
In all this boundless misery?
To cheer our eager eyes a while
We see thee smile how fondly smile

But who reads through that tender glow
Thy deep, unutterable woe!
Indeed no dazzling land above
Can cheat thee of thy children's love

We all in life's departing shine
Our last dear longings blend with thine
And struggle still and strive to trace
With clouded gaze thy darling face

We would not leave our native home
For any world beyond the tomb
No rather on thy kindly breast
Let us be laid in lasting rest

Or waken but to share with thee

A mutual immortality


Stanzas
Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

Poetry of the Week: Darkness by Byron

I've been delaying on the poetry front because I was uncertain whether or not I wanted to touch on recent events. But the truth is, I don't want to talk publicly about Pulse. And I don't know what I'd even say about BRExit and the political climate both here and abroad.

I joke about being a misanthrope and wanting to hide away from people, but I have a lot of faith in humanity. We tell stories around fires and we dream of the stars. We've created such beautiful things in our time here, but we do atrocious, bloody, cruel things to each other out of fear and anger and greed, and I don't know where we're headed at the moment.

So for now I'm going to focus on my small corner of the world, and my own narrow path, which means struggling to learn and make music and shake off all the rust and fear to start writing again, so that maybe one day I'll have easier access to words that might help.

In July I'm doing a miniature practice NaNoWriMo, and my story is, perhaps appropriately, a horror story. The genre I find most comforting. So for the next few weeks I'm falling entirely back to my roots, and you can expect a lot of Gothic poetry and hauntings. Today, "Darkness", primarily for a single line I think about when I start worrying about the world.

Darkness - Lord Byron
I had a dream, which was not all a dream,
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air        
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation: and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,        
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face        
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contained;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks        
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest        
Their chins upon their clenched hands and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again        
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground.
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d        
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again:—a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart        
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;        
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead        
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two        
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place,
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,        
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld        
Each other’s aspects—saw and shriek’d, and died—
Ev’n of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous, and the powerful was a lump,        
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,        
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp’d,
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,        
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe!

Poetry of the Week: Four in the Morning

Our brains don't always work for our best benefit. There are times when it seems as though nothing's working right or ever will work right. When insomnia or winter darkness or other helpless liminal period catches us, and all we can see is the worst in ourselves. I hope you don't grow too familiar with such times, but if you do, it helps to remember that they're temporary, and that you're not alone. Those traps catch everyone.

Four in the morning is a time I see more often than I'd like. Today, fortunately, I'm here through my usual sleep cycles, and I won't have any difficulty sleeping again after I post this. But it's also the time I associate with some of my darker thoughts, and it's comforting to know I'm not alone in that assessment. It's just an awful time of day.

Four in the Morning - Wislawa Szymborska
Translated by Magus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
--three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living.

Poetry of the Week: Character of the Happy Warrior

I'm always surprised by how little fencing or swordsmanship poetry I've found. The two arts seem a perfect match. Both track movement and stillness, and poetry is well-suited to capturing both the spectacle of watching a fight and the more visceral experience of fighting. Not something I'm inclined to tackle at the moment, but something I think about not infrequently.

Given that lack, though, I'll celebrate my one year fencing anniversary with a poem about whom "every man in arms should wish to be." It's well out of SCA period and I have my arguments with others of Wordsworth's ideals, but in this case his words well suit some of the values I've seen and admired within the community.

Character of the Happy Warrior - William Wordsworth
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright;
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower:
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable—because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
—Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
—He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape or danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name—
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is he
That every man in arms should wish to be.

Poetry of (Last) Week: The Old Astronomer

Last Wednesday was May 25th, which is, in addition to a day of remembrance and lilacs,* my father's birthday. Whenever I'm describing my dad, my most frequent description is "Like me, but older and taller." We think alike and always have, from early days of competitive pedantry to our current tech careers. He's the person to blame for my expressions of affection through sarcasm, my occasional befuddlement with the human race, my sense of honor, and my constant striving to be a better, more accomplished, and more creative human being.

That said, I skew more fantasy to his science-fiction, and when I asked him last week about his favorite poems or poets, he couldn't name any. Not so much his thing. But I think he'd enjoy "The Old Astronomer", even if it isn't a particularly happy birthday poem. So several days and my own birthday later, here's a repeat of one of my favorites, for him:

The Old Astronomer

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.



* This is a Discworld reference. If you haven't already, I highly recommending reading the Guards plotline of Discworld novels.**
** Honestly, I recommend reading most Discworld novels, and should actually post a lengthy description here of some of my favorites some day.

Tea Highlights: Pu-erh

I tend to remember my first encounters with new teas. Lapsang souchong at that ice cream cafe in my college town. Hojicha at a tea garden in San Francisco (visited in honor of the October Daye series). And a strange, rich tea labeled pu-erh at a coffee shop two doors down from my old apartment. The last was particularly surprising because all the coffee shops in my area serve the same brand of local teas, so you rarely see anything different or new. But there one morning, next to all the familiar labels, was a hand-written scrawl that didn't look like any tea I'd ever heard of. So I ordered it, and within minutes lapsang had its first true contest for my affections.

Pu-erh is a fermented and aged tea from the Yunnan province. It's usually sold in pressed bricks or cakes, and labeled with a year, though what with increased popularity, there are a variety of ways and processes different groups use to hasten the aging process, including leaving it loose. I'm still new enough that I can't talk in depth about most of this, but I will say that the bricked and labeled pu-erh I've had is far richer and more worthwhile than the loose. That said, it's also more expensive. Trade offs. If you'd like to know more about the process and history and variants (and really, who wouldn't?) the Wikipedia article is surprisingly in depth.

After that initial taste at the coffee shop, I went to my old pal Upton Teas and bought a box of pu-erh bricks that I hoarded and carefully doled out over the course of a year. I've also bought bricks from Peet's, which I used in my initial attempts at blending. But the former is no longer available and the latter has undergone some changes, so I can't speak to its current state. Instead, I'll talk to you about the three types I have in my house at the moment:

From the top left clockwise around, that's MEM Tea's loose pu-erh, pu-erh tuo cha (compressed cakes) from Upton, and "sticky rice" tuo cha also from Upton. The MEM tea is currently sold out, and I no longer remember how much it cost per ounce, but both of the Upton cakes were about $10 for 125g, which works out to something around 4.4 ounces or ~35 cakes. (So 70ish cups of tea, since a cake is good for two cups.)

The characteristic taste of pu-erh is "earthy," and that's about all you'll get from the MEM tea blend. If you've had pu-erh before, it clearly tastes like the bare minimum of what a pu-erh should be, and if you haven't, you'll taste soft, sweet, smoothness, which you may be tempted to compare to chocolate, and which never oversteeps or acquires the acerbic bitterness of most teas.

The Upton tea (not the sticky rice, we'll get to that) in comparison tastes of rich forest loam in late summer, filled with life and decay. And I know that doesn't sound like a selling point, but give it a taste some time if you can and see what I mean. This one is everything I love and want from a pu-erh, and the reason I can't give you an exact count on how many cakes came with it is because I'm not certain how many I've already had.

The sticky rice one I bought out of curiosity, and it is fascinating. Apparently there's an herb that's occasionally blended into pu-erh that smells of sticky rice, and, well, that's definitely the flavor that got added. On top of the rich earthy pu-erh, these cakes have a savory rice flavor. A lot like genmaicha, but without some of the roasty popcorn flavor that I often encounter in the green tea. It's...good? It's fascinating, for sure, and I find I'm most inclined to drink it with hearty, savory meals, but I probably won't get it again.

For blending, I've seen pu-erh paired with chocolate to great effect, but there's almost too much overlap there if that's all you're adding. I prefer to mix in sharper flavors. The mint from my Death blend and the basil from Witch's Brew, for example. Witch's Brew was particularly fun because it played up the vegetal flavors I love so much. And of course I add cinnamon to everything, but in the case of pu-erh I find it enhances the warm late season coziness that makes pu-erh a go-to comfort tea for me.

In the end, pu-erh and lapsang souchong are such inherently different teas that I see no reason to compare them, and they share the title of my favorite tea, as well as, unsurprisingly enough, the teas I most often foist on and recommend to others.