Poem

I’ve felt a poem brewing inside of me for quite some time.  I started planning it out last night before I went to sleep (not bed, sleep, which is when I get my best ideas).  I was going to write it this morning, but I woke up super late, and I just not got to it.  I know how poems mean different things to different people, so I’m not going to tell you what I intended it to be about unless you ask (and tell me what you thought).  Feel free to comment and criticize because this is a rough draft (note the lack of title as well).  FEEDBACK (EVEN NEGATIVE) IS APPRECIATED ON ALL OF MY WORK!!!!  I hope you enjoy!

The Polished oak,
solid and strong,
with that new paint smell,
still fresh in the nose.
The masts were strung,
high and bounding,
white shimmering sails,
waving off to better days.

Two lovers meet,
once, twice, thrice.
Getting to know,
what they’ve missed,
their entire lives.
Falling into stupor,
some may call,
love.

The journey was set,
the wind whipped the ship,
urging it forward into the unknown,
the deep exploration of a horizon,
which one could never quite see.
The compass needle spun,
south, north, east, west,
the heavens were their guide.
And even though they didn’t know,
why the stars were aligned that day,
the ship had already set sail,
and could use only their light,
as guide.

Two lovers meet,
Hands hold hands,
and trespass,
over parts,
familiar,
unknown.
Eyes meet eyes,
a silent joke,
is shared,
in one glance.
Words,
have lost their place.

And then there was nothing.
The ship, glorious in the eyes,
of those who beheld its wonder,
was lost to the ocean.
In some distant land,
pieces of tattered oak,
broken and worn by the sea,
have washed ashore,
and curious natives,
can only imagine its splendor,
in days not so long ago.

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1 Comment

  1. Doug Bolden said,

    January 3, 2010 at 4:32 pm

    Two notes:

    (1) The use of the word “stupor” in the second section is strangely off in both rhythm and texture, more negative than you were going for. A slightly longer, more positive phrase might work better.

    (2) The final section (starting with “and then there was nothing”) feels a little too long for the effect. Admittedly, I often end my poems abruptly, but I bet halving the length might double the impact of the final bit.


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