Sometimes I write poetry:

Rain

The dawn came in shades of grey
And a cacophany of wind;
Through morning eyes I watched
As the bottom of the sky fell in.

Yes, the above still needs work. In particular, the rhythm is not what I could wish. Still, I like it. Of course, if one writes free verse, one needn't worry about meter:

Bird

Black angular slices blueness,
Swings hugely, effortlessly
Bobbing bobbing — ocean of blue beneath.
Breathless beauty beating,
Blowing leaflike across the sky.

Every once in a while, I like to dig out an old chestnut to give it a bit of polishing. No poem is ever truly finished. I've been working on this one for fifteen years:

Nightcrawlers

Even while you dimly sleep,
Insects through your eyelids creep:

Dark arachnids sidelong spindle
Slipping neatly across your head —
Wiry legs that work and fiddle,
Weaving your hair into a living web.

Feathery gnats in your nostrils darting
Swarm in silence upon your breath —
Fill your lungs with wings and, parting,
Bring you tremors of a dreamtime death.

With delight, lithe maggots, squirming,
Nest and fester within your brain —
Burrow and feast, white bodies churning
Chewing nerves while dreams are stained.

Insects through your eyelids creep,
Even while you dimly sleep.

And it still needs more work. "Stained" is a stretch, don't you think?

Poetry was my first true love. Before fiction, before weblogs, even before passing notes between classes, there was poetry. I don't write as much of it as I used to, but I'm still drawn to it from time-to-time.

I used to be an advocate of free and blank verse. I thought meter and rhyme was too restrictive. Now I see that these restrictions set one free. A good metrical, rhyming poem is a thing of beauty.

I am not capable of producing many of these things of beauty. Still, from time-to-time I challenge myself to sit down and write a poem. For example, here is the poem that I am about to create specifically for this weblog entry:

Like a Lion

The coming of Spring is a
violent thing: the tulips proclaim
their riotous hues while
peas and then carrots
have thrust their way through
the crust of the earth
(swollen and muddy). The
apples and cherries and plums
are now budding. The camelias are
flinging their petals en masse —
bright-colored habits for
shaggy-haired grass.

The Earth's in rebellion!
Again has grown bold!
Has dethroned Old Winter,
destroying his hold on
daylight and sunshine and
the world out-of-doors.

Spring has arrived:
Hear how she roars!

The above poem did not exist an hour ago. Now it does. It's not very good, but it's a start.

Sometimes I write poetry.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2003 — I'm Too Geeky...   My book group selection is approaching, and I'm dying to pick Middlemarch or Bleak House.

2002 — Why Do I Even Bother?   A Beautiful Mind as Best Picture? Please. It was the weakest of the five nominees. Why do I even bother watching the Academy Awards?