Robin Candor• Show poetry

It has been said that the eyes are the window of the soul. I believe one can hear exceptional things with their eyes, see vivid pictures with their ears, touch the past by sense of smell, taste pain and pleasure by a touch, and feel the spiritual and the earthy in things they taste. When these deeper senses are at their peak, they touch the soul in ways that must be expressed not verbally, but by written record. It is this record that most clearly demonstrates that we are more than flesh and blood. We are more than electrical impulses in our brains. We are more than the mechanizations of limbs and joints. These records show us that there is something inside man which transcends our brief stay here. This is why totalitarian governments always seek the extinction of the poets. Because it is our records which cry for justice, peace (both internal and external), love, friendship, understanding, spirituality and eternal lasting things over temporal and decaying things. Poems have outlasted youth, fame, governments, riches and all that fades. It is these records, these fingerprints of humanity in space and time which we call poetry.



"No one has a license to critique a poem until they are well versed in Pope" Candor



Excerpts from "An Essay on Criticism"
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)



'Tis with our judgements as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

Some have at first for wits, then poets passed,
Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last.
Some neither can for wits or critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor a____

A perfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that it's author writ:
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Where Nature moves, and rapture warms the mind.

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regard the writers end,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.


Maybe the Poet



maybe the poet is gay
but he'll be heard

maybe the poet is drugged
but he won't stay under the rug

maybe the voice of the spirit
in which case you better hear

maybe he's a woman
who can touch you where you're human

male female slave or free
peaceful or disorderly

maybe you and he will not agree
but you need him to show you new ways to see

don't let the system fool you
all it wants to do is rule you

pay attention to the poet
you need him and you know it

put him up against the wall
shoot him up with pentothal

shoot him up with lead
you won't call back what's been said

put him in the ground
but one day you'll turn around

they'll be a face you don't know
voicing thoughts you've heard before.

Bruce Cockburn, Toronto Jan '82
From the CD 'Stealing Fire'





Bubble Bursts

I'm not quite as bad as you think I am
Not quite as good as you might have planned
I let you down and I'll do it again
I'll burst your bubble
I'll burst your bubble
That thin membranes in lots of trouble

Daniel Amos 1994
From the CD 'BibleLand'


My AP Family: Mechanical Angel-Niece

"Turmoil can only strengthen
And cleverness will one
Day dissolve the wise."

From: Dissolving The Wise
Mechanical Angel





I long to take your breath away
With scenes of far off places
Make you see God's love and grace
In little children's faces

From: Writer's Block
Cherokee: The queen of sarcasm and encourgement.


Wax Poetic

Speak to me with
syllables and phrases
inflections of perfection
and take me as I am
with bitterness and regret
and a longing to forget
what once was, is, or will be.

Did I tell you that I’m losing my mind?

Seduce me with your words
cunning, kindness, charisma
and take me in with your
honeyed tongue, blazing eyes
and disregard for boundaries.

Did I tell you that I’m losing my mind?

Voice me into submission
and beat me with a diatribe
so sharp that it stings
and bleeds me breathless
of my desire,
make me tire of it all,
yet long for more.

Did I tell you that I’m losing my mind?

DarknessFleeting: Check her out!



Acrostic ~ Robin Candor

R adiance drifts through an
o pen sky, never
b ereft of Beauty ~ the Moon is
i mmersed in the subtle embrace of
n ight...

C larity is often perceived
a t the coming of dawn ~ the Sun
n urtures each
d ance of light as if it were
o riginal & new ~ Life's grandeur is
r evealed in these sacred moments...


~ April 15, 2006
10:15 p.m.
By Night Hope