Iris Rebry: Poems

Apr 2014 · 277

Iris Rebry Apr 2014

Writers are like Fire,
burning with a passionate flame.
They weave.
Writers are like wizards,
but our wands are ink and lead.
Writers are like slaves,
bound in printed chains,
Writers are like drunkards,
addicted to the pen a page,
Bound in leather and numbered,
we make those master pieces
As a painter paints,
somewhere a writer writes,
Writers are like tigers,
ready to pounce on a stray idea.
Writers are like swans,
majestic.
We twist and turn.
We captivate people.
We write.

Apr 2014 · 2.7k

The third movement of Beethoven's fifth symphony

Iris Rebry Apr 2014

The third movement of Beethoven's fifth symphony

I sit, fingers dancing,
while the trumpets' notes are a'prancing,
it seems like music is romancing,
and Beethoven is laughing.

Da da da da, da da da da, the motif continues,
and I am deep within the throes,
of some of the deepest woes,
and Beethoven is laughing.

Don't you see the smile,
the rapid bowing of the bases all the while?
why do you seem to be beguiled?
And Beethoven is laughing.

Tell me, do you not hear the first movement in the third?
Is not the motif to be heard?
do you not get the seemingly absurd
Beethoven is laughing.

Apr 2014 · 193

Where did poetry time go?

Iris Rebry Apr 2014

Where did poetry time go?

They say,
creativity is good for the soul,
they say music
soothes the savage beast.
they say, they say all the want...
who cares about them,
are not children children
and adults adults?
Is there no difference between right and left?
And here I'm supposed to write about the lack of poetry,
or at least time for poetry.

Everyone held a balloon
that day.
A balloon full of their words from their poems.
And with a flick of your tongue,
and smirk of your face,
you popped the twenty something
balloons in your faithful audience.
And the words came crashing down
on us.
They flew around us
like a swarm of bees.
We were deflated.
We were popped.
And all for what?
More creativity?
More art?
More learning and knowledge?
Something of more worth?
But what is worth more than original poetry?
No it was for someone else's idea.
Someone else's poetry that our own were
sacrificed.
"Next class." was all the reply to
my face that looked as sour as a lemon crushed between
the knife of reality and the table of dashed hopes.
But when the muse calls,
there is to be no stopping her
there is to be no interruption.
She does not come when beckoned,
only when inconvenient.
And so I ask...
where did poetry time go?
Why did you interrupt the muse?
This is not a protestation,
nor a declaration,
for the nation
of poets with their notion
of to the muse they give their devotion,
and to change that motion,
led to a commotion,
and she disappeared.

Apr 2014 · 553

A sketch of today, the fourteenth of April.

Iris Rebry Apr 2014

A sketch of today, the fourteenth of April.

The lamplight is
dimly lit.
here am i,
shoving
panda express
into the dark cavern
called my mouth
where the stalactites
and stalagmites
dance together and apart
it's a bit tangier than usual
my taste-buds concur
the rice is lukewarm
and falls off my fork
paperwork due tomorrow
SAT prep
projects
my future
and all i want to do is
write poetry
7:18 pm
and i sit,
writing poetry
for me writing is breathing
air
and sometimes i hold my breath for
days at a time
i cannot be a hermit
i must have interaction
though i
want to be alone
far away
where even
beethoven's fifth symphony
wouldn't drown out the noise
he laughs at me
who?
who are they that mock me?
beethoven
shakespeare
poe
conan doyle
even
charles dodgson finds me funny
"so you want to be a writer?" they boom, and suddenly i
am as
small as dust
"YOU a FEMALE WRITER and MUSIC LOVER? ha! i never heard anything funnier!"
and the voices mush into one
and it softens to become the voice
of my inner critic
my nemesis
my arch foe
my ennui
and that is only the 14th
of April.

Apr 2014 · 502

Number one

Iris Rebry Apr 2014

Number one

this is it
the one,
number one.
Do you know what this means?
I have a purple pen
I like pens.
I am the purple pen
rolling a passionate ink
onto the white lined
ballroom floor called
paper, having a
history of many generations
Egyptians, Sumerians,
Asians and Americans,
but never any
butterflies...
I am the butterfly,
the Queen of the sky,
my scepters are antennae,
my gown is fiery black
I am the fiery black
on a chalkboard,
on a cloak
on a
secret.
I am the secret
flitting through conversations,
I am the conversations,
hoping to be spread around,
until I am number one.
I am number one.
at the top of the list,
until someone passes me.
I crumble, I crack.
my palace is no more,
I am not number one,
but number two,
number nineteen,
number five hundred,
number one million
It doesn't matter,
Only that I am not
number one.
My heart rips,
the white lined ballroom called
paper burns,
the purple pen is smashed,
the butterfly eaten
by a bird,
the fiery black turned to white
the secret told,
the conversations stopped.
Because I am not number one.
Will I ever be number one?
Will I ever be close?
I am the phoenix,
rising again.
and I WILL BE
number one.
or will I be?

Mar 2014 · 898

The Dance of pen and paper (because I do my Tok homework)

Iris Rebry Mar 2014

The Dance of pen and paper (because I do my Tok homework)

Am I not a fool for writing poetry
for the sake of writing poetry?
Am I to be rejected for using words
such as ennui?
Am I to be ****** for figurative language?
Or burned at the stake for
poising a period at the end of
a stream of
consciousness?
And yet my inner critic
yearns to yell
to scream
more words!
more passion!

I see their faces when
they look at me,
their empty eyes,
like corpses.
They believe morals
are paintings on
walls
and
scruples
are currency in Eastern Europe.
They do not know.
They do not drink
in the moments
that they cannot breathe.
They are silent tombstones.
Sinisterly and silently scorning Shakespeare
They trample over
Chaucer,
calling him dull.
And I too am seen as a
heretic.
for thinking of such
fantastical, whimsical
thoughts.

Was it ethical for Socrates to drink Hemlock?
Did they giggle like a couple of school girls
as he downed it like it was a
shot of whiskey?
And yet we heretics
are given the poison
of judgement everyday
swallowing the bitter cup

How much do I remember about not fitting in?
Is there reason to believe I ever will?
And yet faith has accepted the girl with
the curly hair.

Imagination
intuition
emotion
perception
reason

All qualities which
poetry blends into
passion.
For is not poetry
the expression of passion?
And yet this can be said of communication
in any way:
art
music,
writing

And yet you don't
see Romeo whispering
the Pythagorean Theorem
to Juliet on her balcony
No it lacks
sincerity
the Words are not his own.

No true poetry is the language
of the hidden soul,
the quintessence of life.
Yet another quote I will never be
quoted for is:
"Self education is better than none"
but that has nothing to do with poetry
except for how to write it.

And yes, I do enjoy
writing poetry.
and reading it too.
From Dante's inferno
to Poe's Raven
I have swam in the
channels of print
in everyone,
drowning in the words.

And yes, I do enjoy
being a heretic.
I may never stand in,
so all I can do is
Stand out.

This poem, while some might wonder who the "they" is referring to, that I cannot say, for whoever becomes the they will be greatly angered. This poem also was just a slew of thoughts that came into my brain that I had to write down. I had to breathe.

— The End —