Poetry: Stumbling forth

I’ve fallen in love with poetry and have been reading a lot more of it. I’m inspired by the variety, depth, and beauty of the distinct voices poets bring to their works. While I’m still quite clumsy, I’m enjoying exploring different types of poetry and playing with line breaks, punctuation, and repetition.

Last week, I was blown away by the thoughtful comments of encouragement and support. My anxiety tells me those poems were a fluke and everyone will hate this week’s offerings, but I know that’s resistance taking the lead. Creativity takes a lot of courage, and I’m summoning all I got to keep moving forward. One word at a time.

This week’s classwork was to write poems inspired by our favorite books. I’m sharing three poems:

  1. Erasure poem from the first page of “The Name of the Wind” by Patrick Rothfuss
  2. Erasure poem from a random page “The Slow Regard of Silent Things” by Patrick Rothfuss
  3. Acrostic poem using “The Name of the Wind”

I hope you enjoy these latest attempts. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.


Night

Silence;
hollow lacking,
wind creaking,
brushed autumn laughter.

House;
music huddled,
quiet news,
sullen sorts underfoot.

Splintering;
black heat,
white hands, 
polishing lamplight flame.

Subtle;
wrapping deep,
wide stone,
patient flower waiting.


Surely

slow down, fingers touch
brushed sweetness
curled edges
realizing proper treasure

surely
surely

the moment eyes want
furious things
shame burning
greedy wanting twisting 
world of pushing desire 

she closed 
around herself
obviously

in
need 


Into the Wilds Within

Tired, weary I bring myself forth to press into
hallowed places, for I dare not travel alone into the
ethereal nest of words I can’t say out loud.

Nothingness, thick about me, caped and hooded,
aloof with boots of thick mud, trapped between
me and me and me, the versions of which I can’t
erase, write again and again for all time.

Oh, worldly wordsmiths of grace and mire
forgive me my shortcomings, for I’m not worthy.

Tis the smoke in my eye blinding me to the
hero, the pain of which I can’t find no matter how
earnestly I go into the woods and the wilds to

wrestle the places deep within to seek diverse
images. Words fail me, they don’t capture the
nothingness and everything of the beautiful
dreams of what could be, what I could be.