Express yourself by writing a poem!

[Saturn]

Long story...

too complicated.

I've already bored everyone on this forum with the details and its all in the poems anyway.

[dks]

CP--I simply love your poem--it's terseness is so tender and succintly lovely, that I rather think it is unabashedly reminiscent of Anne Sexton or Denise Levertov--two great contemporary women poets.

[AhDistinctly]

Beautiful poem, CP. I love the absolute simplicity of it -- it is believable, genuine. I am not saying this exactly right, but it is like you took all the glorious, poetic, romantic thoughts you could about this person -- and then put it through a distillery until all that was left was (-- ugh! I'm struggling for the word here --) until the thoughts were reduced to their basic elements ... natural.

Its the first poem I've ever been proud of. I still love reading it now.

That's how you know you got it "just right!"

[Richard]

The Peony

Now, of all of the flowers that I know and I love

there is one which through life had a beauty above

all of those hybrids who through makeup smile

flash petals, fake fragrance, false feeling. While,

still under the ground with slow secrets she beats

instinctively assembling her summers treats.


I crouch by the fire, bitter dour February,

Outside scour winds growl low, raw menacingly,

darkwinterbeasts prowl frost day, clamping her flow

in a bare metal screw; But deep down I know

that gentle, probing shoots are breaking free

the earth splits, she reaches out, immediately !



When late May comes, and days lie in the sun

under trees softly leaved, unique green each one.

From far beyond China to my Mothers flower bed

she’ll be waiting to punctuate June with wild red

and yes: all of her promises will be kept – soon

as the Peony bud is bursting with bloom!



Richard

[AhDistinctly]

What a beautiful tribute to my favorite flower! My favorite lines:

From far beyond China to my Mothers flower bed
she’ll be waiting to punctuate life with wild red

That is indeed a peony! Thanks for sharing, Richard.

[dks]

Gorgeous, Richard.

I love your imbedded rhyme--nicely tucked internally within your stanzas.

I particularly love these lines:

While,

still under the ground with slow secrets she beats

instinctively assembling her summers treats.


I crouch by the fire, bitter dour February,

Outside scour winds growl low, raw menacingly,

darkwinterbeasts prowl frost day, clamping her flow

in a bare metal screw; But deep down I know

that gentle, probing shoots are breaking free

the earth splits, she reaches out, immediately !


From far beyond China to my Mothers flower bed

she’ll be waiting to punctuate life with wild red

Your structural freedom is right in line with the thematic element of the peony breaking free from the 'splitting earth.'

Nicely done.

[Saturn]

Excellent Richard - thanks for sharing your work with us

[Richard]

Thanks for your kind words of encouragement. Part of the rhizome has been blooming in our families gardens for many generations. A true perennial, now enriched with the bonemeal of my mum's ashes.
It started out as a bit of romantic doggerel in a mothers day card, but was re-written (and much improved) on the eve of her funeral. After I realised that John Masefield's CLM didn't quite say it.
I like the tune, is it anapestic?
I started writing some Larkinesque onism the other day, but it took a right turn into something nasty that quite shocked me. Its not very good fare for 'international readership', also its not very good, period.

Richard

[Richard]

Well the silence I take as tacit encouragement. It will be nice to get this monkey off my back. Its parochial or is it Larkin?
In my defence I have found New Yorkers refreshingly open, the problem comes from trying to ring the country with the unemployable trying to do the impossible and only succeeding in pissing everyone off. UK TV seems to be a platform for Michael Moore at the moment. I started this close to the anniversary of 9/11

Hi Jacked Half Verse

Streets queue, red brick lined, my terrace eyed home.

Tossed, stained mattress thrown, over last terms dreams.

Here, a cotoneaster, overgrown

can happily be. A church looms, and seems

run aground, some time ago on ridges grey

that gather the gloom. Up to the high street

loud with light; Chinese, Indian, latte.

My pizza packed alive! Western eyes meet,

A snap joke cracked, his get yet, less yet more

Oriental. Accented attitude

rooted through, red black country clay. Unsure

disorientated while eating food

my way irongated. Trash can – and does over

spill coughing U.S. tradenames, wrapped or trapped

round railings strain, oil stained bushes Shroud cover

power blinded one way allies. You crapped

with supine shadows, ‘twixt the twin towers

of the Eastgate pillars, where zealots rule.

What wounded beast by barricades cowers?

Could it be a continental faith school?

From the low terrace opposite I hear the silent alarm
Of waters melting.


I was thinking of making it 2997 words (the total fatalities ?)and spreading it over 2 pages, the text consolidated to form, oh you've guessed it. And I have been to ground zero, and I can type the name George W Bush, just.