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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Friend: A New Poem! No Revisions Today!


Comments below the poem and pictures. ENJOY!


Friend,

(Inspired by a P. Shelley fragment)


Sit down here and clear your mind

Of all its grief and sorrow,

For they are guests of yesterday

Who won’t be here tomorrow.


The sun ascends throughout the East

As it moves through its ranges.

The steady moon’s a stalwart friend,

But it’s known for its changes.


We may suffer much today,

And it may seem to last,

But let us not haul misery

From the unchanging past--


A past that’s locked within its time

That never ebbs nor flows

While we are free to seek our peace

And find it wherever it goes.


Kellie and I visited some of our regular haunts yesterday on Highway 19 in Missouri, the scenic river way with a special guest, my mother. It was too hot to do much hiking, so we drove to many different places. Usually, such a trip encourages the taking of many pictures and the writing of a new poem. I didn't take a single picture, and I was not inspired by anything to write. So, why do we have a new poem?

This morning as I was reading through articles and poems shared with me by my fellow writer and email correspondent Patrick Gillespie (https://poemshape.wordpress.com/), I happened upon a fragment written by Percy Shelley. I believe that it later became part of a long poem, something about The Spanish... something or other. I haven't read the information since this morning and forgot the name of it. Anyway, his fragment did inspire me to write this rather simple, but poignant poem, in only a few minutes.

The picture at the top of the page is a picture of a female bluebird. I cannot be sure that it is the same bird, but bluebirds have raised five or six clutches or broods in this box right outside my window this summer alone. Another bluebird, or perhaps the same one, also raised one brood in the birdhouse on my grapevine pole. I think it wasn't shaded enough to keep the young birds cool, so the adults left the birdhouse after the weather got hot.

The doe pictured below is also an animal friend that it is possible that we see regularly on our daily walks. I do not know how to tell one deer from another, but there are five or six does that we see quite often when we exercise. Luna, the dog, never saw this deer even though it was probably 100 feet or less from us. The deer stood perfectly still until we stopped so that I could snap the picture. When we stopped, it bolted. I was lucky that I snapped the shot right before it turned and leapt into the bushes.



Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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