X

Don May 15th, 2008

X             Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on “the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            O.K.  This next one shows I was still in the cummings period.  But I still think it has interesting imagery, and I still get the chill from it that I got that night.  The form of a poem is a receptacle for experience, a locket in which can be preserved both personal and cultural memory.  Even free verse can rise to that sometimes.

 Night in Imladris 

Tree . . .

wearing stars for rings on branching fingers,

misty cloud for shawl,

we stand and grow

together

for a moment

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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