Thursday, December 20, 2018
2 POEMS TO, ABOUT ERATO, MUSE OF POETRY
By Donovan Baldwin
Her name, Erato,
Said to mean,
"Desired",
"Lovely",
Muse of poets,
Those followers of desire,
Makers of lovely things
Woven from words,
Fashioned from the longings
Of hearts drunk on the sweet
Deceptive wine,
Of the Muse,
Erato.
-------
Where do lost poems go,
The ones arrived too early,
Or too late, or when the Muse
Has ceased her chant, and
Recanting of her desire to
Share her words with this
Mad poet,
Withdraws, veil upon her face,
Leaving him with but memory,
Of the most beautiful poem...
Never written?
Said to mean,
"Desired",
"Lovely",
Muse of poets,
Those followers of desire,
Makers of lovely things
Woven from words,
Fashioned from the longings
Of hearts drunk on the sweet
Deceptive wine,
Of the Muse,
Erato.
-------
Where do lost poems go,
The ones arrived too early,
Or too late, or when the Muse
Has ceased her chant, and
Recanting of her desire to
Share her words with this
Mad poet,
Withdraws, veil upon her face,
Leaving him with but memory,
Of the most beautiful poem...
Never written?
Labels: donovan baldwin, Erato, muse, poem, poetry, wine
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
The Parked Poet - Our Shared Sunrise
Saturday, December 08, 2018
Short Love Poems 1
By Donovan Baldwin
I watch her,
As she crosses the room,
Rhythm of her hips,
A dance,
Breasts swaying freely,
Art in motion,
Her smile,
Watching me watch,
An invitation,
Her arms,
Safe harbor
Of her heart.
We come together,
Joined
Body and soul.
------
We all have our madnesses.
Mine are love, beauty, words, you...
Not sure what order.
Sometimes they all seem to be the same thing.
------
You are everything to me.
I can write and write and write about,
Draw, paint, paint, mold, sculpt, sing,
And point out beauty, but,
I care, I see, hear, feel,
Live each day in beauty,
Because of you.
------
The poet fool,
Troubadour of
Lovers everywhere,
Spills forth
His tales,
Rewarded,
With boos
And bitterness.
Poet by birth,
Fool by choice,
Lover by the gods.
Condemned by life,
To continuously
Play all parts,
Poet,
Troubadour,
Lover,
Fool,
Until death
As the gods laugh.
------
"I love you."
Echoes through me.
My words don't just come out
And GO somewhere.
They surround me,
Echo in mind and heart, and,
When you say them back,
It's a love song,
No one could ever write...
A love song that can only exist,
Never to be sung, only lived...
Forever, always.
I watch her,
As she crosses the room,
Rhythm of her hips,
A dance,
Breasts swaying freely,
Art in motion,
Her smile,
Watching me watch,
An invitation,
Her arms,
Safe harbor
Of her heart.
We come together,
Joined
Body and soul.
------
We all have our madnesses.
Mine are love, beauty, words, you...
Not sure what order.
Sometimes they all seem to be the same thing.
------
You are everything to me.
I can write and write and write about,
Draw, paint, paint, mold, sculpt, sing,
And point out beauty, but,
I care, I see, hear, feel,
Live each day in beauty,
Because of you.
------
The poet fool,
Troubadour of
Lovers everywhere,
Spills forth
His tales,
Rewarded,
With boos
And bitterness.
Poet by birth,
Fool by choice,
Lover by the gods.
Condemned by life,
To continuously
Play all parts,
Poet,
Troubadour,
Lover,
Fool,
Until death
As the gods laugh.
------
"I love you."
Echoes through me.
My words don't just come out
And GO somewhere.
They surround me,
Echo in mind and heart, and,
When you say them back,
It's a love song,
No one could ever write...
A love song that can only exist,
Never to be sung, only lived...
Forever, always.
Labels: donovan baldwin, I love you, love, love poems, poem, poems, poetry
Wednesday, December 05, 2018
POEM: ONE NIGHT THE MOON...
By Donovan Baldwin
One night the moon shone down on me,
As I sat upon the sand at water's edge.
She asked politely, for the Moon is a lady,
"Why do you sit here on this shore alone?"
I replied, "I love someone so very far away."
"Then tell her this," the Moon said, gently.
I shook my head, as a dark cloud crossed
The sky, and the face, of the caring Moon.
"This I cannot do," said I, head bowed.
"Duty binds me here, too far away."
A chill wind blew across dark water,
And, I shivered, both with cold and loss.
Warm Moon spoke, "My light will speak for you.
I will shine down outside her home each night,
With poems and messages of love you send,
So, she, seeing me, will think of you."
I asked, "How will she ever know, that,
Your silver beams are messages of love,
Sent by this humble poet?" I asked in doubt.
Moon smiled brightly at my lack of faith.
"She will know," sweet Moon replied,
"She already knows my beams are love.
Until now, she did not know from whom."
One night the Moon, said this to me.
Copyright 2017 by Donovan Baldwin
One night the moon shone down on me,
As I sat upon the sand at water's edge.
She asked politely, for the Moon is a lady,
"Why do you sit here on this shore alone?"
I replied, "I love someone so very far away."
"Then tell her this," the Moon said, gently.
I shook my head, as a dark cloud crossed
The sky, and the face, of the caring Moon.
"This I cannot do," said I, head bowed.
"Duty binds me here, too far away."
A chill wind blew across dark water,
And, I shivered, both with cold and loss.
Warm Moon spoke, "My light will speak for you.
I will shine down outside her home each night,
With poems and messages of love you send,
So, she, seeing me, will think of you."
I asked, "How will she ever know, that,
Your silver beams are messages of love,
Sent by this humble poet?" I asked in doubt.
Moon smiled brightly at my lack of faith.
"She will know," sweet Moon replied,
"She already knows my beams are love.
Until now, she did not know from whom."
One night the Moon, said this to me.
Copyright 2017 by Donovan Baldwin
Labels: cloud, donovan baldwin, far away, lovers, moon, one night, poem, poet, poetry, sad poem
Sunday, December 02, 2018
WHY DO I WRITE?
By Donovan Baldwin
Why do I write?
Why does anyone write?
They have, they believe, something to say.
Right?
Well, for a "non-writer", that may be sufficient, but, the word "writer" is a slippery devil. It, of course, can be used to define anyone who takes up pen (or keyboard) and... well... writes.
Something!
Anything!
I have written standard operating procedures which were published and distributed to several sections of a military facility... made the "law of the land", if you will. Still, that, to ME did NOT feel like "writing".
Now, when I write poems, or even small screeds such as this one, I am, to my mind, a writer. In this writing, I am turning loose what a lady named Subi Nanthivarman so delightfully refers to as her "Writing Genie", or, apparently, "WG" to friends and coworkers.
Wonderful concept for me.
That weird little thing in my brain (in my case a Leprechaun-like creature), that has things to say and insists on sharing them with its human host in this symbiotic relationship. I don't control it, nor it me, yet, when it asks for pen or keyboard, I must comply.
For me, THAT is when I, with the aid of my faithful side-kicker, become a writer.
Why do I write?
Because as an obedient servant to the creature within, I must obey its demands or suffer the consequences.
Why do I write?
Why does anyone write?
They have, they believe, something to say.
Right?
Well, for a "non-writer", that may be sufficient, but, the word "writer" is a slippery devil. It, of course, can be used to define anyone who takes up pen (or keyboard) and... well... writes.
Something!
Anything!
I have written standard operating procedures which were published and distributed to several sections of a military facility... made the "law of the land", if you will. Still, that, to ME did NOT feel like "writing".
Now, when I write poems, or even small screeds such as this one, I am, to my mind, a writer. In this writing, I am turning loose what a lady named Subi Nanthivarman so delightfully refers to as her "Writing Genie", or, apparently, "WG" to friends and coworkers.
Wonderful concept for me.
That weird little thing in my brain (in my case a Leprechaun-like creature), that has things to say and insists on sharing them with its human host in this symbiotic relationship. I don't control it, nor it me, yet, when it asks for pen or keyboard, I must comply.
For me, THAT is when I, with the aid of my faithful side-kicker, become a writer.
Why do I write?
Because as an obedient servant to the creature within, I must obey its demands or suffer the consequences.
Labels: donovan baldwin, poem, Subi Nanthivarman, writer, writing
