How much is the poet the poem--How much is the poem the Poet

[JCSTREET]

We reveal ourselves--but how and why do we do that--what is the silent scream which spawns that

Carl

 

[Lauren Hynde]

How much is the poet the poem--How much is the poem the Poet

All of it. Or none at all.


       The poet is a feigner
       his feiging so complete
       that he comes to feign a grief
       in the grief he really feels.

       And those who read what he writes
       sense well in the grief that the read
       not the two griefs he has suffered
       but only the one they do not feel.

       And so on its wheeltracks turns,
       turns and amuses the thought,
       that mechanical train
       which is called the heart.

                Fernando Pessoa, Autopsicografia

 

[Angeline]

All of it. Or none at all.


       The poet is a feigner
       his feiging so complete
       that he comes to feign a grief
       in the grief he really feels.

       And those who read what he writes
       sense well in the grief that the read
       not the two griefs he has suffered
       but only the one they do not feel.

       And so on its wheeltracks turns,
       turns and amuses the thought,
       that mechanical train
       which is called the heart.

                Fernando Pessoa, Autopsicografia

Push that Pessoa, baby--it's beautiful!

I don't know sometimes
where the poem ends
and I begin or vice versa
I just let the words roll
like rain sometimes
thunder or whisper hushed
like mist but always
nourishing beating the dust
into silence but giving back
life like blood.

 

[Tathagata]

I think what it comes down to is the hope that we will eventually see that we are all alike in more ways than we are different
You put out feelings and thoughts seeking, perhaps, validation and acceptance
or you may want to share and enlighten others
in any case I don't think it's a selfish thing
I think it's ultimately altruistic
to bring others into the circle
until no one is left outside it

 

[JCSTREET]

CELTIC WINTER--A POEM

This poem haws more than 400 views but no comments from anyone

Carl

as usual I don't know if I'm putting it in the right place


CELTIC WINTER: circa 850 A.D.

© 2004 JC STREET


That winter was sharp with frost; deer lay
in the fallow places
their dark-blooded legs frozen from the snow
so deep was the drifting
at Enniscorthy

Rafters here groan-burst, snow
sunders them
a bleak wind comes into the straw where Aidne
lies with Brian

Dawn is small and young but
not without guile,
laughing with the warriors
chiding the drunken bard when he falls under the horses
nose breaking
blood bursting snowflakes from his nose

Dawn is the daughter of Brian, she
rides with Eamonn
picks plums with Padraig
in the golden time at harvest

not without guile

she laughs with the warriors,
chides the bard, but
when Eamonn wrestles with Padraig,
muscle here buckling like the cow under the bull, she
grows pensive

like the deer
at the watering place


(Kings Head pub, Little-Marlow-upon-Thames, June 10, 1985)

-30-

 

[UnseenChagrin]

Two things.

1) That poem is beautiful.

2) For myself, my poetry is my escape. It is how I deal with my issues or emotions that I can't seem to really get a grasp on otherwise. It makes it easier maybe. And if I share them it is as though I am talking about it with someone, but at the same time the feelings are maybe a little masked in prose, therefore I'm not quite as vulnerable.

 

[JCSTREET]

Two things.

1) That poem is beautiful.

2) For myself, my poetry is my escape. It is how I deal with my issues or emotions that I can't seem to really get a grasp on otherwise. It makes it easier maybe. And if I share them it is as though I am talking about it with someone, but at the same time the feelings are maybe a little masked in prose, therefore I'm not quite as vulnerable.

Merci, Mlle Chagrin

Mille pensers dormaient, chrysalides funebres
Fremissent doucement dans les lourdes tenebres
Qui degagent leur aile et prennent leur essor
Teintes d'azur, glaces de rose, lames d'or

carliebear