Rich talked about discovering old poetry. And then Kate posted one of her poems. I'd still like to do a designated day for airing out the bad poetry, but until then, here's one. There's a bandwagon and I'm on it.
So yes, this one's terrible, but I was in love and in complete awe of the emotion. Isn't that about the only time poetry gets written? When you're in love or depressed? Or both?
There is a candle, me and an image of you.
A dim yellow pool to write by in this quiet opressiveness,
- Or is it liberation?
and the never-expanding walls of this room.
so often a confine
Lit candle, walls, me, image of you.
All the ponderous equations that could derive life itself are here
- This defines me
yet the image of you becomes the ony solid form
nothing else holds significance.
Darkness, me, and an image of you.
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7 comments:
is a lovely name, and much neglected these days.
That's not terrible, Vic. It's someone in love.
That's why I'm in hiding until this particular bandwagon has rolled on by.
Hey. Blogger! Where did my " " disappear to?
Kinda buggered up my opening sentence.
It did it again!
Bugger!
I'll have to spell it out: "Ampersand; enn; bee; ess; pee".
Stupid bloody Blogger.
Wait a minute...
This is not bad. This is supposed to be bad poetry. I'm so not posting now.
I kinda like the poem, dark, mysterious and I could see myself writing something simmilar about my Mr Voldemort.
I liked it, it was kind of intense.
Thanks for the positive comments, everyone.
I guess the hard thing about finding old poetry (especially old love-struck poetry) is that it reminds you of the situation you were in at the time. For me it's hard to go through knowing that I don't have that feeling any more, and it brings up the foreboding that I never will experience that depth of emotion again.
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