Re: Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings
Posted: Wed Nov 07, 2007 6:30 am
That's beautiful Eternum...as usual. Your answers are poetic in themselves...at least to me.
I'd like to post She Writes Poetry here. Eternum, If you'd rather me remove it from this forum, let me know.
If anyone wants to comment on the prose, please do so on Eternum 1's link.
The link again: She Writes Poetry
She Writes Poetry
She searches hidden places, knowing intuitively that poems are the bubbles hidden within the caldera of creative volcanos. Letting those bubbles come slowly to the surface or with an explosion decides the tempo of her writing.
Her readers wonder who or what is she. Her image evades kodachrome negatives like movement under curling waves. She began writing herself into the world as a young girl and only her secret muse knows her themes have played always against that central being.
The men in her life reflect the same urges to combine perfect words and soulful belonging. Between lovers, her poetry aches with desire like cracking earth in a prairie drought. Among those cracks are tortured yet strong desert flowers that reveal her stark beauty when she abides with loneliness.
When the drought is over with expansive joy of flood and rebirth, she shares the pleasures of newfound spring, new love and the world stops, just for a second and lifts her high as a favored champion.
No longer does she need to question her purpose or allow her desire to gestate in sanctuaries for the pregnant, to await the birth of a new flower without the species thorns.
Now her words lick and touch us, words flowing like lubricating oil from kisses to post coital bliss as we are carried by her intimate command of feminine superlative.
Does this mean she's a better poet in love? Not really, but this aspect of her is the peak we can see her from, most of us being too timid to follow her into dark valleys and barren deserts.
She writes poetry with intuitive understanding that words never capture the total experience but they can come so close as to leave a reader with mirrored ripples on the surface of his mind. She fills our need for belonging near as much as her own.
We read her poems like making love. Learn her rythyms through tactile fingers of words and the soothing sensual phrases she lingers over. Most of all, she leaves us deeply satisfied at the end but always wanting more. And, more she always has to offer as if all the women whoever lived are revealed in brief glimpses of skin with every write.
She can take us back in time or forward in fantasy. Into the darkness of death or the depths of madness, for she is a poet and speaks the language of dreams.
You can 'know' her but never really know her, anymore then you can know the plus sign as concretely as the numbers around it. Yet she does not see her own marvel, sensing that the original vision is impossible to capture, like a smoke ring only she had the imagination to grasp. No more then a man knows a woman's orgasm as well as his own can most people comprehend fully the desire to capture that experience unrequited.
But other poets know as they lift her up and in so doing are compelled to climb the heights beside her.
Because she writes poems and poetry is life connecting to life.
I'd like to post She Writes Poetry here. Eternum, If you'd rather me remove it from this forum, let me know.
If anyone wants to comment on the prose, please do so on Eternum 1's link.
The link again: She Writes Poetry
She Writes Poetry
She searches hidden places, knowing intuitively that poems are the bubbles hidden within the caldera of creative volcanos. Letting those bubbles come slowly to the surface or with an explosion decides the tempo of her writing.
Her readers wonder who or what is she. Her image evades kodachrome negatives like movement under curling waves. She began writing herself into the world as a young girl and only her secret muse knows her themes have played always against that central being.
The men in her life reflect the same urges to combine perfect words and soulful belonging. Between lovers, her poetry aches with desire like cracking earth in a prairie drought. Among those cracks are tortured yet strong desert flowers that reveal her stark beauty when she abides with loneliness.
When the drought is over with expansive joy of flood and rebirth, she shares the pleasures of newfound spring, new love and the world stops, just for a second and lifts her high as a favored champion.
No longer does she need to question her purpose or allow her desire to gestate in sanctuaries for the pregnant, to await the birth of a new flower without the species thorns.
Now her words lick and touch us, words flowing like lubricating oil from kisses to post coital bliss as we are carried by her intimate command of feminine superlative.
Does this mean she's a better poet in love? Not really, but this aspect of her is the peak we can see her from, most of us being too timid to follow her into dark valleys and barren deserts.
She writes poetry with intuitive understanding that words never capture the total experience but they can come so close as to leave a reader with mirrored ripples on the surface of his mind. She fills our need for belonging near as much as her own.
We read her poems like making love. Learn her rythyms through tactile fingers of words and the soothing sensual phrases she lingers over. Most of all, she leaves us deeply satisfied at the end but always wanting more. And, more she always has to offer as if all the women whoever lived are revealed in brief glimpses of skin with every write.
She can take us back in time or forward in fantasy. Into the darkness of death or the depths of madness, for she is a poet and speaks the language of dreams.
You can 'know' her but never really know her, anymore then you can know the plus sign as concretely as the numbers around it. Yet she does not see her own marvel, sensing that the original vision is impossible to capture, like a smoke ring only she had the imagination to grasp. No more then a man knows a woman's orgasm as well as his own can most people comprehend fully the desire to capture that experience unrequited.
But other poets know as they lift her up and in so doing are compelled to climb the heights beside her.
Because she writes poems and poetry is life connecting to life.