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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Monday, April 5, 2010

What Is Poetry?

Darkness is this companion binded firmly upon my back;
Melancholy the perfect morose match nothing lack.
Burden he is to my perceptions,
planting me pitilessly in the wrong directions.
Yet in the moment's instance
His wit shows the most needed assistance;
This devil I despise who I blame for my demise,
His words are but of bleak beauty cries.

His meak whimpers, as his presence I recognnize,
abruptly into potent wails metamorphosize.
He is in me my horrid dark as well as my only light;
He incites such articulate beauty and all the glory of the night.
He, my evil my passionate self irate,
is the origin of each thing of me great.
He is the sorrow and misery of hate;
and as the commended author of what I create.
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1 comment:

  1. flaubertApril 5, 2010 at 2:11 PM

    Sadie,
    Well done! Love the rhyming! Not my strong suit. In fact I never write in rhyme, because it doesn't work for me.
    Pamela

    ReplyDelete

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