Posts Tagged ‘heart’

This is some advice I’ve received about writing poetry. I’m just relaying it:

  1. Concrete images trump metaphorical or abstract concepts. “Red grit bricks” trump “the voice of God,” “calloused knuckles” is better than “soul.” No one knows what a soul looks like. Concrete images are usually examined under the lens of metaphor anyway.
  2. It takes years to cultivate your voice. Try new and different things. Try traditional forms. Experiment with perspective and tone. Stay on things for a while. Try writing lists for a month, then try sonnets, and then try love poems.
  3. Write early in the day, or late at night. What you think is great in a moment may turn out to be crap later. Come back hours later and look at what you’ve written. Keep what you like. Cut what you don’t like. Don’t just try to change it. Get rid of it.
  4. Your heart is the center of your poetry. Get in touch with that, and let it pour out. You have time to rein it in later.

Happy writing. 🙂

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of when your eyes connect with another’s

and heat jumps through your body

and you want to know them,

and you want them to know you;

you want them to want

to understand

like you want to

understand

them.

2

Posted: October 27, 2014 in Love Poems, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I can love with a Promised heart.

Disclose to me what you believe.

I will show you evidence- Proof-

that I belong to me, but can remain True.

written 22 October, 2014

Life is different for me

because I give a damn

because my metaphorical heart

is an eye that wants to take everything in

because I wade up to my knees before

I fully submerge

because sunlight is always gold

because there’s always wind

because when I hear the rain slam against my house at midnight

I wear a white t-shirt and walk under the storm 

because green is life

and it’s my favorite color

Am I built of

more than flesh?

Then, what will remain

when I’m laid to rest?

 

A Heart of Pure gold,

and Ivory bones?

Or Papers and Books,

and a Will like Stone?

O stuck Heart of mine,

you pine for the past-

can you not let go

of what was not meant to last?

 

There is no excuse, now,

not to pump Red to my cheeks-

I have grown cold, with you

behaving thus for weeks.

O but if you could see how lonely I am,

for I am young and crave that sickening, sweet,

drink known as pity. And I am lonely;

I house a heart that is heavy with burdens

that many men and women have held before-

but they are new to me, and I state,

once again, I am young, and with youth

comes yet another burden: inexperience.