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Best Poems Written by Sean Pope

Below are the all-time best Sean Pope poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Sean Pope Poem

The Light

Two and sixty days ago —
Two months, or so I'm told —
I wandered, wistful, without cause,
Through a memory of old.

A hall of walls I wandered, tall,
As tall as tales I could weave,
But none as tall as this regale,
A story that you won't believe.

I walked near endless hours,
My only friends the cobblestones,
Ringing in my steps the sin
That only time atones,

When upon that pallid plaster
I did spy a shocking sight:
Upon that place's rocky face,
The wall had turned to light.

"Curious," I cooed and questioned,
Calm as I could never be,
"Perhaps it might be that this light
Is rightly mine, I see?"

And as I pondered that hall I wandered,
A chilling change I never chose arose:
That light so rife with delight and fright
Began to open, and I froze,

For that particular portcullis I pondered
Put me in a vice.
I nary noticed that walls in focus
Had changed into a hall of lights.

Transfixed, the light engulfed me so,
As slow as my bewildered head
Could comprehend the candid land
I planned my final stand in dead.

I whizzed through spaces, unknown places,
In stasis from the faceless force
When finally I fell, the frenzied light
Still tight from an unseemly source.

All at once, those two months
Became a fraction of a wink;
The frost was lost as I was tossed
Among the lights of what I think.

And where else would I find myself
But in this courtyard we call love?
My journey never left my head,
Nor bed's unconscious dreamland hub.

Two and sixty days ago,
I heard these words so true,
And in the dark they were my light:
You told me "I love you."

Details | Sean Pope Poem

Flowers Bloom

The toppling hyacinth,
Excitedly bursting at every corner
To show the world its colour.

The soft chrysanthemum,
A rosy brush of autumn's breath,
So stoic in their blush.

The pale gardenia,
A soft unfolding in cautious masses,
The tokens of a lover.

The quiet lilac,
Without a care for frill or grace,
Growing where it may.

The meadow shifts.
There is such blissful sorrow
In watching flowers bloom

Details | Sean Pope Poem

Symptoms Well-Rehearsed

I know not the color of your eyes,
But I know what is in them.

I know how they analyze,
Picking apart every mundane asset
Of a universe we find bewitching;
How they dance with understanding,
Reflecting a life most dedicated
To the art of knowing more.

And I know how they fear,
With cautious, scrutinizing movements
Borne of trust and the betrayal that took it;
Eyes I know will look to mine
And beg this world to see the same—
That I would never leave.


I know not the sound of your voice,
But I know what it speaks.

I know how it speaks control,
With the smooth, methodical candor
Of a sentence well thought-out;
A voice with many thousand days
Of consideration and control,
Experiments in communication.

And I know how it speaks of melancholy,
Of ages spent in ageless wait
For one that may not be;
That chronic touch of cynicism
Brought by ancient mechanism,
A defense by sarcasm.


I know so little of you,
And yet I know enough.

So though I may not know your face
When first I pass you by,
Just look in my direction long
That I may catch your eye.

And though I may not hear your voice
When first you call my name,
Just speak aloud, as to yourself:
I'll hear you all the same.

And though we may not know at first
When we have finally met,
Keep watch for symptoms well-rehearsed
And I will find you yet.

Details | Sean Pope Poem

Perhaps

Perhaps for the last time,
I have fallen in love.

Does it betray me a fool
To so often fall blindly
For women I imagine
To match my ideal?

Perhaps it is not women,
But the same woman,
Over and over,
Since I first saw her
Occupying the same space
As some hapless girl
I had to have.

Perhaps it is desperation
Taking hold of a strange man
That finds little value
Without a symbol of idolatry
In the absence of religion.

Perhaps it is fear
In the shadow of absence,
As our most primal instinct
Is to find another
To weather our strange existence
Together.

Perhaps I merely wish
That the fits of longing would stop.
At least long enough
To get some work done.

Yet least likely of all,
And most shamefully,
Perhaps I just fell in love
With another pretty smile
With a brain to back it up.

Perhaps that is not so wrong,
Save for the volume
With which it occurs.

She does have lovely eyes.