Language is the raw material
Transformation into art
Leaping through Alice’s looking glass
Breaking metaphors apart
Is it dark inside a poem
From whence it first sprang
Deeply repressed panic
Without judgment rang
Bringing pressured speech to light
Images of love and pain
Through clearly heightened senses
Uninhibited refrain
Where verbal acrobats spiral
Words on a poet’s page
That remind us and disturb us
In desperate outrage
With the pathos of a clown
On a winding rocky path
Reminders of death’s nearness
Terror spinning with a laugh
Pictures painted with premonitions
An atmosphere heavy in despair
Remnants of previous poets
Are blinding the reader in its glare
Quatrains moving merrily
Using images and tone
Making shapes with language
Shaping irony unknown
With tones bright and beautiful
Its matrix darkly savage
Through visual impressions
The reader’s heart is ravaged
Freedom of imagination
From whimsy to terror can bring
Surprising facetious word-play
Delivering irony’s sting
A psychological awakening
The tenderest love infused with dread
Blazing pathways joyous and dangerous
Irrevocable loss lies ahead
A telling detail without warning
Takes us to disturbing turns
The risky business of being born
Poets’ authority burns
It brings you to your senses
Through supernatural realms
Exploding realization
Its resonance overwhelms
Allusiveness to brutal honesty
It may sometimes misconstrue
In an abyss of isolation cries,
“What else can a poem do?”
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Language is the raw material
Transformation into art
Leaping through Alice’s looking glass
Breaking metaphors apart
Is it dark inside a poem
From whence it first sprang
Deeply repressed panic
Without judgment rang
Bringing pressured speech to light
Images of love and pain
Through clearly heightened senses
Uninhibited refrain
Where verbal acrobats spiral
Words on a poet’s page
That remind us and disturb us
In desperate outrage
With the pathos of a clown
On a winding rocky path
Reminders of death’s nearness
Terror spinning with a laugh
Pictures painted with premonitions
An atmosphere heavy in despair
Remnants of previous poets
Are blinding the reader in its glare
Quatrains moving merrily
Using images and tone
Making shapes with language
Shaping irony unknown
With tones bright and beautiful
Its matrix darkly savage
Through visual impressions
The reader’s heart is ravaged
Freedom of imagination
From whimsy to terror can bring
Surprising facetious word-play
Delivering irony’s sting
A psychological awakening
The tenderest love infused with dread
Blazing pathways joyous and dangerous
Irrevocable loss lies ahead
A telling detail without warning
Takes us to disturbing turns
The risky business of being born
Poets’ authority burns
It brings you to your senses
Through supernatural realms
Exploding realization
Its resonance overwhelms
Allusiveness to brutal honesty
It may sometimes misconstrue
In an abyss of isolation cries,
“What else can a poem do?”
Exploring the dark side of poetry, how poets are inspired to write, and how we're all standing on the shoulders of poets who've come before us. Also in honor of my oldest brother, Dan, who left me one poem before he died called, "Is it dark inside of snowballs?" which I've posted here before.
