ben Alexander, who blogs at The Skeptic’s Kaddish, launched Poetry Partners a while ago, inviting fellow bloggers to send him a poem of theirs. He publishes it on his blog alongwith a personal poem inspired by each featured piece.
This is the poem I sent him.
I am a poem
I am a poem, read me syllable by syllable let the vowels roll around your tongue at will immerse yourself in the free flow of rhythm undulating whimsically in its own rhyme the meter; sometimes measured. But oft not!
Read me at leisure recite me aloud let me suffuse your entire being with joy come alive as you discover hidden nuances let my darkness illuminate your soul cry in empathy at my pain allow giggles to spontaneously erupt.
Don't try too hard to unwrap the enigma I am study me sip by sip then come back to gather more in gulps let the meanings remain couched in obscurity savour the beauty of words strung with care the more you imbibe the more you will come back addicted to unravelling me bit by bit
Decipher me at dawn devour me at dusk peruse me compulsorily as you breathe once you become one with me you will realise life is poetry to be carried in your heart.
A poem in two parts by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’
I. Blank Verse
The note was left taped to my computer screen; 'We've got your Verse,' ito read, 'If you want her back, you'll do exactly as we say. We'll be in touch soon.' Poet that I am, I immediately knew contacting the police would bring about a cliché (actually... dare I say, 'prosaic'?) storyline. I'd have to free Verse myself.
II. Free Verse
I fancy myself a poet, even teaching my child to rhyme words in different languages, sometimes across different languages; words being the primary currency I p(l)ay with for understanding ~ pushing them into thin metal slots, pulling the little levers, watching as cheap balls with comprehension and assembly instructions roll their way around and out my mouth.
Smooth plastic capsules, with neat cracks through the middle, perfectly round, entirely unnatural, of course, but so easy to spit out through my teeth, lies that they are.
I've been trying to stuff foreign terms into vending machines, even filing them down to size - it never works for me.
Worse yet, I was once beyond excited to see a malformed plastic spheroid, dented into an uneven, ugly crescent, wobbling down the tube, but it got stuck halfway down, and the blasted machine wouldn't express it.
Pristine white marble sculpted immaculately one of the wonders of the world symbol of eternal love …or is it?
What if it was not love but guilt that drove the emperor to proclaim his consort was the best and create a tomb so grand as penance and not out of adoration!
What conspiracies and collusions marked those halcyon days was there jealousy or deviousness do these sun dappled arches hold some secrets?
As he lay in the fort watching his labour of love did these walls record his regret were his lovelorn sighs heard by the steps what went through his mind in the cloistered solitude, while plotting and planning went behind his back!
The young third wife bore fourteen children in twenty years was there a design behind it! did her beauty and cleverness lead to jealousy and scheming coming in the way of her longevity!
Now they lie cold side by side under the cold marble the palace intrigues and machinations lie quietly buried too.
All that the world can see is a monument of love as lovers visit and sigh at the beauty on full moon lights holding hands and pledging lifelong fealty; is it to love or to the idea of love!
Written for dVerse and Sadje. Today’s host, Merril says: You may write about any object—a family heirloom, a museum piece, a monument, or a palace. The choice is yours, but there must be some link to history and the past. (Or to current controversies over some artifacts held in museums.)There is no length or style requirement.