an hour...

i would have kept you for an hour
a special one far from dawn
stirred from a dream of your touch
to touch you with my dreams...kept you

for just an hour, when Sun makes
a flame above water, and the end
of a day near you, becomes a play upon skin
salt breezes and a taste of night

an hour, as fall heavy eyes
after so much laughter, yet never enough
loving and yet wanting, once more
then to find your eyes in darkness
by my dwindling sight, to know
the meaning of sweetness
and the overwhelming promise of...
"good night Love..."

lost...

it was lost in a sip of wine
a miraculous thought, an envy
of a sage moment, the lightning flash
of deeper revelation

forgotten as the eye follows
a curl of smoke, betrayal of unfelt breeze
involving as spring streams over smooth stone
shaping rocks and rivers

yet I know it was there
a shining impulse, nerve electrics
the lower brain divulgence
to higher brain sophistry

it was a picture i think
one i never saw, but made up;
one where your lips make a smile
as you watch me find your eyes

and completely... lose my thought

Excerpts from Manuscript-2

V. Time and life perspective

This is another area that seems obvious yet it bears mention here because it is usually missing from the poetry and song lyrics we would typically be exposed to in the current period of our culture. The perspective of time: that we are what we presently seem to be but far more of our lives may be in the past or future.  When one looks at a woman do you see her as a sixty year old slightly bent and grey or d we also see or wonder what she looked like at age sixteen or 25?  Perhaps for many this thought does not occur. Perhaps it occurs only in connection with close relatives- mother, sisters, and grandmothers.  Or maybe they noticed it in a movie like “Titanic” when we meet the heroine as an older woman, then relive a fabulous romance in the height of her youth and physical beauty.

           

Photo

My eyes paint a memory
of this woman

lovely face
long dark hair and bright smile

her sleek and angular body
athletic, slender.

She looks over her shoulder
life in wide dark eyes
slight almond color skin in golden embrace
and behind her, a canvas
sunlight upon sky blue ocean.

One day she will be old
and no longer in outer beauty,
sun and  sea air will hurt her skin;

but she will look over her shoulder

into time
and remember

when my mouth was dry
and my eyes went soft

at the sight of her.

This poem “Photo” takes that perspective, it was actually inspired by a photograph of a friend, Zayra Yves, a book cover photo—but it was really about time.

There are encounters between people that hold the possibility of seduction, for me it occurs often in dance, the nature of the meeting- the way each person might be on a search for far more than a dance.

 

Strangers dance

Pressed close until we swirl

float in body heat, a give and take

sweetness and warm close breath;

you- imprisoned there in your shell,

me in mine as well- we struggle

as all things must to truly touch.

All the while, I am here and there.

You are in my hands yet lost to thoughts

to moments without me.

 We dance as strangers bound by chords

connected by driving beats, yet this pause

in passage of night rings so true

give all to a moment, give life to a wish

lend spirit to be tied like a string

and broken by a rush of wind, when leaving

Poetry

by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

translated by Mariza G. Goès

I spent one hour thinking of a verse
my pen does not want to write.
Yet, it is here inside
restless, alive.
It is here inside
and does not wish to get out.
But the poetry of this very moment
overflows my whole life.

This is a marvelous translation of a very powerful poem by Drummond, a capsule of a life in a sense.  Of time and timelessness, we can speak of the self this way. We can know little and yet know what matters most is a moment of understanding.  That we can have a desire, filled with what we think is vital whether we can express it or not, we can know it.

Such amazing insights here from this brilliant man.

nearby stars

I missed the last flower
a bold pink blossom, bright
like a face in love with the Sun
beaming in the life-giving beams;
drinking today's warmth from an ancient star.

Missed the last...
was I busy, preoccupied
with thankless details of the day
Did I forget we owe day to precious night
and night to lessons of love
that have come to us from nearby stars-
in the deep gleam of her care,
the glow of his affection-
and the way they made us flower.

I missed the last blossom of this last season.
I will have to remember it now- forever
precious in the night...

This poem evokes the sense of someone missing from our lives and the feeling that a hole has been left.  Love that can mean so much that we miss someone in a way that can be felt. This could be romantic love or the kind of love we call friendship.  When I wrote this my focus was on the idea that there were many people who were missing and my thought was –had I missed them?  Had I been away, tied up with so many things- which I could now not remember- and failed to pay attention to people I cannot now forget.

VI. How to be:  Formed or Free

A Short Discussion of Forms

There are forms of poetry recognized often from much earlier times.  Recognized by a loosely formed group of people who study and make pronouncements, but more important by writers who develop certain styles or methods. There may be in excess of fifty (50) widely recognized forms_/ reference to online source and I will only touch on a few here that have a special connection to love poetry and writing a love poem.

The forms we will discuss here are the Triolet, Sonnet, and the Villanelle

The Triolet is a simple arrangement of eight lines in rhyme.  One line is repeated three times, thus the name- TRIO-let.  The First line becomes important, because it is three of the eight lines.  The repeated lines also called refrains, can add to an effect like the chorus of a popular song, with each repetition, a new meaning or idea.  Also, with each repetition there can be a seamless fit and flow of ideas. Each repeated verse not only fitting in logic, but in a poetic sense smoothly blended into the arrangement of words. This can be done with sounds, rhyme, and meter- the way the words are read in a rhythm with preceding lines.

saudade e a lua  

she stays-- listens to each and every word
floating upon velvet darkness alone
no wish forgotten no whisper unheard
she stays, listens to each and every word
confused tides of life, loves and passions blurred
An austere splendor, untouched on her throne
she stays, listens to each and every word
floating upon velvet darkness alone

come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
that reach deep in faith to hold  her lover's face
the miraculous glows of ebony skies
come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
fragile feelings beneath a thin disguise
search clouds and comet-fall, for one embrace;
come gleaming into her dark loving eyes
that reach deep in faith to hold her lover's face.

Like the Moon that passes ever onward
there is no return to nights gone by
as time and love in an unkind accord
like the Moon that passes ever onward
not one lost drop of want may be restored
where faint mysteries and lost legends fly
like the Moon that passes ever onward
there is no return to nights gone by

by Howard D. Moore, originally published on

All Poetry under the pen name- Peteskid.

Another Place

When moon made flame upon water

a slow flowing river in the night

my eyes found glows of  worthiest stars.

When moon made flame upon water,

came a wistful dance of shimmered light

as if on wings in an ark of flight.

When  moon made flame upon water,

a slow flowing river in the night.

  In words and rhythms, hearts race like drums;

at petal’s edge, a night flower of heat

the sounds of night make background hum

in words and rhythms, hearts race like drums

when tomorrow takes a second seat

to songs of  passions, to an inner beat

in words and rhythms, hearts race like drums

at petal’s edge, a night flower of heat.

 A watch upon the present space, merges

an inner wish to be another place

wants and touches in alternate surges

a watch upon the present space, merges

as present joy and  expectation diverges

a Moon rise recalls another distant face

a watch upon the present space, merges

an inner wish to be another place

Sonnets

 Sonnets are an old form of songs. Verses arranged in a set pattern

with a set number of beats per line which come from the syllables and emphasis on them as read or spoken aloud. There are many types of sonnets defined by rhyming patterns and syllable counts, and arrangement of verses. The two major types might be the Shakespearean sonnet and the Italian sonnet. Both have fourteen 14 lines but the patterns differ. The Shakespearean sonnet has usually alternating rhymes, written as ‘a-b-a-b’ where lines “a” rhymes with a, and lines “b” with b.  The end is a pair of rhyming lines called a couplet.  The idea is to write in  four line stanzas, to introduce an idea, explain it, then make a change and in the end – a summation.  The Italian sonnet has six lines in a group followed by eight in a group.  The basic idea is to show something in lines 1-6, then make a change and show something else in lines 7-14. The change is called a volta- Italian for ‘change’. Both types are to be written in Iambic meter. This is basically like sounding like a metronome:

the WALL of TIME is LONG and COST-ly MADE.

This is iambic pentameter, there was a time when some people in England thought this was the way to write all poetry.  The idea spread over time like a viral media on Youtube today! People, and this is usually a scholar who wishes to be popular among those he thinks of as superior- added iambic pentameter to nearly every kind of poetry.

My experience in American English is that no one speaks this way unless they are reading old English style poetry. I think the scholarly basis for adding this to anything other than the few classic forms that contained it, is extremely weak and presumptuous, in essence a case of snobbery.  It adds little in beauty or flow, it adds needless difficulty to writing poetry and helps explain why poetry is less popular today than other media that frankly- and personally-  speaking are simply poorer versions of poetry- like rock music and Rap. This sonnet, “Sonnet Style” is basically done in Iambic Pentameter, it resembles old English in word choices and rhythm, a classic style.

Sonnet Style

In pallid poetry of evening tides

when even seas begin to pause and slow

upon the rolling touch and giving glides

like loving hand, in passion's ardent glow;

in silver splendor of lowering night

finds reflected glory shimmered fair

and moon becomes a bright bold lights

'neath every whirl and swirl of softer air,

and there I find stars like a woman's eyes

full of mystery and concealed invitation

and dreams becomes the purpose of the skies

mood magic, captive of yet lovelier creation.

Time defies rise of day, and night lingers so

moon might finish its dance, love and shadow.

The idea of the English or Shakespearean Sonnet is to build to the end, the couplet that gathers knowledge into a summation. Shakespeare often put a bold flavor on the first line too, many of his sonnets are remembered by the first line.  This sonnet, Sonnet number 39 deliberately leaves a vacuum in the beginning, it is an apology but it was meant to set a mood.  It speaks to the audience and identifies that we are writing here to an idea of an ageless consciousness, mankind’s eternal aspect, the idea of the eternity conceptualized in the Gods we have made.  We give animus to things- the moon, the dawn, mountains, and deserts, oceans…so many things and here, it is the eternal night, enlisted in a mission of romance.

Sonnet Number 39

And pray be patient kindly lords of night
forgive the hold we have on setting day
so great the joy in fading rays of light
when blue and darker skies embrace the bay.

As setting sun invades the ebbing tide
a glow descends of changing care and finds
no dreams forgot no loving wish denied
as shining water teases playful minds;

A pale and winsome moon has grown so full
and softly loves her dark and longing eyes
while kissing sands and tides beneath the pull
so softly murmur love to balmy skies.

Oh moon afar come touch her in the night
with whispered wishes and my loving light

The Villanelle

This was written to honor a young writer that I knew, who died of perhaps the stress of life and talent as much as anything else.

Last call…

And now, I think he might whisper,
the hard edges rounded away,
so that every one would hear

in growled stances, his truths laid bare
without pretense or grand display.
And now, I think he might whisper

like summer storms that fill the air,
in a deep and insistent way,
so that every one would hear.

No passing burden, this ideal of care
at times grown sunny, or dark and gray;
and now, I think he might whisper...

Molding his love open without fear,
to hold so boldly, dared to say-
so that every one would hear-

life's not walled, some simply appear
as night to blind us, cloud the day.
And now... I think he might whisper,
so that every one would hear

snowflakes in the sun

It is a moment like any other
the first-- the last, each
as we reach for breath, thought or cigarette
it comes, it passes

we are each part of a fantastic scene
a mosaic of billioned life, each segmented
into stopless action these moments

each in its own experience
unique snowflakes of existence
each in the cumulus cloud of life
 the old with the art of time
engraved upon their lamb soft skin
and the children who turn the pages
so much faster, see so much more and less
of the scenes and meaning, yet grow
warm and familiar in the light we teach
until they begin reach by volition,
pause the clocks others set, disdain the second bell,
when rebellions and volcanoes pour from their mouths
and they begin to teach the teachers

the eternal riddle of time:  that
each moment is a snowflake...
in the burning heat of the Sun.