dark

[only rob]

The Weight of Worlds





I behold the weight of worlds in anguished eyes,
in the cries of the farmers at the hail,
the cancered man, looking too deep.
No exit, the young man bawls at yondering love,
but I can not catch him as he falls,
or still the screams of the poor soldier.
I grieve with the mother of the hungry child, the
wild-eyed loner, beneath some dark eclipse,
gnash my teeth at wild and unfair fate,
but I can’t recreate glee for sorrow’s mate.

Oh, the weight of worlds I hear in garbled moans;
what remedy or solace may I provide
to a survivor, or that wounded cuckold?
What groans may poems turn to song, or bright verse
alleviate when the very sun goes dark?
How may I sleep through dried and brittle crops,
or with the resound of distant screams,
when I have seen the chaos of soldier’s dreams?
Abed, I thrash with the agony of my troubled species,
as if each flower painted by careful words
withers in all the weeping I have heard.

The weight of worlds has attached itself to me
and Shakespeare’s question occurs
as my clock strikes a metaphysical
twenty-three, “to be or not to be?”

[Leanne]

Rob, I'm sorry I don't have time to do a full critique just now, but I really did want to say that I like what you've got going here -- it reminds me of Kierkegaard, especially "What groans may poems turn to song, or bright verse alleviate when the very sun goes dark?". I love poets who remember that it's not all roses and fluffy bunnies

I will be back for a proper look when I have a bit more time.

[Aish]

The Weight of Worlds





I behold the weight of worlds in anguished eyes,
in the cries of the farmers at the hail,
the cancered man, looking too deep.
No exit, the young man bawls at yondering love,
but I can not catch him as he falls,
or still the screams of the poor soldier.
I grieve with the mother of the hungry child, the
wild-eyed loner, beneath some dark eclipse,
gnash my teeth at wild and unfair fate,
but I can’t recreate glee for sorrow’s mate. I adore this line.

Oh, the weight of worlds I hear in garbled moans;
what remedy or solace may I provide
to a survivor, or that wounded cuckold?
What groans may poems turn to song, or bright verse
alleviate when the very sun goes dark?
How may I sleep through dried and brittle crops,
or with the resound of distant screams,
when I have seen the chaos of soldier’s dreams?
Abed, I thrash with the agony of my troubled species, These three lines are gorgeous.
as if each flower painted by careful words
withers in all the weeping I have heard.

The weight of worlds has attached itself to me
and Shakespeare’s question occurs
as my clock strikes a metaphysical
twenty-three, “to be or not to be?” Indeed. Poets and artists experience empathy on a level I believe others do not know exists.

Hi, Rob! I am wholly unqualified to remark about your rhyme or meter, but I can say I enjoyed this.

[billy]

The Weight of Worlds





I behold the weight of worlds in anguished eyes,
[ind]in the cries of the farmers at the hail,
[ind]the cancered man, looking too deep.
No exit, the young man bawls at yondering love,
[ind]but I can not catch him as he falls,
[ind]or still the screams of the poor soldier.
I grieve with the mother of the hungry child, the
[ind]wild-eyed loner, beneath some dark eclipse,
[ind]gnash my teeth at wild and unfair fate,
[ind]but I can’t recreate glee for sorrow’s mate.

Oh, the weight of worlds I hear in garbled moans;
[ind]what remedy or solace may I provide
[ind]to a survivor, or that wounded cuckold?
What groans may poems turn to song, or bright verse
[ind]alleviate when the very sun goes dark?
How may I sleep through dried and brittle crops,
[ind]or with the resound of distant screams,
[ind]when I have seen the chaos of soldier’s dreams?
Abed, I thrash with the agony of my troubled species,
[ind]as if each flower painted by careful words
[ind]withers in all the weeping I have heard.

The weight of worlds has attached itself to me
[ind]and Shakespeare’s question occurs
[ind]as my clock strikes a metaphysical
[ind]twenty-three, “to be or not to be?”

i have read this quite a few times. and enjoyed it each time. for me , the enjambment jars on L7, some of of the internal rhyme is excellent; shakes 23 to be was superb.
there is a lot to like about the imagery, too much for a line by line. the whole of the 1st verse poignant. and the last lines in the penultimate stanza are perfect in expressing the human condition.
i tool the liberty of indenting the lines i thought you wanted indented. the form you did for me adds greatly to the poem. jmo

thanks for the read.