Never Underestimate the Power of Words.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Poem 1 and 2 Original and Revisions

POEM 1 ORIGINAL: 

Poetry is…

A heater
in the wild winds of winter
to warm the frozen skin
on my toes,
melt my icy numb limbs.

It tenderly blows out endearments.
The poet’s voice is fire,  
language, the  passion,
 playing its part as the savior,
raising its burning silver sword,
gallantly battling bitter rigidity and
expressionless chaos.


Then all at once it
stops unfalteringly as
I read the final couplet.

And
in creeps the crawling cold air.

REVISION: 

Poetry is…

A fireplace  
in the wild winds of winter
to warm the frozen skin
on my toes, as I curl them
towards the crackling sparks
of gypsy shades.

Poetry melts icy numb limbs
that minutes ago treaded through
white winter showers.

The poet’s voice is like
a dragon’s flaming breath
that ignites the village
living within the creases of
the firewood resting on the very top
of the iron-gated pile. 

Language is a gallant hero
playing  its part as the savior,
raising its burning silver sword,
boldly battling bitter rigidity and
expressionless destruction of a deathly season.


Then all at once it
stops unfalteringly as
I read the final couplet.
The ashy end approached too soon .


And
in creeps the crawling cold air.


POEM #2 
ORIGINAL:
Dead End

His letters
scattered
abandoned,
calamity all ‘round
the wooden glacial home:
A desk.

The ink, like
Drops of gloom,
Blotted,
Resting on his life,
spreading
expanding the shadows,
over what little clarity
remains.

The letters
folded,
forgotten,
forbidden,
enclose the depth of
isolation
in his wooden home.


REVISION:

Dead End

Letters,
scattered,
 like one thousand puzzle pieces,
abandoned,
like a child left in a basket under a note.
Calamity all ‘round
the wooden glacial home:
A desk.

The ink,
drops of blotted gloom,
it spreads,
expanding the shadows,
that reach with determined claws,
ravenous for
what little clarity
remains on
virgin pages.

The toxic stench of the uncapped ebony liquid,
stretch into the flared nostrils of a disgraced man
whose creations were scandalous black holes.  

His letters will remain, atop
the tomb shaped desk,
folded,
forbidden,
forgotten. 

1 comment:

  1. I especially like the gypsy shades and the ashy end--a little scary!

    ReplyDelete