Tuesday for dVerse Poetics, Mary prompted us to write in response to someone else’s poem – in agreement, disagreement, in similar vein, especially if it is a poet who has deeply influenced us. We also in the pub comments. talked about those poets. Great way to learn about people and also, discover different writers. Walt Whitman was an early influence and his writing is still an influence. I missed the prompt but submit here for Open Link. Whitman was the “Father” of free verse. Many people go towards Ginsberg but many times, I find his style too much of a rant. The simple form and verbiage of Whitman touches my heart and mind more. I am attempting to write this in the style of his elegant and soulful elegy, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”, parts 1 – 4. If you have not read, I hope you will and that you will read more of his poetry – love, sexuality, patriotism, nature, nobility of spirit…here is a link to Poetry Foundation where you will find this and other Whitman poems: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/ Here is a link to Mary’s Poetics: http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/19/poetics-writing-a-poem-in-response/ Come visit us at dVerse for a great variety of poems from all around the world http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/21/open-link-night-164/
Redbuds in the Spring
”The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.” Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Leaves of Grass, preface (1855).
In March, the redbuds bloom.
Among the spring bare trees and in spring green pastures
like gaudy sunset clouds captured in the delicate branches.
Young heart shaped leaves flutter in the breeze,
softly breathing in the pink shadows.
What once I watched with joy at early spring
now I weep and will always weep
for the pain of the loss of him I loved,
now sleeping in a country yard.
And now in April the redbuds
Have wept their blooms onto the ground
And heart leaves are still.
I stand beside the simple white stone
and brush away the fallen faded blooms.
From the new spring forest comes the wistful
song of cardinals – the sweet call and silence.
From another tree, a response and silence.
and silence and one last response fades away.
The choir, sad and respectful in this quiet country place.
I stroke the green leaves and with my finger
trace a name upon the leaves.
Papa, and Papa, and yet again, Papa.