The Literature Network administrators have advised us to post all of our poems into a single thread. The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-Poetry," contains several poems. When commenting on a particular poem, please indicate the title of the work in your reply.
“When I wrote that, God and I knew what it meant, but now God alone knows.”
The Puzzle and the Pity
We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch
of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning.
From splatters of thoughts in scatter-shot lines
we seek some soul-balm from the sensitive,
at bottom as sincere as an infant’s cry:
a babble, sure, yet rarefied as Yeats.
We dread the water, then attempt to wade.
Too swiftly comes the splashback: “too mainstream,” “derivative,” “colloquial,” “too trite,”
or “déclassé,” or worst of all, ignored.
Listen, we don't do this because it’s easy
or that we can (or think we can.) We see
an empty page as an anti-Everest
that may be worth the risk of an unsafe climb
in front of us, because it isn't there.