Elaine P...is for Poetry

DESTINATIONS

by Elaine

‘Life is a journey,

death a destination,’

says the prayer book.

‘Poetry is a destination,

until the poem becomes you,’

says the Poet.

‘Can we choose

our destination’,

asks the foot soldier.

‘I am that I am,

I choose all destinations,’

says the Creator.

B.Q. Can you give an expiation why you agree or disagree?

I posted it in the wrong place so I am also posting it here.

Subject: Quote for the day.

"Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shape, just as painting does, and music."

- Truman Capote

Subject: Quote for the day.

"Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shape, just as painting does, and music."

- Truman Capote

AUTUMN CHANGE

by Elaine

Like the giant oak

rooted to the ground

whose ever-changing leaves

sing with a shining sound,

like the oak’s small seed

the acorn, which will grow

into another giant oak

as days and years pass slow,

so do my leaves change,

turn many a different hue,

although deep in my core

I’m what I’ve been to you.

This morning, Dallas spoke about poets vs. wordsmiths and about the end of hatred. I wrote this one last night before I saw her comments today.

THE WORDSMITH AND THE BLACKSMITH

by Elaine

Wordsmith: Here is my plowshare, forge me a sword

With blade strong and sharp to cut a thick cord.

Blacksmith: I cannot do so, my forge has grown old,

My fire is dying and my hammer is cold.

Wordsmith: I am tired of planting strange seeds unknown,

Digging for words that no one has sown.

Blacksmith: Words can be sharp, as sharp as cold steel

To cut and to slash, when angry you feel.

Wordsmith: I cannot untangle the web I have wrought,

Its knots are too tight; to untie them I’ve sought.

Blacksmith: No sword can cut the strands of such words,

Once they are spoken, forever they’re heard.

Wordsmith: Then I will lie still in the heart of my web,

Wordless, unmoving, like Ocean at ebb.

Blacksmith: I fear you will sing the songs of your heart,

Until the last moment, when the web falls apart.

Wordsmith: Perhaps you are right; I must continue to sing,

And hope that some peace the future will bring.

Blacksmith: Peace is mythology, although you’re afraid,

Use well your plowshare that for you I’ve made.

Wordsmith: And as the Night takes me, I’ll think of you,

Hoping and praying that your words were true.

BRIGHT SHADOW

Can a shadow be bright

Or does it hide in the night,

Creeping upon its prey?

Like a vampire who runs

From the light of the sun,

It fades as night turns to day.

It cannot darken the light

For it stalks at night,

And then the morn flips it away.

MARTIAN MUD

by Elaine

There’s no such thing as ‘Martian Mud,’

the planet’s made of sand and rock,

mud is made with sand and water,

Mars’ ocean is still firmly blocked.

Perhaps the dude means ‘crud,’ not mud,

if so, he should visit ‘Mars Auto Parts,’

there they’ll sell him a huge winch

with which to bring forth his sunken heart.

NASA says that in 50 years

Mars will have a colony,

until then, we’re stuck on Earth

where we must write our poetry.

And speaking of NASA’s colony

only at a distance will we see Mars’ face,

for by then we’ll be in Heaven

or in the other place.

Grannyjill pointed out some redundancies in the first draft and I took her advice:

PRETENSE

I whisper to the wind as it soars from the sea,

I try to spread my words, but they blow back to me,

I kneel in the surf, aim my words at the sky,

But they fall to the ground and refuse to fly.

I sing into the wind, but all my notes fall flat,

I sit long on the beach where I have often sat,

I wipe away my tears and vow no more to cry,

The Ocean comforts me with a salty sigh.

I stand here on the sand, call the gulls, speaking soft,

I plead with them to carry my frail words aloft,

I turn back to the waters waving sad goodbyes,

Pretend I am happy, tell myself a lie.

I whistle as I walk, for none must ever know

I long for his touch because I loved him so,

I paint my face with smiles, vow I’ll always try

To believe he’ll be with me with I close my eyes.

SINS

Commission is sin,

the priest says that’s true,

but is omission a sin

when I can’t lie to you?

We’ll be punished for deeds,

so we’ve been taught,

but the mind sows the seeds,

so we’ll be punished for thoughts.

How can we control

the evil within,

is there no pure soul

that exists without sin?

A Wish In This Halloween Season

by Elaine

May the ghosts that haunt us

And the ghouls that taunt us

As they hide from truth and light

Crawl back to their graves,

With feeble waves

As sunrise conquers night,

And may tomorrow

Bring joy, not sorrow

As we open wide our eyes,

May our hearts’ desires

Though they burn like fires

Never be denied.

GUARDIAN OF THE GATE

by Elaine

The Guardian is strict,

demanding perfection,

accepting no excuses

for human flaws and failings.

The Guardian is merciless,

flinging words like David’s rock

not at giants, but at those

who dare to call on Poetry.

The Guardian holds the key,

but it is old and rusty;

it will not turn the lock

though my fingers ache with trying.

UNBOXING THE POEM: A NON-POEM

by Elaine

I’ve read the classics, all of them

over a lifetime of reading poetry

and then I came upon the photons

weaving webs of words

smooth and flowing

tangled, jumbled

on a screen too bright

blinding tired eyes

before the Sun

showed his rays

above the horizon.

Some of the virtual poets

opened doors

others built walls

cages, boxes

and sometimes I heard

new words speaking

of universal themes.

And I had the arrogance

to proclaim myself

Poet, although

I knew at my core

that I would never

reach the summit

or soar above

the stratosphere.

And now, I sit

in an autumn kitchen

thinking of new times

and new places

and wondering

where I have been

and where I am

and where the

horizon ends.

WONDERING

by Elaine

Shall I abandon rhyme

and write of inner mysteries

in ways that none else comprehend?

Shall my poems all be metaphors

for a life lived in many ways

and times and places?

Does rhyme make the poem

or does it seem contrived

falsely flowing unlike life?

And what of the boxed-in days and years

can I free them in verse unrhymed

or shall I abandon poetry?

Wielding Words

by Elaine (10/14/10)

Wield your words as whip and sling,

Choose the hardest, roundest rock,

Aim it at the poet’s heart,

As of peace and love he sings.

Use your hatred as your strength,

All your bitterness unlock,

Swing the sling with hatred vile,

Face the giant, come on, start.

Oh, you missed, now try again,

Try it with an ink-filled pen,

Wear it down unto its nub,

Then go and cry alone.

REQUEST

by Elaine

I ask Him to forget me

only for Him to let me

face the South and walk

with impunity until I float

and then until I sink

oblivious to Earth

my body food for fish

my bones forming a reef

where the bottom of

the food chain

will find shelter in me.

I'm not afraid to write flawed poems when I want to express something. What about you? Do you want to put all poetry in a box?

OCTOBER SUNDAY 10-10-10

(Repeat after me)

by Elaine

Ten…ten…ten…hut!

The Earth’s become

A sand-filled rut!

It’s a Day Memorial,

Soldiers, step forwardial,

Remember yesterday!

We can’t remember yesterday,

The same thing’s happening today,

Oh, how I wish war’d go away!

We all love our dear country,

Whichever our country may be,

Marching to our destiny!

Ten…ten..ten…hut!

We all die in desert smut,

The Earth’s become

A sand-filled rut…

This is posted for HH, who believes that 'autumn' is 'an overused theme.' What do you think? Should poets stop writing about the seasons?

AUTUMN CHANGE

by Elaine

Like the giant oak

rooted to the ground

whose ever-changing leaves

sing with a shining sound,

like the oak’s small seed

the acorn, which will grow

into another giant oak

as days and years pass slow,

so do my leaves change,

turn many a different hue,

although deep in my core

I’m what I’ve been to you.

POEM

by Elaine

Sing me a poem

Of sea breeze and sailboats,

Anchor at sunset

When we’re all alone

Windblown and joyful

Afloat on the Bay.

Unlock the cabin,

Open the door,

Act out your words

In gestures of love;

Sing me a poem

As I open to you.

A Wish In This Halloween Season

by Elaine

May the ghosts that haunt us

And the ghouls that taunt us

As they hide from the full Moon’s light,

Crawl back to their graves,

In sad, mournful waves

As sunrise conquers night,

And may tomorrow

Bring joy, not sorrow

As we open wide our eyes,

May our hearts’ desires

Burn like hot fire

And never be denied.

If so, what is that flaw? I would be interested in your comments before I post my own answer.