...And now I'm writing poems at random for some damn reason...LOL. I guess it's because I'm studying poetry in English class and suddenly got inspired?...
It's okay though. It's kind of therapeutic to me. And it gives me a chance to use my writing talents when I can't think of a story or how to continue with a book. Who knows?--maybe it will help me with my book. (I am still working on it but lately I've been sidetracked by, um...things. So it's coming to me, just not on paper.)
It's funny, too, because up to now, I had always thought my poetry sucked. I could never figure out how to structure it--I figured there was a certain way a poem had to look. After actually reading some poetry--and liking it!--I'm realizing that there's really no definite way to write a poem. You just write it! I always believed that poetry comes from the heart...and it would stand to reason that the way it's written should come from that same place. :)
To date I've written six poems, in different styles. Two of these may become part of an invisioned (not quite planned, lest this all be just a phase) series.
I do have a few poems I would like to share with everyone here. The others--and anything that follows--will be published momentarily, once I've created a new blog for all my poetry.
The first is about a recent newsmaker; the second is about a love interest (if you'd dare call it that; I have my reasons for calling it that); and the third is about a fear I've had for years.
Just so we're clear, much of the first poem is based mainly on what I've heard from the news and on my own personal speculation.
By the way, these are not definites, so if you have any suggestions or how I could make these better, please let me know...
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Persephone and Hades
I pick flowers one morning in my valley
As I walk on to begin another day.
I have never known any pain,
Under the umbrella of my mother’s love.
Diem perdidi! My days are lost
To rusted metal and screeching wheels;
I shall never know the world again
For I have left my dear Olympus.
You have dragged me far below the Earth
And locked me away with your dead;
You have retaught me the concept of love,
And built for me a dungeon of sheets.
Three years pass; I know the cost of a cat
And in exchange I pay with pain—
Three-fourths of the year, incapacitated!
My days of youth and joy have now died.
Four more years—the brooding season returns.
My belly swells again from you.
By now I beg to be free—
But alas, slapped silent! So I write it down.
You keep me “home,” feeding me books
And a pantry of sour arils;
I again see light, two-thirds of the year,
But all is not the same.
You claim yourself divinity
And tell me to worship sex;
My girls have become your altar boys
And I, your temple prostitute.
Has the cold heart of Hades become aflame?
Have you finally seen the face of God?
You have now shed your devilish mask
And released me from your shadows.
For eighteen years I forgot the Sun
But in her place found two brilliant lights;
They shall shine on and join the stars
In my long-lost Olympian sky.
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Le Garçon
Those eyes, those soulful eyes!
Their illumination beckons.
They seduce me, pulling me in your direction
With their silent, sultry song,
Clouding my thoughts, haunting my dreams,
Caressing the essence of my very soul.
Your face, your rich dark hair, your swagger,
Even your tattered hippie clothes—
Everything about you makes my heart dance.
I see your personality; I hear your voice.
These things make me quiver.
For a moment, you become a god.
How I long to be your goddess,
That we may build a temple together.
But you consort with your maidens,
And you drink your wine,
And you fool around in your lightning clouds
And you leave me to die among the accursed mortals!
Your silence is a deafening torture;
My ears have bled three years nonstop.
Around you, all I hear is dust.
I blame myself, for loving you.
All I ever did was love you.
Perhaps I stifled your air?...
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Apiphobia
Every summer, the trees have thorns.
The grass and flowers and bushes have thorns.
The brick-wall buildings, the warm concrete,
That mud puddle by the construction site—
All these things have thorns.
A bottle of soda left out to bake
May have a thorn or two.
I think I’ve even seen a few
Protruding from a chicken bone
Peeking out of a garbage can.
A thorn here, a thorn there.
Thousands of them float around in the air!
On the window, on the wall—
There’s even thorns inside.
I’ve got nowhere to hide!
Every place is a potential prick;
Even the soft clouds above have thorns.
Even the invisible stars of day!
Everything, everyone, everywhere—
All I see are thorns.
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