Poetry, maybe it means…

I love poetry,

always have,

for many years,

read,

decades,

I thought,

I didn’t,

get,

poetry,

I thought,

I was,

too thick,

too concrete,

to understand,

the deep meaning,

the symbolism,

and yet,

so many,

lines,

phrases,

stanzas,

captured,

my imagination.

  No man is an Island-John Donne,

this spoke to,

the humanist in me.

    There is no joy in Mudville-Ernest Lawrence Taylor  

this spoke to,

the fatalist in me,

oh, and the Habs fan:-)

  A thing of beauty is a joy forever- John Keats

appealed to my sense,

of aesthetics,

 My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light.

this appealed to,

the party butch,

in me,

as did,

Live fast die young, leave a good looking corpse:-)

but,

nowadays,

with middle age,

upon me,

I want to live to,

be old and grey,

and,

recite,

Barrett-Browning,

How do I love thee ?  let me count the ways

or,

Whitman,

  I sing the body electric,

to the woman,

I love,

Hope Springs eternal

So,

maybe,

poetry,

is about,

feeling,

evolution,

reception,

but,

mostly,

about,

love,

and,

hope:-)

Later girls,

BB

Published by

Bookish Butch

I am a bookish butch in my very early fifties. I live in Montréal and always have. I used to run a small used bookstore. Reading keeps me sane. My latest jiggie is photography, book project in the works, living the dream

6 thoughts on “Poetry, maybe it means…”

  1. …not sure where it would fit, and I know that the authorial intent was not my reception, but what of Stevie Smith…”Not waving, but drowning…:-)” For me, a metaphor that often, folk are constantly at odds with each other–never understanding what each is saying/feeling/meaning…nevertheless, the image of someone in an ocean drowning while everyone on shore just waves and smiles tickles my sometimes macabre sense of humor…

  2. Oh, BB: You had to mention poetry, didn’t you, that language of life and of love and of heart and of breath and of being, of a self scaffolded, painted on a ceiling, of wonder and despair and well, poetry: snapshots and 1,000-year lives captured in words. I’m looking on my poetry shelves now, although I can’t see the titles, I know them: Maxine Kumin, Mary Oliver, May Sarton, PK Page, Auden, Eliot, Elizabeth Bishop, Dickinson, Dionne Brand, ee cummings, Neruda, Molly Peacock, Melanie Cameron, Esta Spalding Gwendolyn MacEwen, Anne Michaels…. goddess: you mentioned poetry.

    Poetry is tough. Sometimes, in the middle of the night I wake up and have a poem fully formed and write it down. Some I’ve put on my blog. It is the oddest thing. But not like real poetry. Word play.

    We need more poetry in our world.

  3. Yes, to more poetry:-) what do you think of e.e cummings i carry your heart or Auden’s the Unknown Citizen
    I love poetry and somehow, I’m not surprised, that you do, too.

  4. I love e.e. cummings’ works and for a man he has some incredibly tender love poetry.
    I adore his I carry your heart poem.

    Auden…has some amazing works as well.

    be well, BB.

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