Entropy
February 3rd 2009 04:11
The summer leaves gasp in the heat,
Giving their breath to drowning limbs
That offer them drinks in return;
A symbiotic love affair--
Sighing leaves caressing breathless boughs.
Solstitial wells begin to dry;
Breaths are fewer, drink is scarcer.
Clutching limbs begin to wither--
That blush with slowing, weary breaths
And quiver in the cooling breeze.
Flushed with dimming evening colors,
The leaves soon cease their troubled breaths.
Branches clasp the withered corpses;
Soon grown cold, the hand of winter
Tears them apart, leaving the limbs
Alone and cold, swaying in the wind.
I'm not going to pick this poem apart. I want you readers to see if you can figure out what the poem means. The whole thing is a metaphor; that's the only hint I'll give.
I will probably re-work this poem in the future: I shared it with one of my favorite writing professors, and he said it has potential, but he feels that the rhythm is somewhat lacking and could be improved. What do you think? I tend to agree with him; at this point I'm not sure how to rework the rhythm without redoing the poem, but I'll figure it out eventually.
With this poem a poetic tradition of mine has been firmly cemented: there are infinite parallels and metaphors in nature that relate to everyday life. The vast majority of my poetry has been--on the surface--about nature, but I use natural processes, seasons, images, concepts etc. to critique something about life or put into poetic words my philosophy on life and my worldview.
There's so much poetry in the world. I believe a good poet is a good observer of things as well. I don't believe--aside from cheesy love poetry--that really good poetry can just come from the poet's mind alone. He or she must experience or see something in the world that acts as a catalyst for the poet's muse.
Real phenomena in the world--whether tangible or intangible--are like the flour. eggs, etc. in a loaf of bread. The poet's imagination and capacity for poetic thought are the yeast that allows the dough to rise. And the poet's command of language and grasp of poetic form is like the fierce heat of the oven that gives the whole thing life.
Go out and make some bread.
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