Silence: a Ghazal

My pen has been silent these last few months
While I took a break from poems

Burnt out from writing, rhyming, rhythm
Even though I still feel love for poems

And now that I desire to write again
I struggle to find words for poems

I fear that I’ve misplaced my muse
Where is my inspiration for poems?

This question burns within my soul
When will it end: this drought from poems?

~~

Sharing this with dVerse. I’ve been absent from this on-line poets’ pub for far too long.

The Challenge of Art

as a poet I’ve discovered
that the beauty an artist intends
is never quite transferred
from mind to completed project
Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony
in all its glory is merely a glimmer
of what was in his mind.
Van Gogh’s Starry Night
while stunning
cannot compare
to the splendour
of the loops and swirls
that he saw in his mind
before he picked up his brush
and I so often
strive for words
that will stun the reader
with their beauty
but must finely settle
for something
so much less
even this poem
does not really say
what I wish it to.

 

There’s more to come!

this life is a poem
written on a paper scrap –
destined for the trash

eternity – a novel
etched with the greatest of care
on hardest diamond

~~

I’m not saying that life is trash, but that it is as temporary as a piece of scrap paper with some verse scribbled on it. I believe, though, that there is something so much MORE after this life comes to an end.

New Form (or new twist on an old form)

At dVerse we’ve been asked to make new forms
of poems for poets to express their words
and this one can be writ in towns or farms
but don’t expect great praises or rewards

I’ve written this in sonnet style you’ll note
but if you look at last words of each line
true rhymes I think you won’t see here tonight
but yet those words are linked and not alone

I hope you take the time to look it through
and don’t just throw your hands up in disgust
after the poem the mystery I’ll throw
to you because you are my honoured guest

I hope that once the form’s descrip is heard
you’ll find this style not too very hard

~~

Today at dVerse, Gay is asking us to make up new poetical forms.  I decided to take an old form and give it a unique twist.  If you look at the sonnet above, you’ll notice a definite abab/cdcd/efef/gg form, but instead of the last syllable of each line rhyming with their counterpart, they start and end with the same consonant sounds, but have different vowel sounds in the middle.  Therefore, “forms” from line one is changed to “farms” in line 3, and “note” in line 5 is changed to “(to)night” in line 7, etc.

This style could be used in any existing form poetry where rhymes are replaced with vowel substitutions instead.  Hope you enjoyed…and I hope, even more, that you understood my explanation  🙂

Oh…and because I’m supposed to have a name for the form, I’ll simply call it “Vowel Substitution”

I’ll link this up to dVerse later today when the bar opens (at 3pm EST).

Sometimes a poet simply has to ask…

Sometimes a poet simply has to ask
Why do I write why do I do this task?
To that I have a lot that I could say
But I’ll be brief in what I say today

Sometimes I write free verse sometimes to form
There is no style you could call my ‘norm’
I sometimes like the thrill of making rhyme
But then there are the times when I do not

I write because I want my skill to grow
I write because I want the world to know
I write because I want to vent my thoughts
I write to give a smile more oft than not

There are so many reasons why I write
And with that said I’ll bid you all “Good Night!”

~~
At dVerse, our host, Gay Reiser Cannon, has asked us to write manifestos about poetry. Why we write, what threatens our writing, how we deal with those threats, etc. I’ll admit that I have not touched on all of those thoughts, but wanted to write a bit of the “why” at least. If you go back in my blog a few days, you’ll see another poem that would also work for this prompt (but that I wrote for a different prompt that dove-tailed with this one brilliantly)

Perhaps there’s good reason that “Orange” doesn’t rhyme with anything

When I heard there are no words that rhyme well with orange
I decided to make one and so I said “Splornge”
Well as soon as I said it my Splornge came to be
It was hairy and short and as ugly can be

Before long that Splornge ran right out of the door
And I thought that the Splornge was gone for-ever-more
Oh if only my think had turned out to be true
For my Splornge had a mischievous streak, maybe two!

But before that odd Splornge made its way out my place
he had picked all my pockets with skill and with grace
And he’d gone through my fridge and he’d spilled my root beer
And with black felt tip marker had writ, “I was here.”

Then he hot-wired my car and he drove out of site
and the cops had to chase him well into the night
but when they finally stopped him he’d snuck right away
so the Splornge hunt continued until the next day

And before too much time passed he’d held up three banks
he had stolen identities, pulled tons of pranks
But when Splornge hacked the Pentagon he’d gone too far
As if it weren’t enough that he’d stolen my car!

Well it took me some time before I made my plan
But I finally hatched one with my good friend Dan
We concluded there might be one way to stop Splornge
What I had to do was say that “naught rhymes with orange!”

The solution worked fine but I’ve still got one fear
For there’s one other colour without rhyme I hear
So whatever you do when you want to find rhymes
don’t end lines with “purple” and then you’ll do fine!

~~

I wanted to write a poem in anapestic tetrameter. Dr. Seuss used this meter brilliantly, and I wanted to try to do something “Seussian”. Definitely doesn’t work as well as the Dr.’s works, but hopefully it still gave you a smile.
Written for dVerse Open Link Night

Flat Tire – Bout Rimé for dVerse

Today at dVerse, Tony Maude has introduced us to Bouts-rimés.  As I can’t possibly explain this any better than Tony did, I’ll simply quote part of what he has to say:

“Bouts-rimés (boo reeMAY) is French for “rhymed ends”. It is the name given to a poetic game in which a list of words that rhyme with one another is given to one or more poets who then make their own poems, all of which use the same rhyming words in the order in which they were given at the end of their lines.”

Tony then gave us the following list: drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church, worse, purse, back, that

14 words, so it only seemed to make sense to write a sonnet.  Go to dVerse to see Tony’s full article and to find the link that will allow you to read other poets’ poems based on those 14 words.  Without further ado….here’s my poem:

~~

One Sunday as I went out for a drive

I found I had to pull o’er to the side

‘Twas fright’ning as it was the dead of night

I’d claim great courage (but I would have lied)

A flattened tire seemed to be my wage

If I could find a spare then I’d be saved

From yonder bush a frightful noise was made

And to my great chagrin I saw a face

With great relief I saw it was a nurse

But she stood in the graveyard of a church

And once again my fears became much worse!

With fear I saw her reach into her purse

Held something to her ear, then put it back

She’d called a tow-truck.  Whatcha think of that?

Rebekah’s Twins

I’ve been feeling rather introspective lately about my role/identity as a poet.  I’ve come to peace with the fact that I am indeed a poet, but that hasn’t stopped the introspection process.  I write poetry because I enjoy doing so, and if I can bring joy, inspiration, hope, encouragement, and/or humour to someone else, that’s certainly an added bonus.  Here’s a bit of poetic introspection about the process, and maybe the why of my poetry.  The prose poetry form that Samuel Peralta introduced us to recently seems to be working well for my introspections.

~~

My embryonic thoughts are Rebekah’s twins, jostling with each other in the womb of my mind until they’ve developed enough that they can be birthed by the midwife of paper and ink.  And even then, one thought tries to grasp another by the heel and haul it back in a frantic struggle for dominance on the page.

A poem begins to grow with one thought held in a place of honour like a first-born Esau, only to be replaced by another, that Jacob-like, steals the birthright of the first.

A constant struggle and fight continues, and sometimes one thought is banished to a distant land…only to return, transformed into something better through its absence, and I can only hope that my poetic offspring will come to live at peace with each other.  I rejoice when these thought-children of mine can finally coalesce into a unified family, where one thought plus one thought is greater than two thoughts.  Where those thoughts give birth to more and more until nations of thoughts join together to become so much more than multiple thoughts…but become One Unified Whole

And I…once my poem has come fully into being…I can only stand by and watch as an observer, to see what my poem will become, and I can hope, that one day, this offspring of mine will make a difference.

~~

I’ll be linking this to dVerse for Open Link Night.

Am I a Poet?

When do I get to call myself a poet?  I’ve been writing more and more poems, yet too often I feel like a fraud.  I’m certainly no Robbie Burns, William Carlos Williams or Brian Miller, but then again, Robbie Burns was not William Carlos Williams, and William Carlos Williams was no Brian Miller either.  This whole poetry thing is relatively new to me.  Can I call myself a poet?  Or am I just some hack who slings bad rhymes like a part-time bartender slinging drinks in glasses that weren’t washed quite well enough?

Sure, I love a lot of alliteration, and I understand similes like the back of my hand, but is that enough to really say I’m a poet?  Is knowing the lingo, and knocking off a few sonnets sufficient?  Is it enough to pen a few haiku or ballads?

There’s a question:  How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?  Perhaps that should be…how many poems must a (wanna-be) poet write before you can call him a poet?

Sometimes I feel like a fraud when I write a poem, but I’ve come to peace with this:  I’m no Robbie Burns, no William Carlos Williams, No Brian Miller, but yet, my poems are mine and they fight inside me until I give them voice and release them on the world.  I may be new to the world of poetry, but I am Bryan Ens, and I am a poet.

~~

written for the prose poetry challenge at dVerse.

Grey – a poem for dVerse

the time come in these northern climes
when the weather begins to turn
just as the leaves have already turned
from vibrant, living green to
colours that, while they may look beautiful
are none-the-less dead.
my state of mind, like the sky
has turned a dull, drab grey.
i long for the sun to SHINE
and banish the grey from both
the sky and my mind
but it is stuck, resolutely
behind those grim, grey clouds
and ironically, i find i want to
cling to this mind frame.
i find a strange sort of
repulsive comfort in matching
my mood with the sky like
i match a tie to a shirt
a strange comfort that leaves me
cold and desiring bleak solitude
rather than warmth and fellowship.
i suppose it helps that i know
the spring will eventually
kill this season of cold and
darkness
but for now, I’ll swath myself in
grey

~~

Written for dVerse Open Link Night.  Today was drizzly and grey, and my mood was a match, so this poem is a little darker than what i usually write.  Of course, I think of people like Mr. Björn Rudburg who live significantly further north than me.  Not sure how you manage it, my friend!  But here’s wishing one and all a warm winter surrounded by friends who will keep things anything but bleak and grey!