"reproachfully" poems
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
In my heart the old love
Struggled with the new;
It was ghostly waking
All night through.
Dear things, kind things,
That my old love said,
Ranged themselves reproachfully
Round my bed.
But I could not heed them,
For I seemed to see
The eyes of my new love
Fixed on me.
Old love, old love,
How can I be true?
Shall I be faithless to myself
Or to you?
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He wouldn't laugh
if he knew
how much of
me
still belonged
to him.
He would close his eyes
(almost -
is that -
regret?
desire?
disappointment?)
if he understood
how my inspiration
is all
derived
from stolen glimpses
of that
stupid smirk.
He would ****
his head -
say my name
(reproachfully?
regretfully?
desperately?)
if he could
feel
himself in
every word
I write.
Though I wonder
would the
disapproval
be for my feelings?
Or simply
for the way I
romanticize them?
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
I let my dog out back and watch him
because it’s cold out and I’m
not wearing a shirt
my arms are crossed and I watch
as he disappears in the inky blackness
and I turn to the sky
Mintaka Alnilam Alnitak
eyes drawn to Sirius
and back
to Betelgeuse and Bellatrix
Rigel Saiph
The Pleiades, and
I like to pretend I can find
Procyon
My ******* and my hands press closer
to the glass, and it is freezing
yet my eyes are locked on the left of
Orion,
at a star I don’t know
nearly blinding with its luminosity
a planet, but one I do not know
and it thrills me
This is how planets are discovered
I think
anomalies in the sky that
make man wonder
it is bright and beautiful and my face is
against the window
my breath fogs the glass
yet still I see the nameless Star—
and I open the door, to bring myself
closer, to war the cold
in hopes that being near will
fill me with knowledge and that
elusory star will tell me its name
And my dog, invisible in the night,
jumps back from the door and looks
reproachfully at me
and I stare at that gorgeous sky
and my naked skin is already shivering
and my arms cross against my chest
as I turn and go back
inside,
staring at the Pleiades and Orion,
and that white-hot star
once more.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 7:16 PM UTC
In my heart the old love
Struggled with the new,
It was ghostly waking
All night through
Dear things, kind things
That my old love said,
Ranged themselves reproachfully
Round my bed.
But I could not heed them,
For I seemed to see
Dark eyes of new love
Fixed on me.
Old love, old love
How can I be true?
Shall I be faith less to myself
Or to you?
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933).
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC