Thursday, December 11, 2003
ON POETRY
Rhyming is only a small part of the poem: The rhythms and meters make it sing, soar, or dive deeper than oceans with meanings far from home, where roses mean much more dead than alive: The pain of the thorn makes me want to roam away from the heart upon which I thrive. Devices that figure in the...
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TRANSCENDENT
Hidden from view, like the Lord; sharp as the edge of a two-edged sword; vast as the boundless night skies; soft as the blue in my sweet lover’s eyes; hushed as the muted wail of the wind through the trees on a warm summer’s night; dark as the army of those who have sinned, and will not relent...
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