I realized that the majority of my posts lately have been all about the trials a tribulations of being a writer. And while the blog is entitled, inside a writers head, it can get dusty in here, so, in light of the peculiar precipitation outside my window, I thought I’d post some actual writing for a change.
I’ll warn you right now, I can in no way be considered a poet. I have had a long-standing dislike of writing poetry. Don’t get me wrong, I do like reading poetry but I like the stuff that rhymes, sue me. Edgar Allen Poe – The Raven, Robert Service – The Cremation of Sam McGee, Gordon Lightfoot – The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald and strangely, Dr. Seuss and Robert Paul Weston – Zorgamazoo; I love the sound of it, and by my choice of Dr. Seuss you can see that sometimes the words don’t even have to be real words or make sense.
Not that the other types of poetry aren’t good, just not my taste. In the Advanced Creative Writing class I took through Durham College, James Dewar and Sue Reynolds taught a section on poetry. I resisted. In fact on one particular poetry assignment, I included this quote. “Poetry has gotten away from the Robert Bateman type imagery and is now firmly entrenched in Salvatore Dali territory. All melted clocks, partial faces and impossible architecture.” James and Sue, great poets themselves, actually got a kick out of it.
I did come away with a respect for poetry and, believe it or not, it actually made my descriptions better by using the techniques used in poetry. I even managed to write a sonnet. Yeah, I was shocked too.
So, without further bemoaning here is my try at actual poetry. I’ll let you figure out what it’s about. Afterall, isn’t poetry suppose to be mysterious and have many interpretations? Remember, I never said I was good. Echoes contains the only other poetry I’ve written that I actually liked. One written by Mary and the other by Eric.
By Dale Long
Oh glist’ning star that whets my tongue reveals
the fire, which burns inside, by breathed smoke.
You bewitch my eyes with your whirling reels,
envel’ping the world in your silent cloak.
Why fall you from the heavenly coffers?
With count’nance so fair as to blind mine eye,
has your pale brilliance fallen from favor,
supplanted, you fall to the earth to die?
Shall I sing you a song of love long gone,
Or ply you with tales of onetime glory?
But no, I fear my words, while drapes full drawn
may break the spell of this scene most hoary.
I’ll sit here in silence watching you go,
sit here in silence like new fallen snow.