Monday, December 25, 2023

Too Many Times (A Shakespearean Sonnet)-by Devi Nina Bingham

Mankind doth die too many times

and least of these is mortal death.

Our thoughts commit a thousand crimes,

our heart's fierce fire, it vanisheth.


That we could keep passion a-glow

and mute the head that makes us tire.

A thousand deaths we would not know,

a thousand joys it would inspire.


When shall we ever face the truth

and live in the light of eternal now,

to reclaim the contentment of our youth,

to forgive and to live free somehow?


We wouldn't perish every day,

but depart when we were old and grey.






Saturday, December 23, 2023

Xerxes (A Villanelle Poem)-by Devi Nina Bingham

O Xerxes, my dear Xerxes:

it was the dream itself that enchanted me.

As Xerxes the Great, wise, just, and brave

did conquer the Greeks, then from them did flee.


Lusting for what is only memory,

I chased my passion to be enslaved.

It was the dream itself that enchanted me.


From love there is no remedy.

Fool's gold is what I crave.

Did conquer the Greeks, then from them did flee.


Fool's fire fashioned from ecstasy.

It should have been me I was eager to save.

It was the dream itself that enchanted me.


Like Xerxes, I will not go willingly

as my ship is buried beneath the waves.

Did conquer the Greeks, then from them did flee.


My dream of love was a vulgarity.

Never to be won, consigned to the grave.

It was the dream itself that enchanted me.

Did conquer the Greeks, then from them did flee. 


O Xerxes, my dear Xerxes.







Introduction from "BIRTHRIGHT: Poems for the Journey" from DNB (publishing 2024)

 

This collection of poems is a mosaic that contains a subliminal message. "It is my birthright to strive for an uncommon existence," the message murmurs. And just what defines an “uncommon existence?” I propose that it is a life in the arts. For starters, to be a professional artist isn’t a 9-5 job. It requires that you go above and beyond the call of duty. Have you ever witnessed an artist or musician creating something in a rush? Imagine a musician in practice. Are they hurried, or do they take inordinate amounts of time to perfect their craft? Imagine any writer tapping away at a keyboard or typewriter. Do they appear rushed, or are they fully engaged in the activity and not caring what time it is, where they are, or how long it will take? All artists, regardless of the medium—visual, musical, literary, cinematic, or dance—have an unwritten understanding with the creative gods that producing beauty in any form is expensive. And time, which they throw away obscenely on their craft, is the biggest penance paid. The level of dedication-the seriousness of the artist, is seen in how much time they devote to it. The more time you spend practicing your instrument, the sweeter the melody. Thus, a lot of individuals dabble as weekend artists, which is great, as it is a part-time way for someone to hone their craft. However, it requires intrinsic ability, intellect, aesthetic sensibility, and the desire to work alone, sometimes for months or years without compensation—a lot of unpaid time—to create a piece of art, music, or a book that is widely regarded as a masterpiece. Therefore, most individuals appreciate art or even make a hobby of it but will not pursue careers in art simply due to the price one must pay to be an artist.

Thus, it is the professional artist’s privilege to exist in any way they see fit, particularly if it means leading an unconventional lifestyle! One of art’s greatest contributions is its singular point of view—it sees and expresses what no one else can because artists are not conventional people. All of them are odd in one way or another, whether they are extroverts or introverts, schooled, or self-taught. Therefore, it is our privilege as artists to claim our birthright which is strangely mystical, and oddly beautiful. Art declares: “I have a right to exist, and beauty is my legacy” with every word typed, every stroke of the paintbrush, or musical note. Without the artists of the world, humanity would be a whole lot less human, for art gives voice to the human will and struggle to survive. Art tells the stories of our survival. Beyond survival, it sings of our drive to create something lasting, to produce a statement of such consequence that makes other humans stop, take notice, and appreciate.

When I decided to return to graduate school to earn what would be my second master’s degree, I knew I wanted to study Creative Writing because I had been writing rogue and unschooled since the 4th grade. I wanted the expertise and validation that only an advanced degree can give. I was surprised and delighted to find that I would not be earning a Master of Arts degree, but a Master of Humanities degree. The arts fall under the large umbrella of the Humanities at my university. Humanities is the study of society and culture; that is, how we have developed as a species into the advanced artisans we are today. Stanford University defines it this way: “The humanities can be described as the study of how people process and document the human experience.” During the course of my program, I got to dabble in a wide swath of subjects that define what it is to be a human: composition, history, linguistics, literature, modern culture, classic Greek philosophy, and critical thinking. I never understood how all these elements fit together until I was able to study them in a systematic way. And what I found is that regardless of the era, humans have always had a longing to express themselves and to tell their unique stories.

One way to document moods and immortalize one's thoughts is through poetry, because a poem is a supremely condensed and economical version of a larger story. What I mean is, in less than a minute I can capture a snapshot of my life, of my experience; my heartbreak and my triumphs, in a poem. If the piece is crafted efficiently enough, my thinking will spark your thinking. It is like lighting a candle. After lighting my own, I turn to you to light your candle, and then we both have light. This is what art is all about: I will share my darkness and my light with you, and hopefully I do it in such an exquisite way that you see your own darkness and beauty reflected in it. Fundamentally, this is what it means to be an artist; to share your birthright of artistry with others. I hope these poems, which are a broad stroke of my life, will resonate with you.

 Devi Nina Bingham

Arizona, 2024




Friday, December 22, 2023

Yellow-An Ode by Devi Nina Bingham

Yellow is the color of my soul,

a vibrant color in overdrive.

No matter what disaster, I am whole.

Until Osirus takes me, I'm alive.


Orange was the color of my life,

blood red with grief yet mixed with yellow.

Orange was the beauty born of pain,

cut was the diamond with a knife.

I could have chosen a shade of mellow,

but never has my brightness been in vain. 




The Youth in Me-(A Shakespearean Sonnet) by Devi Nina Bingham

Though I am old there is a youth in me

who refuses the advances of time's dramatic play

and searches the skies for clouds lazily

drifting by as my thoughts go astray.

 

How much more knows she than me

what I've forgotten in time, forsook!

Afeared that I won't earn my degree,

cast my soul upon a philosopher's hook.

 

Now that the clock is running thin

I have picked the lock of eternity's door.

And what I saw when I peeked in

was the youth in me, free evermore.

 

She is where I am going, and where I have been.

The elder in me is just pretend.



Was It Only Me-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham

It was you I never knew. Or was it only me?

Bounding up hills bursting with trees

like the lithe bucks we were, yet, not meant to be.

Cruel, cruel fate and destiny.


Merely a shadow of my imagination

a thorn on the vine and other humiliations.

Chasing a kite of passionate vexation

that only led to consternation.


An aberration of flirtatious occasions

I longed for any meaningful translation.

Until the day you made the declaration:

that you had fallen in love.


It was then I never knew you. Or was it only me?






Thursday, December 21, 2023

Had I the Reigns-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham

Had I the reigns to the sun and moon

dazzling bright at dawn's first light,

sliding Westward in the afternoon,

or the beaming pale of sterling moonlight,

I would invite you to ride.


But a simpleton of letters am I

endeavoring to bring you rhymes of old,

hoping some day for a reply

to my words of honey and tongue of gold.

I would entreat you to settle by my side.


I have laid my fondness at your feet

like a chest of Soloman's treasures.

Nothing so pleasant could make me complete,

or persuade me of higher pleasures.

I would give you the stars beside.







In Memory of Me-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham

A far innocence it came to be

like a dream of a boiling sea

like a small-town girl who lived to run free

a memory of me.

 

Whose bike was a ship that sailed pirate seas

whose music drew celestials for tea

and stories she wove to escape her father

written up in a tree.

 

I see her sometimes in my shy reticence

in polite penitence

in eloquent expressiveness

and yearn to possess

 

a far innocence up in a tree,

in memory of me.




Love is a Vicissitude-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham

Heart, I have tried to kill your voice

that chugs along in silent pain.

Alone, forsaken, without a choice

while others drink champagne.


Onlooker, sucker, sap, and mother

your sweet naivete is all of these.

Do you still believe that love will conquer? 

Feel the serpent's squeeze.


The heart of a dreamer is a dimly lit hope,

hanging like a shirt in the Summer's breeze

twisting there on eternity's rope

and left to freeze.


No, not now, but someday forever

my heart will quiet its quixotic song

of utopian romance, of a chivalrous contender

and allegiance gone wrong.


I lived to worship you

knowing all along

love is a vicissitude. 



 

Wednesday, December 20, 2023

Stitches and Scars-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham



Angry stitches show something is missing

tender scars testify to how I have lived.

Ugly are they, and battle-tested

torn before they can close up again.


Will the wound of my heart keep tearing

when I think back to what has been?

One day to look at it without aching;

no greater relief than to be on the mend.


Will I always weep, will I always suffer

a stubborn heart that insists on its way?

Yet, when I am asked, it would play the big bluffer

and tell you my sorrow is miles away.


For to look is to thrill, to smile, and remember,

and not to look is to forsake my dear heart.

And though Autumn's leaves fall at the start of September,

when Winter's grip tightens, it's time to depart.


What is a heart but stitches and scars

that shows something missing,

yet, keeps us apart.




The Right Sort of Person-A Poem by Devi Nina Bingham



"First, are you the right sort of person?
Do you read the approved King James version?
A crucifix, a steeple, the star on a tree
are higher than our ability.
We only see what the in-group sees."

Christ said, "Touch my hem that is low to the ground."
But the sanctimonious Christians have found
the air is sweeter in their country clubs
and their city penthouse that's been scrubbed clean of drugs.

Their Christmas parties are catered events
but didn't He say, invite the runts-
the shamed, the defiled?
The homeless haunt
the shadowed halls where charity walks.

"He won't fit in, he's not like us
in consecrated castles. His cardboard hut
will fall to pieces and dirty our linen,
and starched, pressed promises of secrets forbidden.
He'd see right through us-we can't get caught."

"Tell him the guest list is much too full.
Next time we'll observe the golden rule.
Only the beautiful people with beautiful hair,
diamond jewelry and savoir faire
will sit at our table as we dine
on flesh of the poor, and sparkling wine."

And blood, heaps of blood, everywhere.