Dimly Lit!
Repoussoir effect of the light.
against a dark shade cloud lurks.
Louver, light coming through the billowing clouds
allowing a beam to shine.
Another light shadow of the clouds
canopy of clouds, and the dark side of the moon.
The shadows return,
while curtain hides light by passing moonlight through.
Pregnant Morn
Light caramel breeze
floods over the seas.
Sunrise wades
into our lives,
amber light
of promise, weaving
butterscotch drops.
Cobalt veil lifts
as night surrenders
to pregnant morn,
bleeding colors
and life
into layers
of our skin.
Our eyes
echo soft hues, as
we watch golden orb
continue its path,
struggling
to grasp life
in yearning hands,
ingrained perfectly
in formed memories
of this moment
in time.
You whisper
your dreams in
impressionist light
but I tint them
with my own afterglow,
trapped in my own
reverie of luminosity.
Without hearing
your rosy words,
I turn to see
that you are gone,
the sound
of seagulls fades.
A Poet’s Tale
Poetry is pure, raw, emotion. The poet reveals their most secret self. They rip themselves open, spill their own blood and write with it. You read a lifetime of a poet's work and you have read their soul.
Poetry, like a tree, has many branches. It's the rose of love, the thorns of hate. It's the warmth of fire, the freeze of ice. It's the blue skies of hope, the storms of grief, the sunshine of joy, the deepest oceans of depression.
Sometimes, I want to ride poetry's magic carpet forever, drifting between the lines of rhymes, metaphors and profound symbology. Other times, I want to grab its neck and choke it.
Poetry is sweet torment & masochistic torture. Poetry hurts. But it's worth it because, poetry is everything and everywhere. Poetry is soul.
Mutations
Poetry is an elegant yet crude road map of the human experience. Riddled with words left unsaid, tales of woe and a love so fierce it burns suns. All tied together neatly with a bow of alluring charm. Each verse encompassing the destruction and heartache of fire, the graceful finesse of water, the safety and warmth of Earth and last but not least the unpredictability of wind. Endeavouring to uncover the unbridled truth in the murky pits of a poem is futile. Poetry is a mysterious art that takes on a new form with each poet. In its simplest definition, it is a mutation subject to evolution.
Poetry- an Indefinable Definition
Poetry can rhyme, or be rhythmic. It can be descriptive, or nonsensical. It can have meter, stanzas, quatrains, or any number of stylistic qualities or formats. It can be critiqued- have essays written about it, like this one. It has symbolism, metaphors, and alliteration. It's meaning can be argued. It's merits can be objectively studied.
None of that matters. Poetry, really, is just about one thing. Trying to put into words just what you feel inside about a certain thing. It is by no means perfect or accurate, and it couldn't possibly describe exactly what you feel, but when that perfect poem is written, the poem that makes you feel a little gasp somewhere in the back of your heart, when a poem written five hundred years ago still means something to someone today, that is poetry. It is the imperfect attempt to capture what it means to be alive.