words

rand burst of... wordyness?

Words are all i have

though powerful words they are

words that reacht the tallest mountain

words you can hear no matter how far

Words that strike a chord

deep down in your heart

Words grand enough for a lord!

and simple enough for the man at the ox-cart

words that are long

and words that are short

words that paint pictures

words for sailors at port

words that rhyme

and wors that don't

funny words

gloomy words

and mythical words

words

words

and words

are all i can offer

words

words

words are all you'll need

words that lie

words that comfort

words

words

words...

 

Author's Note

reviews appreciated ^_^

Reviews

[Senseless whatever]

Great observation on the effect of words. How important they are. The first and sometimes only contact people will have. They inspire and destroy, comfort and make us cry.

[Simone]

this is so very true. Words.... nothing else to be said.
Great job and very nice formatting.
I love it.

[JohnL]

Your poetry is better than your bio - which - if you want people to read your poetry, you should change and soon! Rudeness is not a sensible path - even if it is meant to be a joke.
Words are a fascinating study, a wonderful means of expression and your two poems that I have read so far very well express this. I also like your experimental formatting too. Shape can express and it is something you quite rightly (and successfully) play with. One criticism. If words mean so much to you, why don't you spell them better - 'reacht'? and 'wors'? Why not run your work through spellcheck and respect your words more?
Here's a piece from the master Pablo Neruda on words - utterly wonderful..

The following is a passage from the memoirs of Pablo Neruda, translated from the original Spanish. Neruda was a Chilean, a winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, Chilean Ambassador in Paris at the time of the Allende regime and a poet of rare excellence. He wrote on a wide spectrum of subject matter, his poems on love, travel, injustice and the Spanish Civil War being exceptional.
THE WORD:
. . . You can say anything you want, yes sir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend. . I bow to them . . . I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down . . . I love words so much . . . The unexpected ones . . . The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop . . . Vowels I love . . . They glitter like coloured stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew . . . I run after certain words . . . They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem . . . I catch them in mid-flight as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives . . . And then I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go . . . I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves . . . Everything exists in the word . . . An idea goes through a complete change because one word shifted its place, or because another settled down like a spoiled little thing inside a phrase that was not expecting her but obeys her . . . They have shadow, transparence, weight, feathers, hair and everything they gathered from so much rolling down the river, from so much wandering from country to country, from being roots so long . . . They are very ancient and very new . . . They live in the bier, hidden away, and in the budding flower . . . What a great language* I have, it's a fine language we inherited from the fierce conquistadors . . . They strode over the giant cordilleras, over the rugged Americas, hunting for potatoes, sausages, beans, black tobacco, gold, corn, fried eggs, with a voracious appetite not found in the world since then . . . They swallowed up everything, religions, pyramids, tribes, idolatries just like the ones they brought along in their huge sacks . . . Wherever they went, they razed the land . . . But words fell like pebbles out of the boots of the barbarians, out of their beards, their helmets, their horseshoes, luminous words that were left glittering here . . . our language. We came up losers . . . we came up winners . . . they carried off the gold and left us the gold . . . they carried everything off and left us everything . . . They left us the words.

Pablo Neruda, 'Memoirs'

* Spanish, of course but doesn't it apply to us all?

John