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DanielBenoit
08-31-2009, 02:00 AM
Thanks to all of the nice comments I recieved from my other poem, I feel confident enough to post another :).

Okay, this one was written for a wedding and I was requested to write one.

It's a bit superficial from my point of view, but due to its excellent reception I decided to post it here and see what you guys think of it.


Cold winters grey, clouded with dusk
Of icy days, the sun retreats down below the earth.
And all the chilly times, of memories lost
Lost, or forgotten, unnamed.
Whether it was below the ground
From which this weed sprouts
In the dead of winter,
It can only be speculated.
Oh, if it was for the lonely depth of the wreathing sea,
The frozen silence of the lake,
The deathly icicles of forgotten summer.

Thus when one goes to the mountains
And stands on the highest peak,
Will look down and see that all the time spent climbing
Has brought the early signs of March, down below,
For where you stand it is still January,
But a man knows not where he stands,
Unless he sees peaks above him
Or spring towns below his feet.

And so, my hollow caveman,
You looked down upon the town every morning
At the rising of the sun
And looked up unto the higher infinite peaks
In the afternoon.

Alas, these shadows were not drained figures
But flowers shining from the temperate sun,
Light, levitated up to you.

Aye, flowers do not sprout with surplus sunlight
Or drown in excess of water,
But you came down from the mountains,
In the advent of spring
The imminent aestivation of your heart, set,
From which you shall lose yourself
Upon the beaches of the shores.

And after surviving April,
Your journey home concluded
And you at last looked upon the spring town
From the ground,
And saw three white doves
Of the most pure tepidity,
The fair singing nymph
Whose echoes had awakened your ears
On lonely sunless mornings
Eclipsed by the tips of peaks.

May was spent in a dream
And June was a metamorphosis into summer.

Now here, upon these sandy shores
Where vastness tricks the eye
We all here silently listen
To the curling of the waves
Sinking into the sand
And becoming one.

DanielBenoit
09-07-2009, 08:23 PM
Here's a quite different poem with much more ambiguoities and references:


The Thought

“How late it is! I may be quite of late, quite forgone.”

”How brief I think the night is. The lark calls. Hear it’s name.”

The winds shake the prancing trees.


“Do you want to see?”


It was of a tedious time. No. It was of nonchalant time. No.


Through the looking glass and into the rabbit hole
The tortoise and the Achaean fell through the hare’s burrow
And now I am thinking of it to be night.


So spoke my love, so softly. Never here. Forever gone.

What may be at origin? forever?



Sitting by the campfire. About twelve or so people there was. The fire groped the air.
And all disappeared.


*EDIT*

The text for the website won't let my indents appear in the post.

To read it with proper positioning, go here http://danielbenoit.blog.com/2009/08/03/the-thought/

PrinceMyshkin
09-08-2009, 07:49 AM
Both of these have the splendour of a free man confident that there is time and space enough for the full flowering of his thoughts.

DanielBenoit
09-08-2009, 12:24 PM
Thank you :angel:

I certainly say the same to you.

Here's another from a little while ago.


numb

1.

Turn the facet

Let water run out



Reach for the knob

And turn it.



Light



Open drawer

Fingers touching cotton



Phone ringing

Blaring, no one is on the other end



Four tablespoons of coffee

Two and a half cups of water



Fresh



Walk out and step into the dismal sunlight



2.

Contradiction at every corner

The world is disappearing, fading

Inanimate figure, pass by

Turn at the light



Empty street, car, single

The world is a sick habit



Forgetting what it is to be remembered

A ghost in a dead man’s dream

A voyeur’s punishment



Invisible sight

Patternless, yet with so many echoes

Dissolving into water on a hot frying pan

Hear the sizzle,

As it becomes a puff of smoke in the imagination



Sick clammy hands

Sun stricken eyes

It will be no different from tomorrow

than yesterday



Strut, strut you poor player

Sunlight upon does not shine the gnomon

Why should it?



Have not the time to awake

And remember the snow

Desiccant in last end



3.

Falling, into the hole-burnt silk

Only to come out,

To an endless record, regurgitating

Odd things of life



Footsteps echoing throughout the hall

Giving awareness of spatiality

Knock, knock says the floor

As if some sick joke



4.

Turn at the other corner

Where it is the same again

Inanimate figure, pass by



Seagulls swarm around

But here they call them baygulls

Everything is fading into the dismal sunlight

Now fading



Fading



Fading



All of my works are derivative from the blog in the signature, which is copyrighted.

DanielBenoit
09-09-2009, 06:01 AM
Here's a much more compact poem, a form I've been practicing.


Sorrow

I saw a face today
Tortured and malingered
He looked into the mirror
And never saw himself