I aim to please. Well, here's a not-so-happy poem, and I really want your honest opinion, because, frankly, I don't like it. I actually wrote an unrhyming poem of the ambiguous type that I love to hate. But I'm taking the advice from the book I'm reading, and hoping I can do it justice. This poem was "triggered" (inspired, I guess you could say) by a visit I took to Peerless, Montana, which is not the end of the world, but you can see it from there. (actual quote from a local.) Tell me what you think.
$3.97 for lunch and $15 in the gas tank. Three hours and three grain elevators later, I pulled off at a brown sign. I talked with the senior class - three girls. They envied my cup from McDonald's. The horizon was a Mobius strip.
Postcards from visits litter my desk. A piece of postcard-sized letterhead Says "Peerless" in black ink. My wall is covered with men who will never love me And works of art that no one will ever see. The window is shrouded in branches.
I am a mosaic of poster putty and compact disks. None of my plastic voices can comfort me- My neighbors can't hear my stereo. The wind whimpers, wounded by the mountains. The answering machine stares at me with one eye, All-knowing, unblinking.
In Peerless, girls with beautiful hair Wake up early and curl it painstakingly. Thirteen people see it. I stick pictures on my third-floor window and Three hundred people pass. I wish loneliness Came in neon tubes.
[This message has been edited by Annie (edited January 17, 2000).]
Wow. I'm not sure why you don't like it, it conveys emotion, but is anchored in concrete images. I usually do not like poems that are fragmented (by fragmented, I mean each line presenting a different scene or emotion) because they lack continuity and are full of vague abstractions, but yours is so specific, so visual, while at the same time it overflows with emotion. Usually I can pick a poem apart until the writer breaks into tears, but this one has me stumped. I think (and I'm not exagerating) that this is one of the best poems I've seen posted here, (but then I've always liked dark, morose, and macabre poetry). By the way, it would make a good song. how do you make those little smiley faces?
Posts: 748 | Registered: Dec 1999
Annie, your poem is great. I felt melancholic and lonely reading it. The book on poetry you're using seems to be giving you perfect advice. I'm curious, what do you not like about your poem? Maybe it's Peerless, Montana that you don't like. But I like the choice of your poem. Peerless--the name is ironic because it means "without peer, unique." And that makes it a lonelier place than other places that may physically compare with it.
Sarfa, a darkness hovers over your poems. There is death, tiredness and a sort of meaninglessness to existence. That is what I'm getting. I do not sense hope, just terrible lonely endings. I'm curious about Point Zero Eight. Did the drunk driver die or were you wishing him dead in your poem? Just curious.
To everyone on this thread or those simply looking in I'd like to ask a few questions which I hope you'd all answer. Can you make a happy poem when you're sad? Or a sad poem when you're bursting with happiness? Or is poetry too much tied to emotion to be anything other than what the poet feels at the very moment when he or she writes?
Lord Ragged, you are right about the darkness of my poems. I usually only write poetry when I'm depressed or angry. It is something like a therapy session, it let's me empty my emotion on to a page for me to examine (as well as a way to redirect those negative emotions into something creative). It's not that I'm never happy, or never hopeful, just that I don't write poetry (generally) about those times. My favorite poet is Edgar Allen Poe. I like dark, introspective art (of all kinds), and that is reflected in my writing.
No, I did not want the drunk driver to die (and he didn't). The poem is not even losely based on the story behind my friends death, I just transfered some of the feelings I had during the event to a made up circumstance for poetic purposes.
I do think poetry is too tied into emotion (for me)to ever write a happy poem when I'm sad or vice versa.
Tell you what Scott R, If you want to skip the angst driven poetry, no problem; any time you see my name in this section, skip it, as the posted poem will probably be full of nasty angst.
On that note, here is a real oldy (I'm almost out of recent material, guess I'll have to get depressed so I can write more poetry ) If you haven't noticed, I finally took the time to check the FAQ to learn how to make those smilies.
FOR THE ACCEPTANCE OF THE UNWORTHY
Stumbling across a cluttered room, he was a befuddled giant, trying in vain not to crush the petrified villagers below with his immense feet. His eyes shifted nervously as he stifled soft sobs. "At least I made them laugh," said the jester as his finger traced the sinuous scar that traversed the breadth of his temple like a dried up worm on sun scorched concrete. He turned away and began foraging through the decrepit shelves that lined the walls, mumbling to himself as his fingers grasped the smooth, cool surface of a large glass jar. He hobbled over to a plush sofa, setting the jar on a desk as he melted into the inviting folds like a stick of butter over an open flame. "I got drunk and broke a broomstick over my head, today." His inebriated state caused him to slur his speech. The only response that seemed appropriate was "why?" "I thought it was funny," but his careworn expression revealed more than his meager words ever could. I knew that he had failed again; laughter does not equal affection. He was a convict incarcerated in a prison of his own design; the eternal ouroborus, doomed to forever devour his own tail. "I should use this more often," he muttered as he tapped the jar, causing the content to stir. I could only grimace and nod He plunged his hand into formaldehyde, extracting the shriveled mass of flesh that rightfully belonged in his vacant skull.
Good questions, Lord Ragged. My own personal opinion about that is that a poem can be crafted to convey anything you want it to – if you are skillful enough at your craft. And it is a craft that can be learned. I’m pretty sure that I haven’t gotten anywhere near as proficient at it yet as I need to be. I may not live that long. Of course that brings up the question : Is it possible to convey a feeling you haven’t felt or to describe a scene you haven’t seen? I don’t know. But one of my mottoes is: Who cares if it’s true as long as it scans.
When I sparked that recent little sparing match with Annie with my smart alecy crack about the early bird, I was trying to convey a grumpy attitude. I most definitely was in a wonderfully happy mood. Wide awake, and the time I would have to start hating my alarm clock again was many days in the future. Of course that was just a bit of doggerel and I don’t know how well I succeeded. Serious stuff, though, takes more work.
I have a copy of Judson Jerome’s “Poets Handbook” and in there he quotes an old poem by I-forget-whom in which the poet is saying that he tried to learn all the forms and tricks of the trade of poetry but couldn’t seem to get it right. Then he was inspired by some Muse or something to just “reach into thine heart and write.” Jerome points out that this brilliant little poem was crafted that way. There was very little of the spontaneity that the poem conveyed that went into the deliberate crafting of it. (I guess it is sort of like Scott Hamilton making skating look so easy.) Jerome says that a lot of crap has been written by people just trying to spew emotion on to a page and calling it poetry. That’s not to say that a well-crafted poem can’t be composed quickly. I’ve seen examples of that, but even then some polishing is usually needed. I tend to agree with Jerome on this. In my own case, I tend to agonize over every word and comma, and then I’m still not sure I write it right.
I had to laugh when Scott R said, “For a long time I hated rhyming poetry. If it rhymed, it sucked.” It tickled me because I started out on the other side of the boat. Because of my basic ignorance, I thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. To me, if it didn’t rhyme, it was prose. Oh well, you live and learn. I think that we should bring back all the old forms as well as experiment with new. I think we should also break the “rules” if we want as long as we can make it work. I think we should master every tool and use whatever it takes to craft for the effect we want. I think that we shouldn’t be scared to use poetry to just describe – say a pretty flower for instance -- if we want to just because some snooty avant-garde fad says, “Oh! Flowers are so not with it, man. You dig?.” On the other hand, if we want to explore some deep dark emotion, then I say, “Go for it.” I guess what I am saying is there is only one rule – “Craft well.”
Not too long ago I was in on a scifaiku (science fiction haiku) list and the first poem I posted was one in which I was trying to convey what Clarke’s space elevator from “The Fountains of Paradise” would look like off in the distance with the already set sun hitting just it. I had also just seen a program on the History Channel about the transcontinental railroad meeting near Promontory, Utah and how it had ushered in a whole new era of commerce and communication. So I wrote the following little thing and posted it. I was mildly chided because it . . . RHYMED. Oh my! I had broken a rule. I don’t know if it worked well enough to justify the crime. You judge.
Distant shining trace – a golden spike through the clouds. Railway into space.
I don't know what real poets do, but I only write poems when in the grip of the feeling the poem is about. That's probably a severe limitation, but it's how it's always happened for me so far.
Usually some phrases or words just start coming to me, then I go over and over it searching for what is in the blank spots and finding a better word here or snipping something unnecessary from somewhere else. Once the entire meter changed after a day of playing. It always feels like I'm discovering something which is already there rather than inventing something which does not yet exist.
The same type thing happens when I'm painting or drawing. To me those feel exactly analogous to writing a poem.
I was very avant-garde when I first started writing poetry. Only non-rhyming, ethereal, weirdly phrased poetry for me. I bought into the myth that to be great poetry, it had to be absolutely vague, implausible, and incomprehensible. Had I continued in that vein, I can imagine myself sitting now in a closed room with six other people, smoking and trying to talk poetry and feeling totally empty about life. Kind of a Albert-Camus-existentialism take on "Dead Poet's Society."
I learned otherwise, and I hope my poetry reflects that. I may still be quite vague, but I'm not vague on purpose anymore.
Like aka, I usually start a poem with a phrase that pops into my mind. I try to build the poem around that phrase or theme, and let it grow from there. I love to play games with poetry- take three words, selected at random from the dictionary, and incorporate them into a poem. Dump a jarful of stuff onto the table, close your eyes, and pick up the first thing you touch. Then write a poem about whatever you picked up. (I wrote an awesome analogy about how a paperclip symbolized life's quirks and journies- I lost it, of course.) Playing with words like this has helped me get a grip on my style, and is fun to boot.
Scott, Now you know the true power of the dark side. It is your destiny
I don't usually write fixed form poetry, but here is a sonnet about (sort of) a very bad relationship I had. I wrote it for a creative writing class I took a year ago 9which is the only reason I think I would write in fixed form). I did not like it much then, and still do not like it much now. Give me your honest opinions. (surprise, it's Dark )
A boy is wakened from his slumbering rest, and lured beyond the confines of his walls to meet a cunning mind with supple breasts whose wicked plot it is to make him fall in love. But he does not know love from lust; his brain sees only perfect form, but her perfection shrouds disease, which, like rust decays the mettle of the boy. She butchers his fledgling pride and laughs her caustic laugh. She adds the broken boy to her batch of cloistered shells with whom she vents her wrath upon, releasing only to later catch. The callused, clammy hands close around her, to grope and bruise the flesh of a frightened daughter.
(The last two lines are supposed to be indented, but I could not get it to post that way)
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 25, 2000).]
Hmmm... interesting ideas, but I think sonnets should be happy. Sorry, Sarfa. Write it free verse and I can accept it as being dark, but if you write a sonnet, it has to be about love, butterflies, and the constancy of the human condition.
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
Sorry Annie, almost every poem I write turns out unhappy in the end (even poetry I intend originally to be at least neutral, like Chronos). I guess that says something about me. Oh well, we're all doomed (I'm not really that negative, but somehow art seems to bring out those negative feelings in me).
for every frown
still can't help, but bring me down maybe four
But this could not the problem fix. A hundred, maybe a million more could possibly start to even the score.
But if that many smiles did abound I cannot help to think I'd drown.
I don't think sonnets should be happy always. Sarfa, yours was as good an example as any of a dark sonnet. But what I liked is the way you still played around with the form - run on lines and so on - even though you were using a fixed metre and rhyme. So it still had a freer feel and didn't sound constrained.
I've been scribbling absolute heaps lately. Heaps of rubbish mostly, but here's one that I was quite proud of.
He created you from one soul – Holy Qur’an A Mu’min (believer) is a mirror for another Mu’min – Hadith of Prophet Muhammad (s.a.s)
Once a unit, created together, Why did we fragment Into a crowd of broken mirrors Glittering at each other; Sharp at the edges, roughened Or dulled by contact with evil and pain, And a rare few polished, Made clearer by love.
I long to be made whole again And reflect the face of Allah Entire in its glory. But until the Last Day I must be content to see my fragmentary Reflection reflected in your fragment.
Thank you Amira. Your poem has a great start, but I'm a huge fan of concrete images. With that in mind, you might consider giving specific examples of evil and pain (as well as love). That will convey the actual emotion much more effectually than simply writing the abstract words themselves. The last lines read a little awkwardly (like a tongue twister). I would try saying them ten times fast, but I would feel like an idiot talking to my computer screen . The poem has great potential though (sorry I kind of picked it apart, but the only reason I bothered is because it has the potential to be a really good poem)
Now here is one for you pick apart. I also wrote this one for the same creative class as my last one. It is not fixed form, but it did have to be in iambic pentameter (which I can't stand when used throughout an entire poem). This is my least favorite of the poems I have written that could be considered passable. It is about integrity, Let me know what you think
A clever mind with dexterous fingers can build a thousand wonders with sweat and steel; massive girders that stretch their shining tendrils upward, balancing clouds on fulcrum tips like Atlas holding the sky aloft.
But Janus lurks within the engineer, exchanging nimble digits for hooks and claws; gnarled, ugly things that rend and tear the flesh. Fragile limbs, cracked by twisted minds, attempt creation like a cripple striving to walk again.
But shattered hands can never build; once destroyed, they become a barren plot. A simple gesture now draws blood; to wipe a tear is to scar the face. These jagged hands, they only kill.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 26, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 26, 2000).]
The Stars Shone bright, With purity and prudence covering patient lips Of people moving softly against silent halls of salient comfort. They enter shimmered rooms that shone green shining trees, A promise of glory making greatness the goal proscribed. Houses are built for masses who start mirroring a master's heart Among frames facing upright. We must do and see, like Son for Father. We will do and see, like Brother for Son. We have seen and done, in turn back to Father. The dreaded darkness vanished And the ground does grow as against great skies Forming brown seed against blue for a better day. The bright sun emerges, stopped sudden by the moon. Flapping wings arise with other wierd creatures new, And thier kind and God's kind were kept together. With rest reastablished the sacred. A garden was given for two groveling folks Who were tricked by the half truth of a trouble maker Sent forth toward the field to fulfill a promise. How great is our fortune What delight now I see. Not before, but now shall we be Like a seed makes us He.
This is only the first part of a three part poem I am trying to write. Most people who read this will know what this is about. For others it might hold deeper meanings and for this reason I have to ask if the poem works. If it is badly written or seems to go too far in a certain direction I don't want to waste my time (because it took a long time to complete) trying to write the other three parts.
I corrected some of the punctuation.
[This message has been edited by Jettboy (edited January 30, 2000).]
Sarfa, thank you. I actually prefer for my poems to be picked apart than brushed aside with "good poem." I will read yours properly soon and comment at length, and yours too, Jettboy.
Here's mine, redrafted.
He created you from one soul - Holy Qur'an A mu'min (believer) is a mirror for another mu'min - Prophet Muhammad.
Once a unit, created together. Why did we fragment Into a crowd of broken mirrors Glittering at each other? Sharp at the edges, some roughened Or dulled by constant scraping Against the mud and stone Of our own inhumanity; But a rare few polished, Made clearer by love.
I long to be made whole again And reflect the face of Allah Entire in its glory. But until the Last Day I must be content to see My fragmentary reflection Reflected in your fragment.
I'm thinking of exchanging the word incompleteness for inhumanity. What do you think?
she hung it up on her wall. she printed it herself in the dark focused on light and chemicals the negatives danicing searching for clarity among lenses and filters.
she filtered reality through the gray sheen of a 3x5 glossy mesmerised by her past by a moment by an elusive smile on the face of a stranger.
one second that won't die makes her afraid sad and sometimes sends her into a religious ecstasy and she makes ferverent promsises obsequious and pathetic she worshipped immortality in a look that was immobile.
when she was sad the picture grinned showing hunter teeth displaying status grinding into dust her delicate webs of love.
and other times the picture smiled it was redemtion it was the love of a stranger on a 3x5 glossy.
it was a photograph that she hadn't taken on a negative she found on the sidewalk and someone's camera having captured the smile of a pedestrian changes shutter speeds elsewhere.
she developed it herself and now it hangs on her wall and she looks at it trying to understand whether the woman paintedin chemicals knows her loves her and wants her to live reflected in her glossy eyes in her glossy heart in her glossy dreams
what do you guys think?
there should really be a separate forum for poetry.
amira, I love it, the changes anchor the abstract with concrete images (I really like this one). The word incompleteness (or a synonym of) would probably work alot better than inhumanity. It would better tie in the shattered concept that seems to be your theme, and also, it is a term that is a bit more specfic than inhumanity. I still stumble over the last two lines, but after giving it greater thought, I kind of like it like that. It forces the reader to focus more intently on those lines, to contemplate them.
Jettboy, it is good, though their could be some more puncuation. Run on lines without consistent puncuation can lead to much confusion, and take away from the poem itself. I loved the use of alliteration. there were a couple of lines I had a bit of trouble with:
"Bright sun emerging, stopped sudden by moon" and "Who were tricked by half truth of a trouble maker." you really need the word "the" before bright sun, moon, and half truth. You use complete sentences throughout the poem (even if the puctuation isn't consistent), the use of the fragments in those two lines break up the continuity of the poem. Other than the lack of the puncuation & a few missing prepositions, the poem is great, I look forward to reading the next installments.
unperfect: I really liked your word usage. The poem was vivid and profound, but please punctuate. It is very hard to tell where one thought ends and the other begins, it is really distracting, as a reader, to have to go back and re-read part way through the poem because of lack of commas and periods.
I wrote this one a couple of months ago, it is the most recent of my works.
Her bleached-blond hair dusts the sweat slick floor of the stage. The lights flash blue, green, red against her oiled torso; contrasted by the dark pucker of areola and an oriental dragon wrapped sinuously around her navel. She unfurls her legs in front of a pudgy man with wispy hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Her dark thatch of hair is reflected, distorted by the thick lenses. The rhythmic vibrations of the bass fade away, replaced by the bored, gravely voice of the announcer. She gathers up her clothes and begins to pluck the crumpled wads of green paper that are strewn across the stage like tufts of wild grass. As she trots down the steps to the dressing room, she glances at the pudgy man in the front row with wispy hair and horn-rimmed glasses, consummating their affair with a smile.
All That hear me Fear not for Thy life Rather Listen To The quiet places And caution yourself Against the darkness That obscures The whispered protest They bring Men all learn one day or another the perilous Thinness of The Illusions That preserve them from destruction Those who stray too far from The lines of reason And remain deaf
Cannot withstand the morning light Which dispels the shadow
[This message has been edited by aka (edited January 30, 2000).]
The Moon makes them all Come a little closer along the climbing latter With a name in their hearts another never hears. Those having washed hands shall wear white robes Signaling the gratitude of glorious people grasped firm In the love of the laborer who leads the thrones. Those believing bow to the promise. Innumerable Kings and Queens unite strong as a tree. With Holy Heaven approaching, The annointed are two of the heart, the humbled knee and hungered soul; Having the past and present bound together to promise the future. In circles do the commited try to conduct peacefully As they pray for those persons who see problems of life Ever growing carefully gaurded by a garden of thorns. All holy houses stand forward.
This one is more cryptic than the last. I don't know how many people would know what it is about. That is the bueaty of art, to be able to interpret another's language to make sense to one's self.
Speaking of venerable, I feel like posting again the first poem I ever posted long ago on the old forum. Hopefully nobody's seen it before. It's about Odelay. Weird to see the music I was listening to then.
Those trains slam into the sound of living here Way too much; I can't even play guitar, Without being forced to harmonize With some godawful minor chord Not quite in key, which drops about A whole tone at the crescendo and fades away.
Lucky to go a whole song between two trains With maybe a tortured diminished fifth next time... And they crash my dreams as trombone tones in hell And they clash with the Cure and Chrissy and Run DMC, Adam Duritz' sweet pain, das Punkins, and TMBG...
But my beautiful Beck makes 'em sound so sweet Like he knew they were coming and planned it that way, And always above and behind the beat Singing way too loud, coming in, sliding down And finally, painfully, fading away... Those trains just egg him on out there Into weirder and groovier places inside the soul of listening to him.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited August 27, 2000).]
And here's the ORIGINAL original poetry thread. Thank goodness it wasn't gone! But the search function isn't working for me tonight for some reason. I just had to look through all the pages until I found it.
Posts: 5509 | Registered: May 1999
thought I'd revive this one as well, just in case anybody's interested in reading some more Hatrack poetry. (I think there's one by OSC in here somewhere if you care to look).
Posts: 748 | Registered: Dec 1999
Why do we start new threads when there are perfectly good old threads on the same subject? What is the purpose behind that? I love this thread. I hate to see it ever die. I find I must continue this yeborian exercise and bump this thread again to the top. Maybe I'll even write a new poem to post in it someday.
Hey, Lissande! Look on page one to find where I heard that Arthur / Eliot reference. Hahahahah!
[This message has been edited by aka (edited June 15, 2001).]
Fine, if you guys are gonna boycott the other thread I'll post this here...
To My Senses
Three months ago I thought I could cut metal with my fingertips. Said those exact words. Not by bread alone I said.
But some kinds of bread are so tasty. A long French baguette, I think I could eat a whole one eat yards and yards. And black pumpernickle rye with pastrami in the middle (probably meat counts as bread in the proverbial realm) and my dad makes such a loaf with that mix of his.
I could go on for a while and now I wish I had more room in my belly for bread.
There’s another girl and until I’m with her bread will fill me up just fine.
Alas, that's a good idea, I mean poem. Yay for the revival of the original original potry thread! Deany, I like your haiku a lot! Packs a lot into a few words. "Fragrant later" is really cool. It's the kind of phrase that stays in your mind, filled both with meaning and sound.
Posts: 5509 | Registered: May 1999
Yeah, thanks a lot. All the rest of you who don't like poetry, just don't post on this thread, and we'll assume that anyone who's never posted here doesn't like poetry. That should save us all some time and effort.
Yes, that does seem to be a good solution, doesn't it? You'd think people who didn't like poetry would be off with the people who don't like plays, and those who don't like music, and those who don't like fiction, wouldn't you?
But somehow they feel evangelical, I think. Not only do they not like poetry but they think we shouldn't like it either. So they're kindly giving us the benefit of their viewpoint, I gather. Which we, of course, gratefully receive.
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
I really need to get busy. There are so many things in the world that need to be ridiculed. I’ve been shamefully neglecting my parodies.
Meantime . . .
Tres, I like "Sand-walker."
Dean, I really like your haiku. Nice image. As for the phrase “fragrant later”: What aka said! She took the words right out of my keyboard.
BUT . . . you said that you are not poetically endowed. Endowed schmowed! It’s a craft that can be learned. Good haiku is not easy to write, or so I’ve read. This one either just flowed out of you spontaneously in it’s oh-so-smooth form or you took a lot of effort to make it look like it had. Either way -- nice work. Keep writing stuff.
Destineer, I like “My Senses.” I don’t completely understand it yet but each time I read it I get a little more. And it is very rereadable. I like the rhythm too.
Aka, what can I say? Of all the really good poets in Hatrack, you are certainly one of them. Thanks for posting “Those Trains” and “Recluse.” Are a couple of “wow”s in order here or what? However, I feel that I must critique one little thing you wrote. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can but two little words must be said in response to your statement: ”(Not original aka poetry, btw. Robert Frost. aka only wishes she could write something that good.)”
The poem I’m about to post came close to being the first thing I was going to post on the Forum way back when. Then I chickened out and went for flippant instead. I’ve chickened out several times since then because I’m still not sure how I feel about this poem. But I’ll take a chance.
I wrote it and my sister-in-law composed music for it with the intention of entering it into a hymn contest which we did indeed enter. But alas, we didn't win. I have changed some of the words and polished it up some since then. This form doesn’t exactly fit the music anymore either. I have always felt that it isn’t worthy of her music. The music she composed for it is very good -- every bit as good as the music in many of the hymns that we use in my church. Maybe the judges weren't ready for a hymn which is, in part, about fractal geometry. Of course there is the remote possibility that they had a lot of better hymns to choose from that year. At any rate, here it is. <drum roll>
THE TOUCH OF THE HAND OF GOD
In keys of all nature, perfectly tuned, Lilt worlds full of lyrical sights. With scent, sound, and touch in harmonic blend On rhythms of savory delights. In flawless arraignment His masterworks roll -- Sonatas of God to enliven the soul. Performed in one endless glorious round By the touch of the hand of God.
A galaxy's ponderous pirouette Is mirrored in eddies of foam. The dance in which all God's creations are set Are marvels of balance and form. The beauty in all of His uneclipsed art Both pleases the eye and gladdens the heart. Choreographed in all the light steps of hope By the touch of the hand of God.
If the thrill of discovery here heightens a sense Of wonder that nearly overwhelms, What might we see, from small to immense, Amid God's celestial realms? For eyes have not seen, nor have ears ever heard, Nor have mortals imagined the great things prepared - Serenity here; full happiness hence - By the touch of the hand of God.
Thanks, Sam. I'm not a big churchgoer, but I like your hymn. Certainly I understand the urge to praise the intricacies of the world, and I think you did it eloquently. Too bad you can't post the sheet music... though I can't read music anyway, I'm sure somebody would be able to enjoy it on that level.
To understand my poem better, you might want to look at "Original Poetry Cont" which contains several pieces I wrote about a girl that I was in love with last year. "To My Senses" is about me realizing that I'll be okay without her.
Thanks Sam, but I know I'm not poetically endowed. I've got my feet too firmly on the ground to think of high-flown verse. I can appreciate it, but I can't write it. I wrote that haiku in the car on my way home from school, and while it's decent for a non-poetic type, it's not real poetry. =)
Posts: 1751 | Registered: Jun 1999