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.


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.


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.