emmie-van-duren - Hello Poetry

The trouble with poetry is the temptation to capture everything, every little scene, crashing through emotions to pursue the fleeting dream of telling the story before the memory of it disappears in the next cresting wave of words. It takes so much concentration to harness galloping imagination and keep to the point - keep to the rhyme when a longer more beautiful set of words just can't do the time. Type, read, delete. Retype, reread, think, delete. Retype, replace a word, delete. A new random phrase threatens to erase the former picture and create another as memories jostle for space under cover of making it rhyme better.

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Aug 18, 2025

Aug 18, 2025 at 6:06 PM UTC

Pros and Cons

The trouble with poetry is the temptation to capture everything, every little scene, crashing through emotions to pursue the fleeting dream of telling the story before the memory of it disappears in the next cresting wave of words. It takes so much concentration to harness galloping imagination and keep to the point - keep to the rhyme when a longer more beautiful set of words just can't do the time. Type, read, delete. Retype, reread, think, delete. Retype, replace a word, delete. A new random phrase threatens to erase the former picture and create another as memories jostle for space under cover of making it rhyme better.

2

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category? I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the dream - a poet's heavenly hell.

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Jul 22, 2025

Jul 22, 2025 at 5:35 AM UTC

Poetry or prose?

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category? I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the dream - a poet's heavenly hell.

2

The house echoes faint strains of Puccini from the sitting room; dust motes float gently to join the millions carpeting every surface. A lone fly investigates the empty peanut butter jar on the kitchen bench. Clumps of damp washing sit waiting in the laundry basket for the tight hug of pegs to anchor them in the breeze. Three messages flash urgently on the phone base as steadily shifting bars of sunlight cross the room. The ancient grandfather clock ticks away the hours in the hall. Sitting obliviously, awkwardly, on the edge of the sofa , eyes alight with inspiration and brows drawn in concentration, the poet writes.

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Jul 17, 2025

Jul 17, 2025 at 9:37 PM UTC

The Neglected

The house echoes faint strains of Puccini from the sitting room; dust motes float gently to join the millions carpeting every surface. A lone fly investigates the empty peanut butter jar on the kitchen bench. Clumps of damp washing sit waiting in the laundry basket for the tight hug of pegs to anchor them in the breeze. Three messages flash urgently on the phone base as steadily shifting bars of sunlight cross the room. The ancient grandfather clock ticks away the hours in the hall. Sitting obliviously, awkwardly, on the edge of the sofa , eyes alight with inspiration and brows drawn in concentration, the poet writes.

8

What is it in us that responds with unutterable yearning, grief and unspeakable joy all at once when we hear a certain passage of music or see some glorious manifestation of the universal consciousness in the intricate patterns of nature? What is it in the tentative, reaching radiance of the rising sun as it gradually limns the tree trunks, drawing them out from the darkling twilight of predawn and coaxing the ethereal mist from the frosted ground, that shocks the train of thought to silence? That derails our mundane morning routine and sweeps our emotions to the highest pinnacle of exultation in an ******** awareness of the beauty in front of us? Is it not a flash of recognition of something familiar from aeons past - a trembling-on-the-edge memory that we just can't pin down? What is the force orchestrating this miracle moment frozen in time, that seems both fleeting and ever present at once? Breathless, we glimpse glory and instinctively feel connected - woven into it. In a blinding flash of certainty we realise, in this trembling thrall of emotions, we are experiencing the divine essence of our existence. P.S. "Yeah, yeah - it's pretty. Now hurry up and get your coat, I'm running late for work!"

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Jul 8, 2025

Jul 8, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC

The Unexpected.

What is it in us that responds with unutterable yearning, grief and unspeakable joy all at once when we hear a certain passage of music or see some glorious manifestation of the universal consciousness in the intricate patterns of nature? What is it in the tentative, reaching radiance of the rising sun as it gradually limns the tree trunks, drawing them out from the darkling twilight of predawn and coaxing the ethereal mist from the frosted ground, that shocks the train of thought to silence? That derails our mundane morning routine and sweeps our emotions to the highest pinnacle of exultation in an ******** awareness of the beauty in front of us? Is it not a flash of recognition of something familiar from aeons past - a trembling-on-the-edge memory that we just can't pin down? What is the force orchestrating this miracle moment frozen in time, that seems both fleeting and ever present at once? Breathless, we glimpse glory and instinctively feel connected - woven into it. In a blinding flash of certainty we realise, in this trembling thrall of emotions, we are experiencing the divine essence of our existence. P.S. "Yeah, yeah - it's pretty. Now hurry up and get your coat, I'm running late for work!"

9

Now why am I not living in the You Essay so we could get together and have coffee, say, and really dig down deep in order to discuss the reason we are living in this universe? Instead I'm left bereft on this side of the world - a harder place to live, now that my love lies cold. My arms are empty, it's too hard to start anew - unless, of course, I find another heart that's true. So in your search for meaning, if you come across the great Creator who designed this universe, please ask Him to remember me and send someone to keep me company 'til this earthly life is done. For in the end, as we each close our eyes in death and walk into eternity with final breath, we'll find the only memory that's left to prove we lived at all, was held in someone else's love. Their thoughts of us live on, their telling of our tale will guard our triumphs, not the places where we fail.

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May 16, 2022

May 16, 2022 at 11:20 PM UTC

To my PenPal

Now why am I not living in the You Essay so we could get together and have coffee, say, and really dig down deep in order to discuss the reason we are living in this universe? Instead I'm left bereft on this side of the world - a harder place to live, now that my love lies cold. My arms are empty, it's too hard to start anew - unless, of course, I find another heart that's true. So in your search for meaning, if you come across the great Creator who designed this universe, please ask Him to remember me and send someone to keep me company 'til this earthly life is done. For in the end, as we each close our eyes in death and walk into eternity with final breath, we'll find the only memory that's left to prove we lived at all, was held in someone else's love. Their thoughts of us live on, their telling of our tale will guard our triumphs, not the places where we fail.

9

Oh, wondrous ******* made of prawn you make my sense reel My knees grow weak, my tongue hangs out your seafood touch to feel. How longingly my taste buds crave your prawny, crispy cling See how they seek most anxiously the taste that makes them sing. Not quite of lobster, not quite crab elusive is your flavour The crunch that locks onto my tongue then melts, is one to savor. All locked in light deliciousness, your taste just makes me ***** and tho' I can't describe it well it's definitely prawny. Let's play a game with good, hot oil I'll pour some on your back You must be male, I see you grow - expanding with a 'crack'! Come to me now - I crave your touch You need to be in me my longing is a raging fire I love you utterly.

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Feb 26, 2022

Feb 26, 2022 at 7:38 PM UTC

Ode to the Prawn *******

Oh, wondrous ******* made of prawn you make my sense reel My knees grow weak, my tongue hangs out your seafood touch to feel. How longingly my taste buds crave your prawny, crispy cling See how they seek most anxiously the taste that makes them sing. Not quite of lobster, not quite crab elusive is your flavour The crunch that locks onto my tongue then melts, is one to savor. All locked in light deliciousness, your taste just makes me ***** and tho' I can't describe it well it's definitely prawny. Let's play a game with good, hot oil I'll pour some on your back You must be male, I see you grow - expanding with a 'crack'! Come to me now - I crave your touch You need to be in me my longing is a raging fire I love you utterly.

24

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category? I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the theme - a poet's heavenly hell. © 2017

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Sep 23, 2019

Sep 23, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC

Manna

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category? I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the theme - a poet's heavenly hell. © 2017

3

It's dark outside now, darling - tread carefully as you go. That pallid crescent in the sky will soon be gone and so make haste. Don't linger in the shadows..... Jan 2019 © Emmie van Duren

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Sep 18, 2019

Sep 18, 2019 at 7:49 AM UTC

Popcorn & horror movies

It's dark outside now, darling - tread carefully as you go. That pallid crescent in the sky will soon be gone and so make haste. Don't linger in the shadows..... Jan 2019 © Emmie van Duren

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Nov 6, 2018

Nov 6, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC

Melbourne Cup musing

1

Rumbling and grumbling, with colours a’scumbling, clouds carry rain over expectant land. Stopping and dropping, tall mountains a’topping, they empty their bounty from God’s mighty Hand. Roaring and soaring with rich foam outpouring there thunders the waterfall over its ledge. Swishing and splashing with sun sparkles flashing, the ocean deposits its lacy white edge Murmuring, mumbling, smooth rocks a’tumbling carries the river its flood tide away. Gabbling, babbling, bubbles a’burbling hurries the brook down its liquid highway. Gushing or trickling with nostrils a-prickling, we let out our sorrow in tears of release. Wearing those guises, earth’s water surprises, by vanquishing dryness and offering ease.

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May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC

Water

Rumbling and grumbling, with colours a’scumbling, clouds carry rain over expectant land. Stopping and dropping, tall mountains a’topping, they empty their bounty from God’s mighty Hand. Roaring and soaring with rich foam outpouring there thunders the waterfall over its ledge. Swishing and splashing with sun sparkles flashing, the ocean deposits its lacy white edge Murmuring, mumbling, smooth rocks a’tumbling carries the river its flood tide away. Gabbling, babbling, bubbles a’burbling hurries the brook down its liquid highway. Gushing or trickling with nostrils a-prickling, we let out our sorrow in tears of release. Wearing those guises, earth’s water surprises, by vanquishing dryness and offering ease.

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