I love my fire, keep it dear and write in rhyme, so it never flies.

I know it doesn’t sound like Hirondelle; he let loose the child inside to write this, and I dread the boy played it rampantly. I hope it’s not a disappointment...

Fate and the human heart are enemies; their battles we fight.

Rán is a mythological Norse goddess, whom I alluded to with deference when I had to close in on the intimacy between fire and water in the poem. Though not related to the depicted serene panorama in the poem, she has nine daughters, who personify waves. Hence, the phenomenon of the 'ninth wave', I guess.
Kvasir, on the other hand, was born of the saliva of the two warring families of Old Norse Gods, Æsir and the Vanir. When the war eventually ended, Gods from both lineage chewed berries and spat out the mush into a cask. This is how god Kvasir was created in the tale 'Mead of Poetry'.
Being the wisest one in Midgard, extraordinarily perceptive, sophisticated and poetic, he traveled far and wide, learning evermore and spreading his art. As fate would have it, his itchy feet brought him to the two murderous dwarfs Fjalar and Galar, who killed him afor his divine blood. Then, the notorious duo mixed it with honey, thus creating the Mead of Poetry.
Odin eventually redeemed Kvasir's legacy, the Mead of Poetry, after long a journey through testing tribulations. Since then, it is believed that Odin shares part of this drink with the very privileged human beings, bestowing upon them the divine ability, poetry.
Etymologically, Norwegian 'kvase' and Russian 'kvas', both mean 'fermented berry juice'.
:))

This was a living Bragolin version of Mona Lisa I once saw and have ever been haunted by ever since: a version with eyes pooling with anguish yet in a cryptic Seraphine chemistry. Eyes Bragolin-painted with both pain and peace --two tides in the same still sea.

Both serenity and turmoil which I have little idea as to how they managed to federate on that haunting visage... Tears pooling in the eyes and exuding a strange, heavenly glow on the face...

Ever since my curiosity had the better of me to steal a furtive glance at this person, who I knew wouldn't rather me to have seen them in that undeserved heartbreak, I have been cast to a mental tempest, rudderless, at the sporadic hauntings of the moment.

We were in a place with other people, and she was summoned to go out. When she came back, she went to her place as if wading through the thick waters of leaden disappointment. Ignoring would have been unkind, yet my noticing her in that pool of sorrow, let alone looking, would have been upsetting to her, either. What would you have done in that situation? Walking out was not an option, either. You knew nothing -nothing more than the vague notion that you were the best person to help, but the least one to do so all the same.

After curiosity had had the better of me despite all reverence to her, and I dared to steal a millisecond furtive glance at her, my peek was met with a frozen poignant gaze which had already been there on me, screaming volumes from across an unknown sea of pain. I don't know how much longer it lingered on me after my eyes stampeded back to the shelter of the article I was reading. I was not meant to see her in that raw sorrow; this is for a fact. Once she was everyone's champion, and now, she was this fallen angel. Falling is hurtful, but having the others you love to witness it... I don't know; I have never risen so much to see what happens, and how it happens later.

Not being able to help, my troubled conscience has ever been in a sealed bottle in a troubled sea of why's and how's with the deafening silence of the scream in that frozen stare.

Human expression could sometimes be unbearably cryptic. And when we are overwhelmed by the emotions of a person we care deeply and try to understand them, we hit an intersection of two roads leading in two different directions. If we don't let our emotions overrule our reason, we can whisper a word or two from the rational world in which they have already suffered the heartbreak, which may mean that they already know the answer. We almost invariably ask them to strip their dreams off the truth to make life less disappointing. Yet, isn't sacrificing your dreams for a less disappointed heart already a disappointment?

Sterile and packed with realism; nevertheless, this could be the better path though it fronts the emotive aspect -the human psyche. We should be that beacon of reality calling them back from the tempest of emotions they have been swept into in an open sea of heartbreak. Yet, if we are also overwhelmed by the raw sorrow they have been hit with, we are in no position of playing the part of that lighthouse of resolve and reason. Thus, we hit the other road less often taken. We romanticize the situation seeking an answer in the same ocean of heartbreak, rudderless. We try to approach them like some story hero rather than a mentor.

I might say, for the sake of the people you love, keep your walls strong and keep casting your light to them in the thick of a tempest, taking the brunt of colossal waves of pain and suffering. Speak to them the truth they need to hear to get out of the problem even if you know they know the answer already.

In this particular situation; however, I have tried to walk both roads. I not only played the lighthouse taking the brunt of the pounding waves but also sought solace to my pain in romanticized poetry. Hence 'The Seraphine Scream'. I partially played the hero; I have given counsel and encouragement through writing a highly emotive letter of encouragement. However, this poem which romanticizes my memory of her mourning behind a mysterious veil of restrain is not only written to crown my cherished memory of this excellent human being who happened to fall for a time and for a reason, but for my own healing of the memory as well. Not having the means to help her properly get back on her feet hurt indeed. But, I'm sure she will do it by herself when time comes.

Some Cultural Notes about the MYTHOPOETIC Images I Used:

APOLLONIAN: poetic prowess
SIBILINE: the potential of the mind to interpret conjectural reality
PROMETHEAN: the pain knowledge brings
SERAPHINE: for angelic purity and beauty
LETHEAN: the pull of oblivion
PANDORAN: chaotic and destructive qualities BABYLONIAN: banishment and spiritual exile
OLYMPIAN: divine quality and beauty
SIRENIC: dangerously alluring

Reference to ART
GIOVANNI BRAGOLIN is the Italian painter famous for the haunting portraits of crying children he painted.
VENUSIAN LOCKS are used for the whitecapped waves inspired by Boticelli's iconic Greco-Roman painting 'The Birth of Venus' featuring her hair like the whitecapped waves, echoing the sea which birthed her. Venus is the Roman version of Greek Aphrodite whose name means 'the one born from sea foam'.

Written for a good laugh. I'm curious about the speaker, though. Has he given up so easily? :)

A dutiful reaction to Patty m on her 'Frantic', whose vibrant voice has ever been well carried above all tumult and thunder cajoling many fellow poets.

Inspired by Friedrich Nietzsche's Amor Fati: "I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who makes things beautiful. Amor Fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly.”

The more we write, the more we learn about the hodgepodge ensemble and discover a voice within; then, the less we start despairing and the more we begin to love. Thus, we raise our voices above the cacophony.

How our ink strikes to and fro;
Above dark skies wielding light,
no one is alone!

I marvel at how differently each of us may see certain things in life and accordingly have different feelings about it. I marvel a lot more at how people spend hours engaged in some petty talk whose script is quite predictable. It is bizarre that this could be happening in a world where uncertainty is the only certainty and change is the only constant in life.

It is no wonder, you will find some other people drawn to a solitary corner enjoying the 'skepticism party' in their heads. They are more often devoid of human company at this wild party, popping their own champagne and spilling taste and color on the ever-changing reality. What is party to the skeptic is discomfort and trouble for the nonchalant. The latter will prefer some small talk under a superscript.

For me life is beautiful, for it offers us plenty of riddles and a clever mind will relish this plethora of choices. Prescriptive texts, however, ruin the party transforming the thinker into a believer, converting the traveler into a waiter. With all the questions answered, there is no party for the believer. With all the treat put on the tray, they will suddenly find themselves holding the snack tray to others enjoying the party thinking that they are still a guest.

So, whose party, whose dream?

What Tom Schulman has given to the world of literature and film making is a standard so high it is almost impossible to reach.

As an educator, I have seen -if explored with insight- how his work touches the lives of my students and how it breathes life into their hijacked souls. All the images he projects carry huge, transforming revelations for them.

In order not to compromise the ode with a tedious streak, I have refrained from referring to some other symbols in his timeless filmscript in this poem. Perhaps an updated repost of the poem may follow later. Suffice it to say even minor details such as the names J. E. Pritchard, Cameron and Chat, or nameless characters like the octogenarian in the opening ceremony, or the juxtapositions of numerous scenes in the film, or even the sporadic discordant tunes from blowpipe instruments that are also juxtaposed with sonorous and soulful tunes bear huge revelations for the cornerstone theme 'carpe diem'.

One last word for Mr. Keating, whose last name is said to be alluding to Keats no matter how much he prefers to be called ‘O Captain! My Captain’. Instead of alluding to Walt Whittman’s elegy to Abraham Lincoln, I have chosen to see him as the ferryman, Charon, who carries the dead across River Styx. It is no wonder the Cave of Passionate Experimentation is beyond a stream from the Welton Academy where the ‘four pillars’ of norms are adhered to ‘religiously’ and lessons are ‘peached hard’. As you see, Mr. Keating has the role of teaching the students how to make a beautiful poem of their lives through their deeds, which will earn them a membership into Dead Poets Society in afterlife. Called ‘O Captain! My Captain’, he definitely plays a figurative version of Charon in the film. He is the ferryman reincarnated!

He shows students how to jump onto their desks from where they are sitting to have a different look at the world, which contradicts the school culture dictating them to ‘keep their eyes ‘on the boat!’ Another sweet juxtaposition!

Ironically, there is life on Charon’s boat whereas Welton is more like ‘Hellton’ as the seven students put it. And right on this note, the name Charlie Dalton isn't debaptized into a Nuwanda, 'the new warrior'. Nuwanda descended into Hades and managed to come back. He is the famous Greek bard Orpheus in the film. After his 'phone call from God' prank, he is made to 'assume the position' and get a humiliating paddling from Dean Nolan in his office. Back in the dormitory he is barely unable to walk from the physical pain of the humiliating treatment administered to break him. However, he has been able to withstand the Dean's threats and carry himself with dignity before the eyes of his friends. Like he says to Neil when asked if he turned in the names, "**** it Neil! The name is Nuwanda." Nuwanda is not broken, and Orpheus the wonderful bard is back.

Also alluding to the number of the students who brave across the stream to the cave, the ‘Seven Sleepers of Ephesus’ is another hidden gem of allusion in the film. There seems to be no end for the symbolism in this masterpiece of a filmscript. I must stop before I lose my audience…

I hope you get the cue for these subtle literary representations from my poem and can crack the shell of the others yourself.

On second thoughts, is there anything as ‘minor detail’ in this masterpiece?

When I am visited by an alumnus and catch that happy glint in their eyes, the chances they will start reminiscing over Dead Poets Society are pretty high.

I have felt beholden to Tom Shculman for Dead Poets Society for a long time, so with this poem I hope to be able to express my deepest gratitude as an educator whose job has been made much easier thanks to his genius.

Thank you, and long live Tom Schulman!