Poetry

Fantasy, folly, black black-rain -- Muses  

Grant their gifts tentatively, rarely

Free or unencumbered, without expectations

Of a quid pro quo. For every rhyme,

Reason extracts a toll, lays siege until

That mind, too dull, too hesitant, uncertain

Of which way to turn, hoists the white flag.

Unable to hold the defenseless line,

A mutinous metaphor, the poet  

Either learns to settle, till the nine-tenths

Of an acre, or snaps, trundles along

Towards Bedlam, Dante’s cat-scratching fever

Of ever-endless doubt, revisions. The furies

Of unrepentant angels he once called poems.  

Ken e Bujold 

Reviews

[W. Barrett Munn]

This definitely found its last lines.

[emmajoygreen]

Poetry is both lover and enemy, depending, of course, on mood, thought, patience and inspiration, not necessarily in that order. Idea enthusastically pops in, thought puts finger to chin - a la Rodin and as you say then - the white flag flies. Aftermath varies, feelings of hopelessness, ennui, madness and all the rest. Collapse! Rather like a hangover - thought: 'Never again!' True.. until next time and that angel sits aside and whispers how..

This poem has a mood or two - decision or discussion, perhaps.

[Ken e Bujold]

Been reading Kay Jamison's Setting the River on Fire, which is about Robert Lowell. A favored poet of mine. Stirred by Jamison's insights into Lowell's bipolar, I penned this in the form of a sonnet, in tip of cap to Lowell's mastery of the form.

rather enjoy the way it turned out. May explore the format myself for a bit. Quite engaging to get everything you want into 14 tiny lines

[emmajoygreen]

Re' the latter, I need lessons for 'less said the better', ken. Emulating another's mastery could be reckless but - certainly not for you, sir! Makes note about that book.