Poetry is the most elegant linguistical expression of human emotion; and English is the most eloquent human language; so English Poetry, by definition, is the purest form of written beauty. To suggest that I could make any significant contribution to such a great cause, would require more audacity than even I can dare. Nonetheless, occaisonally my pen tries to fly above the clouds, and this is the result: my poetry.
Poet's Dream
The drear of life cannot comprehend,
The music of my heart.
Or any poet's - we must defend,
And keep that song! Impart
It to those as we may.
On The Occaision of Seeing Mrs. Clinton's Briography
A quantum legacy.
Don't look to close - you'll see
Things better left quite blind:
The measure of a devious mind.
Carping About the Seasons
Come quickly! Winter's night I'm waiting here
To see your whiteness outshine the pale moon,
Obscure the trees in thousand snowy flakes,
Or clean the ground of filthy mortal stains...
So begins a very soupy poem.
A fairy-land to some - but not to me:
Impersonal, remote, bleak, cold and hard,
Sunlight on pallid steel, to bright to watch.
There is far too much verse, too many men -
Some poets - inflict such seasonal trash.
Not me.
I hate winter once snow's aground -
Whiteness is a momentary vision,
Snow-plows, brown dirt, soon destroy all purity.
Snow-flakes may look nice - may always change,
But they build snow-drifts that look all the same;
And block the road, and break my back - for what?
Some poet's dream?
If Solomon Had a Sense of Humor
The clear beauty of reason
And wisdom: sublimest thoughts
Which, Solomon says, "My son,
Seek �til your body rots!"
To ---
�Your wisdom cannot touch my dampened soul;
In blindness it pursues its errant way.
Like shafts of light lost in some endless hole,
Which pierce the darkness but cannot fill it.'
Storm
Like Hell-bent demons' rage -
Epic on an Epic stage -
Or, perhaps, �twould be more,
The skirmish of some cosmic war:
Without the aegis of my home -
Collected in a mighty storm -
The howling winds do roam.O! Shrieks, and roars, and cries,
From the turmoil infected skies;
O! Wails, laments, and groans,
From the flooded hard-pressed stones:
And Heaven's wreaking havoc there -
Collected in a might storm -
All the hosts of Lucifer.
The Thing I Love Is Dead
�Tonight my muse has fled.
The thing I love has bled
To death under my touch.
As I lay on my couch:
Crying with bitterness,
Over the wilderness,
Of my heart � where has it lead?
The thing I love is dead.'
©Copyright, 2003, Robert Quiller