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But isn't it dangerous to conclude that one can do "this poetry thing"? Someone once asked Auden (I think it was) how he felt after writing a poem, to which he replied: "I feel like a man who might never write another poem."
Now, PLEASE don't let that spook you!
And I can't help wondering if that feeling you had was like making love and feeling that one had finally, at long last, got it right!
"You must be the change you want to see in the world." Gandhi
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It's probably true that the last poem holds sway over whether it will be the best or not. My recent last poem is my personal favorite. It's about imagining a scream in a dream, which may not sound like something at first, but the poem is well crafted. It's all one sentence, too, which is nice for a fourteen line poem. It unifies the theme and makes it read like a sentence that has one beginning and one explanatory end. I would post it here, except that would probably nullify my chances of seeing it published in a magazine, for example, because posting it online is considered publishing . I have quite a few Shakespearean sonnets written--this is one of them, so that the poem stands out is exceptional. I'm Benjamin Anderson by the way, author of Sirens of Morning Light and Eighteen In Cross-country Odyssey. You should be able to see my poem out in print soon (not too soon). If I remember, I'll consider publishing it by the time I've published the book of poems.
this one:
it is corny when love is wicked
and when it is not
it is insipid
it looks clear
but the intention
to fear
is evident
love adores
you to adore it
but when you ignore
it
it internally
appauls
jealousy to its awe
claws
at the ready
it draws
I hope you thaw
to seize it is slow.
it may never try
but when it does it sigh
it is just that
good
it fly
Hard to choose from my collection; for today I choose this one:
Lost
the bobcat hunts
lost is that
tacet clarion -
the still noon
tail bent
north to the lost
this still as bone
cat couchant
lost is the silent
tao blur -
that cool-tint
note chants bach
no cotton lace
that's it - still -
the sabbath
the unicorn lost
2/15/2016 Each stanza an anagrammatic representation of the lines:
"Narcotics cannot still the tooth/that nibbles at the soul" by dearest Emily
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
tailor
who am I but a stitch in time
what if I were to bare my soul
would you see me origami
7-8-2015
Interesting elaboration of an anagram. I have to pass though. My poems are all very recent, any older ones are hidden in the forum.
"I seemed to have sensed also from an early age that some of my experiences as a reader would change me more as a person than would many an event in the world where I sat and read. "
Gerald Murnane, Tamarisk Row
Aggregate some steel around those nerves.
Lay them in the fire until they are immune.
Work them ... hard.
When they are malleable, open to impression,
Create.
Ploughshares are better than swords
But dree your own weird
And keep your temper.
Thanks for this impressive poem spikepipsqueak.
"I seemed to have sensed also from an early age that some of my experiences as a reader would change me more as a person than would many an event in the world where I sat and read. "
Gerald Murnane, Tamarisk Row
Duplicate bug
Last edited by tailor STATELY; 06-01-2022 at 09:02 PM. Reason: duplicate bug
tailor
who am I but a stitch in time
what if I were to bare my soul
would you see me origami
7-8-2015
Great poem spikepipsqueak !
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
tailor
who am I but a stitch in time
what if I were to bare my soul
would you see me origami
7-8-2015
Thank you both.
For some reason I woke at 4 this morning, thinking about this thread and that this is a better fit for the thread.
Teddy Tour Tag
They are not your toys anymore.
Replenishing the blood that fed your
Vampire lust, they grow past the ropes
And ties you used to bind, and hope
Can learn to flourish, though they
Never can forget the offhand way
You used them. You, who batten
On the innocent. Create a flattened
Affect in a child whose potential
Was for joy. Their lives, their essential
Being, diverted to feed your cold, dark thirst.
In all the sick, sad world, your type is worst.
(Blush) I was angry. But this is probably my favourite.
Interesting poem, SQ, but angry indeed.
"I seemed to have sensed also from an early age that some of my experiences as a reader would change me more as a person than would many an event in the world where I sat and read. "
Gerald Murnane, Tamarisk Row
And now what?
The snow this morning falls
it is wet and young
and will wash away. I can smell
the grass below
my shoes ease down into the mud.
The few women from my life
are still sleeping
somewhere in Minnesota or Ohio
I walk across the pasture with only
a few young colts for company.
Timid and big boned
they are like girls I remember
from school, who never
said much, and kept their heads
looking down, and their arms crossed
against their growing bosom
They are nearly forty now.
Like me, they must sometimes look out
windows on early mornings
onto silent backyards, with rusting barbeques
and the fences of houses in neat rows
I imagine they go back to bed
and think of whoever used
to make them happy
and wonder where
they have been taken.
I don't know why I'm wandering
out here this morning
I don't care about the girls
Whether they've made
sense of their lives.
They can have it.
I only want to walk
a little longer further away
from the house
and feel the cold,
raise my face to
the falling snow.
I will resolve nothing today.
Love it, Tony. Will I ever graduate from verses to real poems?
"I seemed to have sensed also from an early age that some of my experiences as a reader would change me more as a person than would many an event in the world where I sat and read. "
Gerald Murnane, Tamarisk Row