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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

I want my life to be a piece of poetry.

Some times poetry is happy.  Sometimes poetry is sad or angry.

Sometimes poetry is stupid and frivoulous and funny.  Sometimes poetry is deep and poignant.

Sometimes poetry flows like a river off your tongue and through your soul.  Sometimes poetry is choppy, out of rhythm, staccato, syncopated.

Sometimes poetry is about love and passion.  Sometimes poetry is about hate.  And passion.

Sometimes poetry is happy and sometimes it’s not.

But it is always beautiful.

I want my life to be a piece of poetry, and yet but a stanza in the soul of the world.

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In Other Words

For some reason, I’m a little bit in love with this poem.  Would love your feedback.

Me, In Other Words

In other words,
an Other’s words
can show more self than
self in silence –
a thousand sepia memories fade
in face of single sequin couplet
from agéd pen of men long dead but
more alive on faded page
than I in vital flesh that finds
blood on quill and morphine rhyme
and ink in choking veins.

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Wellington-Self

Given my current circumstances, this seems like an appropriate public debut of my poetry.  I wrote it last time I came home to Wellington for a holiday in July, before having to head back to my then-life in Auckland.  I will resist the urge to provide a commentary on it just now… although it will no doubt follow in due course.

Wellington-Self

This city misses you
It’s once-child
Wide eyes newthought-brimming
Opening books like dreams
Sun-dreaming
Held by wind that tears you –

Seaspray, madness:
Warm freedom.

Crawl back now in
New life’s momentpause
Calmed by storms-eye healing
Gale force whispers recall
Once-dreams, forgotten,
Songs on stony hills –
Life-drowned.

This city remembers you
To yourself
Your song-core, hidden
In tears of years and
Theory, hardened;
Calls out from you your
Word-self, rhythm –
Your one-time driver.

Cool zephyrs ever-present
Relentless, coolbreeze-asking:
Where you went
Deep parts of you
Betrayed by facts-experiment
Could here in gentle rebirth take,
In salty windswept arms, you in
Sweet murmurs ask for choice
Remember: self-songs
Please – come home.

Emily Rainsford
9 July 2008
Wellington

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The following is one of my favourite German poems.  Although it sounds a little more melancholy than I am actually feeling right now, it still captures a curious sense of something that I identify with:

Der Radwechsel – Bertolt Brecht

Ich sitze am Strassenhang

Der Fahrer wechselt das Rad.

Ich bin nicht gerne, wo ich herkomme.

Ich bin nicht gerne, wo ich hinfahre.

Warum sehe ich den Radwechsel

Mit Ungeduld?

Here is my own translation:

The Wheel Change

I sit on the kerb

The driver changes the wheel.

I don’t like to be, where I’m coming from.

I don’t like to be, where I’m going to.

Why do I watch the wheel change

With impatience?

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