Spurred by a whim, I wrote this tonight. Imperfect, but it was satisfying to put together.
Tonight I was wishing that I could write some of what was moving inside of me, but as I was reading other poems, I felt that so much of what I was feeling was already written so well in other poetry. You know that moment when you are reading a poem and you come to this phrase and you are like, yes, that phrase! It says it exactly! It hits that spot. And you want to crow to the whole world that you have found that phrase, but often you sort of feel a bit silly after the crowing.
Anyway, I just took some of those phrases (and others for gluing the others together) and made a poem. I am not sure what the purpose was. Inspirational? Maybe. Humorous? Perhaps some may find it so. Creative? Yes, partly. Cathartic? Yes, I think so.
Here we are:
The ache of the twilight is upon me but I cannot speak
The words will not come.
But many other have already written them for me.
Come, let us see.
The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night
As a feather is wafted downward like
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Yet, I beg you, tell me not in mournful numbers
That life is but an empty dream
That the road less traveled by is no different than what it seems
That nothing gold can stay; that there is no rest even in Flander’s fields.
And that the struggle nought availeth. Just because
I am nobody (who are you?), does not mean that I have never
Slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Or spent time alone in the night, on a dark hill
With pines around me spicy and still;
Or lived sad and strange dark summer dawns,
With the earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds;
For I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower…
Long have I known a glory in it all.
And yet, tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
And thinking of the days that are no more
And, I must ask, does the road wind uphill all the way?
If so, let me rest here in these woods so lovely dark and deep,
While you come and read to me some simple and heartfelt lay
And these aches shall fold their tents like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.
(It was written quickly, and since it is not meant to be a masterpiece poem of any kind, I didn’t chew and meditate on it and edit it much, so if you have any ideas of more phrases that could be thrown in, I would love it. And I think I will write more of these in the future. For therapeutic purposes. )
I should leave you to guess where the lines came from, but I feel like putting the lines here without them really being my own is almost infringing on copyright purposes. I don’t know. But here you are:
The Day is Done, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tears, Idle Tears, by Lord Alfred Tennyson,
A Psalm of Life, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Road Less Traveled By, by Robert Frost
Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
In Flander’s Fields, by John McCrae
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth, Arthur Hugh Clough
I am Nobody, Who are You? by Emily Dickinson
High Flight, John Magee
Stars, Sara Teasdale
I Have Loved Hours at Sea, Sara Teasdale
God’s World, Edna St. Vincent Millay
Uphill, Christina Rossetti
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
insearchofabrook 