Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Fireflies in the Garden - Robert Frost

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And the were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

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from this amazing amazing site.. http://community.livejournal.com/greatpoets/

this is not really a poem. in that it is not something funny or witty, not even self-deemed, that i would write and show off and try to erase all my hurt with. but it is. and it may have a deeper meaning than i intended, which is not the case with those that are soley lame puns strung together in a way that is musically pleasing to me. i was never actually good at rhythm when i did do music so.. so maybe i will not show this off, but just let it exist in this space. i love this kind of subdued beauty that some poems manage to handle, letting the words shimmer gently. i can only write poems pretending at this, but not achieve it. nevertheless, writing it seems to put me in a zen, calm frame of mind. like wandering round an art gallery, or selecting books i will not buy in a bookshop to sit in a hideyhole and read. it is probably quite sad to say this is the happiest and most peaceful poem i have written in a long while, everything else is condemning love, and seems chirpy, strong, power woman with forceful, pun-choked punchlines. guess this is for the peace that running gives me, for the strength i used to seemingly posess


wintergreen
between the fluttering bird-
leaves, wandering the peripheries
of fields, heeled boots on
cobblestones; my thoughts are
unremembered, paeolonthic
far-away and ancient
like the stoned buildings
dulled by the wind, chilled
drink on an icy day. chasing
winged things down the street
rain-dust from the cars,
yellow-jacketed cyclists
illuminated in the 3 pm dark,
runners warring the sunset
with japanese masai headbands,
the tango classes in wood-
panelled rooms which never seem
to progress; the endless
waltz of gradual winter
auguring the dissappearing
freeze

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