So, here I am, racing another deadline, though I've had a pretty good idea of what I was going to write about for at least a few days. As long as I've admired the work of poets I have the privilege of knowing, I figured it was time to say something about how much their work, and the work of poets generally, means to so many of us who appreciate poetry and find it feeds our souls in a way we would be much the poorer without.
Please respond as you feel moved, and thanks for stopping by!
Kalliope
Means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice". In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
Join us every Tuesday afternoon at the Daily Kos community political poetry club.
Your own poetry is always welcome in the comments.
Bongos, berets & turtle neck sweaters optional.
The keyboard is mightier than the sword.
If You Knew—Maybe You Do
Had you been born in the time
Eleanor of Aquitaine and her daughter
Created the courts of love;
Laid the foundation for those customs
We know today as “chivalry,”
There might have been a way,
A signal, a scarf fluttered in such
A manner, as to convey
The trembling heart yearning
Toward you, born of your words,
Borne on your words,
Discerning, caressing, incising
To the bone-truth of things,
The heart of the matter,
So many matters, on so many levels
You speak with authority
Coming from courage and willingness
To plumb to the depths
Depths of experience, of sensuality,
Pain, pleasure, gain, loss--
All those matters of mind and heart
You so fearlessly face, even as
St. George faced his dragon.
Our dragons wear different faces
Today; the flames of finance,
The claws of greed, rending
Life out of those most helpless
Even unto our own mother earth.
How can we not love you
For the truth you speak,
For the way you see to the heart
Of us all, as we stumble
Thrash our way through
Floods of evil, tsunamis
Laden with our own blood.
Lead us, embrace us, father,
Brother, lover, friend, for
If you leave us to drown
Unable to find the air
Your insightful words provide,
How will we find our grace,
Pick ourselves up one more
Time; eke our way forward
Into the blood-red dawn
Of one more day? So long
As there is a dawn, and
You speak to us from
That greatheart you possess,
We can somehow grasp
That dolorous dawn, pull
Ourselves to trembling feet,
Gird our diaphanously clad
Selves to the line of battle,
One more time, and one
More time, and one more
Time again.
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