Poetry - A Lasting Art Form

Poetry is something that has been around for ages, and it is something that has been savored and relished by many people across the globe for centuries. There are several different styles of poetry, and each one of them is enjoyed thoroughly. My favorite poem (and many other people's as well), is by Edgar Allan Poe, and it is entitled "The Raven." The powerful feelings and emotions welled up from inside of me each time I read this spectacular work never truly go away, always remaining inside of me, until they become too much to bear and I force myself to read it again. And I always enjoy it, each time, for I am filled with awe at the smooth-flowing rhymes of Poe, and, well, to be frank, the deep-sounding word patterns which appear so often in this somewhat lengthy poem (I am also a fan of Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart").

But enough of that.

The real reason I started writing this essay was to show off a couple of poems of mine, and see if anybody else had any they had written.

Well, here they are:

“The Powers of a Storm”
‘Twas a dark
and stormy
night.
Lightning
crashed down
from the distant,
far off
heavens.
And the force
of the thunder alone
rocked the Earth
and sent it into shambles.
And so,
the world was defeated -
defeated by a mere tempest -
defeated by a mere storm.

“The Gods’ Pity”
He cast about in the gloom, searching, seeking,
But in vain, for what he sought could not be found.
This thing, this thing that he searched for--
He had been familiar with it once.
But he possessed it no more,
For countless, careless reasons.
This thing,
O it was a joyous thing!
But when he lost it,
A feeling of misery and despair overcame him,
And he longed for it once more.
This is how he came about searching, seeking,
Seeking for the one thing he desired so badly,
Seeking for the one thing,
That was the only thing he needed.
But he could not find it,
And this tormented him so.
He kept searching, tho’,
Driving his soul on to the very ends of the earth,
But still he could not find it,
And this,
This drove him mad.
Yet he continued his quest for the one thing,
The one thing that was so close,
A hand’s breadth away, in fact,
From his burning, suffering being.
But at the same time it was distant,
As distant as the overlying heavens,
As distant as the land is from the sea.
And in the final struggle,
In the last chance he had,
To repossess this thing,
He did not find it:
It found him.
For the Gods, those ancient beings,
Who constructed the universe, space and time--
They took pity on him,
In that last moment of desperation,
In which the mortal reached out,
In which he flung his soul--
And gifted him,
Blessed him with a magical sense of serendipity.