Is Poetry Scary?

Discussion in 'Arts and Literature' started by Skip Enge, Dec 21, 2012.

  1. I write a lot of poetry. Started to in earnest at onset of an impending divorce after 37 years...needed something more than painting to do...any way I have about 100 I have written in the last year or so...
    Wrote this one yesterday once I realized what the date was...


    Here it is,
    The cusp,
    The dawning
    Of change.

    The Mayan sun
    And past…

    Here we are
    On that
    Unknown cusp
    Of prophecy.

    Our transition
    Has come
    And work
    Has begun

    Let us
    Look with
    Hope and
    Peaceful transition

    As calendars
    To evils
  2. The Gallery

    Art is life
    It seems
    To me

    Lines drawn
    For all to see

    Memories are dear
    But is experience
    Really clear?

    Our palettes
    Are created
    In time

    From works
    That rhyme.

    Our canvas
    primed at birth
    To be receptive
    To the hues
    And our worth

    In the gallery
    Of our living
    We measure
    Our lifes work
    With our giving

    In retrospect
    We collect Images
    And memories unfold
    To great richness
    Of stories told

    We express
    With our eyes,
    With our hands
    through words
    For all to behold

    Creative minds
    Whose heartfelt
    Sees the gallery
    Open before them.
    Their own volition

    Now is the time
    To meet and greet
    And live and create
    What we need
    To repeat.

    To the gallery
    And the work
    People should see.
  3. Jealosy

    We covet
    Beyond attraction
    Find reasons
    For interaction

    Yet when time
    Avails no true words
    Nothing good
    Can be heard

    Why is that?
    My once true friend
    Are we so stubborn
    We just pretend?

    We covet memory
    And yet reject

    In lifes pageant
    We know not
    What to expect…
  4. The Mirror

    The loon cries
    With echoes
    Of loss…

    Mute mist

    Heaven kissed
    I see it

    Soft pillows
    Silent billows

    The rustle
    Of sedge
    Grass on
    Mirrors edge

    Lapping against
    The hull
    A shell of man
    The sheen is gone

    The loon cries

    With echoes
    Of loss

    In awe
    With conscience
    We saw

    The loon cries

    With echoes
    Of loss

    Silent billows
    Love lost.

    Patrick Gould likes this.
  5. For James(wrote it for a friend going through a rough time)

    Fall is coming
    Late Crocus blooming
    The air cooler
    The color crisper

    The ebb and flow
    Life moves on
    Tides of persistence
    A breeze of acceptance

    Fall is coming
    Light quelled
    By dimming

    But comfort
    Ever present

    Seems to say
    Envelop me

    We live life
    On the wire
    And should yield
    To the inspired

    Because when
    Fall comes

    Gathering hope
    We should relish

    All that helps
    Us cope
    Friends, love

    And the beauty
    The memories
    Of what we know.

    Fall is coming

    By dimming daylight

    The ebb and flow
    Life moves on
    Tides of persistence
    A breeze of acceptance…

    A sort of tranquility
  6. Poetry certainly isn't scary but it has fallen from grace. At one time, it was very popular but I can't say that is still the case. The interest has simply faded away.
  7. Halo

    The shape
    The outline
    That surrounds
    the intent.

    An aura
    Of energy
    An echo
    Of what
    Was meant

    We stamp
    An approval
    And seal
    The imprint.

    And defining
    A ghost
    Of repent.

    This hallowed
    Yet bought.

    What does
    This ideal
    Trade in

    We take
    Shape and


    In conclusion,
    If it is
    What the
    Heart seeks?
    Steve Bird likes this.
  8. Enjoyed the poems! Thanks.

    Is poetry scary? As a mirror, it can be. Yet, as it is a natural propensity of our species to use poetry to evoke, for whatever reason we need to evoke/express through any of the arts, I suppose we can only define it as necessity. I've seen scary paintings, films, & read scary prose, but that doesn't mean the form is scary.

    Tiny brown mite
    Your hackles catch
    The falling sun
    What secret do you hold?
    I lift the rod &
    Cast you to the dazzling void
    GAT and Skip Enge like this.
  9. I had to come up with a thread title evocative enough to get someone to look...Ha!
  10. some of mine are self searching...


    I talk,
    I hear,
    All echoe.

    What is
    With that
    He said?

    Some call
    And response
    To the psyche?

    Some irrelevant
    Buoying self

    Or perhaps
    A shout out
    Seeing if
    Someone listens?

    This shell
    Of self

    What is
    With that
    He said?
    Steve Bird likes this.
  11. Affirmations doing real work for the poet. Why people will never quit writing poetry. Some will read. But it doesn't matter. Nice to have a wall to hang stuff on. Today's haiku:

    ambiguous spate
    leafless, supplicant alders
    rain darkens the stones
    Skip Enge likes this.
  12. very nice...rain darkens the stones...
  13. I must be some kind of neanderthal or something. Just doesn't do it for me. I think I need a tune with mine.
  14. North Country
    Greener than green
    Rolling forest
    Awe inspiring fertile
    Trees that go on…

    Forever evergreen

    Wild yet managed
    Can we tell?

    Stories of the woods?

    The woods…
    If we imagine

    Camp two
    Camp three

    A resource boundless
    That we could see.

    Well we know
    It’s a product

    That is becoming
    Rarer by the day.

    Forever evergreen
    Wild yet managed
    Can we tell
    Stories of the woods?
  15. Now that's more like it.
  16. Want him to interpret more but the poor guy had to get a day job...Have a couple of friends in San Francisco...that threatened to do something with my writing too! It's flattering and purely no money in it for me at all...the music bizz is tough...I heard there were 50,000 self published musicians in the Portland/ Vancouver and outlying areas alone...
  17. Not scary. Nice work. I like poetry, used to write regularly when young. Maybe I should start again...not sure ill be up to share, putting oneself out there and all.
    Skip Enge likes this.
  18. I'm not a fan of open verse, which is ironic because some of my open verse poems were published in the yearly literature book at the college I attended.


    Hats well worn crown whitened hair,
    leaves of oak sail cheek-bite air.
    Three fisher friends through time have strolled
    banks of river-creek young to old.

    Three long rods strung with line and fly,
    to crest the rapids and write in sky.
    Rusted zippers on weathered vest pockets,
    pale wrinkled skin and sunken eye sockets.

    The kings have returned to the life of the past,
    upstream they've fought, steady not fast.
    To conjunct the reason only they know,
    in the ripples of birth in summer-flow snow.

    The shadow-trees hush now and whisper the sigh,
    winter is drifting downstream, old youth goodbye.
    A salmon corpse floats to shore, a spirit is free,
    a calm at last ends the upstream battle from sea.

    The chill of dusk, the last cast of day,
    reeled in lines, broken-down rods, downstream is their way.
    Three fishers friends now calm at rest,
    relive which king was strongest, which salmon the best.

    The kings spawned and gone, the snow now layed,
    the long winter night, the slow thaw of spring day.
    The fishers have returned to the river a new,
    but one is upstream for now there's just two.
    Skip Enge likes this.
  19. In response to Ed Call our friendly moderator...about "putting yourself out there"


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