poetryplease.

I think the power of words is often overlooked in everyday life. That is why I like poetry. Because every word is so purposefully placed and carefully rendered and scrutinized. For me, writing poetry comes quickly and easiest (I know) after reading the work of other poets that I can relate to, agree with, or at least enjoy. So I hope the work of the artists listed below has a positive effect on you, but most importantly, I hope they influence you to put your own pen to paper and create.

nicholas wagenseller

I think this poem was written by nick at some point last fall. I also think it’s the definition of clever and really exemplifies the poets emerging dominance of bending and exploiting words and form for his personal usage in an excellently entertaining and thought provoking manner. I love it.

Pomme Pie

A poem grows on apple trees.
The fruit that bends
its aching
boughs and arch
its evening seat
–A grin content and patient
bitter, until ripened sweet –
dang-
ling

in front of passers-
by like dollars
on the sidewalk.

Pick the poem off
its branch.
Leave the leaves for flavor.

Wash it gently,
then
chop
it
up
into
sma-
ller
bites.
Let the bruises be.

Sprinkle in your
cinnamon, ground
the cloves and pinch the salt.
Stir the filling thick and thin.

And as it starts to bake,
open all your windows
so your neighbors smell exactly
where you’ve been all day.

anni satinover.

I know nothing about this poem. To be honest, when i put out a plea for entries for this blog I was expecting a recording exemplifying Anni’s borderline flawless singing skills. But I’m very happy that I received what I did. Below is a poem that I have trouble accurately placing the intent of, but there is no denying the intensity with which it confronts it’s reader, and for that reason I find it compelling. But it’s the progression of the descriptive details that pulls me in and exposes me to a world foreign to my senses yet captivating to my conscious. Good work Anni.

Fading Memory

Stained with time and battle scars
Of nights spent awake and deserted,
Alone and abandoned,
That face remains the same as it once was
When I knew it as I did,
As a child, an innocent,
Gazing into those shallow eyes,
Wrought with guilty pleasure,
Fear of the future,
Those transparent eyes,
Soon drained of their power.
A glimmer of recognition still catches
In the twitch of the mouth around the corners
When speaking of days past,

But it soon vanishes.
Washed away by the gray wisps
About the slowly fading eyes,
Now withered and thirsty for redemption,
Quivering lips bleeding with regret,
And unrecognizable cheekbones,
Once so lovingly touched,
While clutching for a fistful of recognition.
A blurred leftover sketch of a face remains,
Lines seeping into the back of my mind
To the corners of a fading memory,
Lines dripping into my consciousness,
Where their stain will linger about me
As only the face of a stranger can.

brooks morrison.

The following poem is very playful, yet it hits you fairly intensely on a deeper, intellectual level. Ironically (although not really), I think that description also works very well for the poet himself. I find this poem to be, above all else, enjoyable. So please, enjoy.

A long story short
is nothing but a sequence of events
carefully edited by one’s metabolic brain.

Allowing this butchering of history
is an upright downgrade from
its original storyline.

Whilst tempted to decipher
the original version as lengthy,
the truncated side is far less of a tale.

A long story short,
keep all long stories long
or suffer a loss of value.

Now please, go write.