National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Vaughn Neeld]

Day 15

Anticipation

Pip
wanting only
welcome,
grips the
cold, iron bars
separating him
from all that he
desires.

Estella,
among seeming splendors,
gazes from her
mullioned window,
perceiving the iron shafts
as prison bars.

Miss Havisham,
amid
unacknowledged disintegration,
spins a cobweb dream
for Pip,
playing on his
innocence.

Pip,
expecting great things,
finds only dust, dirt,
misery.

Oh,
people of Central America,
beware of
great expectations.

[Vaughn Neeld]

Gyppo, I really like your poetic instruction on how to handle fish. Of course, I don't ever intend to touch a live one, but at least I'll know how if I ever must.

[Gyppo]

Day 15

Anticipation

Estella,
among seeming splendors,
gazes from her
mullioned window,
perceiving the iron shafts
as prison bars.

There is a fine sense of foreboding which grows throughout this enjoyable poem as it builds to an almost Oracular finale.

As a side issue...  I remember 'doing' Great expectations at school, and the English teacher was, I felt, unduly fascinated that I saw Estella as being as much a victim, thoroughly manipulated, as Pip.  I also remember that most of the girls hated her.  They didn't have much time for Pip either, thinking he was 'too soft for his own good'.  Maybe this was a generational thing?

Gyppo

[Gyppo]

SHEEP AND LIONS

Even mountains built
for Big Horn Sheep and lions
shrink in the rear-view
mirror if you keep on driving.

Many wonderful phrases, but this is the stand-out for me.  Could stand alone as a short poem.  Or the sort of thing some people would cross-stitch onto a sampler.   (Some of those sayings are eternal truths rather than simply trite admonitions.)

 Reminds me of that saying about 'When you are going through Hell, keep going.  Don't look over your shoulder or stop to admire the scenery.' 

Gyppo 

[Vaughn Neeld]

Gyppo, yes. Estella was also a victim, and you might even say Miss Haversham was also. Just as Estella was fenced in by those bars, Miss Haversham was fenced in by her extreme reaction to rejection. If you haven't read the book lately, you really should go back and try again. It means so much more once we have a little life experience behind us.

[Gyppo]

I may just do that, once poetry month is over.

But right now I don't want to load my mental short term vocabulary with Victorian English, otherwise I might find Subconscious Plagiarism Gratuitously Expanding my lines with 'Rymes' and an Over-Abundance of Unnecessary Capitals

Miss Havisham is a PTSD case, trapped in that one moment which changed her life, like men and women who never truly come home from a war even though their walking body has de-mobbed and become a civilian again.

Gyppo

[ajduclos]

Everyone posting poems on this site is exceptional.  The depth of feeling and the ability to creatively express leaves me in awe.  I'm learning so much.  I'd loved to get to know you all.  Gyppo most especially.
Gyppo?  You I would like share a beer with, to talk into the wee hours, to debate life's issues.  I suspect I could learn so much from you.  I think you'd set me straight, strip away all the bullshit.  Your mix of poetic brilliance and down to earth reality is amazing.  But I'm no pushover - I stand my ground.  I am a seeker, and I sense you are also, as are all the contributors to to this forum.
Just so awed to be in the midst of you all.
Aj

[ajduclos]

Day 15

My brain is dead today, drained... perhaps due to recent memorial service stuff plus a travel day.  Anyway, here's a take on creativity in writing, written almost 6 years ago, as I was starting to write and compose..........  

On the Creative Process 

I hear and/or feel rhythms and/or rhymes
and/or a melody or a riff,
and build from there.
There is usually something to say or explore
though I'm not sure which piece
of the creative puzzle comes first.
Probably lots “percolating”, simmering
for a long time
until something, anything, a word, a thought,
a sight, a sound, a smell, an event,
a conversation, whatever,
triggers it all to start.
Then the floodgates break open
and it gushes forth unstoppable
like a gully wash as it mines
the deepest channels of your mind,
plowing deeper
in the furrows of your brain
gathering what's needed,
like a torrent
dislodging earth and stone,
disturbing and awakening
thoughts and ideas
and feelings and words
that have been waiting
for this moment to arrive.
Now let it go, see where it goes.
Follow it, observe it,
but don't try to control it.
Let it flow as it must
to its conclusion
in the Great Mother Ocean
charting its progress along the way.
There will be time to massage
and tweak and polish.
Yes, follow the flow,
ride the wave,
inexorably to the sea,
to the shore, home.
Do nothing to interrupt
the deluge.
Deal with the massaging
and tweaking and polishing
once the flood subsides
and the storm is past. 

July 17, 2013

[Deb]

I'm in such fine company here. I am amazed. I've been advised to quit apologizing but I don't think my work rises to these standards. I'll keep working on it though. 

I wrote this the day of my onslaught and didn't plan to use it but today my brain is shrouded in fog. -That's a poem for another day.


Prisoner

I quiet the muse,
reign her in

to relinquish 
full authority,
a risky proposition.

I may drown
if I give voice
to that manic rise and fall
of undulating emotions 
held tenuously 
behind the floodgates.

She cannot be 
completely unleashed
lest I go mad.

I lock her up 
for safe keeping,
and feed her scraps
but I keep the key
in a pocket
close to my heart.

~Deb
 

[Colm Roe]

Still enjoying all your poems, and after 15 days the standard hasn't diminished.
I wish I had the time to comment more...unfortunately I don't.
Kudos to all.