Song of Myself
Kris B.
Nothing,
Like space vast and limitless,
The non-existence of feeling, emotion, of thinking, of being.
A man, lost wandering the desert,
Paper, blank, white, thoughtless
The nothingness of a miracle.
Nothing,
Like the atom that constitutes everything,
The silence that rings through the streets.
A young girl running from the blackness, the dark, the blinding darkness, screaming nothing
The persistence of memory, memory, memory,
The nothingness of poetry.
Poetry,
Egocentric and personal,
The cover of a book.*
Words, random marks on paper
Strange sounds like blurs,
Poetry is poetry.
A summer’s day, a midnight dreary,
Miles to go, weak and weary.
How do I love thee?
Who cares
That the plums are no longer existent,
That I took the road not taken?
That these words mean everything to me,
To you,
The everything of poetry.
It is just a girl with a pearl earring,
The hustle and bustle of a busy street in the golden afternoon light,
An elderly man embracing his son with ‘I love yous’
The bell which rings loud and clear through the town,
Like the atom that constitutes nothing, which is really
Everything.
The everything of a miracle,
A poem transcribed, colors fill the page to every corner of creativity,
A lady, who blurts ‘yes’ before the man kneeling before her even speaks.
The absence of feeling, emotion, of thinking, of doing; but being, it just it
Like space vast and limitless,
Everything.
Poetry is everything
Poetry is nothing
But there is its purpose.
Like space vast and limitless,
The non-existence of feeling, emotion, of thinking, of being.
A man, lost wandering the desert,
Paper, blank, white, thoughtless
The nothingness of a miracle.
Nothing,
Like the atom that constitutes everything,
The silence that rings through the streets.
A young girl running from the blackness, the dark, the blinding darkness, screaming nothing
The persistence of memory, memory, memory,
The nothingness of poetry.
Poetry,
Egocentric and personal,
The cover of a book.*
Words, random marks on paper
Strange sounds like blurs,
Poetry is poetry.
A summer’s day, a midnight dreary,
Miles to go, weak and weary.
How do I love thee?
Who cares
That the plums are no longer existent,
That I took the road not taken?
That these words mean everything to me,
To you,
The everything of poetry.
It is just a girl with a pearl earring,
The hustle and bustle of a busy street in the golden afternoon light,
An elderly man embracing his son with ‘I love yous’
The bell which rings loud and clear through the town,
Like the atom that constitutes nothing, which is really
Everything.
The everything of a miracle,
A poem transcribed, colors fill the page to every corner of creativity,
A lady, who blurts ‘yes’ before the man kneeling before her even speaks.
The absence of feeling, emotion, of thinking, of doing; but being, it just it
Like space vast and limitless,
Everything.
Poetry is everything
Poetry is nothing
But there is its purpose.
I really like how you jump from comparison to comparison within a couple of lines. The way you do it is very elegant and it doesn't feel choppy or like something has been skipped. I especially like the last line "Poetry is everything, Poetry is nothing, But there is a purpose". That line in particular stood out to me.
ReplyDeleteI like how in this poem you juxtapose "nothing" with so many things of different meanings. I also like how the third "memory" in one of the lines is a different sized font, its an original thought and it keeps the reader interested. Over-all this was a really great poem, good job!
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