Most often I am without words. I am plagued with scattered
pictures I hold together for bitter nostalgia. Twisting in
inches around my hand the unsaid
and failing with the unsaid
Poets weren't made for long afternoons of talk. They are
fleeting creatures of the night, with pen stained fingers
and sour love affairs painted ever so sweetly with their cherry red words.
Weavers of deceptive tales
Deceptive still...
Melding with the navy sky and softening
by the orange horizon.
The mask falls...
and the cigarette begins, for the smoke
masks the fragile soul that lays upon the heart's
sordid affairs.
Grappling with the extensions of metaphors
that leap nowhere.
Nowhere but back to childhood hells--- may they be
filled with laughter or screaming.
Leaving nothing but cynical lines and pessimistic stanzas
for the joys are cliches
so are the sorrows
and cliches are but beautiful cow dung
hanging on an artist's pen
useless...
The spirits are called upon,
muses that fire the silent
throats of sarcasm
burning in dragon breath
burning in empty passions
burning
'til the night returns in its starless beauty
and comes settle
the ever so absent
sanity
the every so absent
me.
Reviews
-
for me personaly this made me go 'wow.. that sounds exactly like me in some parts'
you can express this in ways that make people think about the words till they get the full meaning of them..
the most meaningfull to me was when you said "They are
fleeting creatures of the night, with pen stained fingers
and sour love affairs painted ever so sweetly with their cherry red words."
cause guess who was wrighting today with cherry red ink and has the proof on her hands... yeahh well thats all i got to say.
great job!
-
-
Hi. thanks for taking the time to read this poem and for leaving a comment. I'm glad this poem sort of found you at the same time you had cherry red ink on your hands. At the end of the day, any writer would love to have someone relate to their work and i'm glad you could.
-iphios
-
-
Oh Iphios,
what a write. You sure are a poet, with all your fancy language spelling out what plagues us..nothing really, nothing beyond the norm of sorry human existence but here we are, ready to dramatize it all and make it sound pretty.
But pretty, really, is an understatement for what you have here.
Poets weren't made for long afternoons of talk. They are fleeting creatures of the night, with pen stained fingers
and sour love affairs painted ever so sweetly with their cherry red words.
..lovely, is all. -
-
Hi Annac,
thanks. I struggle to be a poet. I've been through a long dry spell. Some of the poems I've posted were old ones. This particular one is new. It sort of came when i sat down to write. Those moments are priceless. Its always good to know that this poem resonates with the reader (or a fellow poet). I wrote this uncertain what it was about and where it was heading. It was simply unfolding (hence the author's note). So thanks for dropping by and liking this bit of poetry.
-iphios
-
-
Wow.
I had to take a few minutes to overcome my speechlessness. Your words are so...mesmerizing...I can't think of a perfect enough word. I absolutely love this. One of my favorite parts was:
Poets weren't made for long afternoons of talk. They are
fleeting creatures of the night, with pen stained fingers
and sour love affairs painted ever so sweetly with their cherry red words.
That was very poweful for me. In fact, the entire thing was very strong. I'm jealous. Great job!
. Rewarded 8
-
-
Hey there LakeAbsence,
Thanks for taking the time to drop by this poem. Your reaction set a smile on my face, didn't expect such a reaction.I'm flattered.I'm glad you love this poem and that it struck you as powerful.
That particular stanza seems to be the favorite of all those who have read/commented on this poem. see you around.
-iphios
-
-
Clueless?
I think not. One does not have to know they are a prophet to have a vision. You do not have to be enlightened to unleash a blizzard of meaning from your inner self to enlighten others. Often I find readers and fellow poets will find meaning in my words I never knew existed. For me it was lead covered fingers that often smudged my words leaving them as blurred as my thoughts. Alas, I feel I must have a split personality for I surely have a poetic soul and yet would talk to you for days on end as long as you didn't get out of the corner. Clueless? I think not. You simply did not realize you were being brilliant...don't worry, it happens to the best of us.
-
-
Hey Brian,
thanks for the read and for the comment. i'm glad this poem seem to appeal to quite a few people. When i said i had no clue in my author's note, i was referring to how this turned out as poem. And this one in particular is a product of a long awaited meeting with the muses.
-iphios
-
-
uphill
You most cetainly are not without words in this poem.I imagine your turmoil as you try to get it going.Its a bumpy and uncomfortable read,emanating from a supremely talented writer.
. Rewarded 4
-
-
Hey rhetorica,
Thanks.
I have been in this site for a long time and its always surprising to me how people react to my poetry. There are poems you post without illusions of it being good or that is would appeal to anyone, but its this poems that seem to work. ah well, i'm glad the long dry spell at least produced a work that people can relate to.
Thanks for reading this poem and for commenting.
-iphios
-
-
hey iphios
i really enjoyed this, it made me feel good. i think you did a good job articulating the plight of the poet. struggling to make sense of nonsense, to cut through all the clutter of our minds to make a few sentences and have a few moments of clarity. inspirational and i don't mean that in a bad way.
dave. Rewarded 6
-
-
Hey dave,
thanks for dropping by. As a poet, its always a good thing to know that my poem has an effect on people. Its nice that this made you feel good and that this was inspirational.
-iphios
-
thunderstorm
October 15, 2008