|
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.
 
|
Edvard Munch: The Scream (1893) This painting maybe viewed at:
http://www.edvard-munch.com/gallery/anxiety/scream.htm
Blood-red sky and sinister colors,
clouds molten over a dark fjord and hill,
your existential fear and despair
draining the breath.
By intuition, you witnessed
the future horrors of a new century,
and your eyes kept burning as if to cry;
not knowing why, you darted forward
leaving behind the two with their naive view.
While the waves snickered at dizzy boats,
you saw into nothingness and observed
death in the trenches,
smelled cyanide gas and glimpsed
into hell aflame
in Auschwitz-Birkenau or Bergen-Belsen,
names not yet invented.
Trembling with terror and vertigo,
you held your ears to block out
moans and shrieks from an unknown void
and, leaning against the railing,
with psychic melancholy,
you let loose an infinite scream
at the foggy path in front of you,
until the instant stopped and time began again.
Then, for decades and decades,
leading inward and outward,
your scream overtook the world
and surpassed nature,
echoing in rage,
to point to a pointless fate
in rebellion.
|
© Copyright 2004 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
