Probably many of my readers will not be surprised at today’s blog topic. Since I was a little girl, one of my recurring dreams has been to be a published poet. From Robert Lewis Stevenson to G. K. Chesterton, from Emily Dickinson to Christina Rosetti, I have always loved both reading and writing poetry. My first love was the structured rhyme and rhythm of the monthly memorized poems in elementary school. As I grew older and my writing matured slightly, I still clung to the form and security that metered and rhymed poetry provided, agonizing over finding the perfect word with the perfect syllable count. But in the spring of my Inklings year, I discovered T. S. Eliot, seemingly defying all structure and form. However, the more I read and listened and allowed his melodies to sink in, the more I grew to love Eliot’s poetry, painting vivid images in my mind of trees and roses and dusty chapels and whirling worlds. His poetry has come to affect mine, as lately my poetry has been more concerned with image and emotion than structure. In conclusion, here are two of my poems, reflecting both sides of the same coin of poetry.
Slave to Love
Your Love is Strong, compassionate
Your Mercies, Neverending
You see all, Yet Love me still
So I can cease Pretending
To be a girl with Heart too pure
To ever need Your Aid
Instead I come with Pleading Soul
Longing to be Saved
From the Secret Shames I hide away
From the Guilt within my Heart
Your Love is Strong, it covers me.
Love’s pierced me with His Dart
I’m now a slave, I will do nothing
Unless You bid me to.
Love freed my Heart, I can choose my Fate
But I Love You, I Choose You.
Panes of Glass
He stares at her through a broken pane of glass,
His eyes reflect the sorrow in his heart
Around him his world is falling, breaking
Yet there is no one to stop it, no one to heal the pain
Slowly ever slowly, his heart is being torn away
Ripped into shreds and trampled underfoot
Yet all this and more he would endure for her
He would shatter the panes of glass
That stand between them, and yet
He cannot, for to do so would bring infinitely more pain,
So he stands, staring out of helpless, hopeless eyes
Hating the one who said forbidden fruit was sweet
It is not, it is bitter, dry, full of pain and anguish
Yet he has chosen to eat of it still
For that is the way of love
Love reaches through the glass and into her heart
Is this right? Is this good? They don’t know
Self-inflicted torture, unspeakable bliss and joy
And as they love silently, hopefully, fervently
The cracks deepen, the ice thaws, and someday
The glass will come crashing down
And they will be...
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