{"id":3869,"date":"2015-04-18T16:08:04","date_gmt":"2015-04-18T20:08:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/dsavannah.com\/blog\/?p=3869"},"modified":"2015-04-20T16:50:59","modified_gmt":"2015-04-20T20:50:59","slug":"2015-p-is-for","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dsavannah.com\/blog\/index.php\/2015-p-is-for\/","title":{"rendered":"P is for…"},"content":{"rendered":"

…Poetry<\/strong><\/h1>\n

\"P\"It’s National Poetry Month<\/b><\/span>, but I didn’t realize that when I decided on this subject for my P post.<\/p>\n

Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t like poetry. They think it’s fussy. They can’t understand it. They were forced to read boring, horrible poetry in high school, and vowed never to read poetry again. Ever. Ever. Ever.<\/p>\n

Or they were forced to write<\/em> poetry, which was (is?) even worse. I mean, figuring out iambic pentameter is hard enough, but what about all the other<\/em> types of rhythm and meter?<\/p>\n

A Poetry Foundation webpage<\/a> lists them, which include anapest (“a metrical foot consisting of two unaccented syllables followed by an accented syllable.”), dimeter (“A line of verse composed of two feet.”), and spondee (“A metrical foot consisting of two accented syllables.<\/span>“).
\n<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

And of course there are forms<\/a> of poetry, including alexandrine (“In English, a 12-syllable iambic line adapted from French heroic verse.”), epic (“a long narrative poem<\/span>“, most likely what caused the hatred of poetry), and sestina (“A complex French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy.”) (As an aside, I actually have a friend, Emery L. Campbell<\/a>, who likes to write sestinas. For fun.)<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Got all that? Yeah, I don’t either.<\/p>\n

So yeah, people get overwhelmed and distrustful of poetry, which is a shame, because there are some absolutely beautiful poems out there. And, as David Whyte says:<\/p>\n

Poetry allows us to acknowledge the fullness of our being in ways that are often denied in daily life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Which is true. So here are a few poems, and I hope you enjoy them:<\/h3>\n

Spare Parts<\/strong>
\nby February Grace<\/a><\/em><\/h3>\n

I’ve become a shed of
\nrusted spare parts
\ncomprised of all
\nthat others
\nhave cast off<\/p>\n

I wish to be
\na weathered shelf or bureau
\ndings and scratches, yes
\ndistressed
\nstill worth reclaiming<\/p>\n

I wait for someone to look twice,
\nbeyond the surface
\nto decide
\nbeneath the damage and the scars
\nmy bones are beautiful<\/p>\n

I could be restored,
\nrenewed,
\nlife breathed back into
\nwith a bit of love
\nand elbow grease.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This poem shared by permission of the author.<\/p>\n

\n

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey’s Version Of “Three Blind Mice”<\/strong>
\nby Billy Collins<\/a><\/em><\/h3>\n

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.
\nIf it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister,
\nand I think of the poor mother
\nbrooding over her sightless young triplets.<\/p>\n

Or was it a common accident, all three caught
\nin a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?
\nIf not,
\nif each came to his or her blindness separately,<\/p>\n

how did they ever manage to find one another?
\nWould it not be difficult for a blind mouse
\nto locate even one fellow mouse with vision
\nlet alone two other blind ones?<\/p>\n

And how, in their tiny darkness,
\ncould they possibly have run after a farmer’s wife
\nor anyone else’s wife for that matter?
\nNot to mention why.<\/p>\n

Just so she could cut off their tails
\nwith a carving knife, is the cynic’s answer,
\nbut the thought of them without eyes
\nand now without tails to trail through the moist grass<\/p>\n

or slip around the corner of a baseboard
\nhas the cynic who always lounges within me
\nup off his couch and at the window
\ntrying to hide the rising softness that he feels.<\/p>\n

By now I am on to dicing an onion
\nwhich might account for the wet stinging
\nin my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard’s
\nmournful trumpet on “Blue Moon,”<\/p>\n

which happens to be the next cut,
\ncannot be said to be making matters any better.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

By the way, Billy Collins was previously the poet laureate of the United States. I’ve heard him speak twice. He’s wonderful! Check out his books on Amazon<\/a>. (This poem taken from PoemHunter.com.)<\/p>\n

\n

And of course, I couldn’t do a post on poetry without sharing one of my own. (You can read a few more on my website<\/a> if you wish…)<\/p>\n

Death Visits the Opera<\/span> <\/strong>
\nby D. Savannah George<\/i><\/h3>\n

“It was spectacular!” Death
\nsaid in his gravelly voice
\nafter spending a night at
\nthe opera.
\n                He had hung
\nhis black robe in his closet,
\nrented a tuxedo from
\nthe nearest formal shop, and
\nbought doubtful-smelling scent from a
\nfrightened salesgirl.
\n                            That night, he
\ncareened in on his steed,
\nhad it valet parked, muttered
\nsomething about bad help, and
\ntook his seat as the curtain
\nlifted.
\n            He hardly noticed the
\nstares, nor the fact that quite a
\nradius of seats around
\nhim was empty, although he
\nwould have wished to talk about
\nthe show with someone.
\n                                    He liked
\nthe opera anyway;
\nhis eyes peered through great mists of
\npeople at the stage, where fat
\nwomen sang notes that startled
\nangels.
\n            The huge chorus in
\nthe background stood and sat, and
\nstood and sat, which made Death quite
\ndizzy; he had to hold tight
\nto the armrest.
\n                      As he left,
\nthe crowd melted before him;
\nhe didn’t hear the gasps from
\na few pale souls; nor did
\nhe even have to wait for
\nhis horse.
\n                    “All in all it was
\nquite a nice evening” he said,
\nsighing nervously, as he
\ntried to catch up on backlog
\nawaiting him at work.
\n                                But
\n“I suppose it was worth it”
\nhis spectral voice intoned.
\n                                        And
\n“I don’t think anybody
\nrecognized me.”<\/p>\n

Poetry copyright \u00a9 19 April 92 D. Savannah George. All rights reserved. Please do not steal my work. If you would like to reprint, please ask permission.<\/p>\n

Obviously, this poem was inspired by Terry Pratchett. #GNUTerryPratchett<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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