Yesterday, 05:11 AM
Haven't been reading as much poetry the last 5 years or so, going to change that now I think.
Trying to remember poems you love or loved is tougher than you think, possibly why so many of us remember authors or styles we love instead so that, when in doubt, we can /find/ poems we love.
Looking through this old thread, there are some I remember and some I know I have read but they are new again and some are just new through the lens of different experiences I have had, time that has passed. Also, by reading old posts from people who have passed.
You know, sometimes we talk about people we workshop with as if they are actually great poets and there is somewhat of a reality distortion field in that part of us knows they aren't real poets.
or are they?
One of the best poems I have ever read and one that I will re-read 1000 times is by a poet I used to workshop with. Now I didn't workshop this one but I did several others. She is now considered quite successful as much as any poet is ever successful:
Neanderthal Bone Flute
by Rose Kelleher
“...if it really is a flute, it provides significant evidence that Neanderthals may have been the equal of Homo Sapiens in the evolution of humankind.”
— Wikipedia.com, Divje Babe
Let it be a flute. Let some young man,
perhaps red-haired, have carved it just for fun.
Or better yet, to serenade someone:
one of the jut-chinned girls, not of his clan,
a stranger from the east. And let his genes
thrive still in solitary types, the shy
who fidget when you look them in the eye,
the tongue-tied, who must woo by other means.
Ignore the new genetic tests that say
the girl rejected him, that winter came
and spear could not compete with bow and arrow;
that want, or slaughter, whittled him away
because his ways and ours were not the same.
Let bone be flute, the music in our marrow.
Trying to remember poems you love or loved is tougher than you think, possibly why so many of us remember authors or styles we love instead so that, when in doubt, we can /find/ poems we love.
Looking through this old thread, there are some I remember and some I know I have read but they are new again and some are just new through the lens of different experiences I have had, time that has passed. Also, by reading old posts from people who have passed.
You know, sometimes we talk about people we workshop with as if they are actually great poets and there is somewhat of a reality distortion field in that part of us knows they aren't real poets.
or are they?
One of the best poems I have ever read and one that I will re-read 1000 times is by a poet I used to workshop with. Now I didn't workshop this one but I did several others. She is now considered quite successful as much as any poet is ever successful:
Neanderthal Bone Flute
by Rose Kelleher
“...if it really is a flute, it provides significant evidence that Neanderthals may have been the equal of Homo Sapiens in the evolution of humankind.”
— Wikipedia.com, Divje Babe
Let it be a flute. Let some young man,
perhaps red-haired, have carved it just for fun.
Or better yet, to serenade someone:
one of the jut-chinned girls, not of his clan,
a stranger from the east. And let his genes
thrive still in solitary types, the shy
who fidget when you look them in the eye,
the tongue-tied, who must woo by other means.
Ignore the new genetic tests that say
the girl rejected him, that winter came
and spear could not compete with bow and arrow;
that want, or slaughter, whittled him away
because his ways and ours were not the same.
Let bone be flute, the music in our marrow.