Survivors

Survivors

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

One Hundred Poems


©  Steve King
All rights reserved


I wanted to write one hundred poems
because it seemed so difficult to do.
I wondered at the mountain of old dreams
that I would have to mine for right ideals;
how I’d manage aspects of reflection;
the vacuum I must fill with new-made words,
and airs to uplift unimagined songs.

That empty platform waiting within me,
upon which all of this would be designed,
seemed small and so unsuited to the call
of fine finishing work:  visions constrained
by amateur habits and unschooled rote
so easily tempted by lush false notes.

One hundred poems seemed more than enough.

Words were so distant—like the scattered dust
that hovers throughout each galaxy
unclaimed by gravity; foreign to the ear,
loosed from all meaning, ‘til by accident
of proximity and random vector
some few waiting strains do fall together,
not at heat, begetting afterglow,
but with slow accretion, as something
emerging soft from where old shadows were,
the voice of new insistent harmony
whose life crests only for an instant…

…but then to find its way to some dark place:
the wellspring of a fool’s patient desire—
titles and footnotes, arcane references
replete with scrambled talking points
for why this word or that, and no other
did sanctify each sudden thought complete.
Rhythms cast themselves around each line
to pacify the unrelenting beat
of new metered feet poised to stampede
across the boundaries of each open page;
and at all times, the whithering debate
among familiar spirits gathered close
to freshen or impede the ready hand.

Somber recitations echoing around,
sonorous in predictable empty hours,
rolling from the all too ready tongue,
divorced from mundane words, or so one thinks;
and even from the quotidian chore
of counting to one hundred.  So one thinks.

One hundred voices for all occasions;
words for every subject, every tone,
and catch phrases to caption every brand.
Those brilliant families of syllables
and strophes hung with their perfect adornment—
one hundred verses, polished to their fault.

And I could see them all in bold array,
standing, to the last, in that old chain
that linked me with first things; ties to a past
that pointed towards a future left unknown,
at least beyond that number, one hundred.

But when the verses gathered, each said and done,
old barely finished before new begun,
I could not trace distinctions that had come
to mark those many lyrics I had spun.

Far less than my hundred, I saw I’d writ but one.



For Open Link Night at http://dversepoets.com/

22 comments:

  1. i think life write its poetry as well even if we don't jot it all down... i like how the verses connect the future with the past and also helps it to make sense..

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  2. This is an interesting poem, Steve. I am not sure that I understand it entirely....but thinking about writing a hundred poems and finding you have written only one makes me think that sometimes a poet seems to write the same ONE poem over and over again using different words. I don't know if this is the idea you had in mind, but this is what I reflected on after reading your words.

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  3. Profound...and absolutely beautiful....you think you wrote one...yet I see hundreds to come...all really different...and capturing so well...the moment. "the voice of new insistent harmony / whose life crests only for an instant" I love those two lines..great work, Steve :) ~jackie~

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  4. I've been there, done that. Often. Nice write. >KB

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  5. however many it takes to do the job..or maybe the job is never done....maybe even the same poem is one hundred when viewed through different facets.....each perspective taking its place

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  6. I think that even if we write 1000 poems there will be but one.. and that's the last one we ever wrote... somehow looking back, the thoughts seem mundane... they have been written so why care... what's said can not be said again... really liked your thoughts here (at least this is what I came to understand)

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  7. It is a bit like turning straw into gold, trying to pull words into our gravitational pull and out of space. I sometimes think I will write one a day. I think I must already have more than 100.

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  8. A hundred poems...or one..they live in our mind. Beautiful.

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  9. 1 or 100..whatever it takes to say what you think..capture the moments
    in paper and ink..it's never over until the last word is spun..with your last breath..

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  10. In the end, our life's work, in fact, our life... It is all just one poem, isn't it? I really love this.

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  11. One beautiful poem such as yours is worth more than a hundred ones ~ You captured the nuances & process of writing Steve ~ Though that last stanza resonated with me strongly, I find these lines very moving: ~

    emerging soft from where old shadows were,
    the voice of new insistent harmony
    whose life crests only for an instant…

    Fine writing Steve ~

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  12. I read this as a metaphor for life as that is surely the most important poem we can pen...and have a hard time believing that anyone who wrote this could only come up with one in the written word.

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  13. Very nice twist of reasoning(and truthful, I think) at the end, Steve. I do think we all have themes which echo in everything we write, that many times, one poem is the shadow, reflection, parent or child of another complete with replicated DNA, but I also think that like a conversation, or a logical argument, perhaps, they progress to various points, and in doing so, warp and change. Maybe it's only the magnification/translation of one small point into a prismed refraction that segments into its component parts, who knows. Enjoyed this, as always, with my favorite lines in the stanza beginning "... Words were so distant—like the scattered dust
    that hovers throughout each galaxy
    unclaimed by gravity;..".

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    1. You're probably right, Joy. Sometimes I write to simply explore one side of an idea--perhaps to start, or finish, a conversation with myself. Thanks for the visit...

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  14. I loved this on so many levels-first the vivid imagery-second the way you strung the words seamlessly-and that it wowed me even though some places I felt lost-and last but not the least this makes me wish I could write like you-will be reading this a few more times and if you permit me,would like to share it with my friends!An excellent write Steve :-)

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    1. I'd be interested to know where you felt lost. Thanks for the visit.

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  15. Lovely piece, Steve. I'm curious to know why you chose the number 100.

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    1. No compelling reason, Kay, except that it seemed far off. It still is.
      Steve

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  16. I too liked this best
    Words were so distant—like the scattered dust

    that hovers throughout each galaxy

    unclaimed by gravity.

    In your picture I see you looking for them:)

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  17. Our minds spin and churn phrases and verses; words on our tongue that we repeat hoping to remember only to find when ink takes to paper that we cannot gather those flashes of thought into that perfect form and format that shines with the same brilliance we saw in our mind's eye. You are one of the rare exceptions whose poetry is always brilliant! Another beautiful piece well done, Steve.

    Sorry I am late in commenting, my friend. My work schedule changed, and I discovered it was impossible to share at OLN and read and comment appropriately last week.Need to acclimate!

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    1. Thanks for the visit Ginny. I read of your new schedule in one of your posts...first things first, of course!! I'll be by to read later. I've had a bit of a hectic couple of weeks myself, the last couple of days consisting of moving snow. You're probably familiar with that!

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  18. Your poem captures the wish for the grand gesture that would, one thinks, save us from the desolation of the mundane. One gets lost in the idea of the gesture rather than what it is supposed to be gesturing towards! A very cool notion and well conveyed. Thanks. K. Manicddaily

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