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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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Posted

Her Eyes

 

Her eyes

they shine

and call to me,

but I can't see

what they say.

 

Twin gleams

of somber green

held inside

a dance of light,

they draw and

hold my gaze.

 

Mingled tears

of joy and fear

trace this light

in shifting lines

of moisture’s dance

upon her face.

 

By steps

of twinkling skips

lids that glide

to fickle light

close themselves in

firm embrace

 

Her eyes

tonight

they sing to mine

but with no place

to join their dance

my eyes

turn away.

Posted

A “historical” note: Normally I do not like to comment on my poems, but on the off chance others might find this helpful or merely interesting, a couple words about this piece seem to be in order.

 

The original version of this poem was written years ago, back in the distant days of the early 90s when I was a much younger man with a much less certain voice as a writer. Writing it back then, was something of an act of discovery for me as, despite the melancholy character of the original, it had within it the first clear signs that I had a distinctive style of sound, image and movement about my writing. I was never able to finish it to my liking back then, but it was the piece of writing that gave rise to the poetry I have written off and on since that point.

 

Not long ago, I dug up the old notebook that had its scribbled words inside it and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that even though the originating feelings that gave rise to the piece have long since been felt and left go, I was able to say now what I could not say then, and so, could finally revisit the poem and give it the rewriting that I always knew it needed. The atmosphere of the piece is a sad one, perhaps. Working with it, however, was an awful lot of fun and it let me revisit a place in my life which, while not always happy, was certainly creative and very much alive. The best writing takes its words from the matter of life. Sometimes, it seems, however, that a bit of distance and a bit a time can make that matter more one's own and those words easier to find, and that an incomplete and uncertain beginning can still bear real and interesting fruit if given that time and that distance in which to grow.

 

Who knows, maybe after another bunch of years pass, I’ll come back to this again and see if it needs another round of rewriting B)

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