About Verse

I've begun writing poetry again, though in small batches, not at all what I was used to doing around this time last year. By that time I had just put the last touches on my first surrealist piece, and had taken up a fascination for writing about the sea. Mainly due to reading Moby Dick... but it could have been that I missed the North Atlantic, the chilly spray that stings ones lungs whenever they breathe it in. That managed to eek out a few good pieces and a handful of half-finished ones that I intend to go back and finish someday, perhaps even make into a series.

Since the beginning of the year though I've begun a new set: poem on writers and writing--something which I'm quite pleased with and that I see good potential for. I have the first...uhh... 4 or so completed so far, (one Verse Libre, the others my darling quatrains) and two or three still fermenting in my notebook while I stumble through my novelette. I've always talked alot about creative writing, always had a passion for the subject, and writing about things that only writers feel, only writers sense, is...well... thrilling. I don't know how many I'll be able to come up with on the subject, but I've got a decent amount already and still feel that I could do a few more, so I'll post up one and show the others when I've exhausted my resources sufficiently, yes?

The Writers Assessment

At night I’ve measured syllables
So I could fall asleep,
I noticed they were doable
And counted all my feet.

I’ve searched out sights within my head
And strained them on a sieve,
So when my rhyme is long and dead
My imagery reprieve.

I’ve swam with ink, I’ve lain out chalk
Around my blackened bones;
I’ve metered out my every walk
With smack of bitter scones.

My pen's been quelled, my brain's been shot,
My verse been worse than trite,
And Hades’ been quite through a lot
To read what I could write.

I’ve stammered in my mark and theme,
But solid's been my beat;
A decent work found once a ream
So erroneously sweet.

I’ve writ of virtue, beauty too
Has always been my muse;
But long since past has dawn anew
Been broken where I choose.

Yet still, in this could beauty be?
Of course!—for it was penned by me.


Oh, and P.S: Happy Mothers Day!