Welcome to Shards of Silver

Marianne Moore once defined 'poetry' as "Imaginary gardens with real toads in them". I found this such a striking definition of something that captures the values of poetry that I couldn't leave it alone.

I've been writing - attempting - poetry since I knew how to hold a pen(cil). Some poems I write I like, most I don't, but every now and then I feel compelled to write them down, like a flush of emotion that demands access to some sort of visible medium that can later be accessed and reconsidered. I thought, maybe, that sharing these poems could help me out a little. I welcome critiques, critical and constructive (though I do, of course reserve the right to ignore the sharper sides of people's tongues ;) ), and hope that in return for your help I can leave you with something better than sorry attempts at a craft which only a tiny few have ever really mastered.

Clear Skies~V

Monday, January 10, 2011

Self Reflections

"These are not my stars,"  she said,
Looking up into the night,
"This is not my sky.
Why have you brought me here, my love,
Where the air is strange and the world frozen?
Where the birds come in only monochrome?
Why have you brought me here?"

"This is where you're from, my dear," I told her promptly,
"This is where your roots are,
This is where you were born,
I thought you'd be happy to see it again."

"It's not that I'm not happy here," she responded quietly,
"It's that here my blood runs cold and the woods are silent,
When I'm here I can't hear my heartbeat on the wind.
There's no fire in the bush,
No flood on the land."

"You could relearn it here, my love," I whispered,
"And learn to live here again like before."

"Of course I could," she replied,
And looked at me with a saddened smile,
"I can probably learn to live anywhere,
But when I'm there,
I'm alive and I belong somewhere."

"But emotions and attachments are ephemeral, love,
What you feel for him now might be ripped form you again."

"Life is too short to be afraid of the unknowable, my dear,
We've been afraid for so long.
Look up into this sky and tell me what you see."

I did then as she asked me,
Turning my face away from the mirror 
And looking up into the night,
"You're right," I whispered to myself,
"These are not my stars."

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