About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
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Green Peas at Stake #272497 added January 11, 2004 at 7:27am Restrictions: None
E-Mail Home
Not an easy reality
racing through damp narrow streets...
A childish heart,
worn-out legs,
an aged cramped mind,
rummaging around for musty dreams.
My search gnawing the grain
of a sorceress city,
with its history
mingled with mine,
once upon a time;
its grey river, now miserable
by rains unpredicted.
Angst digging in through,
the insane summer of 2002;
Europe fouled by floods,
increasing the deepening torment
of each footstep.
Summer 2002 from the Latin Quarter, Paris
The secret of re-birth,
nibbling on renewed sights,
hoping, loving, leaving, dreaming,
among morose monuments
dwarfed against the sky.
“E-mail home" says
an orange dome-shaped sign,
of a feisty cyber café,
at a corner cradled
in Latin Quarter.
To e-mail home,
one has to be away;
yet, here I’m home,
with my high-pitched song
of intoxicated wonder.
Inside Café de Cluny,
toasting with hope
to this chancy life
I am young,
again.
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"Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies."- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Joy
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© Copyright 2004 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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