 Poetry: August 17, 2005 Issue [#537] |
  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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For years I have found comfort in the chilling words of many poets. Going through my books of poetry, I noticed that almost all the poems I have mark would fall into a tragic category. Then after reading about some of the poets lives, I realized that many of them were haunted by their own demons. That their poems mimicked their lives. It seemed be able to write their poetry so many of them had to give up a little bit of their own sanity.
The thought of their heartbreak and pain shared in their poetry seems to make my personal demons feel a little smaller and that I am not the only one. Maybe it is true that a writers mind is different and unique, that they feel life deeper than the rest. I once again found refuged in the written words of some of these poets and want to share some with you. I hope you enjoy them.
I measure every Grief I meet (561)
by Emily Dickinson
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –
I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –
I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –
I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –
The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –
There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –
In Sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –
To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like My Own –
Alone
by Edgar A. Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
THE END
Two Graves
By Robert Service
First Ghost
To sepulcher my mouldy bones
I bough a pile of noble stones,
And half a year a sculptor spent
To hew my marble monument,
The stateliest to rear its head
In all this city of the dead.
And generations passing through
Will gape, and ask: What did he do
To earn this tomb so rich and rare,
In Attic grace beyond compare?
How was his life in honour spent,
To worthy this proud monument?
What did I do” Well, nothing much.
’Tis true I had the Midas touch.
A million pounds I made wherewith
To glorify the name: John Smith;
Yet not a soul wept for me when
Death raft me from my fellow men.
My sculptor wins undying fame,
While I, who paid, am just a name.
Second Ghost
A wooden cross surveys my bones,
With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.
And round it are five hundred more;
(A proper job did old man War!)
So young they were, so fresh, so fit,
So hopeful— that’s the hell of it.
The old are sapped and ripe to die,
But in the flush of Spring was I.
I might have fathered children ten,
To come to grips with sterling men;
And now a cross in weeds to rot,
Is all to show how fierce I fought.
The old default, the young must pay;
My life was wasted, thrown away.
While people gladden, to forget
The bitterness of vein regret,
With not a soul to morn for me
My skull grins up in mockery.
. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,
And always will be—War and Wars.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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#991349 by Not Available. |
WHEN THE WORLD STOPS TO REST
In the hustle and bustle of everyday life
we forget the small things that count most;
So eager to make a difference, we rush
far away from the peace of the seacoast.
The mountains still rise, beneath the skies,
and the birds soar high above all the land;
The clouds keep on moving, ever so slow -
it's a life lesson we don't yet understand.
We don't stop to take a fresh breath of air,
or to notice the wildflowers all in bloom -
How long has it been since you've given in,
to take a lesurely walk under the moon?
Have you noticed the stars shining so high,
so many miles above you in the night?
When were you amazed to see a deer graze
with a small fawn held firm in her sight?
Nature gives us so much, to see and touch,
and we need to pause in reflection now,
In silence she waits for us to slow down
and look at our life differently, somehow.
For when all is said and done, the only one
who will really understand what is best -
Is the one who will stop for a minute to see
all the beauty, when the world stops to rest.
Countrymom
Thanks for the inspiration, Poetic Bear!
716/05
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These are the rules:
1)You must use the words I give in a poem.
2)They can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem.
3)All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] by September 10, 2005.
4)The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post. (September 15, 2005)
The words are:
end sunshine last hot summer wind change beginning
 Good luck to all
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If there is a poet you would like to read about in my next newsletter please let me know.
Thank you!
Stormy Lady |
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