A Poet’s Fond Friends

I promised at least something this April for National Poetry Month, and although I wasn’t able to write one poem per day, I have managed to slip under the wire on the last day of April! Enjoy!

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Image courtesy of [dan] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

A Poet’s Fond Friend

Silhouette on the moon,

A shadow that disappears at noon,

A dream without ending, infinite illusion.

A debt owed to Death left unpaid,

Collections calls are periodically made.

The forced estrangement was long overdue.

But, adds to the complexity and befuddlement, too.

Perils are a poet’s fond friends,

And when one assignment is completed

Another begins.

Grievances hover like a murder gone hungry.

A makeshift shelter is a welcomed luxury.

The helter and skelter and ruin, et al

Are awaiting beneath to cushion the fall.

Existence takes the reflection

Of a fun house mirror’s.

No amount of manipulation

makes its visage much clearer.

What’s done is what’s done.

C’est la vie, as they say,

But perhaps merriment

will pursue us some day.

 

 

Copyright Donnell Jeansonne. All rights reserved. Reproduction or duplication whole or in part not permitted without permission and credit to the author.

 

 

 

“And Yet God Has Not Said a Word!”

Today instead of posting my own poetry (because I have nothing new) I’d like to share a poem by another poet, a very well-known, classical poet. Someone whose work is well worth sharing, I think.

I present Mr. Robert Browning’s

Porphyria’s Lover

“The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!”

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The above text was copied from Sparknotes.com

Free clip art from Microsoft Office

Crescent

Another entry for my personal observation of National Poetry Month in which I will write as much as I can and post as often as I can. I know rhyming poetry isn’t as highly considered as it once was, and it is more difficult to write a good rhyming poem, but I tried to write it without the rhyme and it happened naturally, so I went with it. And no the rhyme scheme is not the same throughout. Enjoy.

Crescent

Wrought-iron sentinals
stand side by side,
connected throughout
but for a yawning divide.

Ancient oaks flourish,
their roots grown through cleaves.
The electric rails’ current
moves ‘neath a quilt of leaves.

The archaic and modern
with one another stand

on this soggy crescent-
a sacred and debauched land.

Copyright Donnell Jeansonne. All rights reserved. Reproduction or duplication whole or in part not permitted without permission and credit to the author.