(This should be a post for Friday. But it’s Sunday. Oh well.)
I am not a poet. I am the first to say that I am not a poet. But I did take a form and theory class for English, and in this class I ended up writing poetry. I do not like writing in free verse. I can’t write in free verse. But when form comes along . . . It’s an intense struggle to write poetry. It’s exhausting. It’s challenging. It never comes out just right.
I waited for the start of something new
The herald for my dreams to cry afresh
My heart uplifted, yet the trembling hand
Betrayed the fear of hope, the faltering faith.
Results of hope are dreams that self-destruct
Around my feet—the crumpled paper tears
My shaky fingers curve and black ink runs
Struggles to write the something new and real.
The solid sky is sharp and blue and close
Its weight compresses down. For what can be
Creative but the sky? I do not know.
Ink can only try to copy heaven
Creation stops with start of Genesis.
Is there anything left for dreams to write?
But now I feel within that broken pen
A quiver of something that fights to grow
The Exodus follows beginning of earth
As Israel attempts creation of self.
The sky remains alone, its sacred tones
Proclaim a perfect beauty—but are matched
with human spirit, gentle words of mine.
My attempted blank verse, written about a year ago. It is far from perfect, but that’s okay.