mmm... I dunno... I could venture some guesses.... but rather not. I sometimes wonder with the number of words in the language, some 300,000 give or take.... with everyone thinking and writing and talking - communicating - are there any really original phrases? sentences? poems? I dunno.
But what indeed a gilded mesh have you woven with your robbery picked tenderly through literature's fineries. An armor perhaps, to wear over your poet's heart, what a sword doth make the inky pen, the blotting singing lark.
Cheery in the inking, wretched in the scrapping, but appreciative always of the verbal sirens, who sing and lure and truly convince, that we mere mortal men - can feel what immortal words have hence been felt, rotted, penned. Leave us wreaked with their wisdom.
Poet! Poet! Harpie, who stirs us with dreams of flight, and dreams of lusty emotions, of feathery flighty battle and life - harpies, poets, mere men who will pick our bones after we have fallen to our deaths.
The fawn will sing over our depthless graves, and our spirits will convince ourselves this is alright, because the fawns are there, the spirits there, merry and dancing. Bring science to her knees, in sacred lore of heart and magic and the craftmenship of the stars we will die to believe. Bring science to her knees.
Tralala.
How many ideas have been stolen to make this piece, you ask?
I would answer that question with one of my own...
how many haven't?
Seems to me that many ideas (maybe even most ideas) that have been expressed in poetry over the ages have explored the same ideas and feelings. We are, after all, the same humans now that humans have been since the beginning. We will always plumb the mysteries of the human experience; it's part of our nature. ;)
As far as particular passages, I cant really say.
But, I know I enjoyed the way you wove those timeless ponderings into a pleasant progression with a natural rhythm.
Thanks for sharing this with us.
a mysterious poem,after reading it a couple of times i must say,it reminds me of shakespears witches,standing round a large pot brewing a spell,well written, don,t know if i understood it, but your choice of words,how they flow and the sound when read aloud.definetly a nice peace of poetry.
take care
gerry
Like most pieces, I am unsure of the exact meaning of this piece. But from where I stand, it communicated a great deal of meticulous effort in tune to the process of creation. Like a banquet of truth and beauty waiting for humanity in some deep reservoir of consciousness.
This craft we wield - poetry - I think that it is far older than man itself. While we have made its refinements and and developed ways by which to allow it to connect easily, it has existed way before the words have bound them into a concrete tapestry. And that raw beauty still awaits, I think.
This is what your piece made me think of. And for that, I thank you.
I have one issue though...
"a sprig of life, a grain of truth"
is that really a "sprig" of life or a "spring" of life?
Anyway, the over all product is great. It is very controlled and very alluring; as if a chant being yelled from afar.
Sounds somewhat witchy. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble" and all that.
I'm confused as to how the title fits with the content of the poem.
Despite my confusion, I like the words you chose when writing this, especially when you were rhyming. I think this part may be my favourite:
"a sprig of life, a grain of truth
mixed with a sanguine hue"
The word sprig makes me think of a forest, grain makes me think of a field, and sanguine, well, a battle or war. What about a war that stretches from fields of grain to sylvan landscapes? I'm creating ideas already! Yay inspiration!
Submission Name: Wordsmith Blues
