A Quick Word

"In order to go on living one must try to escape the death involved in perfectionism." -Hannah Arendt (1906-1975)

01 September 2009

Easing the adjustment.

I tried my hand at writing poetry today-- or rather, I adapted my prose into something like poetry. I realized that, at my best, my writing can sometimes contain its own rhythm, meter, and internal rhyme that adds a very lyrical quality to it. Curious at my new discovery, I took a grouping of sentences I had written earlier this year, put them in lines and verses, and tried to pass it off as a poem. I'm not sure if it is genuinely good, as I was just pleased that it exceeded all of my other attempts at writing poetry. Ironic, I thought-- finding a poem in a few lines of prose. But, I did not complain.

As it is, I found the experience satisfying. In many ways, it represents my life lately. Here's the poem. Don't be too harsh. (Remember, it was born as something different.)

The Overlook

Somewhere over the mottled hills
And into the burning twilight,
There lies a hope that beats
So softly against my chest.
It is where memories sleep,
Where emotion breathes, and
True beings sing hymns and lullabies
And hum for the approaching moon
--and stars.
Even the wind and breeze seem
Bent on making it over those hills
To this place of quiet refuge
Where my dreams, unfettered, thrive.


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