Free verse № 135430
To Michelle
As I sit here, alone
in this one room apartment
my thoughts turn to you
as they have so often.
My mind roams
though I wish it not to.
Bereaved by that knave
âMisfortuneâ of loveâs proof
and the vessels of
memories rewritten
in the emptiness of truth.
My beloved, my angel
my greatest of lies
you are more than you
once seen through these eyes.
A vision of you graces
the recesses of my mind.
My eyes strain and I am blinded
by pain as your vision erases
before my minds eye can see
that face that Faustus sought.
Oh, for but one glimpse of you
my soul too could be bought.
So I burden my pen
to encompass your beauty
but it snaps under the
weight of my words.
I, the mute genius
perched above hellâs doors
as the hour, the hours, the hoursâ¦
If only they were ours.
Our love, our heaven,
our greatest of lies
we are more than us
once seen through these eyes.
40 comments
Hey, it's yuletide, the hatchet-burying time, when people pretend to get along. Really, give me an honest comment and I'll return the gift.
Words of wisdom: Most burried hatchets end up burried in skulls.
You want honesty? The truth is almost every day is Christmas for me.
That's what I thought. You wouldn't believe me even if I'd told the truth. It's the story of my life.
Merry Christmas Dovina.
You're one of my favorite rankers on this site, honest.
I think you can write fine love poems as long as they aren't about someone you love. That's where I find the difficulty because you can't see the broad picture when your right there in the middle of it. I've rewritten this poem countless times and I'm still not satisfied with it most likely because it was about someone I was madly in love with. So my advice is to try to write a love poem about two other lovers.
You're right I missed the "I" in "I wish..." DOUGH! I should have gotten some sleep before posting this. I'm right on it.
May she rest in peace.
I grew up reading Poe so he tends to creep into alot of my stuff.
I hope she's not dead. I see how you get that. It's more about the harsh reality of excepting that the love of your life was never really meant to be. This tends to be the case with artists as they tend to imagine their lovers on a pedestal that could never possibly be reached. Fate seperated us time and time again and eventually you just have to move on. So alas I have excepted that my love for her will be requited nevermore.
so I thank you, deeply.
I'm not saying it's neccessary, if you wan't to write "The Jabberwocky" well then go right ahead. But what's the point of writing if you're not expressing reality? History has plenty of melodramatic poetry from the 19th century, it doesn't need any more. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.
Now if he's writing a book entitled Antiquities Of The Mind then he's on the right track.
What do you mean "mythical tone"?
Name one poet who reverted to writing in a style from a previous era.
I find the affectation of old styles has a charm that does not have to be comical, if done well.
My point is not that people should stop writing about love, my point is that new poetry should be written in a style that reflects the present. Alchemy is who he is now. The feelings he writes about are felt in this era not in another. To contrive some sort of sappy flourish in style comes off as completely insincere, false, stuffy and pompous. There are quite a few lines that on there own wouldn't create an alien atmosphere. But one after another after another is heavy handed. The reader reads to connect with the author. A thoughtful writer will mirror the times he lives in not abandon it.
By the way, what is the new poetry movement? Last time I checked there hasn't been anything revolutionary in poetry since the beat poets. Maybe we should all just follow your lead. Do you have any poems here that are innovative and unique?
when you take a belligerent twat
and mix her with an uptight swot?
By God you have got
another form of TWOTT.
To be called a twott
With newness of thought
On a poem I called a mess
To the end that he messed it no less
Totals out to a nonpoetic pest
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