leafsailors ghost wrote:Listen
Its the thousand frogs in the spring night
cascading orchestration of the universes song
I bring you my confused but sincere love
it is all I have to offer
then perhaps in my anger
at love abused
you will see the fire of it.
I am a poet
some one who knows the underpass companions
honor and dignity in the forgotten of folks
now noble in my memory
known them well
no truer friends
come listen I am a poet
I do not ask forgiveness from God
I simply turn to the mystery with grateful love and trust
who are we
little thin dreams among the smoke of the camp fire
I am a poet
come sit with me
let me get my old guitar
come I will play for you
I hear echoes of Sandburg in this. He, too, spoke of frogs
in the springtime ("the crying of the water", I think is
how he phrased it, or something of that order) and did
so in that folksy voice you employ (with theatrical flares
of the dramatic) with this poem.
Sandburg also played the guitar (though, God knows, he
was a much better poet than musician/singer.)
The first bit of trouble one can run into when
writing poems of this nature is that when one invokes
a voice similar to a well-known poet like Sandburg,
one can get compared to said poet, and most times
those comparisons end up coming out unfavorable
for you. Also, one can invite commentary from and
about said poet's contemporaries for the sake of context
(for instance, someone who wanted to be snarky could
point out that Frost once observed that you should never
call yourself a poet {as the title and voice of this poem
does}, but rather a poet is something that
other people
should call you, the implication being that if you have to
state that you are a poet, you might not be a very good one.
Of course, the poem's author {or voice} might be speaking
as {or for} the Poet Universal, but, if so, I think it does so
pretentiously, falsely, as there are poets who do and have
done and will do and feel and have felt and will feel exactly
the opposite of what the poem asserts, yet poets they remain.
All of this to say: it might be an overambitious endeavor, I think,
for you to attempt to define the Poet Universal, or a bit
sophomoric to tout oneself as a poet in a poem about oneself.
In other words: the premise behind the poem itself might be
unpalatable to folks who are serious about the craft {or "art",
if you prefer} and therefore should be written {if you care
about that particular reader} as to either say something new,
or, if impossible, to say something already said but said in a
new way. I don't think this poem does either. I'm sorry.)
I did like:
"...the fire of it."
and
"...in the forgotten of folks
now noble in my memory."
"...little thin dreams among the smoke..."
But other than those turns of phrase, I don't feel the
poem has that much to offer. I think it requires love
for the poet him/herself to appreciate; those who love
you will love this poem, those who don't... may not,
though, if they are polite, you may never know.
I know these comments won't get me very well liked here,
but...you know... I'm only being honest.
If I have offended, please feel free to go rip
my poems to shreds; that is the way of things,
what one should expect.
Peace.