Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Dumb

Musty tomes
of precious poems
dog-eared at that special verse
surround a room
where dwells a gloom
more sinister than any curse,

which taints the air
with deep despair
that fosters an ungracious gripe—
will anyone
beneath the sun
attempt to fathom silent type?

9 comments:

knotkeats said...

Smart

Billy The Blogging Poet said...

I try so very hard not to read anything into the works of others, perhaps for fear of sounding like an idiot, but I must confess this poem has me pondering far more questions than so few lines usually invoke.

Great work as always.

Bubba said...

I think every writer suffers from a similar malaise, especially when s/he feels their words are not properly understood. They just sit on the page and rely upon the emotions of the reader to nurture and supplant. I know all too well the 'ungracious gripe'.

Much to think about here...

rch said...

Well I didn't realize until after I posted that it could be directed at the reader, but I was really chastising myself for being stupid to think that less-than-communicative poems would make people want to read them. Thanks everybody!

HouseMouse said...

I just wanted to add that you say more on a bad day than most of us do on a good day!

ozymandiaz said...

Ah, the best poetry presents ownership to the reader as well as the scribe, no? It's not art until it relates...

rch said...

Thanks Shirley and Ozmo ;)

Dan said...

Bob, I've never read a poem of yours that didn't communicate(on multiple levels); Even the incongruity of you believing you're an "Average Poet". Oneself is often the harshest critic. Keep posting my friend!

rch said...

Hey Dan thanks and don't worry, after I was seriously ill around 2000 I decided my poetry would be my main discourse with the world. Plus I just plain old love it!! Thanks for everything!