Poets are like Butterflies

The editor of Poesy Magazine proclaims on his News page that he’s “back again,” and, after 18 months of downtime, he’s “continuing Poesy and returning refreshed, rested and with a vengance to make an impact.”  Except that was posted 5 months ago and there doesn’t seem to be any activity since. 

Ah, well.  I know what it’s like to burn out on a project; I myself am the proud owner of a number of abandoned blogs and social networking pages strewn far and wide across the internet.  Anyway, the good news is that you can still read some cool stuff on the site, including several featured poems from the last issue.

Photo courtesy Asumann at Stock.Xchnge

Following is an excerpt from a poem called “Poem for David Church” by A.D. Winans.  It is from a memorial poem written for a poet who passed away:

poets are like butterflies
inhabiting temporary space
tasting the pollen of life
spreading their wings
reshaping the stars the universe
cosmic matter waiting to be reborn

Someone Else’s Things

I read a lot of poetry I don’t like.  Some days I get lucky and find something good right away; other days, I have to plow through a mountain of bad poetry in my search for that one poem that will bring a smile to my lips.  Today was one of those “mountain of bad poetry” days, but I finally found what I was looking for.  It’s a short poem called Someone Else’s Things by Ann Alexander, and it appears at Magma Poetry Online.  Take a moment to click through and read it.

Hate Poems

You’ve heard of love poems, but what about hate poems?  Famouspoetsandpoems.com has a section devoted entirely to hate poems.  Here’s one by Robert William Service; it’s called Hate:

“I had a bitter enemy,
His heart to hate he gave,
And when I died he swore that he
Would dance upon my grave;
That he would leap and laugh because
A livid corpse was I,
And that’s the reason why I was
In no great haste to die.

And then – such is the quirk of fate,
One day with joy I read,
Despite his vitalizing hate
My enemy was dead.
Maybe the poison in his heart
Had helped to haste his doom:
He was not spared till I depart
To spit upon my tomb.

The other day I chanced to go
To where he lies alone.
‘Tis easy to forgive a foe
When he is dead and gone. . . .
Poor devil! Now his day is done,
(Though bright it was and brave,)
Yet I am happy there is none
To dance upon my grave.”