PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Thank you.  And no, I didn't: Thank you.  And no, I didn't mind bearing the brunt (although I did not think of it as a brunt at all).  I am going to see the new Little Evan now.

And that trodding away shall: And that trodding away shall progress from dreary to solemn to sublime!

Powerful mood shift: I didn't anticipate the suggestion of a distanceless, soulful connection, albeit in a bittersweet moment, to shift into such a lonely drag through a fog. From gentle to heavy, and very well written.   Detachment may reduce sadness, but also all but eliminates joy. I hope you will reattach yourself, despite the difficulties life surely does offer.

This poem is so bleak it gave: This poem is so bleak it gave me a chill while reading it, and I had only to look out my window (although in January, not November) to see a real-time analogue to what you have described.  Just as much poetic skill is required to describe this aspect of reality as it does to describe a sunny, warm day; and you have deployed your words powerfully and succinctly.    As for whether it appeals to several, or many, others . . . mass appeal does not validate or invalidate a poem.  I don't know if you are familiar with the Poet, Wallace Stevens, who, during his lifetime, was a lawyer andi insurance company executive, more well know for his expertise on surety bonds than on poetry.  His poems were considered difficult and lacking in much appeal, yet he was deeply and consistently appreciated by a "chosen few."  During the eighties and nineties, I had the thrill to watch Stevens' star ascend while, correspondingly, Eliot's star had begun to descend.  And now, forty-four years after receiving that advice to read him, I am still reading him.      By the way, your poem reminds me of Stevens' great, but very short and very chilling poem, "The Snow Man."  I do not make comparisons to his work lightly; and I mean it as a compliment.  Both you and Stevens capture, in ordinary words, the very chill of a bleak landscape.  Your words not only have their sounds, they also convey what it feels like to be cold, just as Stevens' snowman poem did in 1921, and continues doing so to this very day.  I think you should be very pleased with your accomplishment in this poem.  And I am very impressed with it, although I may prefer to read it again when a bit of warmer weather has arrived in our region.

Thank you Wordman, I: Thank you Wordman, I appreciate that, iit doesn't seem to have appealed to many others though. sue.

This painting you worded: This painting you worded would be hung in an art gallery for its beauty. Wonderful context, thanks for posting. 

My favorite poem is called: My favorite poem is called Caged Bird by Maya Angelou. I memorized it after a good friend of mine committed suicide in high school.   A free bird leaps on the back of the wind    and floats downstream    till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.   But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and    his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.   The caged bird sings    with a fearful trill    of things unknown    but longed for still    and his tune is heard    on the distant hill    for the caged bird    sings of freedom.   The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own.   But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams    his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream    his wings are clipped and his feet are tied    so he opens his throat to sing.   The caged bird sings    with a fearful trill    of things unknown    but longed for still    and his tune is heard    on the distant hill    for the caged bird    sings of freedom.       You needn't love your cage, Rachel. There's little to love about feeling trapped and unwanted. But I hope you realize that even in just writing this poem you are learning to sing, in spite of the prison of your current circumstance. The free bird may seem happier, but the caged bird possesses a depth of perseverance that can only be discovered during times of immense loneliness. I hope as you continue to sing through the hatred, that you also learn to sing in love. Not just romantically of course, but an even greater love, a love for yourself and the song you sing while you're feeling trapped. You are good enough exactly as you are and you deserve to be told so. Every human being is valuable just because they exist and I pray that you learn to sing on these beautiful things during this season of temporal inprisonment. Keep on singing, caged bird, you will find freedom someday. All things are possible for those who believe.