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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
Aug 112 min read

Poem-a-Week: I Have Four, but How Many Do You Need? Two? Yes, Two!

That's right! I have four poems that I could share today. For the past week, I have been leaving the editing of Uncle Boog and the Dogfight to Kellie. I haven't been editing, I haven't been writing new stories, so that leaves me with time to mess around with a lot of different poetic ideas. Some turn out all right: some go into the trash bin of the mind. I am really trying hard to stay away from nature poems because we did the whole last book on nature poems. Here is a look at that book in case you have forgotten what it looks like.


This book is only available at Lulu.com because of its gigantic 8 1/2 X 11 size, but everyone I've spoken to says that she or he likes the larger size. Also, at $9.20, it is cheaper than a coloring book though it could be used as one.


Okay! Okay! On to a couple of poems! Here is one about the sun. Let's see if I don't have a picture of a flower imitating the sun. Indeed, I do.



Sol Says

 

I slip over snow-capped mountains,

Sparkle in their icy fountains,

And fall into their valleys with a shine.

Each crack of dawn, I send my rays

To clothe the world in patterned days

And every celebrant of life is mine.

 

It’s what I do and what I know

That makes green stems and flowers grow

And some creatures to ponder time and love.

I fill the land, the sea, the air.

I’m always here or over there.

I’m everything the Earth is dreaming of.

 

But to galaxies we pass,

I’m just a lonely ball of gas,

Dragging along a spattering of dust.

They believe in Fermi’s curse,

A silent, lifeless universe

So they go whirling off because they must.


Yeah, I know. It is a bit of a nature poem, but I writes'em as I sees'em.


Well, here is another one that is still, in a way, about the sun. ENJOY!


A Brainless Bloom

 

 I gazed at the night sky into a mirror,

A swirling chaos to ill-formed for error

And saw myself the antonym of Love.

The cosmos is not heaven.

It’s just a vacuum even,

So full of space, it has no room to move.

 

 Tell me!

 

Where in this shapeless void is left

A hidey-hole inside a cleft

Where one can watch as holiness walks by?

I ask this with a most deceitful smile

Because I know the answer all the while.

Someone who sees a god is bound to die.

 

We’ve numbered all the black holes and the lights,

We’ve named a million unseen satellites,

And now, we’ve but to tremble and obey.

We live beneath a tyrant’s gaze

Who cooks our souls and counts our days

But barely drives a brainless bloom to sway.


Don't forget. You can always email me and tell me what you think about the poems or if you would like me to write about anything in particular. My email is mbt1966@yahoo.com. Or, as a lot of folks do, comment on the poems in Facebook. When I notice notifications of Facebook comments, I always read them.

Commenti

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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