I’ll be joining some friends Saturday for a long awaited writer’s retreat. In preparation, I’ve been going through some of my writing, trying to decide what I want to bring, work on or have critiqued. I’ve flipped through recently written short stories and nonfiction, thumbed through completed novels collecting dust and came across the first poem I had published in an anthology while I was in high school.
He does not know my name,
But he knows that I am there.
In his mind’s eye he sees,
A most passionate flare.
As a token of my love,
I think of him always,
The depth of my feelings,
He will never understand.
Or know that I’ve dreamed,
Of our lives together planned.
He speaks to me sometimes,
And I treasure every word.
His deep voice to others unnerving,
Is the divinest music I’ve heard.
Soon he will be leaving me,
And never again will his love I feel.
His absence I know,
Will pierce my heart like steel.
I’ve written many poems since then, and yes, most of them rhyme. I’m a huge fan of Shakespeare and Tennyson. I enjoy using language to create a rhythm – the original music. I also enjoy A Capella. (If you think that’s not real music check this out!)
Most people, even those who don’t consider themselves writers, have written poetry at some point in their lives. However, there are not nearly as many who read it for enjoyment. Why not? This is the age of flash fiction and music, why is poetry not as popular?
Amy Lowell once said: “Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies…We should read poetry because only in that way can we know man in all his moods -- in the most beautiful thoughts of his heart, in his farthest reaches of imagination, in the tenderness of his love, in the nakedness and awe of his soul confronted with the terror and wonder of the Universe.”
So, how often do you bare your soul through poetry? How often do you examine the heart of another by reading theirs?