|
This one is unpolished, I'm looking for comments on improving/reviewing these few verses I wrote in my Transcendentalist Literature class last week in response to the final line in Thoreau's 'Walden, or Life in the Woods.' The book is a fascinating perspective on nature, if you ask me.
For a point of reference, the final line in the book is, "The sun is but a morning star."
The sun is but a morning star,
a simple beginning in time,
a sphere of light viewed from afar,
a perception of the sublime.
The self is found within the light,
a bastion of personal truth,
An ancient man sits at some bar,
a reflection of his youth.
"My life is wasted," the old man said,
with disdain on his face.
"Materialism left me for dead,
I could not match its pace."
"I should have sought a morning star,
fulfilled my potential,
Instead I hid within a jar,
a life completely provincial."
"Now my regrets are many,
and happy memories few,
and not a silver penny
would save me from this stew."
This man's life could be my own,
His path could be my fate.
But through his words, I have grown,
I hope it's not too late.
I literally just wrote that last verse there. I am up for suggestions on this one, and I don't have a title for it yet.
This one is different, written in response to my semester of Poetry Writing class.
Poetry Sweatshop
Confined by cream-colored cliffs
rising overhead to a speckled-freckled sky
wrought of cork, marked by metal
Shrouding sovereign senses in shadow
Revealing only the doorstop.
The first step to a new path
A path, locked away from youthful dreams
A path, blocked by the Penumbra Hand of Fate,
The Turnstile Operator of Destiny
Permitting only penguins to pass
Allowing brainwashed allies admittance,
While the thinkers,
The Key-Makers,
are left to ponder.
|