Poem: Stonelife

Stonelife

"Life," they say,
but what is life?

Is life a moving,
and if so, what is a tree?

Perhaps life is merely needing something:
then is a stone alive?

A stone, I think,
has needs.
It just needs so little,
and can wait so long
to get it.

Poem: Quietly

Quietly

Quietly
        I hear
               nothing.
I prick my ears,
                  but silence
is all that fills the wind;
and
        (a silent flap of wing)
    an owl.

Poem: What Chaos Means to Me

What Chaos Means to Me

The lure
    (the chanting):
siren — pied
Hamlin-town piper —
call of
        (dire)
sweet most
disorder:

saysnothing  
            (yet I speak)
isnothing
          (yet ink is black)
meansnothing
             (yet I mean what I say)
]

    if —
onlyonly if
    no is.

Poem: The Lamp Post

The Lamp Post

Come dance in the fog
that swirls around,
and the dazzle of rain
that gladdens the ground.

The beams of the moon
that pick through the dew
now brighten the night
and frighten the gloom.

A shroud covers all,
and I see in the midst
of the cloud-douséd night
a release in the mist.

The clock tolls none,
and through the gloom —
or what was gloom —
the colors run.

Poem: In My Audacity

"In my audacity . . ."

In my audacity, I have climbed
higher than most men ever dare:
so it must not surprise me if I must fall
deeper and farther than most men bear.

But the air I’ve breathed blows purer and freer
than most men ever know to breathe.

Poem: Improper to Publish

Improper to Publish

We’ve made a terrible mistake!
Tybalt doesn’t die:
                    he gets the girl.
The Publisher must not have thought it proper
    (they being cousins and all),
so he invented a Romeo
Shakespeare never knew.

Poem: Ex Cathedra

Ex Cathedra

I speak ex cathedra
    (infallible, I suppose)
                            of art;
yet I am not so much of what I say.

Poem: Evangelium Maris

Evangelium Maris

I am constrainéd to look on the bay,
to see the rolling waves.
The Everlasting speaks to me
in unending ways.

The World grows upon the tide,
goes ever in and out;
but each time it returns again,
'tis low about.

Ever farther out,
ever lower down —
I sense the tide will not return,
but will drown.

I fetch a cup of ocean
to bring upon the strand.
Is this the last one
to land?

Poem: Hear a Cry

Hear a Cry

The gathering now moves,
Apocalypse lamenting her children.
The storm speaks from unlearned pain.
Restless courage hearkens.

Poem: I Think that I Shall Die in Winter

I Think that I Shall Die in Winter

I think that I shall die in winter,
for well drawn night the end of spring
my entrance made I in this world;
my stuff upon the earth did fling.

And then I think that all my stuff
will have been gathered from yonder winds,
whence it has blown, and on the earth,
the stuff which knit me 'gain will bind.

I think that I shall die in winter,
but snow shall be my Touching-stone.
I was born in vigil of the sun:
well meet is winter's sun-ward groan.

In winter shall I take my rest
from all my earth-born toil and blood.
Without the light my fate in birth,
I die without its happy flood.

From then 'till now I ne'er've wanted
joy or sun-shine over much.
I think that I shall die in winter:
I fain would die without Sol's touch.

Poem: Cacaphony

Cacaphony

I want to write,
but every time I put a pen to page,
cacaphony
          fills my mind
(or nothing).

               “Cacaphony:”
that’s one of those words
I never can purge
                  from my life —
it sounds poetic
    (which is why it’s not),
                  so I say it
(and don’t know what else
                            to say).

Poem: And Yet . . .

And Yet

          [To an Artist]

So few are Artists, really.
Many write just-so
                   (“pricksong”)
(like I say they should),
and yet
        they say nothing).

You flout the creed I shout
(An Artist I consider myself:
     I speak.);
and yet
        I must admit
you speak,
           and they do not.

Though Craftsmen may decide
to follow artists’ lines
    (my lines),
Art is there or not;
and yet,
         seeming lineless, you speak
    (my language).

Poem: Andean Sunrise

Andean Sunrise

Fog in the valley
like so much ocean brine,
or a September evening's frost,
swaddles the mountains,
leaving only the peaks
seen below the forest.

The sun is low --
not yet out of her damping bed --
but from the fog-sea at the horizon
is sending rays to chase the clouds
back to the forest.

Now I think,
while the forest is merely awak'ning,
and not yet awake and alive;
I stare at the fog-sea,
the sun's blanket,
and grip the mossy tree.

Poem: All Hands Clapping

All Hands Clapping

Like all hands clapping
for the Great One,
back and forth
the palm fronds clip.

The grass is growing;
I can see it.
Trees are blooming
deep within,
tho' on their branches, not
a rosy petal blows.

An old one,
with an old one's crumpled look,
has young man's strength
somewhere within;
for leaves on what twigs still live
rival the glow of the young.

Old on bark,
and older still inside,
his heart has learned —
as old and wan —
the sap needs fresh within.

Poem: Above the Swamp

Above the Swamp

Up the tree
and see the sky.
Hear the music on the breeze.

Look down:
the grass around,
a brown slow river
creeps among the cypress roots.

And tall straight pines
scent the wind
and make a place
for vines.

Welcome to A New Metre Weblog

Please come in; make yourself at home. But before you do, you must know that this is not what you would consider to be "normal" modern poetry. As Robert Frost once said, "Writing poetry without metre is like playing tennis without a net." I challenge you, find the metre in my poetry. There is always a net in my game of tennis.

Metre can be many different things. I have chosen, as the most natural, a metre inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's speech metres. Anapests, trochees, and other classical metrical devices are not used; only the natural accents in natural speech. These poems should not be read stop-and-start at the end of each line, but then, no poem should be read that way. Read each one as if it is a natural sentence, and the poem will come out. You will find my New Metre.

Also, please be aware that is a forum for airing my poetry for criticism. If you have something to say, by all means, say it! I will listen, perhaps act on, and if I really like it, (with your permission) post it on the log and/or site.

This weblog is the companion and early-arrival site for A New Metre.