May 9, 2009

Coming to terms with the fact that my poetry is limited

Only one slide
in a glorious film reel
Only one side
from a ten-course meal

Only one second
in hours of waiting
Only one stroke
from a masterpiece painting

A moment, a breath, held eternal
In corny, ridiculous weight
As if one word of woven tale
Can somehow reveal my fate

I don't tell a story, but a feeling
At least I can capture myself
I want clever rhymes, not meaning
I'll take a penny instead of your wealth

The words I wrote were not fiction
(My silly excuses will say)
But I've focused my entire diction
To explain one mere scene of the play

In flailing and self-conscious fashion
I try to compute my poems' worth
Devoting my time and my passion
Where I never should have ventured forth

Is it foolish to strive to describe
Only a piece of the world that I see?
Do I blow my experience larger than life
As if the world's centered 'round me?

Perhaps I should aim to tell epics
That detail the entire view
But I think that I'll keep writing poetry
As I seek to discover what's true.

3 comments:

Mom said...

Best Mother's Day present so far!

Keep up the creative energies.

Well crafted.

Kaitlyn said...

:)

(That is my response to reading your lovely poem).

We are all part of this big story...even though a glimpse is all we can see, a glimmer of hope can still exude from it.

Very creative; well done, Becka.

~K

Micah E. said...

I agree. Both with the poem, and with what others have said of it. How often making things rhyme sounds corny, I only wish that I didn't see that fault in poetry. Fortunately, here, I don't.