Tag Archives: little bits and pieces

“Wistfulness”–A poem for “the one who got away” (so far!)

This is probably one of the shortest poems I’ve ever written, but sometimes, when saying is simple and enough, however justified or not, it’s enough.  The title is, of course, a key feature of this poem.

Wistfulness

You and I shall meet again, in the darkness
Or in the light, should by chance we see God’s face,
The surprise may be yours, mine the glory,
Still unknown to both of us the time, the place.

The things we say, the things we do leave our warrant
And our deed, and our habits, and our trace,
Still, I hope to enfold you in my welcome,
And to share with you in God’s most loving grace.

©9/28/2018 by Victoria Leigh Bennett

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Filed under commonplace "the vanity of human wishes", Poetry and its forms and meanings, What is literature for?

A poem for true denizens of the temperate zone–“The Comfort of Dread”

Oh, if only it were always summer!  But then, perhaps if it were, we wouldn’t appreciate it, so goes the temperate zone dweller’s argument.  The last winter (winter 2017-18) was so severe here in the American Northeast, however, and lasted so long into Spring that one shivers in advance, even at the end of July, especially when we’re already having (and have never stopped having) storms and rain and yucky skies.  Right now, though, I can afford to be a bit blasé, perhaps, at least enough to write a poem on the topic which is not totally despairing.  It does perhaps have one of those human contradictions in it that we often run across when listening to people discussing the weather.  Here goes:

The Comfort of Dread

It’s almost the end of summer,
There is only one month left,
I’m dreading already the winter,
And the cold weather’s mighty, strong heft.

The ice, and the snow, and the chilblains,
(What are chilblains?)
What one used to have
When the frozen air got on one’s knuckles,
And one couldn’t afford a fine salve.

Yes, I dread even antique disasters,
Such as visited people of yore,
When the wind whistled ’round the high turrets
And the snow blew in under the door.

It’s useless to tell me I’m modern,
And I live in apartmented bliss,
After all, these things are so comparative,
And someone lives better than this.

Oh, it’s almost the end of warm greetings,
From one’s family and lovers and friends,
For on cold days they’re bundled and shivering,
And they all complain so without end.

Why, oh why, can’t there be a fine climate
Where we can determine the air,
Where the heat and AC are like indoors,
And follow us everywhere?

But I guess I wouldn’t be happy
Not to live through the change and to bitch,
So the temperate zone, chill or hotter,
Is where I will serve out my hitch.

©by Victoria L. Bennett, 7/29/18

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Filed under poems on the weather, Poetry and its forms and meanings

An Ironic Look at the Process of Inspiration–“The Formula”

It’s been a little more than a week now since I’ve had the opportunity to put up another poem of my own, and while I understand that one can’t always be inspired to work on specific things or in specific ways, there’s still that sense of frustration that arises when a “dry spell” occurs.  So, I decided to write a poem about that; one gets one’s topics where one can, after all!

The Formula

"Sit and think for a bit,
It'll come to you;
It always has before,
Why should now be any different?"
And yet, now is now
And then was then,
And poetry
Is not made to order.
Unresponsive to logic
Even in its most rhetorical form,
It follows a line and melody
All its own,
Declines to be summoned
Except with most respect;
Stays only to hear
Its own self speak,
Though it insists on
Not being thought
A pompous twit, a prig,
But a voice from a heavenly aether,
Or a cloud.
What a put-up job!
Attributing itself
To a series of unknowables
Or unmeasurables, in the course of things,
Like muses, twilit nights, the moon,
Sorrows, radiant sunshine,
Genius or capacity for self-deception,
Anyway--
Really, what has ever been
More uncompromising than poetry?
More querulous, hard to please,
Stubborn, self-dramatic,
Quick to anger,
Slow to compromise,
And all-in-all
Difficult to compose
And call one's own?
Yet, I suppose
If I wait for just a bit,
Give it a chance to seem humble
As if dropping in on me unawares,
Uninvited and unheralded,
Then I won't have to threaten it
With becoming prosy,
With writing a short story instead.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/28/17

Who knows if I will be able to continue poetry posts in the near future?  Yet I couldn’t resist sharing this wry expression of frustration at an at least mild case of writer’s block.  Shadowoperator

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Filed under Literary puzzles and arguments, Poetry and its forms and meanings, What is literature for?

A Poem About Writer’s Block–“The Caesura”

This poem came about because of frustration I felt with getting the creative juices flowing.  It’s not much in and of itself, but it did help to get me writing something else.

The Caesura

I cannot write a poem today, I know;
It's cold outside, though sunshine's streaming in
And all my saddest thoughts are round about
Defeating brightness and restoring murk.
There's snow, there's mud, there's water on the street,
And ice, and I in short am disinclined
To search for topics that would repay work
Or reach for words that pictures paint when writ.
My thoughts are either foggy or are blank
Ideas won't come right, no matter how
I stretch, condense, and weave my syllables
And it's sheer foolishness to try so hard.
Perhaps I need a day, perchance a week
Of emptiness and not of diligence
In which to rest and twist some new wry words
And make my concepts fitter to put down.
For note well!  These few words are not a verse
But show my lack and demonstrate the curse
Of being tired of all the subjects terse
Or long and tedious; so much the worse!

© Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/14/17

 

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When Lovers Are Made But Not Fated–“Half and Half”

This is a poem for all the lovers in the world who have to work at love and who feel that it’s worth it, even if they weren’t “fated” to be in love.

Half and Half

My love, we were not meant for one another
In spite of innate sympathies arising
And we have struggled, argued, joyed, and fought
To such degree our harmony's surprising.

For Fate has dealt with us awry, you see,
And made me love while you play off your tricks,
Your ploys, dishonesties, though you seek truth,
And left me thus to sort love from the mix.

For I feel sure you are not without love
Though you may say it is not meant for me,
And yet you show both passion and concern
In what seems more than my due lot, truly.

So, ask you for what you most want from love,
Whether or not you think it in my range,
For lovers true even shake the mighty halls
Of heaven with their cries, nor count it strange.

Perhaps, then, we may pass for lovers true,
My weakness, your denial passing muster
And for half-this, half-that we garner praise
As to the ill-assorted adding luster.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/7/17

 

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Yet Another Lovers’ Dilemma–A Poem Called “Just Where Do I Fit In”?

I was tempted at first to say that this poem delineates a modern lovers’ dilemma, yet further thought convinced me that this has probably always to some extent been a problem for the ages, even if hidden, repressed, or occurring behind the scenes.  It’s a poem about finding one’s true place in the scheme of things.

Just Where Do I Fit In?

She then she then she
Attempted
To woo me
Whereupon I hastily flee
She and she and she,
Repulsed.
Understanding, but
Repulsed, nevertheless.
He then he then he,
Seemingly
Attracted to me,
Clutch desperately
To he and he and he
Insisting they don't love me.
What?  Then why the pretense?
Why the games, why the pain,
No gain
In any case for me.
Perplexedly,
I try to puzzle it out.
What do I do
To get just we two
Of he and me?
Or grammatically,
He and I?
Oh, sigh.
God and the devil may know,
But I don't, so I go
Alone.  Oh, woe.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/2/17

That’s all for now.  Just a little something to think about!  Shadowoperator

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A Haiku for Winter

Here’s a haiku (an Asian verse form having 3 lines of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, then 5 syllables).  This one occurred to me to due to personal inspiration, as you may imagine.

Winter Suspense Pulp Fiction
A Haiku

Tissue paper tale--
How will it continue, end?
One Nostril Running.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/10/11

Good for a small chuckle, I hope.   More another post.  Shadowoperator

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