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On Tuesday, while examining the wreckage from the bomb, my friends and I also went out to the cemetery behind St. Olavs Domkirke to visit the graves of some of Norway's most favorite artists and people. One person buried there is Henrik Wergeland, whom I have become quite fond of. My favorite poem of his was written on his deathbed when he was dying of TB, and in it he cries for spring, one of the prevailing characters in his poem, to save him. I find the opening line so beautiful:

"O springtime, springtime, save me!
No one has loved you more tenderly than I."

So... without further ado, I wrote this poem to him in response to his fear of death and fear of oblivion.

Moral: we are all immortalized, even if we never live to see it.


Mortality is not well-behaved, too
Decided on rejecting the call,
Bitter that life enslaved you.

You knew you would succumb one
Day. Your fear depraved you.

You knew you would be merely
Part of the frost, part of the fall.

Yet your springtime has saved you.
How could she ever betray someone
Who loved her so sincerely?

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Whoops/ Triple threat

So Wednesday night I had an excuse to not post. I was in a hotel with no internet, but I dutifully wrote my poem anyway. We were staying in a valley, and I watched a mountain darken as the sun went down. This is also one of the first poems I've written in a while with a very strict meter somewhat like some of the old romantic poetry. I've been kind of caught up in romanticism while floating down fjords and going through mountains. Because it's contagious, seriously. You get around nature too long, you start really worshipping it.

Moral: Big or small, the flighty and cowardly have no power.

7/13

The mountains have so few of friends,
For when the midnight here descends
All that they leave are silhouettes.
Who would place hope in any stone
That cannot brave the dark alone?
And so they crumble to their shell.
Like lonely trees that lift their height,
So much they paint against the light.
So much have they in their regrets,
So much their traces have to tell.

Since being in Bergen, I've been busy and going crazy with Grieg. I've always really liked his music, and my favorite piece of his is called "Våren" or "Last Spring." I've always wanted to write a poem to go along with the music, not so much as text but as a supplementary piece. So that's what I did.

Moral: Memories are eternal

7/14

The green is buried below.
But I will always remember
The earth’s hello
Last spring.

Birds deep in the summer sky.
But I will always remember
Their very first cry
Last spring.

I will always remember
Last spring.

And finally, I've tried my hand at writing something a little lighter. Often times I get so wrapped up in my poetry that I don't always inject humor into it. So that's what I'm doing. Just to make sure I still have a sense of humor. Bergen is a lovely but very touristy city, so I've been laughing at the gimmicky/ kitschy things they have for sale that really aren't worth it.

Moral: just because you can, doesn't mean you should.


7/15

A Norwegian flag hat,
An “I heart Bergen” cup,
A magnet with a troll,
You know, the stuff that
Really makes you whole.

I’m not gonna lie.
This truth was thought up
By many, many scholars:
“My friend, you can buy
Anything with dollars.”

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

THANK YOU FOR YOUR INFINITE PATIENCE!!!!!

At long last I am settled back at home and have reconquered most of my life. So that lets me write poems again. The idea for this one came when I was walking through the Green at night and the wind had an interesting effect on the grass and the lights from the street lamps. Walking through campus at night gave inspiration for two more poems which I will write shortly.

Also, as a reward for putting up with my tardiness, I have a miniature surprise for you all. Sort of. I apologize if you all are not the surprise type.


Spring delivers when the night needs squalls.
The force drapes the blades over my feet
And street lamps give tawny to the lawn.
But these squares flicker in the gale,
As if the light refracted through a sea,
Enough to leave their sobriety,
Enough to let them set sail.
But in the ecstasy the grass is gone,
The lawn is smooth, the dampness sweet.
The ocean appears where the light falls.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

I'm Really Bad with Titles

I hate adding titles, so this is a poem about spring. Like that narrows it down at all...

Who lit up the green flame?
Who invigorated the grass, the trees?
Who never gave up on spring’s game
Even when she gave not a breeze?
Who clung to her verdant name
As if their faith would bear no shame?

Who watered all the colors today?
Why are the blues brighter, the whites
Crisper than the words they say?
Why do the leaves hold daytime lights?
I’ve but forgotten what is “gray.”
The hue is banned when it is May.

Who reversed the film of fall?
The buds emerge like nothing’s wrong.
A winter’s reign can seem so small
When broken by a vernal song.
And yet the cold I can’t recall
Can be remembered with a squall.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

storm clouds

So it's been both storming and beautiful here, so I figured it'd be appropriate to post this poem about a spring thunderstorm I wrote last May. Yay storms. Yay.... walking in the rain.

storm clouds

whatever Verdant in our mists
tonight lies prey to grips severe
and splinters borne out from fists
of a thunderhead austere.
the air is trembling in fear.

the hairs rise straight on backs of Grass
and the blades sharpen and hum a tune,
synonymous with the pitch of glass
clamoring in the choir of june,
far too loud to spy the moon.

white flowers are born from Sickly skies
and bloom downwards in a spiral of mirth.
the pearls as petals fall in guise
to give false richness to the earth
as clouds draw close to cinch and girth.

in curtains too wet to be couth
this much i learn from heavy scenes,
for this is thunderstorm time’s truth:
since the wind does carry the Leaves it gleans,
violence is attracted to Greens.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Endless Rain

I've been writing a lot about the weather lately, but it's been so crazy here that I feel like I can't neglect it. It has been raining/ sleeting for about two days straight, and I cannot say that I'm pleased. I could use some UVA.


Sleet can carry endless weight
That deposits on the bank of snow.
Their muffled march and damage innate
On everything with sanguine glow
Is responsible for the landscape’s state.
Their numbers too boundless to flaunt,
Trees and snow and I go gaunt.

Inceptions, ends have no real value
In a spell like this. One drop falls
As another forms. They make two,
A third one, as it shatters, calls
For imperialism of the few
Puddle places. They may be clever,
But surely it cannot rain forever.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Spring

Slanted sunlight’s stretched shadow
Chips away white layers. Pines
Don’t forget the fall ago.
Forest trees boast thicker spines.
Brown remains, but yet in slow
Reaches come the vernal vines.
Grow, little optimists, grow.

I can’t speak for everything,
Too much left for certainty.
Tomorrow’s presence may bring
Beaten frost caked on a tree,
Or a sapling’s single wing.
But that is enough for me:
Hope is all I need for spring.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

Late Winter Sky

The wanton climate clipped its fist
To make its way in between
A season’s undernourished sheen
And a new time. A gentle mist
Undoes every icy cyst.

Though not shedding beryl blood
The mountain leaves say “Amethyst!
Our fall colors must still enlist
Patronage.” And so they flood
And mingle with the frost’s scud.

Pure, primary, blue glaze,
Quieter than a spring bud,
Evaporated thawing mud,
Moving towards a verdant phase,
I remain when my eye stays.

And though my life is far from green,
I feel like this deserves some praise,
A progress flourish, Polonaise.
I’ve never seen a sky this clean
In any March I’ve ever seen.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

CRAZY WEEK AGAIN

Hey all-
So.. I did not post yesterday because I had too much going on with finals. Sorry. But I JUST completed this poem. Hot off the griddle. Or something.


Late Winter

The ground uncovers hope.
It may not be ready,
It may be premature to cope,
What matters is that it’s there.
The scenery a faded trope,
It’s nice to become more aware
As the winter and water eddy,
Brighter, gliding, white glare.
The drizzle slides. Steady.

Winter slithers in the rain,
Patches where spring will go
Here, and there. Ice is slain
Over in this puddle rind,
Softened to a liquid pane.
Gone, but I don't mind.
Rain is not my favorite, though
When optimism is aligned,
At least it’s too warm for snow.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

CRAZY WEEK

So... finals are just around the corner and I have been up to my throat in work. Friday will be an easier day to post, so I will probably post two poems to atone for this. But for now, here is a poem I wrote in the summer the morning after I graduated. I had been up all night so I figured I might as well watch the sunrise. That precipitated two poems. This is the first one. Maybe I'll post part two later. Enjoy!

~CD


Parables of Dawn (Part I) (June 9, 2010)

The truth is gold, but not in touch,
For all the leaves are painted such.
Their beauty is not such a thing
That calls for trite perfection.
Rather, in the clear reflection,
Perfect sight of all their flaws,
Thought-birds ‘round my iris fling,
Mumbling all about the laws.

And yet the sun illuminates
These concrete little flutter-fates,
So that I see their cellulose
In all their mold and wear.
I ask, “What leaves did once hang there
Before the breeze whisked them apart,
In conduct less than grandiose,
With little whim, and little heart?”

What matters is not where they lie
But how they do bask in the sky,
Whirling by the eyes of Gold.
Their shadows crawl along the grass,
Though they themselves don’t ever pass
In a different, alien shape.
Their inverses never hold
Much more than a breezy cape.

As my eyes flutter in perplex
To make sense of all these subjects,
All that shifts here is their pose.
The leaves retain their stiff aplomb,
But darkness quivers on my palm,
As I stir little on the lawn.
In this vantage that I chose,
I learn lessons from the dawn.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre