In this moment…

In this moment lie two. Darkness, sweet, lay heavy. Here, in this moment, lies love.

Moonlight graces her tresses and her frame. Shine of sorrow, searing, and of pity, piercing. Their eyes are locked, inclined one to another. Eyes forlorn and longing to long. That time will come and will yet be under many moonless ages. In those receiving eyes, giving, unspeakable, lie unknowns, unrepeatable. The air carries no voice, but word does carry, slowed by the intoxication of the moment.

For all eternity, too long, and not long enough. Fear flutters on the cusp. Wearied will lifts laden lids. And he is utterly undone.

In this moment lie two. Both true and false. Both known and unknown. Both love and loss. Fear willed and sought safety, but unwitting welled deep and strong and true; love, where in this moment lie two.

The Storied Tale of You and I

You captured my gaze
and I entered this haze.

I followed my eyes
and you were my demise.

You gave me your smile
and I longed all the while.

I stood and withstood
and you gave all you could.

You gave me your heart
and I broke it apart.

But I couldn’t understand
til the moment I took your hand.

When in this deep darkness I cry,
it is you I have loved.

This is the beginning:
the storied tale of you and I.

Poetry 101

A poem I submitted to a college poetry 101 class in place of the final essay and, I’m rather proud to say, was a risk that paid off quite well for me:

Thus far
Or
What We’ve Learned This Semester

What we’ve learned this semester
Is first diction, and its poetic gesture.
Alongside syntax we are replete,
As in each poem it resides complete.

Thus far we know abundant true,
It is not in contrast we are to rue.
Rather like comparison and its fine detail,
Wherein its use the poet can not fail.

How then suppose you like a spring pool we ebb,
While imagery sticks as a fly in the web.
Simplistic and admitted, this verse to you will speak,
But we see simile like the smell of dung will reek.

Surprise! This stanza begins with a punctual break
But shock all the more for metaphor’s sake.
If we would pursue metaphor’s life,
Line after line, then conceit be rife;

But more eloquent may be if Helen’s face ever more,
Didn’t see the day allusion placed her frown in store.
Symbols still rise up from the words and much alike
Imagery is restored
Rhyme is abhorred
Form is adored
And enjambment and rhythm take a hike.

Still sweeter still is assonance’s strict stride
But bumpy is the blow when alliteration it can not abide.
And there is more to be sure in the aural profession
When flow of the cadence is put set in compression.

In this picture…

In this picture is a bale of hay. Another, smaller, lies to its right, some ways away. Dead grasses lie before it. The brown specks of Autumn lie behind. The waning sun shines upon it all and grants the place life and being…

In this picture is a bale of hay. Another, smaller, lies to its right, some ways away. Dead grasses lie before it. The brown specks of Autumn lie behind. The waning sun shines upon it all and grants this place life and being. A shadow is cast from this bale but it can not reach the fence on which you sit nor darken the thing I seek. The sun sets and Fall approaches, and it will endure many years.

Without this picture is another. It is cold, lifeless. The dead winter.

But there is no other picture, and, in this, is why sunshine can be seen breaking forth from the frame, does strike my face, and warms again my heart to hope.

In this dream…

In this dream stands a man. Two horses, two riders, two women before him. In his eyes is recognition.

In this dream stands a man. Two horses, two riders, two women before him. In his eyes is recognition. To his left a sidewalk. Its road vaguely running off to the school of his youth. A void stillness fills the place and a foreboding encroaches. An unknown urge for flight swarms his senses. Feet think before thought. He is taken away, sidewalk blurring, a surreal shifting of vision as the picture swims past him. Across the road he leaps, over to the opposite sidewalk; There he sees the second horse already astride. With a leap he is behind the rider. And the elements rush past. The first horse overtakes, storming on the road to their left. He scrambles to the ground. He runs and leaps once more, up behind the rider. The rider, and he, gallop. Their end is unknown.

All Writing is Poetry.

The best poets concentrate words so well that just a few lines can be read as a full-on essay. Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ode to a Skylark is one example. When understood in this way, Ode blooms with ideas and with striking similarities to how we write essays.

I used to be really into writing. I used to be a good speller, too, although you couldn’t tell these days.

In high school I took all the english and writing classes. After that, I didn’t concentrate on it so much. But I happened into a poetry 101 style course in one of my electives in college.

One thing I’ve discovered about writing–from a good writer–is that they are striving for poetry in whatever form of writing they are currently consumed with. Novel, text, sentence, quotation, treatise, song, fiction, non-fiction, all of these the best authors will attempt to fuse with the stylings of poetry.

Most poetry, I’ve found, are actually other forms of writing (expository, allegory, etc.) but they’re simply written in a highly compressed form. Poetry is, at its heart, the concentration of the language in order to retain only the most potent and relevant words. Techies would call it compression.

The best poets concentrate words so well that just a few lines can be read as a full-on essay. Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ode to a Skylark is one example. When understood in this way, Ode blooms with ideas and with striking similarities to how we write essays.

Another form of writing, I think I may have pioneered, is the self quote, and I’ve only recently realized that its attraction is its poetry.

Many famous people are quoted. They are most often quoted from within a body of immediate context. Meaning they were giving a speech or were writing a book and a quotation has been pulled out.

The self quote, on the other hand, is a stand-alone writing. It has no body of context to draw on. It took me years to understand why I liked writing them. The reason, I’ve come to believe, is because I am writing poetry. The premise is similar. Concentrate a big thought into something bite-size, strategically writing in or leaving open thoughts that expand and support the main thrust.