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Posts Tagged ‘modern poetry’

A swan, she was, with all that entails.

Long-necked, pale, graceful, a pillar of dignity,
She was also fearless and arrogant,
Intimidating with a sharp-eyed glare,
Loyal unto death.
Within her arms, I felt safe, protected by her fierce strength.
She stood behind me in maternal overwatch
As I took first steps to face a harsh world.
She taught her children with patience.
She dealt harshly with threats.
She fought all comers until the end.

A swan, she was, with all that entails.

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k

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I see a silver-lit night, full moon struggling to pierce slate-colored clouds. I see a ghostly crag, pale rocks rising above a dark, heathered moor. I see a woman in blue standing at its summit, bare feet on bare stone, hair loose, arms wide, waiting.

The clouds marshal their forces, focus their power. Winds rise, rumbling forward, and rain comes down in icy sheets. The storm builds, advancing on the crag.

She stands tall and closes her eyes, her nostrils scenting the moss and granite beneath her feet, and the wind-swept tang of a miles-off sea.

Glassy whips lash the sky. The storm clenches its fist. Heather bows beneath its blasted screams.

The woman turns, facing the storm as it thunders toward her on lightning limbs. She tilts back her head, bares her throat.

The wind belches a roaring laugh, sprinting toward its prey.

With a smile and fulsome intent she grabs the wind, bends its trajectory, twisting its path, coiling it around her summit. She reels it in, pulling it to her. She breathes it in, breathes in its power. Her eyes flash open and she sees the swirling clouds above, the vortex of her control. The wind is within her now, part of her. The wind’s laugh is now her laugh.

This is not a victory, the wind not a vanquished enemy. This is a joining, a strengthening, a fusion.

She and the storm are one.

Now, she is power. Now, she is strength.

Now, she is the storm.

La Push

 

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Kurt R.A. GiambastianiI am not a poet. Well, no more than the next person, I’d say. But as a writer, I think poetry is a useful tool. I learn from writing poetry, whether it’s free verse or a more formal structure. Like etudes to the pianist, I learn technique through poetry. I learn how to be spare.

I put some of my poetry online here, today, a new annex off the Writing page. Some of them still make me smile. Many are bittersweet, as that’s the mood that most resonates with my Inner Poet. Rueful, I guess.

In my opinion, poetry should not read like prose, as so often happens these days. Like a lot of modern art, I think a lot of modern poetry is a sham. But I’m an old, crusty curmudgeon, so what do I know, eh?

k

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