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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

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My Bluebird's Home: Two Poems in One Day! How About That?


As I did this morning, I will present the poem and then present my ramblings about the poem. Enjoy!


I.

In your azure blue coat and rusty orange vest,

You flit from the roof to a pole then your nest

In the blue house I made

With the white inclined lid

'Neath my eaves shielding shade

And cleverly hid

In the tangle of twisting wisteria vines

Where the rain never drips and the sun never shines.


II.

Beneath your safe dwelling, I’ve put up a mirror.

The almanac says you like having one near.

Why have a reflection?

Do you prickle or preen?

Do you make the connection

When two birds are seen?

When you sit in your nest, do you tingle with pride

To think there’s another you watching outside?


III.

Each season, I watch as your brooding time passes,

Then I clean out the poop, the sticks, and dried grasses.

I study the status

Of the wood walls and roof

And mark on the lattice,

As if you needed proof,

That nothing is rotten nor insect infested

In the home that I’ve built where you’ve always nested.


I started writing this poem two years ago and had envisioned it being something along the lines of Suicide Note, which is a poem in Atheists and Empty Spaces that is modeled after John Keats' Ode on a Nightingale. To make it a poem like that, I needed another seven to ten verses. I cannot tell you how many times I have gone back and looked at this poem--no stared blankly at this poem--and thought, "I've got nothing." Today, I was putting together all the poems that I have written in the last year and posted in my blog, (Yep, you can read them all!), and I noticed this one hanging out in "Working Drafts." I opened it, and immediately Kellie's words that she repeats to me nearly every time she reads a new poem flashed in my brain, "Shorter poems are better." Then, I thought, "Can I end this poem in three verses?" Well, I rewrite the third verse quite a bit, but I only needed to reword the other two to make the rhyme schemes the same.

By the way, this poem does have a rhyme scheme, but it's rhythms are not as tight as what I usually prefer them to be. I found that adding a word here and there, and braking the meter by a syllable or two actually worked better. Well, see what you think? Remember to drop me a line at the bottom of the page and tell me what you like and what you don't. If you any requests for poems, I still do them. I prefer to write about Nature at this time, but I'll think about any request.

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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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