Moon-lines and Apple-pathways

I'm not really happy with the title of this poem, but then I'm never happy with titles. I used to be tempted to leave all of my poetry untitled, but then I read somewhere that "leaving your poems untitled is like leaving your children unnamed", and ever since I've done my best to put at least a crappy title on each one I write.

I called this one "obsessive-compulsive" because I have been diagnosed (among other things...) as "mildly obsessive-compulsive", and this poem pretty much describes my thought process.

( Poem behind the cut )

My quest to write more poetry continues. I've taken a book out of the library called Writing Metrical Poetry: Contemporary Lessons for Mastering Traditional Forms. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in learning the basics of metered poetry, or polishing up their skills, like me. I learned most of this stuff in my Intro to Poetry class, but it's nice to have a refresher; and, the book has exercises and assignments, which is terrific to get me writing again.

This next poem is not an assignment from the book, but is an attempt by me to rediscover blank verse. I'll warn you: it's pretty rough. What always stops me writing poetry is my need to constantly write, rewrite, and revise things. Since I need practice, I'm going to try to focus on output for now, and worry about polishing later.

If anyone with an interest in poetry would like to critique this, please do! So long as it's constructive criticism, it will help me out immensely; and I have a very thick skin, so if something's not working, please tell me.




Breaking the Surface

Into the frigid waters, take the plunge
then bob along the surface gasping air
and when you've got a lungful, hold it in
what you can carry down is all you'll get

The air, you'll find, will soon be running out
the burning not extinguished by the wet
a memory that you are still alive:
start kicking for the surface once again.

Here's a few poems I found when scanning through my old Livejournal.  I really want to start writing poetry again, so hopefully this will inspire me a little. 

Ode to a Dead Squirrel

Strange to see so still a form
I've seen so quick and lithe before
A pity 'tis the day is warm
The flies have gathered all the more

The first day, still, as if in sleep
save for the busy insect cloud
the next day made to rotting meat
the flesh bereft of sprightly leap
the matted fur now forms a shroud
Memento Mori on the street.




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