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Poetry The beginning of everything  In the evolution of communication arts, the verse emerged from the sea of song. Words turned and turned, gathered force in a charm, a prayer, an entreaty to the powers of life and death, to the beat of the heart, the rhythm of the cry. The drum, a gourd and skin, was there; a poor reed with holes served as flute. One day the drum disappeared, stolen by the trickster forest god, the reed snapped, tossed among the dry reeds. The shaman knew he must sing alone. The words crawled out of his desert throat. The poem went out on its own, carried by his voice. Now a poem is a quiet thing, bred for the indoors; it whispers to the eyes and asks only to be left alone. Biographical note: I've been writing poems since childhood. I won my first contest in high school and my poems were published first in a daily circulation newspaper a few weeks before I went to college. Poetry is great to do and hard to evaluate. There is a saying that after the destruction of the Holy Temple, prophecy was given to children and fools. Since the rise of the novel, poetry has found a commercial use and public prominence in greeting cards and popular songs, but there abides a pleasure in reading and writing it.
| The White Male (Excerpt) ...Love life! (Give me a nickle) Think upon time (Lend me a dime) Muse upon eternity! (Give it to me free!) | Pachyderms Who Woke (excerpt) Pachyderms who woke could not dissemble the roar of timber fallen... The end's preamble came swiftly and went, the behemoths bellowed but could not repent... |
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