Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain
like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.
I try unifying them into something,
a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams
showcasing profound thoughts
that I feel are worthy of sharing
with strangers and sycophants,
maniacs and mentally sound,
downtrodden and dignitaries,
paupers and princesses
in hopes of making a lasting impression
that will forever change their lives.
But before unveiling my work to the world,
I scrutinize the stitching,
then question the pattern.
Thinking that it’s not good enough,
that it requires additional refinement,
I tear apart the completed piece.
Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,
reassembled
or recreated.
What was once coherent,
vibrant,
profound,
now lies in ruin.
These scraps of doubt then entomb me.
Unable to manipulate the fabric,
I remain immobilized
by a misguided attempt
to cover my perceived imperfections
and bury my profound neurosis
so my frail ego
will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.
[Where Have the Old Words Got Me?: Explications of Dylan Thomas's Collected Poems, 1934-1953] [Author: Ralph Maud] [February 2003]
Some of the rest I must use;
they are jeans and sweats; they are what we
forget about as symbols.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless.
Some died of poverty and misuse.
We are newly comprehensible only in alterations.
The seam resewn adds threads and new flavors,
Old words are not our deliverance, they are new graves.
Where have the old words taken me?
The old words sill pimp sounds
as if in payment for accessibility. Some ply
rhymes and dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the pity.
Let me not lure you into understanding
by a worn-out rote.
It is not 'I' that confuse, it is the throat of an owl
that exhausts fresh songs.
Nothing has meaning now, unless it be new wine.
Old words must be beaten fine upon an anvil;
hung around a hooting neck
until a clearly obvious bone -
breaks.
Oh why oh why
Do my buttons always break and fly?
I do not know
For my belly just seems to grow and grow
I try to stipend
The grownth from within
But my hunger it swells
And my will grows thin
My buttons they seem
So weak and frail
But I wonder if they
The problem entail
My waistline it stretches
And my clothes grow tighter
The harder I squeeze
My face grows whiter
These buttons they seem
To have a mind of their own
They fly off at will
And constantly must be resewn
A frustrating matter
This seemingly becomes
As I sit here befuzzled
And twiddle my thumbs
Unending discomfort
In my trousers abound
I've searched for the answer
But none's to be found
This Poem was a lovely Joint effort with my beautiful friend Skyler Dawn. We had fun making it, hope you enjoy it! :)
My Golden Heart
was torn apart
then resewn in a whole
my heart is made of gold
I know
but it fell in love again
with someone who was supposed to be a friend
Now that friend is more then I know
My heart won't let go
But I know
I have to be strong
To carry on
I love him yes I do!
But does he love me too?
My heart is so solid
that it breaks too easily
and it is easyily won
what has my soul done?
It left behind, the strength to carry on
Oh this love is so strong
these feelings inside me won't go away
hey what can i say?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.