A poet I will never be with ease,
Though rhymes and rhythmic tools confound me not.
I order words in lines just as I please,
But find that eloquence cannot be taught.
I yearn to put my passion on the page,
To move the soul and mind with what I write,
To pen soliloquies worthy of stage,
To bring to cry, to laugh, to love, to fight.
I've lived these things, but cannot find a way
To make them real and living once again.
My words, mechanical, precise, just say
Exactly what they say, not what I mean.
Farewell, then, structure, lines perfect in form.
To speak good poetry, look past the norm.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Poetry and form
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Well, honestly, darlin', I always thought you were better at poetry than like the rest of us.
ReplyDeleteBut like I feel the same way with poetry. I never feel like I'm good at it, even though I can do things with rhythm and rhyme easily enough.
But you were just rereading old poems on this blog, right? And a lot of them are really freaking good to the point that I envy you (affectionately, more in the way of awe and appreciation).
And this poem is just beautiful because it does and is exactly what you say and I don't think there's any better way to express what you're expressing and how do you even do that?
Magic.