by Anthony Wolfe
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
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(the many deaths of poetic inspiration)
Nature’s decree of ascending into beauty states
Of most things conceived in our mental womb
In majority modes of existence lacks survival.
The slate colored gurgle of a creative thought
Stillborn, echoes in the ear more often than not.
The few bright shards of rising solar flumes
Are curbed by monsoon drifts on a dead horizon.
There are halcyon thoughts more often than not
Asphyxiated by torpor of gloomed mood, frozen affect.
The beloved smells of our fragrant sensuality
Drowned by acrid sentiment of flinty selfishness
And dire self-centeredness reeking of life’s decay,
Absent the oxygen of love or proclivities for altruism.
What is it that crept into our optimistic soul
And steadfast outlook of heart, deadening hope?
Hope is only hope and often renders moot
The muffled outcries of our feelings trying to soar
Into transcendent being but chained to sour dejection,
Spending their life as wisdom denied flowering,
Intuition stagnating, that a rough beast inside us
Moans at its inevitable dying: “I hurt therefore I am.”
© Anthony Wolfe, 2003. All rights reserved.
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|Reviewed by samantha mane (Reader)
|The thing that differentiates the man from the poet is the inner drive to express life; I believe all these drifting notions recur, like specters denied, until they are satisfied. This is a beautiful treatise on the eternal battle between the muse and the mistress. *) … what is your poison, Antony, my love?|
|Reviewed by Nicole Davis Vergara (Reader)
|A most powerfully delivered in depth write Anthony, so very well penned!!!!
|Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader)
|Very deep and powerful indeed.
|Reviewed by Bhuwan Thapaliya
|Deep and powerful write....BHUWAN|