The simple way to arrive at an appreciation of poetry is to read it - then to read it again.
Desmond Flower, The Pursuit Of Poetry (1939)
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 2:05 PM UTC
Lock down
Locked in
Mixed emotions spilling over
Fear of the unknown
Of family safety
Rushing over in tsunami waves
Floundering
Crying
Drowning in this tide of uncertainty
Through the darkness
A life line
Messages of hope and caring
Reaching out
Into homes
Relationships forged in crisis
Love and laughter
Shared with all
A nation brought together
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:35 PM UTC
The difference between genuine poetry and
the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their
school, is briefly this: their poetry is
conceived and composed in their wits,
genuine poetry is conceived and composed
in the soul.
Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism (1865)
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
It is fatal to decide, intellectually, what good poetry is because you are then in honour bound to try to write it, instead of the poems
that only you can write.
Philip Larkin, Poets of the 1950s (Ed. D. J. Enright, 1955)
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 12:47 PM UTC
Poetry is simply the most beautiful,
impressive, and widely effective mode of saying things, and hence its importance.
Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism (1865)
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
For the taste of her skin
Her sweetness exploding on his tongue
For the caress of his fingertips
Navigating the rise and fall of her curves
For the scent of her arousal
An intoxication to his senses
For her cries of ecstacy
As the summited their passion
He hungered for her all
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
That first kiss...
Caress of lips touching
Warmth of breaths mingling
Sweetness of tongues tasting
Ignited a fire within
That would burn for all eternity
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
Her story unfolded beneath his caress
Each kiss of his lips a new page
Every touch of his hands a chapter
Feeding his thirst for knowledge
Of her beauty, her passion, her soul
But there would be no finality
No epilogue to conclude
For with each kiss of his lips
And touch of his hands
He added to her story
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
"Forgive me!" she silently begged
Her heart breaking
The loss a tangible thing.
Like shrapnel, piercing
Shredding her heart
Inconsolable tears
Cried inside, alone.
Adrift on waves
Of self recrimination.
Seemingly endless time
To face the truth
The savage reality
He wasn't hers to save.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
Like a ballerina
My thoughts pirouette
Spinning out of control
Will the music ever stop?
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC