Why do people write poetry? Some might believe writing poetry is only for lovers and poets, but that's not true. Writing poetry (like music!) can capture parts of the human experience in ways that prose can't.
Let's look at why you should try to write a little poetry today, especially if you don't consider yourself a poet.
One year as I set writing goals, my boss suggested that I take a poetry class. I laughed until I realized he was serious.
I have always written nonfiction—business books, blog posts about life lessons, writing I thought was practical. For a long time, I thought poetry was just for mysterious literary writers. But I was wrong.
There are real benefits to writing poetry like expanding your language skills and your ability to capture emotion with words: skills that will help you as a writer, no matter what genre you write in.
What Is Poetry?
I used to think poetry was one of two things. It was either the kind of writing famous poet and playwright Shakespeare wrote, which required following a formula and counting each syllable. Or, I thought of it as lines that ended with words that rhymed, like The Cat in the Hat.
I’ve come to find that poetry is more than syllables and rhyming. Poetry is actually defined by the OED as literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm.
That means poetry can be almost anything. It simply needs to be writing that expresses feelings and ideas with style and rhythm. You can do that.
So then, why?
Why Do People Write Poetry?
Here are three reasons why you should take the risk and write some poetry.
1. To Deepen Your Understanding of Language
Poetry forces you to search the language for the perfect word. Instead of saying how someone “slowly walks through the door,” you might instead say they “enter casually.” In poetry, you must choose each word carefully, as it has to fit with the rhythm and style of the whole piece.
Writing poetry requires you to express a thought of feeling almost melodically, making the words on the page invisible. The only way we develop this style and skill is to practice.
Try and fail and succeed and keep writing.
Write poetry because it will force you to deepen your understanding of language and how you use it.
2. To Learn to Break the Rules
I often think that rules are in place to be broken. While our editor may disagree, I believe a sign of great writing is not just breaking the rules, but learning to create your own. That’s how rules are created in the first place.
In poetry, you are allowed to break more rules. You’re allowed to use grammar to create a rhythm, not just to separate dependent clauses. You are not bound to a certain length for poetry, either. Some poems can be as short as a few words, while others, like The Illiad, are hundreds of pages.
(This is not an excuse to not know the rules or to break all of the rules. They’re there for good reason. We need them. We also need to not take them so seriously if we want to become great writers.)
3. To Write Better Prose
The greatest reason to write poetry is because it will make all of your writing better. I promise you.
Poetry gives you a deeper understanding of the language and it allows you to see your writing differently. Poetry enables you to express yourself and your ideas better.
Take Shakespeare for example.
Shakespeare began his career as an actor and a playwright. In the middle of his career, in 1593 & 1594, the theaters were closed due to the plague. During that time, Shakespeare began to publish poetry.
After these two years, Shakespeare went back to writing plays again, but something had changed.
Previously, Shakespeare had written mainly comedies and histories. After taking the time to write poetry, he wrote dramas and tragedies, like Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth. These later works are considered some of the finest works in the English language.
Write Poetry
If you've never written poetry, it can seem like a daunting challenge. Don't be intimidated.
We too often limit ourselves in our writing. What we ought to do is press ourselves to become better writers, and we do that by writing what we're scared to write.
To write your own poem, start with these three steps:
1. Observe the world around you
This could be noticing something from your everyday life like the school bus driving through your neighborhood or the flutter of a bird's wing. It could be hearing a child laugh or watching a dog run circles or tasting a perfect cocktail.
Pay attention to the sensory experience, and begin to list the specific concrete details that embody that moment. Ask what you see, hear, smell, taste, and touch.
2. Choose one image and use clear concrete details
You don't have to aim for formal poetry with a strict sense of form or syllables (unless you want to!). Play with trying to capture the image as faithfully as you can.
What do you see? Describe it specifically, using as concrete language as you can. What do you hear? Smell? Taste? Feel? Lean into those sensory details.
You'll likely find yourself hunting for the right word to capture the moment—that's good! Use words that help the reader experience the moment with you.
3. Connect to something more
Once you have a clear image, consider what it reminds you of. Here, you can be more abstract– love, beauty, freedom, etc. What does the image seem to evoke about that ideal? Try to subtly make the connection.
For example, if I notice an ant crawling across the patio with a bright pink fleck of nail polish in its grip, it might make me wonder about what the ant is doing—is it building a home? Mistaking the polish for food? Either of those ideas is ripe for a poem: the scraps that make our homes beautiful or the dissatisfaction of trying to digest beauty.
Play with language and see what happens! Even if you don't like the poems you create, the practice of capturing imagery and emotion will make your own sentences stronger. Give it a try today!
Have you ever written poetry? Has it made you a better writer? Let me know in the comments below!
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to write a poem. It can be about anything you'd like. It can rhyme or not rhyme, follow a pattern or not.
Unleash your inner Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, & Emily Dickinson. When you're done, share your poem in the Pro Practice Workshop here, and leave feedback for a few other writers.
Learning to Fly
Life’s journey, as a human,
Is comparable to the experiences
Of a young bird.
Totally dependent on one’s mother
For food and care,
For the majority of youth,
Love and support in
Your home, happiness and comfort,
Security in innocence, but
Childhood can only last so long.
And then, there comes a time
When one must go out on their own,
Being pushed out of the nest,
Forced to learn how to fly,
Or fall to the ground.
You go on to discover that
The world is much bigger
And much scarier
Than you ever could have imagined.
Your parents never prepared you for this,
And you seem to be alone
In the world.
But you can learn to thrive.
You are stronger than you think,
Smarter than you know,
And more talented than you pretend to be.
Leave the nest behind
And make your own place in the world.
All this has happened for a reason,
And it turns out that
Your parents had the right idea
Pushing you out of that nest.
It gave you a reason to learn
And a need to survive.
Use your early life as an example:
Take the leap and you’ll learn to fly
Or you’ll fall flat on your face,
But you can pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
And continue on your way.
And maybe,
You can learn to fly
Some other day.
Sorry, Annie, but where’s the rhythm in this? To me this is prose broken up into lines. A lovely thought, beautifully expressed, but I would not class it as a poem.
“It can rhyme or not rhyme, follow a pattern or not” “That means poetry can be almost anything. It simply needs to be writing that expresses feelings and ideas with style and rhythm.” I think poetry is in the eyes of the beholder, meaning that there are millions of interpretations of what poetry is. Not only that, but there are many different kinds of poetry: rhyming, not rhyming, prose poetry, and spoken word to name a few. I prefer trying new things with my different forms of poetry and I don’t focus on following every single rule because poetry is a form of art and can be created millions of different ways. There is not one correct way to write poetry.
I like your poem Annie! When I finished reading your piece I felt moved, and that for me is what makes beautiful writing. I also like the fact that you chose a topic everyone can relate to, it makes your poem meaningful. I especially like your finishing line, and I am still discovering to this day, that the world is much bigger than the little nest I imagine it to be. Keep writing!
Annie, one of the important thing in poetry is the RHYTHM. Not always the RHYME, but always the RHYTHM.
Beautiful. Thank you.
Lovely use of language.
Sorry to disagree with some of the comments on your poem, but I feel a rhythm when I read it. The rhythm varies, but it is there and fairly strong.
I’ve been a choral singer since my teen years. Unlike pop music, which relies on strict rhythms, choral music often has variations, little lines of music that don’t match any of the other rhythms in the piece. For an example, check out György Ligeti’s “Requiem,” or almost any aria from an opera.
Annie, I think you may be a choral composer in a pop culture world. Poetically speaking, that is.
I like it. Thank you.
Yes … the hesitation and the hope, the apprehension and determination, the uncertainty and courage, a life well-reflected.
I enjoyed this. Your piece provoked thought and feeling.
I can top that. Write song lyrics. Literally every syllable counts, AND it has to have a melody and a “hook”. Writing feels like a breeze compared to the constraints and focus needed to write a song.
If you’re not a musician, write your own lyrics to someone else’s song…
You could change “Sugar, Sugar” to “Silly Sally…”. I also recommend studying song lyrics. They break the rules so much that I’m not sure there are any rules left to break (although most of the time it DOES have to rhyme…
I’ve always written poetry, much of which has unfortunately been lost. I am so glad you talk about rhythm though. While many, or even most, people think poetry has to rhyme, I realise it doesn’t. I wish, though, that some of the modern ‘poets’ would realise it must have rhythm.
Too many people nowadays
are stringing words together
in lines and calling it poetry.
Just because
you decide to break up
your sentences into lines
does not make it a poem.
It must have rhythm first and foremost or it’s just prose set out like a poem. No, not like a poem because the lines are all of different lengths and with no rhythm. Like my example above.
I agree with you, Aspholessaria. I appreciate poetry with rhyme a d rhythm.
Lovely, fun poem, Lilian.
Rhyme doesn’t worry me so much but rhythm does. As I’ve said elsewhere, if it has neither rhyme nor rhythm, it’s just prose broken up into lines. I think rhythm is probably the most important though.
Yesterday I posted a Halloween poem on my website. I’ve entered it into a Halloween poetry contest. IF you want to take a look you can find it on https://aspholessaria.wordpress.com/2016/10/11/a-halloween-poem/ There are some more of my poems there, but you might have to hunt around in the ‘What Has Gone Before’ section to find them.
Do you have poems on a website?
Thanks for your comment, Aspholessaria. Thanks also for the link to your Halloween poem. I will access it now.
I don’t have any poems on my website; they’re parked in my PC.
Your Halloween poem merits first place. I’m rooting for you to win.
“Too many people nowadays,” he said,
“are stringing words together
in lines and calling it poetry.”
He might have thought, “Whatever.”
To merely break a sentence, see,
write phrases line by line,
does not one make a poem.
His one-fifth of a dime.
love when a response carries the work of another with it to explore.
“His one-fifth of a dime” … did the math. : ) heehee
Haha adorable…the meter is running!
I like that little poem!
Here is mine: (the title says it all)
A HUMBLE SONNET
Your finger to me is that of a throned queen,
And its gesture is a law I want to act thus.
My words of praise may flattery mean
To outside beings but never to us.
Your goodness is high when I think of it;
Faults of you are never in my view.
Though you may fault sometimes a bit,
Your goodness is what I still see in lieu.
When do you plan to give me yourself?
in marriage of faith for the crowd by jove.
For you are already my wedded self,
Since I met your eyes and said my love.
This poem may go on for ever and ever,
‘Cause unending are words given me by you.
It’s time I put a dot to it and sever,
As now I don’t want to play with words, but you.
Sweeter are the days when all
Essence of your voice transforms
Me.
The light which holds me entices
Robin’s to sing.
I call out to thunder and lightening
To enrapture me in the coils of
Winter’s breath
I’m lost to the wonders your
Amber eyes fill in my core.
To to taste the delicacy of your
Soul shall divide my grave, and
Conquer all who hail cinder.
For the ashes of his veil speak
To me in aphonic tongues.
I thrash about between your teeth
Inside your unholy drone.
Where are your tides of emotion
Needed to feed on anguish?
For only icy winds can beset your
Frolicking ways of your fire.
My expenditure is erased by the
Coming of the lamb.
For to jump down from milky eyes
Extends warrant laid out upon me.
For the wilder the fires spread across
Plains, the sootier remission becomes
In tides grail begets soulful melodies
Brewing in my heart.
Dance in the lambs tempted soil,
And I shall be fed in the hours bleeding
Out your vessel sanctified by the light.
Remise your longing, and your heart
Shall drift no more.
Follow all enchantment to bite fowl,
But never glide your Razer down your
Esoteric flesh unless you intend to breathe.
Long gone altruism.
You lost me.
“I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.” So, I don’t know the intention, but it sounds like death might not be such a bad thing….
Poetry comes in blocks
Leaping stones to meaning
I tend to slow down on
Slippery aggregate
Because it sometimes feels
I missed a paragraph
in a word.
I re-read out of fear
Of losing what I’m to hear.
Like any piece of art
I can just see for me;
Explain not, we are poised
On diff’rent vantage points.
I bray pretentiously
You must understand me!
I saw something on the
Internal landscape slate–
Forgive me, it was just
Chalk markings of a child.
I have not written poetry for a very long time. The way I can still feel what I wrote years ago, though, suggests that it is indeed a useful exercise, a way to begin! Thank you!
This is thoughtful, and appears to be an illustration of its own meaning. At least, that’s my take on it.
oh … this creates pause and reflection.
Some of the lines that caught my mind’s eye in particular … ooops, never mind. I started re-typing nearly every line in the poem. nice!
Prepared ?
Tomorrow I trust my body to a surgeon
Am I prepared – I do not know.
Life itself is unpredictable.
I only know I am visioning coming home
Again.
Healing, feeling grateful for a new knee
New possibilities for life
Travel to new places.
Travel in time and space that
expands my vision to even
greater horizons
Was this you? If so, may your healing journey be accompanied by a fierce determination to do all that is required for a full and fast recovery. Find “poetic” moments in the tribulations and triumphs.
I have always liked the ABAB (I think that’s what it’s called) for of poetry. Nice and easy to read and plenty of rhythm. I am particularly fond of EAP. Here’s my little addition:
The storm came, the storm went,
my knees are lame and my back is bent.
But I go on, not looking back,
Put some linament on and give Yoga a whack!
I love writing poetry. I started writing poetry when I was eleven. I’ve written many, and lost all in the flood. This was back in the time when backing up meant making copies in another piece of paper. I agree with all three reasons, especially the first. I like the challenge of getting across a message while choosing words and creating rhythm. Anyway, here’s my contribution. I wrote these stanzas on different occasions, each with its own context. It’s a writing exercise for whenever a moment feels crisp. I realize I could thread them together to (hopefully) tell a story.
One Day In Paris
Who’s this girl I saw today,
browsing old books by the shelf,
flipping pages with such care,
purple French-tip fingernails?
Who’s this girl I saw today,
choosing mangoes with her nose,
glancing too at evening news,
frozen in an awkward pose?
Who’s this girl I saw today,
sipping life, her sweet latte,
in a moment shots and shouts,
in an instant dead she lay?
I like this. I want to know who this girl is, too!
Thanks, Bruce!
When he first saw her, he thought
My god, she looks just like a peacock
Bright blue eyeshadow, with bright red lips
And lucid smiling eyes
The males of the peacock species preened and pranced
To entice, attract, seduce their females into laying
Down their guard, to slip off, to slip into
What lay beyond
He couldn’t help but feel that it was just the opposite here
She never made herself up for him
Or saw him as more than another coworker
But he was the same as her in a land of strangers
Strong, clever, and forceful
And god, was she lonely
Strange language, strange skin, strange ways
Her eyes on them, their fingers back at her
A phone call yesterday
Painted her white and black
She wasn’t sure if she would ever know red
But he was the same.
He was the same.
Here are six of mine.
Go to http://www.jesseleighbrackstone.com and hit the ‘poetry’ button.
Love to all,
Jesse.
rich stories, Jesse. Thanks for sharing your words and emotions.
A poem I wrote for my husband a few moments ago.
I am a cello
But you are the bow
That draws out of me
Every note that I know
The sad, lost, and lonely sounds
Bittersweet sighs
The laughter of gurgling brooks
Indigo skies
Substance and shadow
Sunshine and rain
Snow on my lashes
Pleasure and pain
Sleeping and waking
Dreams that we share
The space when you’re missing
The Grace when you’re there
The touch of your fingers
The taste of your tongue
Heartbeats
Breaths we take
Songs we have sung
Your voice’s elixir
Love in my ears
I’m just half a person
When you are not here
I need you
I need you
And want you to know
That I am your cello
And you are my bow.
Jesse Leigh Brackstone
http://www.jesseleighbrackstone.com
Stunning … Beautifully expressed
Thanks for your article, Kelly.
I love writing poetry, and create a poem nearly every day, whether I type it here, or make it in my head. I write romantic, reflections on nature, on things past, on things to come, short, short verse for first and second graders, and nonsense rhymes, especially for my foriegn, junior students, to make learning English more fun.
Here’s a nonsense rhyme, for members’ enjoyment and comments.
Two Spiders
Two little spiders
Climbed up a tree,
To spin their webs
Just as fast as can be.
They were laughing
And singing “Tra-la-la-lee”,
When they saw approaching
A busy bumblebee.
“May I join in the fun?”
Was all that he said.
He didn’t really know
Nor did he even dread
The treacherous silk
Of any spider’s web.
“Hi Mr. Bumble Bee,
Join in the fun.
There’s plenty of time,
The day’s just begun.
Come, step into our newly spun web.”
But he was wary, and shook his head,
I’ll stay right here,”
Mr. Bumble said,
“And you can sit comfy
On your gossamer web.”
So with a tra-la-la-lee
They stared to sing,
Until Mr.Bumble
Opened his wings.
Off he flew to another flower,
He would not enter the spider’s bower.
So the spiders waited
To nab another prey.
And they’re probably waiting
Until this very day.
Delightful! But I wouldn’t call this nonsense.
You could easily find an illustrator and publish this as a board book.
love that comment.
Aww, shucks.
delightful!
A poem every day … love the brain cells in your head!
Lucky students you have.
‘Something to be read aloud to oneself before posting on Facebook’
Is. This. Worth it?
Am I divorcing kindness; and exchanging it for right-nesa?
Because I think I’m more than them?
Is. This. Worth it?
Am I making letters to be liked?
Is my value made dependent on the general public’s sheer propensity to agree with me? Do you agree with me?
It’s not freedom if you aren’t free to be wrong without research.
Because this article has all the right letters, and no one clicks links to supporting articles anyway…
Is. This. Worth it?
Am I posting my beliefs or my agenda
what I believe would I defend a
smaller flame?
Are those small fires less valuable just because I can’t see the smoke from where I live, and my city hasn’t noticed?
Is. This. Worth it?
Is this triumph, is this kindness, would I say this in the silence?
And if it’s not…
Then is this truth that’s far worth spreading, is it intelligent? Compelling?
And worth the pain it brings?
I know love sings like that sometimes.
Is. This. Worth it?
Will I still say this when there’s ashes?
When the conflagration passes, and the world has moved on…
To something else.
If the value of a man is the sum of his affections, then is this selection adding or subtracting to what I will become?
Worded differently…
Is this worth it?
excellent advice. appreciate the expressive reflection.
Bhumipol
You watch over every child
Reside in every home
Hang on every wall
We’ve come to grant you an ever-present place in our lives
Guiding us
Calming us
Stoking us
Allowing us to be one even when we are not
We don’t know a world without you
Lonely
Changed
Uncertain
Trust feels too hard, except with you
We are grown and we have learned
Your presence remains over us
Your patience within us
Your charity among us
May you rest gently
May your eyes shut softly
May your breath, as it leaves, carry the love
We know we should share
As you have shared
There is no permanence
But principle
No assurance
But respect
No time
But now
We wish you well
We will remember
This is a very touching poem, MiguelThai.
Thanks for sharing.
Thanks
Hauntingly beautiful.
“Writing poetry requires you to express a thought of feeling almost melodically, making the words on the page invisible.”
~Kellie McGann
Make the words invisible?
That doesn’t seem advisable
To get the meaning of what is said
The words must be visible and read
Not hidden somewhere on the page
Not locked in some literary cage
But plain for everyone to see
To live, to grow, to breathe, to BE!
An extension of the writer’s heart
Ah! That’s the secret of our art
Excellent, Bruce.
Thanks, Lillian. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
oh my … terrific
love that you used Kellie’s quote as a jumping off point. Helped me re-focus on her message, for one, and then to be delighted by your generous insistence on having the writer’s work be accessible for relatable reflection.
Thank you, Susan. It was really just me (rather passive-aggressively) pointing out Kellie’s statement about “making the words on the page invisible” doesn’t make sense. I’m glad you found a deeper meaning in my poem.
Here’s my poem.
Traveling Solo!
October rolls around and I grow restless.
Ideas to keep busy are boundless.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea emerges.
A definite thought to quiet the urge.
A trip to visit my first born takes root.
And so I cry out with a hoot!
Traveling is exciting I’ve found.
With airline reservations set, away I abound.
But then the big day arrives.
I find I’m nervous an about to break out in hives.
It’s a monumental event, you see.
It means I’m traveling solo is meant to be.
So, why on this exciting morning
Does my heart go into mourning?
It happens when I look into my puppy’s sad eyes.
Causing intense pain as my heart cries.
She can’t understand why she can’t go.
She wants to cry out, “Whoa!”
I’m left in pain
Hoping loving hugs will help to gain
An understanding glance
Restoring the normal balance
I know it seems wrong
But, I must be strong.
I know I can do this
Even if not truly in bliss
Filled with resolve, off to the airport I go
In my first attempt to travel solo
Since retiring
And relocating
I can’t remember the last time
I signally walked the TSA line.
Searching with fellow travelers for the right gate
And in the process ensuring not to be late.
At last I’m buckling tightly into my seat
And happy for achieving this feat.
—©Beverly Ann McCall
charming account of the little details of one more of life’s achievements.
I love poetry and have been writing it for many years. Poetry can be such a great way to express how you feel at deeply emotional times such as a bereavement or the birth og a child and so on. Here is one of mine…
Wishes
I often wish I had the chance
To kiss the softness of your lips
With tenderness to touch your face
Hold you in a lover’s way
Run my fingers through your hair
Be there with you, look after you
Through each and every day
My mind knows this can never be
But my heart feels differently
My aching soul loves only you
I wish so much that I could do
All these sweet and lovely things
If only this could have been so
I would never have wanted to let you go
No matter how many tears it takes
I will always yearn for your gentle kiss
Always wish for the love that I miss
To feel the tingle of your sweet touch
I will always love you so very much
Wish I was yours and you were mine
Until the very last moments of time
Beautiful. The last line of the second stanza felt a bit long, but I like it nonetheless.
the essence of a deep-held love… oh, that it may find its way to the heart it was truly meant to be a match for. <3
Very good article. Poetry is a wonderful way of expression. I believe I wrote poetry in highschool. I think I should. Again. Thank you.
14 People Ahead (on an Online Crisis Support Chat)
Everyone thinks it
a problem with character
the faulty will that will not lend a hand
nor unhand itself free of mediocrity
no one knows
constant failure
as the collapse of a mass
torn apart into complete debris
scattered then reassembled
the fragments of a previous self
restored into one
once twice-ready
twice once-steady
I, a self-made harpsichord
other days Schumann
or the frailty of a human
embodied into female form
or, by night, translucent
cobwebs ebbing in dark corners
or light anchored jellyfish
against the sea’s immense azure
tight particles transformed
No one knows
how many ills they’ve counted
upon my fractured head
or on my violet-speckled face
the exchange
the childhood dreams I spared
for soap bubbles filled with laughter
I, a little silence caster
clung to vesicles of air
I never considered the potential benefits of writing poetry. However, after reading this article, I really do feel like I should begin studying poetry on a daily basis. Once I feel comfortable with poetry, I will start to intermingle poetry writing with my daily writing exercises.
I have actually incorporated some poems in my fantasy novel, The Wolf Pack. There’s one telling the tale of two of the gods of the world (rather long) and several more shorter ones including the Elven Hymn sung each evening. http://aspholessaria.wordpress.com/ if you want to take a look at some of them.
In addition to these three good reasons, writing poetry also trains you to create and use imagery and metaphors, which can be helpful in fiction writing, especially for romance, saga or other emotion-driven stories. Poems by Amy Lowell are rich in imagery. For example,
I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
(from “Aftermath”)
Written as a normal paragraph, the above could have come from a story of unrequited love, or an unappreciated child writing to her parents.
Both prose and poetry are ways of telling stories, just in different forms. Both can have such elements as plot, imagery, and even dialogue.
Nothing much.
I’ll just pass by.
But in case
questions are thrown,
don’t expect
answers on spot.
Thinking is
appropriate.
Looking for best
and not worst.
Patiently wait.
It’s not easy
to decide.
Happiness here
is at stake.
And this is not
a love note,
but a death note.
P.S.
I randomly wrote this poem while waiting for my niece after school.
How much does it take?
How much does it take
To say hello or offer a smile
How much does it take
To be the first one to apologize
How much does it take
To realize the meaning behind a “fine”
How much does it take
To sit for a cup of coffee
How much does it take
To watch a movie together
How much does it take
To give milliseconds of moments,
To prioritize people over time?
How much does it take
To even once say “yeah I’ll do it for u”
Your fingers playing lead guitar of Folsom Prison Blues is forever on my mind.
I don’t have a taped recording but remember how it sounds.
The pure sound of your voice as you sang “The Fancy Dining Car” will never leave
me.
In my mind, Johnny Cash’s song was done best by you
Most of my writing outside of college has been poetry. Here is my response to this post.
She is Like the Sea
A woman is very much like the sea
There is always so much more to her than man
will ever know or see
She moves and swells rhythmically, alluringly, seductively
Powerfully unstoppable and unrelenting
In her eye is reflected the breadth of the skies
and the depth of the oceans
Within those depths are mysteries which men will
never see or even hope to understand
Mysteries to entwine and confound a man
It is purely arrogance of man to think that either
can be conquered in any sense of the word
In vessels of wood, steel, and other fiber he sets sail
In vain attempts to tame, to control, to prevail
He thinks that he has won
She is just as temperamental and quick to change as the seas
At one moment she is warm, welcoming rolling
Heaving with you and rising with pleasure and joy
Sustaining you with love and life
Enraptured, you are, like a school boy
Without warning, the moment is gone, the storm has come
The warmth is gone and the harbor is cold
The waves crash without ceasing, without mercy
Every little chink and crack is forced apart
She gets inside and finds your heart
Very much, she is like the sea
Very much her eyes reflect the sky
Very much like the curves and lines of her body
With a strong and steady hand with respect
She will embrace you, this woman, like the sea
I so agree.
How is this one :
Being a Mom is really tough.
Some days I feel I have had enough.
Giving, learning, trying, and crying.
Sometimes I think I am truly dying.
But, I look at those little faces.
I can see me in their traces.
They run to me for everything.
Even as I cook and clean.
You know, it doesn’t feel so bad.
Being a Mom, I do feel glad.
Sometimes happy.
Sometimes sad.
But, I would never leave them.
I would never let go.
Even if someone told me so.
Would I do it again? Yes, I would.
It would never be a “No!”
I like this, TerriblyTerrific. I’m the same type of mom.
lovely, mama!
Thanks, Kelli.
I’ve posted this on TWP before (perhaps more than once?), but it’s one of my prized pieces (I don’t write that much), and it has relevance to the topic.
“I’m a writer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m a writer.”
“Like books or magazine articles?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I write for myself.”
“Oh, you want to be a writer.”
“I am a writer.”
“Okay. “
“What does it mean to you if I say I’m a writer?”
“It means you’ve actually published something. Or you have a blog. Or at least you’re really good and people want to read your stuff. Or you’re close to finishing a short story. Or you’ve submitted an article to a magazine, even if it was rejected. Or at least you have a job where you produce large works of writing. Or you’re super creative and writing is your deep passion. Or you’ve known all your life you’ve wanted to write. Or you journal every day. Or you know a lot about famous authors and have read all the classics and then some. Or if I give you a topic, you can create something right now. Or … I don’t know … whatever a “real” writer does.”
“I am a real writer. And I write for myself. And I rummage around in my head for ideas. And when I want to support a friend or send a birthday greeting or celebrate a marriage or birth or honor a loved one who has passed, my first thought is to write a poem for them. And I sift through synonyms to dig up novel ways to put my thoughts on paper. And I love to disentangle grammar, and break the rules, too, in order to invent a rhythm or a surprise. And I observe … the light through a tree on a foggy day … the smells in a bakery or on a walk through nature … the giggles and skip skip skipping of little kiddos … because the sounds and smells and images of life bring forth words, if you let them. And those words bring forth emotions, if you’re willing to feel them. The words, the words, the remarkable, awe-inspiring phrasing and brand new combinations of words that I find, maybe in Bradbury, maybe in a dear friend’s handwritten letter, maybe in my journal (which, from the gaps in the entry dates, you’d never guess was a term meaning “daily”). And I read and re-read those words. And I care about expressing myself sublimely; whether I accomplish that completely or partially, it’s the seeking which nourishes. And I take part in an incredible process called thewritepractice. And you know what? There I meet and am inspired by writers, writers, writers in every single post. And you know what else? Those who have a lifetime of experience and those who’ve just started are given the same message … the realization that each of us can claim as our own, the avowal, “I am a writer.”
The Commenter On This Thread Named “Corrine”
She used to comment on other blogs
Where I, too, have commented
What you might think’s coincidence
Could be stalking instead.
She said she’s just a-passing by
But left words all the same
A crappy little poem
A threat above my name.
I’ve blocked her on Disqus, but
She could still be seeing this
I’ve also emailed Joe Bunting
About his comment policies.
I plan to be a paying member
here, have mentors ‘hind my back.
I hope hers gets deleted,
or she’s permanently blocked.
https://disqus.com/by/disqus_9LKOUN3ezo/
Is your poem referring to some one or is it a work of fantasy?
However, you’ve made a good verse to warn ‘her’.
Brilliant … I will write a poem on racing cycling (my novel in the wings), Poetry also forces one to think about every word, Every nuance. Every implication. It’s the editors bouncer keeping out the crap!
Never will I fall
A promise
Broken
Because of you
The loathsome past
A veil
Shrouded
All I am
The outstretched arm
A gift
Assuaged
My demons
The discarded armor
A surrender
Exposed
Myself to you
The hesitant reciprocal
A compromise
Revealed
Yourself to me
I will remain
A promise
Forged
Between us
THAT SPECIAL FRIEND.
She is my sweetest friend,
Has a smile that makes my emotions rain!
She is beautiful and modest;
She is the very best,
While she reciprocates,
My heart is put to test!
From the deepest cores
Of my heart,
Resonates a sound,
Yes, I like her, and how!
I don’t know if my wish
Counts for anything,
All the same, to her,
I say this thing-
“You are beautiful,
Inside and outside;
Close your eyes,
Relax your sight and
Delve into the realms
Of the night!”
You are surely a romantic person.
Yes Lilian.. that I am.. Recently I have fallen in love with a girl with whom I talk often..but I have not seen her yet. I am keeping my fingers crossed on being able to see her some day.
How lovely! To have fallen in love with a girl you haven’t seen, is more romantic than ever. She’s a lucky girl to have you write poetry to her. I’ll also cross my fingers for you to meet her soon.
Cheers, Depayan.
That’s so kind of you, Lilian. Pray for me. Please. And once I get the opportunity to meet her, I’ll let you know, for sure!
Good morning, Depayan! Do ler me know, meanwhile write another sweet poem.
Good morning Lilian. I shall definitely let you know..and yes..I shall write more poems..
What about this? I’m not sure if this can be considered poetry.
Forlorn
A shy hello and a timid smile.
That’s how it all started,
That’s how far our courage could go.
Nothing much, but that’s all it took to lead us together.
You were enigmatic, captivating.
I was fragile, and you were scared of it.
Soon the hello turned into mystery when
You left without goodbye.
Day and night I cried, praying you would come back.
God must have been sleeping, He never heard my cries.
Days turned into years so I wiped my tears away,
Stopped figuring things out and reckoned you’re gone forever.
Until one day… the day you said hello, then
Everything came rushing back.
The memories swept me like a torrent of waves
Plunging me into a sea of emotions.
For a moment, I was swimming in it with you; however,
As swiftly as the sea rushed to the shores,
It rolled back leaving me in the vast ocean
Alone, cold and afraid.
I called out your name, but
The only sound I heard
Echoing in the darkness of midnight was
The voice of silence.
I tried swimming back to shore, but
My limbs were limp with exhaustion.
I waited for strong arms to pull me up, but
Nothing came.
The waves tossed me around, and
The tide of despair pulled me deeper into the ocean of desolation.
Helpless and powerless, I surrendered to the tide, and
Allowed the waves to take me
Further into the abyss of nothingness.
Very relatable with compelling uses of symbolism. I think well done. Thank you for sharing.
What about this? I’m not sure if this can be considered poetry.
Forlorn
A shy hello and a timid smile.
That’s how it all started,
That’s how far our courage could go.
Nothing much, but that’s all it took to lead us together.
You were enigmatic, captivating.
I was fragile, and you were scared of it.
Soon the hello turned into mystery when
You left without goodbye.
Day and night I cried, praying you would come back.
God must have been sleeping, He never heard my cries.
Days turned into years so I wiped my tears away,
Stopped figuring things out and reckoned you’re gone forever.
Until one day… the day you said hello, then
Everything came rushing back.
The memories swept me like a torrent of waves
Plunging me into a sea of emotions.
For a moment, I was swimming in it with you; however,
As swiftly as the sea rushed to the shores,
It rolled back leaving me in the vast ocean
Alone, cold and afraid.
I called out your name, but
The only sound I heard
Echoing in the darkness of midnight was
The voice of silence.
I tried swimming back to shore, but
My limbs were limp with exhaustion.
I waited for strong arms to pull me up, but
Nothing came.
The waves tossed me around, and
The tide of despair pulled me deeper into the ocean of desolation.
Helpless and powerless, I surrendered to the tide, and
Allowed the waves to take me
Further into the abyss of nothingness.
I don’t see how this is helping at all
and if you get a hater tell you something you din;t want hear plz say thing
My dear Hamlet
Shall I compare you to a winter’s night?
You once the love of my life,
Whose actions now reminds me freezing wind’s bite.
Killed my father with your knife,
Falling to my knees as I weep,
Knowing you left my heart bleeding and torn,
I now cry myself to sleep,
As my father’s death I will continue to mourn,
You were once a young boy filled with joy,
Oh, I wish those memories were endless
Yet you treated me like a toy,
Making me think you are now heartless
I know my brother will try to even the score
Leaving your heart pierced, and dead forever more