NowInBuda
08-29-2013, 04:30 AM
Hello - I hope I am okay to post some the bits I have scribbled recently here. I should admit that, until only this month, I had no idea the amount of love and interest I had in creating my own written verse. I wrote this already in my introduction post, but at the moment I'm somewhat of an aimless traveller - I live and work at a hostel in Budapest, where I've had time to seriously sit down and explore my books and my imagination, so I suppose these are some fruits of this period in my travels.
I guess it goes without saying that I've virtually never shared my poetry with anyone before - either online, or otherwise, because I never thought it was a worthwhile pursuit. I think being away from home, being exposed to the tides of Europe, and getting to know more fascinating people than I can count on my hands and feet - these things have all changed that. Now I'm more than happy, if not eager, to share my poems, and to be shared with in return.
The Sea-Captain to his Ageing Wife
The African shoals
and jungles on the shore-line
All seeped and sagging with mist-set dew...
There's nothing more beautiful
amongst these things
Than the pillow that holds the sleep-set cheeks of you.
To a Poet in my Youth
I do love a poet
And I need that man to know it
So I will seek out that poet
And to that poet I will say:
"Sir, I do love you
And I need for you to know it,
Because I have learned from your very own words today
That my own life is loaded
With delusion and self-loathing
And I've spent my life in search of all the things I know are vain
But in your words there is direction:
A poem is but a pool for self-reflection.
So I'll love you like a babe, as though I am born again."
Poem to a Half-Watched Movie
I hear chase scene music
Brazen, and the horns have muscles.
There's movement on screen, I'm thinking
Colours should not be like this:
Unfriendly reds, alien blues
Thumbing their noses at my tired eyes.
Then, an opera crescendo; firing carbines;
A couple with a gun between them tremble,
knowing true love
Cannot be, and never was...
At last, a sinister climax:
Three wise men are hung by moonlight;
A father softly loses faith,
And sauce is spilled on a virginal gown.
What am I to these things?
What are these things to me?
I could collapse the screen to black,
Kill the ceiling fan
and fall asleep to the sound of wind-swept trees.
Somewhere, I guess, the fate of humanity rests on pins
But I hear a message on the trees: this could be where new life begins.
I guess it goes without saying that I've virtually never shared my poetry with anyone before - either online, or otherwise, because I never thought it was a worthwhile pursuit. I think being away from home, being exposed to the tides of Europe, and getting to know more fascinating people than I can count on my hands and feet - these things have all changed that. Now I'm more than happy, if not eager, to share my poems, and to be shared with in return.
The Sea-Captain to his Ageing Wife
The African shoals
and jungles on the shore-line
All seeped and sagging with mist-set dew...
There's nothing more beautiful
amongst these things
Than the pillow that holds the sleep-set cheeks of you.
To a Poet in my Youth
I do love a poet
And I need that man to know it
So I will seek out that poet
And to that poet I will say:
"Sir, I do love you
And I need for you to know it,
Because I have learned from your very own words today
That my own life is loaded
With delusion and self-loathing
And I've spent my life in search of all the things I know are vain
But in your words there is direction:
A poem is but a pool for self-reflection.
So I'll love you like a babe, as though I am born again."
Poem to a Half-Watched Movie
I hear chase scene music
Brazen, and the horns have muscles.
There's movement on screen, I'm thinking
Colours should not be like this:
Unfriendly reds, alien blues
Thumbing their noses at my tired eyes.
Then, an opera crescendo; firing carbines;
A couple with a gun between them tremble,
knowing true love
Cannot be, and never was...
At last, a sinister climax:
Three wise men are hung by moonlight;
A father softly loses faith,
And sauce is spilled on a virginal gown.
What am I to these things?
What are these things to me?
I could collapse the screen to black,
Kill the ceiling fan
and fall asleep to the sound of wind-swept trees.
Somewhere, I guess, the fate of humanity rests on pins
But I hear a message on the trees: this could be where new life begins.