The Poets

April 29, 2011

Of a Poetess

Of a Poetess

A Confession of an Emily Dickinson Devotee

The shadows speak to her of Him

And everything Divine,

And so she writes in metered hymn
The depth of every sign.

The sun and moon and vaulted skies

Are symbols she will say-
She sees the Meaning they disguise

And writes what they portray.

That Meaning (set in cryptic verse)

Transcends what I can see,

And though I have the poet’s thirst

I cannot be as she:

For God has opened up her sight

To see internal things-

With ease she sees the purer light,

I see it and it stings.

Of the Poem (Parameters and a Side Note)


Meter: Alternates between a tetrameter (8 syllables per line), and a trimeter (6 syllables)
Rhyme Scheme: ababcdcd per individual stanza


To say Emily Dickinson is an incredible poet is not saying enough. Of course, and I say this respectfully of her, she’s just as human as the next person.

Here’s the deal, though … her passion and talent for poetry, coupled with her ability to perceive the depths of the transcendental in the exceedingly mundane, is a level scarcely reached by most people (and to give expression of it in verse, rarer still).

She composed roughly 1,800 poems in her lifetime. It was only when she died that those who were close to her came to discover her works. This suggests to me that not only did she care little for accolade, but that she cared for poetry for poetry’s sake. A true poet!Her commitment to poetry is chillingly inspiring. I’ve said this before, and I’ll unhesitatingly say it again: She, above any poet I’ve come to know or study thus far, is what a poet ought to be. She is to poetry what Kierkegaard is to existentialism.

April 26, 2011

The Harvesting

I fell into a mortal sleep
Alone the other day

And waking found that I was reaped
Like wheat that sickles slay

The new realm was a threshing floor
That drew out inner grain

The me, the I, the self, the core
The mental of the brain

It cleared away the weevils too
While winnowing the hull

And as the chaff through cool air blew
There came to view my soul

My husk now thoroughly was purged
And all that stood was me

A naked core made pure emerged
Into eternity


For the Rally

Bless the World

Rally, poets! - bless the world
With words the Muse might have you use:
All have won by doing so-

By doing so … you never lose.

April 22, 2011


Because the morning sun is gold
Because the smell of loam is bold
Because there’s warmth within the cold
I know that I am Spring

Because the aspen boasts her leaves
Because upon me warm air cleaves
Because the red squirrel ‘round me weaves
I know that I am Spring

Because the zenith sun’s aflame
Because the lake is clear and tame
Because the larkspur knows my name
I know that I am Spring

Because the crows above have scoffed
Because the dragonfly’s aloft
Because the mossy rocks are soft
I know that I am Spring


April 18, 2011

Bob Kaufman

Bob Kaufman, born this day in 1925, is one of the more jazzier of the beat poets. It was in the 40s when he came to the attention of some of the Beat movement’s founders- namely, Ginsberg, Corso, and Kerouac.

One of the things that I like about him is that he was sort of a street-side poet (reciting his poetry aloud to passersby much like a street-side preacher).

An interesting fact about this guy is that, after Ke
nnedy was assassinated in 63, he took a Buddhist vow of silence that lasted all the way up to 75 when the Vietnam War ended (impressive).

Impressive still is his ability to employ a dense plethora of vivid imagery in very short poems … his poetry and use of imagery reminds me of Hilda Dolittle and Robert Hayden. Check him out:

Jazz Chick

Music from her breast, vibrating
Soundseared into burnished velvet.
Silent hips deceiving fools.
Rivulets of trickling ecstacy
From the alabaster pools of Jazz
Where music cools hot souls.
Eyes more articulately silent
Than Medusa's thousand tongues.
A bridge of eyes, consenting smiles
reveal her presence singing
Of cool remembrance, happy balls
Wrapped in swinging
Her music...

As of April 9th, 2010