If you were a poem

[Virgil]

If I Were A Poem

If I were a poem—
Could my language possibly capture
The agony of a spirit
Trapped inside one’s own body?
Would the words tell the tale
Of how the madness has chained me forever,
My skills and my promise
Never to be fulfilled?
How the haunting of dreams
Mock me from the Night shadows,
The Lady I used to go to for comfort
Now a harbor for despondency and despair?

If I were a poem—
Lines laced with darkness,
Spider web tracings on parchment—
Soiled and blackened by age:
Who would pause in their daily routine
To brush away the grime of the ages,
And read with understanding
Meanings inscribed in my very blood?
Would they recoil in their horror
That such tormented lines even exist,
And toss the sad rags of my sorrow
Into the flames to be destroyed?

If I were a poem—
The lines would seem to be madness,
You might think me reduced to insanity,
Gone beyond any real hope.
Look past the dark glass’s reflection.
The distortion from the mirror of life—
There is a hidden peephole
You might have to search a long time to find.
Then things fall into perspective,
The shadows retreat and the light focuses on
The real person I am under the masquerade—
I am a poem—
Take time to read me, please…

Dale Harris
© 10/17/07

Pen that is one great poem. Fabuous!! Perhaps the best poem I have read on lit net by a member. You have just reminded me of a great poem by Theodore Roethke, who also had bouts of mental illness, where he went in and out. It is called "In A Dark Time." Here:

In a Dark Time

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady stream of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
-- Theodore Roethke

[AuntShecky]

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on, and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak.


That's a description of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing.
Also, a cameo of your auntie, but only at times!

The piece "If I Were a Poem" by Pendragon is resonant,
especially the concluding line. The desire to be noticed, or more specifically, acknowledged is universal, not the sole province of poets.
The theme of madness,though, I don't know. I'm just assuming the speaker of the poem is not the poet himself,
because after reading many other postings written by him, I would guess that "madness" is the last thing that comes to mind. (I mean that as a compliment, Pen.)

[Pendragon]

Thank you all, Sy, Virgil, Auntie--you are far too kind. I am afraid I am the subject of the poem, Auntie, and there are those who would call me crazy and mean it to the fullest extent of the term. What I have is Bi-Polar Disorder, controlable, but not curable. And in my case, rapid cycling makes it hard to treat, resulting in disability--no one would hire me for a job, I might have a spell at work. But it has been said that Bi Piolar is "the brilliant madness", as many very creative people have and do have it: writers, painters, musicans, designers, people who think beyond this world, because it is often too painful to live here where many do not understand and even mock or shun you. Then also, Hollywood seems to make every villian some mentel patient off his medication, and Bi Polar or Manic-Depresive Disorder, as it is also called, is one of their favorite targets. Boy has it worked around here! I am persona non grada to most people and churches in this berg.

Poetry helps let off the presure, and when people enjoy it, it lets off more pressure!

If I Were A Poem Redux

If I were a poem,
There would be no restrictions,
Nothing to confine me—
My heart would walk from its bony prison
And face this world unafraid…

If I were a poem,
This dank white oubliette
Could no longer keep my thoughts from escaping—
Memories come soaring back to me—
Red Maple leaves on the breeze…

If I were a poem,
The Little Man with his hammer,
I could evict without any prior notice—
For I grow weary of the pain that lances
Through my skull every day…

If I were a poem,
My skin would be softest vellum,
No signs of wrinkles nor scarring—
Lines inscribed by wind and sun; steel pens and blood.
By The Great Pretender called Time…

If I were a poem,
And you were the reader:
Would we find common ground
A place to bond together,
Realizing that for this to work takes us both?

Would anyone read the lines that were written down,
If I were a poem…

Dale Harris
© 10/18/07

[blazeofglory]

If I were a pen, I would have of course loved paper
There would be a quiver or motion between me and the paper
Indeed it would stir up our emotions

A kind of circulation have gone from me to the the paper
Indeed the paper would be irrigated with my love
Its dryness, voidness would have been a-forested,

A kind of union
a communion between two desperate souls

One is dry land the other is rainfall

Both would together would weave a spring of life

The result of all this a poem for you read
And when you would read this poem
I write on the blank paper of your heart.
It would bring some convulsion, a jerk, a vibration
That is how life perpetuates

[PrinceMyshkin]

If I were a pen, I would have of course loved paper
There would be a quiver or motion between me and the paper
Indeed it would stir up our emotions

A kind of circulation have gone from me to the the paper
Indeed the paper would be irrigated with my love
Its dryness, voidness would have been a-forested,

A kind of union
a communion between two desperate souls

One is dry land the other is rainfall

Both would together would weave a spring of life

The result of all this a poem for you read
And when you would read this poem
I write on the blank paper of your heart.
It would bring some convulsion, a jerk, a vibration
That is how life perpetuates

One or two grammatical gaffes and I would prefer it if you dropped the explanatory last line but apart from that, what a glorious, inspired poem!

[blazeofglory]

One or two grammatical gaffes and I would prefer it if you dropped the explanatory last line but apart from that, what a glorious, inspired poem!

Thank you very much for suggestions, for English is my second language,a and indeed at times rich thoughts stirring up in my mind can not be contained in English. Any way I try to brush it.

[AuntShecky]

I'd like to say something more exciting, but mainly it's something like this:

Apologia

My life is too dull and too careful -
even I can see that:
the orderly bedside table,
the spoilt cat.

Surely I should have been bolder.
What could biographers say?
She got up, ate toast and went shopping
day after day?

Whisky and gin are alarming,
Ecstasy makes you drop dead.
Toy boys make inroads on cash
and your half of the bed.

Emily Dickinson, help me.
Stevie, look up from your Aunt.
Some people can stand excitement,
some people can't.

I found this piece to be brilliant,Fifth Element. It's as good as anything I've seen published. I take it that "Stevie" is Stevie Smith, or am I incorrect.
I loved all of this, but especially the concluding couplet --
a boffo punchline.
If I were a real reviewer I would give you ****
(FOUR STARS)
Auntie

[TheFifthElement]

I found this piece to be brilliant,Fifth Element. It's as good as anything I've seen published. I take it that "Stevie" is Stevie Smith, or am I incorrect.
I loved all of this, but especially the concluding couplet --
a boffo punchline.
If I were a real reviewer I would give you ****
(FOUR STARS)
Auntie

Auntie you are too kind, really, really too kind, and I can't take the credit. This is not one of mine (obviously I should have credited the poet!) but is by Connie Bensley. I hadn't realised anyone thought I had written it (note to self to make that clear in future!).

If only I could write something so good

[ahsiam]

if i were a poem.........
words'd strangle to be expressed
lines'd scare to take the lead
harmony'd flow like waves of shabby river.


i were a poem........
thoughts full of perennial dreams
vision full of rainbows
words full of vintage letters
and voice full of songs


i were a poem........
floating like clouds
dancing with the steps of rain
like a sunray on the streams.


i became a poem
when thoughts had a melancholy cry
and letters born by those drops of tear,
when memories had silent nights with a shut heart
and words had a pain of those memories,
when rhythm had a crimson mistake
and pages went red by those rhythms.


now i am a poem
a poem with drooping words
a poem with recluse rhythm
a poem of hidden pain, kept untouched

here i am, a poem of scattered words....
to be lost in old weary pages.


i dont know why did i dare to write a poem on this title(since i am a beginner) but nothing to do, i did.

[gothic]

I must regret that I arrived here so late,really.so many good poems here to take your breath away.

pen,your poem brought tears to my eyes.I just don't know how else to put my feeling.

ahsiam,yours was a good one too.not only the last two lines were really touchy,as I told you before,but also the others lines.they were very stirring.not exaggerating.

here goes mine-

If I were a poem

If I were a poem,
I would never want you to read me,
for it would grizzle you bit by bit,
choke you to obmutescent blues.

I wouldn't want you to read me-
a poem full of rotten grief and grievances,
the words groaning and cursing,
unable to hold the grim obelisks of melancholy any more,
they beg for mercy.

Only if I were a poem
I would lead you to a cold blue sea,
waves petrified in eternal awe and agony of solitude,
where in the dunes the quicksand awaits you
hidden and silent...

If I were a poem
I would never want you to read me,
for another phoenix could blossom out of the fading lines
and fly you to the sun.

But
if you were looking for a poem
on which you could shed some dewy sympathy,
fated to melt to the sky of oblivion,
then I might be the poem for you.
A dark piteous poem unable ever to lift any heart.

[symphony]

*cough* nice ones, ahsiam and gothic!

obmutescent blues

ob...ob...
er come again?

[gothic]

What was that *cough* for?

[symphony]

Being a close friend, how can u not know that my cough always poses my inferiority OR modesty?!
Are u farabi or just someone who's online through her PC?

[gothic]

Inferiority?? okay,I must say I wasn't sure about that...and why did you write my real name,dear?wait till I see you,I'm gonna do you in!

[symphony]

Inferiority?? okay,I must say I wasn't sure about that...and why did you write my real name,dear?wait till I see you,I'm gonna do you in!

i loooooooooove irritating people!