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Definition Poems (1 Viewer)

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Having participated in the online Integral Life community, in which philosopher Ken Wilber, encouraged us to look at things from different "perspectives," through different "lenses," I got the idea of writing poems that had three sections, each section based on a different definition of the same word. Amazing how many words have at least three meanings. The hope was/is that a unity transcends the separate meanings/lenses.

The first example I chose to share here is timely. This year is my third go-round for the 17-year Cicada. The poem describes the "play" of gathering fossils (from the banks of a sedimentary-rich pond on the farm where I was raised) in a jar while surrounded by the sounds and fossil-like leftover shells of my first round of 17-year Cicada.

Just wanted to see if there was any interest in this made-up form of poetry. Perhaps it is just a good writing and thinking exercise? Possibly, it advances an "Integral" awareness and approach to life? Who really knows why we do these strange things!

Darrell

Play
(as defined in Webster’s New World Dictionary)​
Definition: to amuse oneself ... engage in recreation.
Back when, I viewed my strange menagerie​
in a canning jar, under my favorite climbing tree,​
during a loud party of 17-year cicadas​
(“locusts”, we called them)​
leaving body shells all over the place,​
each clinging to twigs as though​
the bug itself were still present;​
in the jar, fossils, chipped from a big flat​
rock on the bank of the pond across the road.​
I remember dreaming of the water​
far above the pond, of a time​
millions of years ago​
when the whole land there​
was the bottom of an ocean,​
and sea creatures left bony impressions​
in the sediment turned stone.​
Even as a young boy,​
knowing only the untrained play of finding and​
collecting and comparing,​
I hypothesized myself to be in the scale of time,​
much like I sensed the magnitude of stars​
those same summer nights.​
We were the locusts, the visitors, in a place​
occupied far longer by sea horses and trilobites​
and the pterodactyl soaring overhead.​
We were the aliens leaving hollow skins​
that indicate occupation.​
The skeletons resting in my jar​
could be seen against the exoskeletons​
all about. It was a loud and lush party,​
as if all the life, ancient and recurring,​
were playing with me now.​
Definition: to act in or as in a drama.
Dad’s Air Force hat, sharp, professional,​
leaning forward, neat blue,​
was big on a boy’s head, big as a dream.​
I wore it as I made up lines to tell​
my brother. We were in a war or​
something, making plans and giving​
orders (or making order), tactical and surreal,​
but tactile and so real.​
The command center was a little nook​
at the top of the stairs​
where a plywood lid kept heat downstairs​
until night. It was a temporary post,​
secluded and shaded in secrecy,​
the perfect place​
to stage intelligence operations.​
We daydreamed there on the higher steps,​
whispering into invisible walky-talkies,​
occasionally sending one or the other of us off​
on reconnaissance missions.​
When the soldier returned​
we knew we had accomplished something special;​
I can’t quite recall what it was.​
But I remember being there like it was yesterday,​
on winter days when we weren’t making snow forts​
or mobilizing the forces down Kentucky hills​
that we made topographical maps of​
and assigned our corps of engineers​
to plow roads down.​
Command centers and covert operations,​
maps and roads, these taught us well.​
The problem-solving of collectives was collected​
in the drama, and rehearsed in the roles of the play.​
We learned to put on different hats.​
Definition: freedom or scope for motion or action.
John Leach lived alone​
in a run-down house in a hollow.​
About all I remember of him​
is that he brought us turtle to eat​
when my great grandma from Texas​
was staying one summer.​
It was said that turtle has 7 different kinds of meat,​
having distinct sections, being multi-faceted.​
I don’t remember how any of them tasted.​
I ate squirrel, rabbit, quail, and frog legs​
every so often -- turtle only once.​
After John Leach died,​
my dad bought the place​
from his son, a minister.​
My brother and I explored​
the ancient ruins of the house,​
doors falling off their hinges, his earthly​
possessions scattered on the floor.​
I found a document from the Navy​
with his name on it; sailor I suppose.​
The gravel road ended at the Leach place.​
I was told that it once went all the way​
to Caddo road. Past the gravel, on faint ruts​
overgrown with briar and small thorny locust trees,​
I found a rusty wheel from a Model A Ford.​
A pond down there suggested that someone​
else lived on that road at one time, but I never​
found a foundation.​
Years later, as a grown man, I dreamed​
of antiquities found in the Leach house.​
I marveled at a clear glass vase shaped like a lily.​
Music came from it, though it had no mechanical​
or electronic parts.​
How does a life led on a certain familiar path​
get touched by someone in the hollow​
at the end of a road? Enough to inspire​
a dream of celestial song and treasures​
in a place prepared?​
There are no working parts to explain the connection.​
It is as though there is play in the system,​
in the indeterminate and unused roads​
connecting to other roads;​
enough play that the different flavors of turtle—​
the sacred sovereign sections of it—​
are one offering.​
 
Last edited:

clark

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Wow! First of all, Darrell, welcome to WF. I've played (hmm) with poetry sites on Linkedin, Hubpages, YUKU, and a few others for the past 12 years. One--name evades me--announced that they'd come down so hard on you and your work., they'd make you cry. An interesting kind of fellowship of artists, I thought. They also forbade ANY comment whatever on critiques written on their site. When I read a scathing critique written by one the Principals against a neophyte poet--a scathing review based on ignorance of key elements of poetics, I reviewed the nasty review nastily . . .and was immediately banned for the rest of my natural and unnatural life. I mention this quite vicious poetry site by way of contrast to the poets who make their online home at WF. The general platform offers groups for just about every form of writing either you or I can think of and although the 'serious' writing groups can get quite frank and no-nonsense in critiquing each other's work, nastiness (which is projected at PEOPLE not works) is not permitted. We stomp on it on the rare occasions it arises.

So, again, welcome aboard. This particular group, POET'S SHOWCASE, is just that: an opportunity for any of us to post a new poem, perhaps an old one you're fond of and would simply like to see on display for others to enjoy. Your fellow poets may make a few comments--on rare occasions someone may even write a full critique in Showcase but, as I say, that would be unusual . The proper place to post a poem, particularly one in-progress (WIP), on which you are seeking full, critical response, would be Poetry & Lyrics Workshop.

Having stated that the Showcase is not the place for in-depth commentary from your colleagues, permit me to make some comments. I like the sense of play (pun unblushingly intended) in your proposed 'definition' poems. We are both the guardians and the chief innovators of the language, so it is fit that we explore possibilities that might extend, expand, enrich, or re-energize how language works. And it seems to me that your closing question "who really know why we do these strange things?" is ample justification for a poet to explore anything that might expand our sense of language.

So let me have a go at the underlying premise of your "definition" poems: that there might be an underlying congruity, a 'unity' to words that are spelled the same but appear to have different meanings. First, a linguistic comment. Consider this sentence:

He refused to re-fuse the old dynamite sticks found in the refuse dump

I won't even bother going into the complete lack of correlation of meaning between any one of these words to any of the others. As you said, it's surprising how many words of identical spelling in English have THREE discrete meanings. And if we did a thorough etymological analysis of each of these words, we would find little if any evolutionary commonality. I do, however, detect an esoteric 'connection' between the verb refuse to deny or reject or (perhaps) exclude . . .and the noun refuse, that which is of no use, garbage, the leavings of .something.

Whether that brief commentary or, more importantly, your poems, cast any light at all on the premise, I will have to leave for later. Sleep calls . . .!

Thank you for your interesting post, Darrell. I do not know where it will take us .............!
 

clark

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Darrell--I should point out--because you and perhaps a few others are THAT new to WF--that the handsome devil in the avatar to the left is buried somewhere inside of my ancient hulk, I hope, but alas! my appearance no longer brings women to a panting halt (hmm--come to think of it, back then . . .). I was inspired in this burst of nostalgic imagery by my good friend James Hercules Sutton, whose dashing photo no longer mirrors his almost-as-aged mortal coil. The prize for deceptive self-portraits, however, goes to my fellow poet, dear friend, greatest supporter, harshest critic, mean, nasty, horrible, ugly, beautiful, gracious, exuberant, depressed, knowledgeable, bull-headed man RH (Ron) Peat, who like me is as old as the mountains but who, for fucking years, featured a photo of himself as a four-year old in a tuxedo--undoubtedly on his way to a Board meeting preparatory to his company's hostile takeover bid for AT & T. He got rid of that one years ago, substituting a photo of what just about everyone thinks is a noble eagle. In fact it's a California vulture. Don't quite kow what to do with that . . . .

So don't trust photos of the men around here. We're all old, just go with that. The women are youthful and alluring. One of them carries a pointy stick. Don't let her get behind you. Be vigilant; you'll be fine . . . . . .
 

clark

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Darrell I I WILL go away, give the field to others. Honest) -- are you familiar with Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations? If not, I know you'd be interested in this landmark book which, happily, is available online in toto. In the first chapter he posits a language comprised of ONE WORD. Yeah . . . .gotcha! Right?
 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Wow! First of all, Darrell, welcome to WF. I've played (hmm) with poetry sites on Linkedin, Hubpages, YUKU, and a few others for the past 12 years. One--name evades me--announced that they'd come down so hard on you and your work., they'd make you cry. An interesting kind of fellowship of artists, I thought. They also forbade ANY comment whatever on critiques written on their site. When I read a scathing critique written by one the Principals against a neophyte poet--a scathing review based on ignorance of key elements of poetics, I reviewed the nasty review nastily . . .and was immediately banned for the rest of my natural and unnatural life. I mention this quite vicious poetry site by way of contrast to the poets who make their online home at WF. The general platform offers groups for just about every form of writing either you or I can think of and although the 'serious' writing groups can get quite frank and no-nonsense in critiquing each other's work, nastiness (which is projected at PEOPLE not works) is not permitted. We stomp on it on the rare occasions it arises.

So, again, welcome aboard. This particular group, POET'S SHOWCASE, is just that: an opportunity for any of us to post a new poem, perhaps an old one you're fond of and would simply like to see on display for others to enjoy. Your fellow poets may make a few comments--on rare occasions someone may even write a full critique in Showcase but, as I say, that would be unusual . The proper place to post a poem, particularly one in-progress (WIP), on which you are seeking full, critical response, would be Poetry & Lyrics Workshop.

Having stated that the Showcase is not the place for in-depth commentary from your colleagues, permit me to make some comments. I like the sense of play (pun unblushingly intended) in your proposed 'definition' poems. We are both the guardians and the chief innovators of the language, so it is fit that we explore possibilities that might extend, expand, enrich, or re-energize how language works. And it seems to me that your closing question "who really know why we do these strange things?" is ample justification for a poet to explore anything that might expand our sense of language.

So let me have a go at the underlying premise of your "definition" poems: that there might be an underlying congruity, a 'unity' to words that are spelled the same but appear to have different meanings. First, a linguistic comment. Consider this sentence:

He refused to re-fuse the old dynamite sticks found in the refuse dump

I won't even bother going into the complete lack of correlation of meaning between any one of these words to any of the others. As you said, it's surprising how many words of identical spelling in English have THREE discrete meanings. And if we did a thorough etymological analysis of each of these words, we would find little if any evolutionary commonality. I do, however, detect an esoteric 'connection' between the verb refuse to deny or reject or (perhaps) exclude . . .and the noun refuse, that which is of no use, garbage, the leavings of .something.

Whether that brief commentary or, more importantly, your poems, cast any light at all on the premise, I will have to leave for later. Sleep calls . . .!

Thank you for your interesting post, Darrell. I do not know where it will take us .............!
Thanks for taking the time to think about the poem and earlier comments. Glad to hear this is a safe space.
I’m thinking about doing an open source-like experiment where I ,as an originator of the first draft of the latest definition poem,
approve inserts or rewrites. A group writing exercise using basic open source methods.
 
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darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Darrell--I should point out--because you and perhaps a few others are THAT new to WF--that the handsome devil in the avatar to the left is buried somewhere inside of my ancient hulk, I hope, but alas! my appearance no longer brings women to a panting halt (hmm--come to think of it, back then . . .). I was inspired in this burst of nostalgic imagery by my good friend James Hercules Sutton, whose dashing photo no longer mirrors his almost-as-aged mortal coil. The prize for deceptive self-portraits, however, goes to my fellow poet, dear friend, greatest supporter, harshest critic, mean, nasty, horrible, ugly, beautiful, gracious, exuberant, depressed, knowledgeable, bull-headed man RH (Ron) Peat, who like me is as old as the mountains but who, for fucking years, featured a photo of himself as a four-year old in a tuxedo--undoubtedly on his way to a Board meeting preparatory to his company's hostile takeover bid for AT & T. He got rid of that one years ago, substituting a photo of what just about everyone thinks is a noble eagle. In fact it's a California vulture. Don't quite kow what to do with that . . . .

So don't trust photos of the men around here. We're all old, just go with that. The women are youthful and alluring. One of them carries a pointy stick. Don't let her get behind you. Be vigilant; you'll be fine . . . . . .
Ha ha!
 

clark

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Thanks for taking the time to think about the poem and earlier comments. Glad to hear this is a safe space.
I’m thinking about doing an open source-like experiment where I ,as an originator of the first draft of the latest definition poem,
approve inserts or rewrites. A group writing exercise using basic open source methods.
What "earlier comments"? What am I missing??
 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Darrell I I WILL go away, give the field to others. Honest) -- are you familiar with Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations? If not, I know you'd be interested in this landmark book which, happily, is available online in toto. In the first chapter he posits a language comprised of ONE WORD. Yeah . . . .gotcha! Right?
As I recall, he thought we really think with pictures. David Bowie, in his book, Thought as a System, distinguished between real thought (that he called proprioceptive thought, from the conditioned recycled thought that (my term here) could be called thoughting instead of thinking.
 

clark

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Golding's brilliant little novel (about a three-hour read), The Inheritors, has a situation where this nomadic pre-verbalization tribe come to a chasm which has always been spanned by a fallen tree. The oldest of the old among them cannot recall a time when the tree was NOT there as their bridge across. One of them has this 'picture' in his head of a tree falling, followed by the 'idea' that maybe they can MAKE a tree fall down and form a new 'bridge for their purposes. Some abstract thinking and conceptualization, one would think, would be required to convey this idea to the tribe. How one could do all that with no appropriate language, no vocabulary, is interesting to say the least. "Brain pictures" and gestures loom large, of course.

I have some background in philosophy and Linguistics (I studied under Wayne O'Neil in grad school at U of Oregon. O'Neil went on in the field as Head of the Linguistics Dept. at MIT for decades) but that line of investigation holds only limited interest for me now. Linguistics is science-based and ultimately rooted in Rational modes. I am much more interested in immersing myself in the intangible mystery of the poetic moment--both as poet and perceiver-of-poetry--what you referred to as some sort of 'unity' that 'transcends' the unavoidable boundaries of a stated 'word'. James Sutton called this 'space' the plasma of the poetic experience. I like that word/aura a lot. You might be interested in that 'concept' as well. I'm getting into the 'plasma' idea but I intuitively blend 'it' into mystery, and I'm fine with that too. Rational explanations of aesthetics are a monumental waste of time. I would go further--searching for a 'rational' explanation for "plasma" is a process inherently invalid, like a 'broken' syllogism. I think Keats was close in some of his comments in his LETTERS, as is Theseus in his famous "poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling" speech in MSND.
 

TL Murphy

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Hi Darrel, interesting poem. I don’t know if you are aware of the poet A. Van Jordan who is credited with inventing the definition poem. Although his form seems different than what you use here. Or maybe the form has evolved. Anyway, here are a couple of great definition poems by A. Van Jordan. I use this form myself sometimes and you can see one or two of them on the Poetry & Lyrics board.


 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Rational explanations of aesthetics are a monumental waste of time. I would go further--searching for a 'rational' explanation for "plasma" is a process inherently invalid,
Liked this that you said: "Rational explanations of aesthetics are a monumental waste of time. I would go further--searching for a 'rational' explanation for "plasma" is a process inherently invalid,..."

I believe we are capable of getting information from the "other side." I've had a lot of precognitive/premonitory dreams, some so specific that my rational mind could not dismiss as mere "coincidence," or the PT Barnum effect (so vague that the content merely appeared to predict the future event). Case in point (although not one so specific that it defied rational alternative explanations):

The night before Darkin offered his sincere critique (although maybe better placed in a forum reserved for critiquing?) of my shared poem, Prayer and Praise, I had a strange dream involving a gross potency symbol being inserted to my throat. In the dream, I knew to stay neutral, similar to a balance-breaking strategy from some of the martial arts (Judo, Akedo sp?, etc.) and not be defensive. Like the Christian metaphor of "bearing a cross." Someone around me was concerned that I was taking on too much. But I felt transcendent enough (lucid?) to accept the event as a mere event that need not be reacted to, and could instead be calmly responded to. The potency symbol was reinserted into the back side of the would-be, could-have-been, aggressor.

One basic level of interpretation of the dream was my dealing with the physical reality of (undiagnosed, but strongly evidenced) sleep apnea. The potency object crammed into my throat was an awareness of the potentially alarming reality of obstructed breathing. This interpretation does make rational sense. Not sure how the Judo-like, karmic-like, second part in which the aggressor's own force is turned back into him/it fits into this rational explanation. Maybe an awareness of physical redistribution (which fits my own wake state awareness of how to redistribute pain at times in order to diffuse or "iron it out")?

But on a more metaphysical level, the dream prepared me to calmly take in a potentially alarming critique (ego-defense of my "baby"!) and calmly process it, turn it around into a different form (such as a different rationale about what poetry is, should be, or could be).

Take it (the critique), acknowledge its relevance/power/potency, but choose to stand for something else instead. Yes, great poetry can be no-tell. But who is to say that some good, or even great, poetry can tell, teach, or even preach? The reader may not have the pleasure of solving the riddle, but he or she does still have the joy of answering the question, "Does this ring true?" And, if so, "Why does it ring true? How can my being and life and place in this world be enhanced by this poetically expressed insight?" Can't poems be more like a sermon or a therapy session in which the client is exposed to a limited menu of alternative approaches to this or her "problems," or obstacles to growth, and then chooses one? Multiple choice tests instead of essay only? Can poetry go ahead and lead the horse to water? As opposed to only offering an impressionistic view which might entice the horse to explore the area where the water is?

Can teaching/preaching and poetry be combined? Is there a place in poetry for didactic poems? Ones like many of mine that take life experiences as object lessons from which the reader (and for that matter, the poet/narrator) can learn?

I believe that the "other side" (which I believe is the really deep inside) prepared and instructed me. After all, my collection asks "Does it (poetry) make a sound?" Perhaps not many people are hearing poetry because it has lost its potency. Maybe poetry needs a little more Yang in its Ying.

Interesting that I am going through the same question with my chosen spiritual vehicle of Christianity. Why is Christianity, and religion in general, no longer being "heard"?

Perhaps it has ceased to empower and to be relevant. If so, how has it lost its potency?

Too much following? Not enough proactive "leading" of individual and collective being? Has "God" (Ultimate Reality and/or Ultimate Concern) gotten conceptually (and then also emotionally/psychologically) distanced from each, and all, of our being?

Couldn't, shouldn't, religion and poetry boost "intentional being?" Go ahead, religion and poetry, make something of ourselves! Git 'er done!

Thanks for playing in this philosophical sandbox with me,
Darrell
 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Hi Darrel, interesting poem. I don’t know if you are aware of the poet A. Van Jordan who is credited with inventing the definition poem. Although his form seems different than what you use here. Or maybe the form has evolved. Anyway, here are a couple of great definition poems by A. Van Jordan. I use this form myself sometimes and you can see one or two of them on the Poetry & Lyrics board.


Thanks, TL. No, I wasn't aware of A. Van Jordan, nor any other attempts at this form. I'm looking forward to see how this hallowed ground has been covered by others. Have spent most of my time and energy on processing some of the things Clark said, but will return to this exploration, and will use those links either later today or in the near future.

Again, thanks.
Perhaps the tree does make a sound?
 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Thanks, TL. No, I wasn't aware of A. Van Jordan, nor any other attempts at this form. I'm looking forward to see how this hallowed ground has been covered by others. Have spent most of my time and energy on processing some of the things Clark said, but will return to this exploration, and will use those links either later today or in the near future.

Again, thanks.
Perhaps the tree does make a sound?
Enjoyed From. Haven't read the second one yet. Neat! He found way more than just three meanings of the word he used in his definition poems. Words sure are slippery little suckers!
 

TL Murphy

Met3 Member
Staff member
Chief Mentor
Darrell, I read somewhere in an interview with A. Van Jordan where said something like a definition poem was, for him, an exercise in seeing how far he could push a metaphor. I try to do something similar, start out with dictionary definitions to surrealistic extremes.
 

RHPeat

Met3 Group Leader
Staff member
Senior Mentor
Having participated in the online Integral Life community, in which philosopher Ken Wilber, encouraged us to look at things from different "perspectives," through different "lenses," I got the idea of writing poems that had three sections, each section based on a different definition of the same word. Amazing how many words have at least three meanings. The hope was/is that a unity transcends the separate meanings/lenses.
Darrell

Something you might be interested in is the greek plays with the chorus which uses 3 parts. The three part poem with each part differing goes back to Pindar who is known for his odes with differing meters in each 3 parts of the poem. He was philosophical to some extent. In contemporary poetry I've see the written as shorter poem in free verse with differing construction in each part of the poem. A little history below and information about the Greek poet, Pindar. These poems are also referred to as Pindaric triads.

Pindaric ode, ceremonious poem by or in the manner of Pindar, a Greek professional lyrist of the 5th century BC. Pindar employed the triadic structure attributed to Stesichorus (7th and 6th centuries BC), consisting of a strophe (two or more lines repeated as a unit) followed by a metrically harmonious antistrophe, concluding with a summary line (called an epode) in a different metre. These three parts corresponded to the movement of the chorus to one side of the stage, then to the other, and their pause midstage to deliver the epode.

Although fragments of Pindar’s poems in all of the Classical choral forms are extant, it is the collection of four books of epinician odes that has influenced poets of the Western world since their publication by Aldus Manutius in 1513. Each of the books is devoted to one of the great series of Greek Classical games: the Olympian, Pythian, Isthmian, and Nemean. Celebrating the victory of a winner with a performance of choral chant and dance, these epinician odes are elaborately complex, rich in metaphor and intensely emotive language. They reveal Pindar’s sense of vocation as a poet dedicated to preserving and interpreting great deeds and their divine values. The metaphors, myths, and gnomic sayings that ornament the odes are often difficult to grasp because of the rapid shifts of thought and the sacrifice of syntax to achieving uniform poetic colour. For modern readers, another difficulty is the topicality of the works; they were often composed for particular occasions and made reference to events and personal situations that were well-known to the original audience but not necessarily to later readers.
 

RHPeat

Met3 Group Leader
Staff member
Senior Mentor
Darrell

Here is an example of a free-verse Pindaric triad that I wrote back in 2000. That's 21 years ago. So you know what it looks like. The poem is without punctuation and the stanzas vary in each section/part of the overall poem each part can also stand on it's own as well as meld together into a single scenario. (this is not a definition poem) it's a three part poem. You might call it a definition of an unwed mother.

Awakening In The Glade
(A Pindaric Triad)

1. She No Longer Waits

in a mist around desire she reaches
out for a partner at the dance
somewhat shy — but eager
she is reluctant to embrace

within the play — the music lifts
she catches the torment of fire
then she takes a jungle forest
as a gown with its blousy blue sky

her hips and heart become
the rolling wave on the sea — rowing
rowing — she is the dance
the licking waves — the lap of flames

flesh afire — she is the boat
beneath the storm

2. Forsaken

Spring carries her away

She wears a bonnet
sunlight in a yellow glow
she turns her cheek
breeze though flittered oak
she looks so solemn
and the cicada stops
her eyelids droop to see
the violets in the shade

a memory as a shadow
slowly passes overhead
the slightest silk slips by
with the heaviness
on clouds as she dreams
his lips in gentle touch

when she looks back
a scented candle
with such absence
a fragrance in the room
her eyes about to burst
does anyone see her loss
a stain on the tablecloth

The rain about to fall .

3. Inside The Breath

The long stemmed lily comes with leaves
startled from the lips on its magic vase
and death is born everywhere
a bulb in lament from cornered earth

sunrise envelopes the pitchy night
and leaps into the milky froth of daylight

a sallow haze is left within a small room
the walls are soft and pale in touch
light clouds are the lenses of a dream
there the crying of a child is heard
like the darkening from inside the dusk

a mouth is singing beauty's hunger
across the naked breast of windows

a chilly touch in mock dawn
where swollen breath opens its wonder
a velvet scream for all that lives — a slimy
root and its vase cracked in afflicted joy .

====================
© Rhpeat — 5-21-2000
 

darrellmoneyhon

Senior Member
Beautiful imagery. The sunrise enveloping the pitchy night and leaping into the milky froth of daylight
resonated , as I think a good witnessing of life events can see both bright and dark, happy and sad, peaceful and tormented, as part of an interesting, even beautiful, interactive dance and wholeness.

Also loved “a velvet scream for all that lives”

Will have to read poem several more times to get more impressions

Thanks
 
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