Poetry

Looking back, it's staggering...I've been writing poetry for four years now and the experience seems surreal, gripping, exciting and depressing all at the same time. Looking back at my own poetry reminds me of everything I felt at every time I wrote a line; the memory of the locations and feelings are recorded subtly in the expressions and the words in every poem. I have officially lost track of my poetry over online forums (and yes, that means I'm too lazy to search my own threads!).

I found this piece, called Unending Call, which I had done inspired by the poetry I read for my English Literature class two years ago. There are parts of Elliot, parts of Keats and a small bit, just a tiny bit, of myself in this one:

A haunting image tracks my mind,
Replcaed by agonies,
Gripped by unabrupt surprise.
A gesture that is devoid of emotion.
Intimidated by a creature that breathes death,
That gnaws at my flesh and skin,
A notion from within.
The fog that crawls across the garden,
Like a tiger approaching his smiling prey.
The fog of Lethe approaches me,
Eating away my ideas of immortaility.
A lonely road of stars, standing against the skies,
I hear screams and children cries.
A vivid dream. A vivid vision.
Nothing grabs at nothing,
Those empty humans of division,
Define this dying world.
And as this opium night grabs me out of conciousness,
As I skip into a haze in which all is blur,
I am moved by an image that seems to cling,
The gesture, notion, emotion of an infinitely gentle,
Infinitely suffering thing.
The stale smell of rotten soul.
An unending call,
Lost as an echo.