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Letter to John Donne and Other Poetic Letters [With Pen in Hand Book 1] [MultiFormat]
eBook by Joel L. Young

eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: The following is the first in a series of four books featuring a wide variety of poetic styles, from verse to fables to old-fashioned epics.

eBook Publisher: SynergEbooks, Published: SynergEbooks, 2001
Fictionwise Release Date: September 2004


33 Reader Ratings:
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To John Donne

They say you are a man to value. Generations have spoken praise of you. I write to you in kind greeting for you have written a poet's pen sings with momentous voice. Death has pride, John! in the coal pitch blackness, Death has pride, sir. When you said, "No man is an island," you were right. We need human contact. The touch called love that blooms a soul like a rose. I envied your life as you lived it. The plague must have ripped at the darkness and ignorance of your countrymen to shreds. My sympathy endures. I know why you think death Has no pride: The soul cries, shrieks from losing its identity. The world it once knew, falling under foot, spirit collapsing, imploding from madness within. The heart's crumbling vessels bleeding life's essence that makes a man or woman whole. The horror, sorrow, and pity a heart incurs. It is a vast impurity that takes a mind To restless, bitter sanity. But how do you deal with the loss? You don't. It's an impossible task left to wiser men whose hearts are wiser still. How can the mad be gentle and still the countenance, of his woe? Agape the sun and moon- twist them until the dawn is black and the dusk is white as day. It is what I feel when I lose a loved one I must say John I wish it no more. I bid you good morrow, and fond farewell. I end an apprentice to your name, and all you believe in. May God watch over your countrymen and let no pestilence, arise again. Perhaps death has pride after all, let him catch a star, take his mad cows with him, and let humanity be.

With Pen In Hand

I promised myself I wouldn't write No words I put down will ever be Literature or give voice where Mere words could not offer profundity, To the activist's mentality Dwelling within my hands Whose words is my very soul. Surely within this poetic essay To converse with reason My contempt for my own humanity I would like to take this time To tender my resignation from The human race. Knowing the renderings this lyricon sings Where my brothers and sisters Have gone before me- Baldwin, Hughes, Parks, Poe, Miller Sweet Emily, Keats, Donne Whose praise I would sing anytime Jonson, Blake or a million authors I consider my contemporaries Someday I hope they acknowledge Me too. Perhaps when the rains have stopped The butterflies & moths Will harmonize on the cocoon tree of life Discuss their differences with rational action As my brothers of the Human race have done Or hopefully will do. I will be there to tell their Story perhaps worthy of Praise if not as an historian, On the cosmic imagination That defines us all I would have done my forefathers, Service with satisfaction My future ancestors can judge me then. The Man Who Refused Destiny I knew a man who refused destiny shined shoes on a south town street corner people drove by in their shiny cars yelling derogatory comments the man remained stoic and ignored them. At night, he slept restless his eyes carried sandbags of regret and lost years biding pipe dreams on white paper. Dusting off his golden pen wrote poetry for the gods in his sleepless waning hours lyrics poured from his heart sweet, beautiful tender as grapes his tears a fermented wine distilled from a passion far beyond comprehension from his lonely crying soul. He wandered the city sometimes drifting like Homer in the mornings. Through bullet rainstorms, riots fires that burned from the tenements of people downtrodden and beaten The sick, stricken, hungry men, women and children looking for a friendly hand to lift them from their squalor they passed him by presuming he was one of them. He wrote of them in the still of his nights writing them prayers, poems, and songs worthy of blessings from the angels quietly mourning their crumbling lives and condemning the hypocrisies that made them so. Then prophesizing the day things changed. His anger was like gasoline Pouring on the pages he wrote. His fire leaped from his golden pen paper bombs exploded from his imagination unleashing a storm upon his misbegotten city inscribing declarations a historian would praise from a book of history in some future tense. Still, no one knew him or what he felt except for a few. The slam poets heard of him some artisans heard of him too. He seemed more a legend than a man still he shined shoes, biding his time among the populace of trusting and untrusting souls. He would speak when the time was right and all would know the man with the golden pen. Wildcatting in Poet's Field I sense the wellspring of the poet's madness shaking ground, rumbling in gushers emotion and passion spewing raining words in a torrential downpour. I can't take the pain anymore I am poet here my cry- roaring in the darkness to give light where only blackness dwells. I sense the danger of it all they'll be dry wells too. The bleak, parched white dust soaking into my lungs. I'll cry for a verbal glass of water but no words will come. They'll be times I'll hit again maybe only a barrel or two to quench the days and live on a nickel's worth of peace and embrace the reckoning like a loving cup I'll be satisfied and fulfilled. They'll be other poets who will come will wildcat, and work their souls to skeletal remains bargaining their hearts for a few pipes and steel to build derricks on shaky grounds fight against hard weather and cold dark winds. They'll ask me for advice and what I went through you never lose the feeling. A poet man is another kind of being always drilling, always dwelling, never satisfied. A muse working on a late night shift hauling freight pumping out venacularities in a pipeline looking for a little comfort come breakfast-eating time. Morning is just another word for a cold rhyme with coffee on the side.


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