The Flow

"Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement." ~ Christopher Fry

I haven't let my poetry flow in a while. Sure, I've let it pour out of me, but then I jumble it around and prod it with a meter stick. I've been reading cummings the past couple days, and I never ceased to be amazed by that kind of writing. I decided the easiest way to capture the ease of sound and feeling he creates was to outright copy him. So I picked one of his to use as a starting form, and I let my feelings fill in the blanks. Then I got angry with myself for using a form at all in this instance of flow, so I moved the blanks, deleted them, added more, then put in some punctuation. cummings's symbolism through punctuation is grand, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to embody.

There's something really magical about the world after the first snow. I took a grand afternoon nap today, and when it started to snow outside, I heard my mother say as much. With a smile on my face, I drifted to sleep. When I awoke, there wasn't a thick quilt of snow. It's more of a loosely-crocheted thing. But it still quiets everything. I felt like if I stood at the kitchen window long enough with my ear close to the glass I would hear the heartbeat of the bird in our neighbor's tree.

After the First Snow

I thank you Father for this most marvelous
day: for the soaring spirits of falcons
and a gray ballet of sky; and for everything
which is lovely which is finite which is true.

The world, which had died, is alive today,
this the moon’s birthday; this is the budding
of life and mist and love and stars, and of the
phenomenon boundless earth.

How should any breathing gasping snoring
sighing being be lifted above the nothingness
of all human-stardust merely seeing doubt?

Now the eyes of my fingers are opened and
the ears of my hands are awake.

Seeker of Truth

I just finished up reading Wizard's First Rule, which is part of the Sword of Truth series. This poem came out of that along with some thoughts on poetry I've had lately. What does it really mean to be a poet? etc.

Seeker of Truth

Two sides to the same magic,
loneliness and positivity,
pressed against each other
with the mint of Time.

The visionary must cast
his spells in silence,
even if completely surrounded
or utterly alone.

The endless circling path
of poetry magic winds
tightly, squeezing out space
for anything else, including Therefore.

Seekers of Truth in distorted
realities must check their
revelations against the
mirror of the coin at hand.

The course may take them
far from the start, toward
edges of reason, but they need
only look down at their feet.

Truth is scrawled in the shadows.


On top of this poem, I have a couple quotes for you from poets far wiser than I.

"Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance." ~ John Keats

"The poem is the point at which our strength gave out." ~ Richard Rosen

Explosions Off In the Distance

I didn't expect 2011 to feel any different, but when I woke up this morning (once I got past severe grogginess) I felt really optimistic. This year will definitely be better than 2010 for me in general, and I hope it will be better for my writing as well. I've been writing poetry off and on throughout break, so I've made writing into a new habit. That's one goal from last year I can check off my list. One other goal from last year was to read 50 books by the end of the year. I didn't quite get there, but 47 is still fairly respectable, I think. So, that goal is carried over to my list for this year. 50 books by the end of 2011. I'd love to make the goal of having the first draft of my novel complete and cohesive, but I won't set that one just yet. I don't know what God wants me to work on this year, and I need to take things as they come while trusting Him. I found a poem I wrote two years ago just after New Year's, so I'll post it here.

Folding the Map

Withering, fading wandering wrecked
grays of speckled haze of a winter day
know not more than they know for their own
appointed moment.

Mist vanishes versus vernal dreams
clearing a course for the rest of time,
which they contain no vision of.

For the suspicion of eternity is
only a suspicion, but for One
Who subsumes every solution and never
a single speculation.

Every speck of pollen holds
a glimpse of time but will never know
the ages of the oceans.