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alice-i-holmborgPoems
I’ve noticed In the lives of poets, Through their works, They change. At first, the poems are gentle, pastoral, Sentences made exceptional, Correct alliteration and rhythm and form, A house of cards. Yet as the poems collect, As the young poet becomes an older poet, Not meticulous but skilled, Poems become harsh and wild, Syllable stacked upon syllable, No longer sentences but strong strings of words, A chain of names. I can almost see the soft skin of youth Wrinkle and spot. I can almost hear the soft laughter of a childish heart Harden into a cackle. I can almost feel the hopes become Dashed hopes, broken realities collecting on the floor like A vase of flowers. I am still young. I still write love poems, And poems about grass. Reading the lives of poets, I watch the poetry change. Oh, God. Will I, too, change?
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Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Lives of Poets
I’ve noticed In the lives of poets, Through their works, They change. At first, the poems are gentle, pastoral, Sentences made exceptional, Correct alliteration and rhythm and form, A house of cards. Yet as the poems collect, As the young poet becomes an older poet, Not meticulous but skilled, Poems become harsh and wild, Syllable stacked upon syllable, No longer sentences but strong strings of words, A chain of names. I can almost see the soft skin of youth Wrinkle and spot. I can almost hear the soft laughter of a childish heart Harden into a cackle. I can almost feel the hopes become Dashed hopes, broken realities collecting on the floor like A vase of flowers. I am still young. I still write love poems, And poems about grass. Reading the lives of poets, I watch the poetry change. Oh, God. Will I, too, change?
Written by
alice-i-holmborg
American
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
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