Poetry: Let Us Practice

Words are fun to study! Those, which they signify are pictures of all sorts and a hurricane of imaginations, as Archibald Macleish’s maple leaf and globed fruit represent.

Below are some poems, as comments to other beautiful poems:

To: Sir William C. Williams (The Descent)

Descent is the moon that wanes beneath darkness
Clouds, gray nights of cold
Like a love unrequited
Like tales untold

Like throes hiding under shadows
Like dreams unrealized burrow
Etched is truth, there lies abyss
Lonely lilacs surrender peace.

To: Sir Richard Eberhart (Grave Piece)

Death nigh unto life, lay questions of tomorrow
Four doves in the grave, blight then, now sorrow
O crystal Tear, of all be near, I shall not fear, I shall not fear!

To Sir: W. H. Auden (Perhaps)

Your “barren virtuous marriage of stone and water”
Is a ring in my heart where name and image meet.

You paint a soothing ocean in the summer
Black stones glittering gold cobwebs ponder
Underneath stones sparkling ripples of kiss
My lips supple – still, pure pink for your love
Lithe for your flesh; be for you, Dear love.

To: Sir Dylan Thomas: After the Funeral (in Memory of Ann Jones)

Could there be a love like Michael Furey’s love?
Could Ann Jones be the reality of Gretta?
What other thoughts tie Sir James with you?
And me, and the others? Perhaps love, that of Auden.

Scrubbed and sour humble hands of old Anne
Clench monuments for the boys shedding dry leaves

And I, now a mother, a womb of oceans
My naked chest for the world

And after all the lovers gone
Vigor and bloom on window sills
Everything fades from a love, all transient like grass

Only funerals in choir of angels
Only God’s love eternally lasts

And for my lover, my lover, my lover
Haul me up your arms when in death;
Nigh your heart, nigh your breath,
In peace, cast away my fear
To Father God, I shall forever rest.

Truly, works of art are indestructible and true. They bear fruits and would last unto the next morrow. Only patterns change, and feelings as to the way how people live. But then, the world turns. Nothing is permanent, as art gives birth to new dimensions like water, it will disperse unto the sea again, back to the sky again, then unto the earth again. Poems keep moving, and that is why they are alive!

Thank you for the poems, dear poets. God bless the poets!


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