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GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Time


           Time is hard to comprehend
           (as is anything without end)
           but seeing this rusted old cookie can
           I wonder how many grubby little fingers
           that once snatched chocolate chips
           and fresh pecans now hang on the brown,
           paper-skinned hands of old men.

           This small wooden horse now bare
           of even paint anymore, whose happy young
           rider died of old age forty years ago,
           made me realize that my own mother’s
           cookie cans, my grandmother’s rocking chair,
           even my own once precious toys,
           might be on shelves for sale somewhere.

           I realized that time is hard to comprehend.
           (as is anything with an end)






Last edited by GaryBFitzgerald, Feb/21/2009, 1:43 am
Feb/17/2009, 10:49 pm Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: How to read a poem


So, Gary, I cannot say that Arnold, Browning (Robert and not Elizabeth), Tennyson, Pope, or Dryden ever actually succeeded to the point of opening my eyes. Is the fault mine?

Tere
Feb/19/2009, 8:40 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Re: How to read a poem


So, Tere, I cannot say that I ever actually succeeded to the point of understanding your point. emoticon

At any rate, my post above was not intended to be a poem. It just came out weird. I was responding (obliquely) to another post and only wanted to make the point that a good poem should be read out loud.

I plan to replace the post above with a new poem tonight anyway provided I get drunk enough to do it but not too drunk to forget to. emoticon

GBF
Feb/20/2009, 10:43 pm Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: How to read a poem


Promises, promises.

Tere
Feb/20/2009, 11:46 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Re: Time


As promised.
Feb/21/2009, 1:44 am Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Time


Layered thinking succinctly expressed is what comes through, Gary. Here is a memory your poem brings to mind.

Once when I was taveling I didn't have a home and I didn't have a steady job. I was staying with a relative for a few weeks who was a retirement home director. To help me earn some money she paid me to paint walls in the home. I painted a lot of hall walls and a large, communal room where residents gathered to chat and watch television. For some reason I had to work at night. Maybe because, then, there would have been less activity. I remember this one resident's room where an old woman was bed ridden. I never entered the room. But from the doorway I could see this woman on her bed. I don't remember ever seeing her move. On her door was pinned a photograph. It was of a young woman, a girl really. She was sitting in a straight-back chair. And she held upright in her lap a violin. The girl had long brown hair coiffed in a way that might have been the style in the thirties or forties. The picture had a caption written across its bottom-half. It read, "Love, Elizabeth."

I think maybe I fell a little in love with Elizabeth, even as she had become bed ridden.

Tere
Feb/21/2009, 3:02 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Re: Time


Thank you, Tere, and God bless you! There is nothing more gratifying to a poet than knowing that they have sparked a thought, a feeling or a memory in a "Gifted Reader".

So, on the same subject, I wrote this poem about two years ago:



           My Book



Yes, I’d hoped that all those thoughts,
all those words and rhymes would reach
or touch or even teach someone someday,
and though not bringing fame or wealth,
at least some appreciation or maybe pride
in knowing that I made somebody think
or smile or even feel on that one day.
But nobody noticed at all.

A leaf fell in the forest and no one noticed.
It was just one in a million.



.
Copyright 2007 - Tall Grass & High Waves, Gary B. Fitzgerald



Last edited by GaryBFitzgerald, Feb/25/2009, 10:26 pm
Feb/22/2009, 1:16 am Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Time


Gary, I confess I find it difficult to follow the thread. If now I respond to the most recent poem posted, the way I did to the first poem now replaced by another, will the poem too be replaced by another, rendering the exchange nonsensical?

Something to think about.

Tere
Feb/25/2009, 5:42 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Re: Time


Sorry.

You handled it pretty well, though.
Feb/25/2009, 10:27 pm Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Time


You are your own man, Gary. That is for sure. I'll try to keep up.

Tere
Feb/25/2009, 11:16 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Time


GBF,

I couldn't really follow the flow of the dialogue between yourself and Mr. Terreson, but it was interesting. Kind of like finding a flyer about some famous band or circus troupe that had played or performed in town two months ago. Well, the poem itself (meant or not meant to be a poem? You said something about the subject in your comments), it reads well and actually says something concrete. The post modernists in one of the other sites would condemn it for being time-worn and cliched. You need not worry. Everything is time-worn, in a way, and if it resonates, that's what matters to me. It seemed mundane early on but it gathered force and was successful in the end IMHO. Zak

quote:

GaryBFitzgerald wrote:

           Time is hard to comprehend
           (as is anything without end)
           but seeing this rusted old cookie can
           I wonder how many grubby little fingers
           that once snatched chocolate chips
           and fresh pecans now hang on the brown,
           paper-skinned hands of old men.

           This small wooden horse now bare
           of even paint anymore, whose happy young
           rider died of old age forty years ago,
           made me realize that my own mother’s
           cookie cans, my grandmother’s rocking chair,
           even my own once precious toys,
           might be on shelves for sale somewhere.

           I realized that time is hard to comprehend.
           (as is anything with an end)







Feb/28/2009, 10:19 am Link to this post Send Email to Zakzzz5   Send PM to Zakzzz5
 
GaryBFitzgerald Profile
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Re: Time



"The post modernists in one of the other sites would condemn it for being time-worn and cliched. You need not worry. Everything is time-worn, in a way,..."
 - Zakzzz5


           For You Not Yet


 As I write, right now, your mother
 is the size of a pea.
 She will grow and be born
 and not hear of me.
 You at this time
 do not even exist and only
 by luck and grace will you be
 if your mother survives
 and gets married.
 But I write not for your mother
 or even right now.
 Now knows nothing of me.
 Now knows not what I do.
 I write for tomorrow, for they
 not yet here.
 I have written for you.


Copyright 2008 - HARDWOOD-77 Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald
Mar/1/2009, 9:45 pm Link to this post Send Email to GaryBFitzgerald   Send PM to GaryBFitzgerald
 


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