On a rainy Sunday evening
With nothing much to do,
I was shuffling through
my messy old drawer.
I was totally bored
with this monotonous task
When one thing suddenly caught my sight,
A picture of a young girl.
I stared at the photo,
It looked quite old,
I kept looking at her,
Into her deep, echoing eyes.
They were calm with a lively restlessness,
They were excited but
with an amount of contemplation,
deep, powerful eyes.
At once a sense of déjà vu gripped me,
I seemed to have seen her before,
Yes, I knew her.
Not as a person,
But as an idea, a concept,
I knew what she represented, what she was
Beyond her mortal self.
I know it’s vague,
But that’s what came to my mind,
That’s what I felt.
Her eyes seemed to tell her tale.
They seemed to tell me that
She was a great human, ahead of her time,
Free in spirit, powerful in ideas,
Wise, brave and immense……
She seemed to be far away
Untouched by the world
that did not recognize her.
All alone her sharp gaze
Seemed to focus on some distant future
For her ideas to transform to reality.
In my mind a question arose,
Was that all she was?
A picture meant to be lost
In my messy drawer?
I seemed to know the answer,
Her ideas, her thoughts,
Her joys, her sorrows,
Were all just too great.
She was not a human,
She was a ‘Woman’.
A contest entry
- for truly talented poets and those who desire to be better by a gothic romance.
475 points, ended November 8, 2007, 22 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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well that's very nice. but everything about this sounds like you were just telling me about something that happened. poetry is more than a re-telling of an event.
it's taking that event, and capturing every essence and emotion and writing about it in a beautiful manner that let's the reader into a your heart and soul.
it's an artwork, a diary, a message, an image. you use words to deliver a setting and moment in all of it's glory to someone, whoever reads it.
this piece, although interesting, reads the way people tell you about something. something interesting that happened.
i think playing around with different poetic structures and forms could help you profusely. trying different styles, stretching your imagination, and most importantly, baring your soul.
writing words that set you apart from every other human being. i'm sure you must have felt you did some of this in this piece, but the vocabulary and the way you expressed it was not very poetic.
i recommend studying different poets and their styles and practicing them. yes, even copying the style and making it your own. i feel like if you experience many different styles, you'll eventually be able to take parts of them and turn it into your own style. your own voice. your own poetry.
thank you for entering -
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Thank You for thinking about and commenting in details about my poem.
I agree with your defination of poetry. And I really believe there is enormous scope for improvement in me. But one thing that I would like to say is that poetry is definitely anartwork, a diary, a message, an image but for me it is also my soul. I write poems from my heart, about what I feel, about what I and everyone else can relate to. Poetry for me is freedom - to me art itself is freedom...
freedom from rules, styles, forms. I think poetry is about feeling, this poem is very close to my heart because this has evolved not from constant effort, rigorous work but simply from a feeling.
If i try copying other styles to evolve my style then I don't get the complete sense of satisfaction from writing. I completely respect your comments in everyway, but my personal feeling is that if we all keep coping great writers, aren't we putting ourselves into a boundary of "style", aren't we sacrificing the scent of wild flowers creating a garden of expensive roses?
I have no intention of disregarding your opinions or disrespecting them. I have only put dowm my feelings. I shall surely try and better my poems keeping in mind your conmments.
Please don't take it otherwise.
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