Poetry, as we have discussed in earlier parts of this article series, depends upon the Muses and accessing the deeper self or soul within each person; this is not an easy thing to do. In the 18th century Lord Chesterfield commented on how an individual could be anything they chose to be, except a ‘great poet’. There has always been a recognition in all societies throughout history that the calling of the true poet – like the true prophet – is a rare and difficult one. But it
The beautiful old soul, like a dying star, Burns brighter as it nears its seeming end, And fills with glorious light, the regions far Beyond where fainter rays it once could send; It grows gigantic, like a god of fire, And then explodes in blinding flash of light, To leave but vision’s memory to inspire That beauty it once lent to this dark night. But when the last of its bright flames is shed, Its life force slips into a place between This world and that in which it is not d
The lavender fields are dotted with white boxes squat as houses. In his mesh veil, smoker handy, hands gloved, he slowly removes the upright tray patterned in perfect hexagons of wax, lifting it gently with a swarm on it as if a painting come to life to speak of life. He calls it the sweetness of being. He explains why the hive spends every moment of living daylight to probe the deep scent of purple. Honey has the taste of wisdom, the reason I have come at sunset with a need
Cicada There is, I know, some benefit in this,
this cycle of emerging, breeding, dying-
so brief a time for knowing any bliss,
or making friends, or new endeavors trying – only to bring forth offspring which will know
a dark, damp, subterranean home for years,
preserving life that one day it might show
itself to curious humans, ring our ears and give us pause to contemplate how odd
sometimes, the workings of our all-wise God. Originally published by The Society for Classical
Truth has no need for empty praise By those attired in scholar’s garb, So keenly with the microscopes And scalpels of their intellects Dissecting all her varied forms And chaining them in epithets. Serenely indifferent is she, And goes about her changeless ways With unrelenting certainty. What army of old scientists Could grasp her trailing tresses as She travels through Eternity? Anish Poddar has been writing poetry since he was seven, and he is passionate about art, particu
A pin oak grips its leaves, long turned to brown
And hanging against the frosts and deepening chill,
Into December still it holds them on
When all the trees around have let them fall.
The envied flowers have gone for many a day
Whose beauty struck the solemn oak to shame,
The maples’ burst of color has passed away,
And still it clings, still wishing a show of flame.
The freezing Winter wind must come and tear
The bitter rags from every branch at last,
And stripped, the anci
If you see an ant go marching In his regimented pack, Brittle, beady body arching With that leaf upon his back, Let him be, don’t dare beleaguer Him for what he didn’t do; Life is sweet and even meager Creatures know it to be true. If you see a bee go lugging From the hive to bloom and back, Whirling, whisking winglets tugging All that pollen in his sac, Let him be, don’t dare beleaguer Him for what he didn’t do; Life is sweet and even meager Creatures know it to be true. If
Little ones, little ones, playing around me, Blowing your bubbles up into the air, Laughing and giggling to chase them toward me, Or when they turn back to alight in your hair; Watch them float upward above the green treetops, Where they are caught by the golden sunbeams, And wonder how each, for a beautiful moment, Lives like a bright rainbow world full of dreams. What if our spirits could fly with those bubbles, And time could stand still as those worlds we explore? Castles
Memory is such a guileful thing,
And now I watch it like a doorway closing,
Or a mist along a shore that’s darkening,
Revealing less, and more in fog enclosing. A pleasant thing if we could walk again
The many steps that made us come together;
There went the grace that did surround us then?
The beloved sometimes now becomes a stranger. Now memory walks along the ledge of time,
Stirring in the deep uncertain past,
Mixing up a songbook with a rhyme
And calling friends across th
Here lies One whose name was writ in water-
O Delphic streams washing aged tombs by!
A single glance spare when violets cry
Near one fading brick- O cruel daughter
Of pearl eyed Mnemosyne unmoist and clear,
Run through thy hands on my consumpted waste,
Bless thus my youth whose visions were chaste,
But half-achieved lay my ambitions dear.
O sweet stern Apollo, seer of Bards!
Were possessed in me and ye too, Ronsard
Would with glad hearts in my grave deep breathe,
For though m
My soul is ever so dark,
Like the majestic night,
In its center my heart,
Shines atop milky white.
And from an early start,
It never had me—the light,
Or inspiring art,
As her majestic night.
For the uncertain mist,
That shrouds a veil to part,
Our view to be amidst,
The perplexity of hearts,
It only tickles me,
Eternally to delight,
In the layers of mystery,
Of our mortal sight. Uncertain by shadows That contrast for me depth,
Of demons that hold back,
12/03/17 Of all ye gods, that crown Olympus high,
Who yet remains that man’s not brought to heel?
When aircraft daily pierce great Zeus’s sky,
And Neptune’s depths have long since been revealed. Alas, the greenhouse did Demeter in,
And eBay showed poor Hermes to the door;
Now Hestia runs on gas, the forge an engine,
And small blue pills cut Bacchus to his core. O how divorce court made Queen Hera stamp,
And Pallas, too, when Deep Blue claimed check-mate,
The twins out-done by