Tonight

Robert Frost is my favorite poet. It’s not so much as in what he says (which I still think is amazing), but it’s how he writes his poems that makes me like them so much. I really don’t read a ton of poetry, but I think Frost does an amazing job of getting a lot of meaning simply out of the structure of a poem, while still sticking to mainly traditional forms. Obviously this one is just a sonnet, so it’s not a great example, but you can take my word for it.

It’s really late (studying accounting), it’s raining, and we have a clock tower. Por que no?

 

“Acquainted With the Night”

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain –and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

A Piece of Prewritten Content for the Starving Masses

Yeah, so I have no time to write anything. Perhaps after this week is over I’ll have some time for something. Maybe. Anywho, here’s the first poem I ever seriously wrote. It emerged during one bizarre stroke of inspiration at about midnight during senior year.

Now, I gotta hand it to a certain poet I know; that guy can crank out some dece work in about two minutes. Myself, on the far side of the spectrum, needs many many hours, days, weeks, to finish a poem, and I usually end up going back over it later to edit some things. That’s why this poem right hurr is rather special; I did it in about three and a half hours in one late night.

As time has gone on, this poem really hasn’t become one of my favorites, but here it is. It’s (supposed to be) a sonnet, although the meter is rather screwed up in some parts, and there are many pauses within it, so it doesn’t flow like it should. Maybe the fact that it doesn’t flow adds to it? I can’t really take credit for that much, but we’ll see:

 

Results must be collected in the cloud;
The seconds the train fissures by each time
Are sparks Parabola Himself allows,
So that before materials sublime
Experiments can be tasted and touched.
Mmm- perfect: Neutral, Bland, and Harmless taste,
The same hypothesis her dreams had gushed;
A flavor one simply permits with grace,
Like Panzers suffocating Vichy France,
Or viruses engendered to destroy 
The cell: invasion that vacuums romance
Until the Infant King disposed his toy.
But tests could not predict such a reply:
Parabola evaporates and dies.