poetry.html

Poems about Poetry

Passion for Poetry

It's the word itself,
compact,
distilled in meaning,
concentrated,
set in the phrase like a star
perfectly aligned
in its constellation,
fixed for time out of time.
And the line,
Oh the line!
refracts the meaning
burnishes the word
to brilliance,
sets it off
in solitaire,
or like a mirror,
reflects endless images
down corridors of syntax.

Poetry –
how it sings
in my mind,
dazzles my fingers,
arcs energy,
one finger touching
another
in lightening,
creating the world

Writing Poetry

Who would have thought
I'd have so much to say?
Words pour out to fill
my syntax of things
with strong subjects,
active verbs.
Dependent and independent clauses
line up, obedient to my call.
How to know when to subordinate,
when to be strong?
The sentence knows,
moves on confidently
towards the period.

I listen,
I write fast as I can,
hoping just to keep up.
Looking deep inside,
I write the universe
shaping itself
around me.

Poem in the morning
I woke up this morning
with a poem in my mind.
It poured out with my coffee,
and spread in fine lines
across the page,
without hesitation,
or even a second thought.

Swiftly it formed,
precise,
to hang a crystal
in my window
shooting rainbows

Poetry Doesn't Make Anything Happen
Who says poetry doesn't
make anything happen?
Poetry flows from
the mind thinking itself
into being.
not slumbering
in habit
or drinking itself into a stupor
of safe ideas.
When poetry happens,
the mind stands at attention,
saluting it's own true wit,
yet amazed at
the colors which
coalesce into
momentary vision.

Penmanship
Don't seek to blunt my pen
with reasons
I should not write.

Handmaiden
is a role
preposterous for one with
such a wrinkled face.
Crone I reject outright.
Garments of a serving woman
are too dull, too tight.

Let my pen
burst forth its fire
even if it singes
us both.
You can't see
without light,
and my flames
burn to dance.

Writing poetry takes time
Yesterday, not a single poem.
Today so many I hurry to pick them
like tangerines turned suddenly sweet.
It takes a day
for the tide to change
from ebb to flowing, so
I should not be surprised.
It takes a day of not speaking
for the poem's voice to tumble out in words
You want to hear.

Too much poetry! (already)
Poetry may have a limit
you can not safely exceed
or be pulled over,
get a ticket for too much acceleration
in a residential zone.

Today may be the right time
to just get on with it,
forget this self-contained
introspection,
these words that spin in
endless inner orbit,
inside a glass circle.
Better to watch your clothes
spin in the dryer,
or open the door!

Leave pen behind
as you go out
to get work done,
cross that next item off the list
of things that need your doing.
Function,
don't think so much-
Be done with it!

After all,
as everybody knows,
there can be too much
of even a
good thing.

Last Lines

You know when the last line
comes to you.
It greets you like an ending,
complete.

A summation?
perhaps reversal of perspective?
an exhortation,
even a prayer?

The last line rounds the poem
with a final period.
and feels right--
for now.

But it ends
a fragment only,
and it's provisional
to the self seeking
whatever it is looking for at that moment.

An assumption only,
its circle spins.

Take all the endings, all their smooth
and orderly complacencies
and what would you have?

A string of pearls?
Or the dots that hold up question marks?

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Passion for Poetry It's the word itself, compact, distilled in meaning, concentrated, set in the phrase like a star perfectly aligned in its constellation, fixed for time out of time. And the line, Oh the line! refracts the meaning burnishes the word to brilliance, sets it off in solitaire, or like a mirror, reflects endless images down corridors of syntax. Poetry – how it sings in my mind, dazzles my fingers, arcs energy, one finger touching another in lightening, creating the world
	Writing Poetry Who would have thought I'd have so much to say? Words pour out to fill my syntax of things with strong subjects, active verbs. Dependent and independent clauses line up, obedient to my call. How to know when to subordinate, when to be strong? The sentence knows, moves on confidently towards the period. I listen, I write fast as I can, hoping just to keep up. Looking deep inside, I write the universe shaping itself around me.
Poem in the morning I woke up this morning with a poem in my mind. It poured out with my coffee, and spread in fine lines across the page, without hesitation, or even a second thought. Swiftly it formed, precise, to hang a crystal in my window shooting rainbows
	Poetry Doesn't Make Anything Happen Who says poetry doesn't make anything happen? Poetry flows from the mind thinking itself into being. not slumbering in habit or drinking itself into a stupor of safe ideas. When poetry happens, the mind stands at attention, saluting it's own true wit, yet amazed at the colors which coalesce into momentary vision.
Penmanship Don't seek to blunt my pen with reasons I should not write. Handmaiden is a role preposterous for one with such a wrinkled face. Crone I reject outright. Garments of a serving woman are too dull, too tight. Let my pen burst forth its fire even if it singes us both. You can't see without light, and my flames burn to dance.
	Writing poetry takes time Yesterday, not a single poem. Today so many I hurry to pick them like tangerines turned suddenly sweet. It takes a day for the tide to change from ebb to flowing, so I should not be surprised. It takes a day of not speaking for the poem's voice to tumble out in words You want to hear.
Too much poetry! (already) Poetry may have a limit you can not safely exceed or be pulled over, get a ticket for too much acceleration in a residential zone. Today may be the right time to just get on with it, forget this self-contained introspection, these words that spin in endless inner orbit, inside a glass circle. Better to watch your clothes spin in the dryer, or open the door! Leave pen behind as you go out to get work done, cross that next item off the list of things that need your doing. Function, don't think so much- Be done with it! After all, as everybody knows, there can be too much of even a good thing.
	Last Lines You know when the last line comes to you. It greets you like an ending, complete. A summation? perhaps reversal of perspective? an exhortation, even a prayer? The last line rounds the poem with a final period. and feels right-- for now. But it ends a fragment only, and it's provisional to the self seeking whatever it is looking for at that moment. An assumption only, its circle spins. Take all the endings, all their smooth and orderly complacencies and what would you have? A string of pearls? Or the dots that hold up question marks?