Sometimes the air is so pure
And beauty’s store
Becomes too much.
At such
Moments the heart is full
And a dull
Ache
Will not me forsake.
Tears fall on the tranquil lake.
The sun awakes.
I will go
And see the rainbow
Shine
And ponder on what some call nature
And others the divine.
How far (if at all) should a poet explain his (or her) work? I have always been of the view that poets should leave it to the interpretation of readers to determine what their verses mean. To explain all risks treating readers like young children who must be spoon fed. Furthermore, detailed explanations by the poet remove the joy experienced by many lovers of poetry of reaching their own conclusions concerning a poem’s meaning.
Recently, 2 people have expressed the view (on 2 separate occasions in face-to-face conversations) that explanations as regards a poem’s meaning (or what caused me to write it) would be helpful. During the 2 occasions on which I have given poetry readings, I have included a brief explanation concerning the poem’s origins. However I remain of the view that to furnish chapter and verse in respect of a poem’s meaning detracts from the enjoyment of reaching one’s own (often unique) conclusion. One gentleman with whom I discussed the matter suggested that notes could be appended to poems concerning their origin and/or meaning with a caveat that those who wished to come to their own conclusion should skip them. While this is an interesting idea, I don’t want to turn into a didact, I am, after all a poet not a teacher.
As always I would be interested in my reader’s views.
Kevin
Heels clicking.
A clock ticking.
Sounds intermingle.
Fantasies kindle
In the mind of the single man
Who can
But hear
The click of stillettos
Passing near.
Supine he lies,
And closing his eyes
Tries
To slumber.
Idly he doth wonder
What takes
A girl out so late
And who else wakes,
Rapt, by joy or fear
Harkening to heels
Passing near.
An unsuitable attachment
Leads on to detachment.
The slow drip, drip
Of anoyances strip
Bare
Any pretence that either party care.
Beware
For the perfect bust
Engenders lust
Which may be for true passion mistaken.
When dalliance is over, the forsaken
Heart Cries
Out for love, and seeks joy in another’s eyes.
‘Tis frequently a temporary reprieve
For lonleness will oft times cause man to believe
That desire is love.
The gods above
Shrug,
For they have seen it all before.
And well know
That further woe
Is in store.
Me reading four of my recently published poems.
The importance of checking prior to hitting the “publish” button on the WordPress dashboard was brought home to me this morning. I had (as is my usual practice) composed a poem entitled “Birds that Fly” using Microsoft Word. I then cut and pasted my poem into the edit field in “compose a new post” and, having selected tags and categories hit the “Publish” button. Up popped the dreaded “Mozilla crash reporter” indicating that something had gone awry. Having saved my poem in Word I wasn’t unduly concerned and restarted Firefox. Great! My draft had been automatically saved and all I had to do was hit the “publish” button for the second time. This I duly did only to find that “Birds that Fly” had (despite the earlier crash) in fact been published, leaving me with 2 posts with precisely the same content, including tags and categories! Had I taken a moment to check, prior to hitting the “Publish” button whether my earlier post had gone live, I could have avoided having to delete the extraneous copy thereby avoiding potential confusion among my readers. I will, in future double check when the internet crashes as to whether a post has, in fact gone live rather than merrily hitting the “Publish” button!
Kevin
An unspoken token.
Perhaps a ring
Or some other sundry thing
Left behind
For a man to find
May cause his heart to sing,
Or ponder on why
Birds that fly
Leave a solitary feather
To remember them by.
Is a poem a thing of art
Carefully crafted in every part?
Or does the poet roughly ssing
Of Cupid’s sting
And pages wet
That he may not forget
His unrequited love?
The heart
Finds expression in art.
Rough hewn or not
The poet has got
To find a voice.
He has no choice
Other than to obtain a brief
reprieve
From grief
In the words he doth weave.
Sitting on a bench in the school playground
With children milling all around.
Yes, I remember it as though it was yesterday,
The actors came to perform a play.
Me weak
With a longing only half understood.
Unable to speak
And gawkishly shy,
I would
Die
Where I to address
The girl in the summer dress.
I recollect nought of the play
Yet thoughts of the actresses with me stay.
With age
‘Tis said one becomes a sage.
Today
Different actors perform upon the stage
And now my hair is grey
I pay
To see the players play.
As with the actors of yesterday
They too, will fade away.
The fire
Rages
In stages.
At times it burns low
And I know
Sleep
Will creep
Into my room,,
Her sweet perfume
Rendering me
Free
Of desire.
Yet at other times the fire
Doth burn
Bright.
My thoughts turn
To delight,
Which slippery as eels
Itself reveals,
Then, a fleeting satisfaction seals.
Midnight steals
Away.
The hot coal
In my soul
By day
Burns low
Yet I know
The glow
Is always there
And will, once more, flare
K Morris - Poet 