Poetry Is Not Dead: Recent Episodes
Francis Rosenfeld
Amazing Grace was given me in moments of dismayWhen friends were scarce and skies were gray and hope had gone astray.
There once was a fair girl whose name was Maureen,Who dwelt in the mists of the island ‘Vergreen.She lived with her father.Her hair was like copper.She longed for a place that no human had seen.
There are so many things I’d like to share with you, so many things, all around us, hidden in the beauty we don’t watch, in the peace we don’t seek, in the dark of the mornings.
You’ll be pulled in the wake of the truth future brings, where the ghost of reality waits in the wings
Softness brushes the glass pane, steadily patting at the window with delicate plush soles, the kind that make intricate embroidery patterns on freshly fallen snow, but no sounds, no sounds at all, ever.
Do I have a bridge to sell you!Want to make a super deal?Most exclusive, most superior,Just the best and hugely real.I’ve got watches, I’ve got purses,I’ve got guys to fix your bid,I’ve got people who’ll procure youAnything you’ll ever need.
You were, until now and the days yet to be, the best thing and worst thing that happened to me.My soul’s torn to shreds by the feelings I host, I’m grateful and hateful and fearing the worst.I’m shrouded in wonder and keeping the fast while mourning the things that are lost to the past. Excited by visions that hide in the winds, both humble and smug and in vague disbelief, I’m doubting the setting in front of my eyes while learning impossible truths to deny.
Sky camera shows why it’s best not to watch: this simple trick makes history dangerous, scrambling to recover experience.Search underway for missing iceberg the size of London seeks to rejuvenate urgent care.Study finds center of weight loss surgery; no one rendered aid.Soccer team magical video found at his home turns memories into record rainfall.Stowaway cancelled, acknowledges problem; reported romantic talks about theater clash between pivoting wing.I forgot who I am.
What do I know about the world,a lowly human,and why should it matter?The world is music and wonder,singing to itselfjingles and lullabies,and masterful symphonies.
I spun from the moon threads of lightand wove them to fashion my sight.My soul was reflected inside,revealed by the scant light of night.
I’m too tired for insight, too strong for solace, too clear for words, too resonant for silence, too old for wonder, too lucid.
I’m on the edge of existence, looking out at nothing, the substantial, rich, eclectic nothing of which all reality is woven.
There is always something to distract us, something urgent, usually unpleasant, so I’m going to say this really fast, before I lose your attention: last night I heard the roar of the planet spinning on its axis, the deafening breath of an enormous creature.
The soft breeze that touched me has opened the sky and sun dappled brightness like honey, but who has the time for the birds in the trees and genially watching the bunnies?
I call for my soul inside the soaring chambers of my soul, and their tall walls and vaults reverberate and multiply my voice into thousands of new me’s, also lost, also searching.
Nature feels freer just before the morning, by shadow of darkness, by silver moon beam.
A mirror in time my life has become, the doors to my soul open wide. What couldn’t I be, what couldn’t I find when boundaries fell to the side?
As you get old you start pondering on the meaning of words like purpose, or love, or fate, or free will, and they haunt you with their reverberating nature, they turn up the dial on your mind until your hair hurts, they tilt your compass.
I hide my pain, I ride the rain, I exercise my life in vain. I see the shame, I fight the wane, I cry out from the tortured strain. My light is tamed, my soul is stained, the gladness in my heart is chained. My love is maimed, my self is slain, I'll fight till my last breath is drained.
I could have died a thousand ways or not have lived at all. I could have sold my happiness for envy, rage, and gall. I could have drowned in grief and tears and given up my soul. I could have followed on my fears to falter, fail and fall.
As I am I will go to my Maker, I don’t need to pretend to be more.
I stand as I am from now on. As I am is enough. As I am I bare my soul.
There's no one new except for me in this extraordinary life; no guidance, no instruction card, no inkling of wrong or right.
I wade through the symbols of essence unseen By light and by shadow departing a dream All centered inside of the self shell of me.
On being here, on living here, on being lived by me: One for the stone, two for the wind, three for the perfect sea Four for the love, five for the mist, six for the blessed ground Seven and eight to redirect, nine to call back around Ten to decide what tide to ride to help the spirit thrive On being here, on living here, on being lived by life.
Don't you listen to the trolls, sweetheart, don't you listen when they tell you what you must be, what you can't do, what you don't know.
Sometimes the world gives me a garland of fears, a skin-vexing hair shirt, a bucket of tears. Sometimes it allows me ineffable cheer, the beauty of heavens, the music of spheres.
You can’t even imagine how dire it would be if by chance or by choice your child ends up like me.
I touched the world lightly, to feel its heartbeat, the pulse of life beneath the things, and I know this heart beats for me, like I’m the only one it ever sees.
Have you ever watched the moon rise on the ocean on a bright summer night, when all the stars are out, and by their light alone you see your shadow?
I live in my heartbeat, in the taste of my coffee, in the lightheaded awe of looking up at trees, in the wind on my skin, surprisingly cool on a bright summer morning, startling goose bumps.
I may yet be forgotten by the wind in its perpetual unrest, as I stand here, small and quiet, watching the waves, touching the breeze.
Who are you, vital statistic made of personal identification numbers, evaluations and degrees, and defined by its body mass index, driving record and employment history?
I sit inside my silence, not even awake, maybe, waiting patiently for the cocoon to open, not eager, not afraid. I wait.