Angel robots

When wrapped in endless haze,

I wonder all a daze.  

Around me everyone seems to say,

I’ve always been this way.  

I don’t know if I can or may,

always feeling rather fey.  

Lost in a sighing neigh,

I wander every day.

—————————————-

So someone on twitter described poetry as what you write when you can’t sing.  The insinuation being you would write lyrics if you could.

I really like that description.  For me the poetry you see here is a way of singing to myself when I’m down or happy etc.  A resonance with my soul.  I write it and feel happier.  It’s nice.

Another good use for poetry is to clear my mind of garbage so I can then create what I want.  The poem above was exactly this.  A quick blurb just to start me writing.

From there I came up with an image from one of my characters, who you will meet in part on Wednesday and built a scene from there.

—————————————-

A robot with broken wings

Looking for so many things

Lost in a world of dreams

Tries to stand but only screams

—————————————-

I started with this.  And I like it a lot, but as I was writing the rest of the poem I wanted to make an allusion to it falling.  And felt the angel had more of an echo with the falling imagery.

As I write my poems they affect my moods.  And often I have to change from overly sad ones because of this.  Because otherwise the poem will drive my mood down so low that even if I –love- how it sounds I’ll be sad the rest of the day.

This happened to me about verse four of the following poem.

—————————————-

An angel with broken wings

Looking for so many things

Lost in a world of sliding dreams

Tries to stand but only screams

 

Trapped on this frozen ground

Broken heart, tears, no sound

Wishing for a heart not found

Hope is gone, tears abound.

 

Hands raised to supplicate

Only meet scowls of hate

Comments about how it’s fate

That she should fall this late

 

Why an angel stuck in the trash,

Should deserve hatreds lash,

To kick, to bite, to beat, to bash,

As if she was a bug to mash.

 

None will this truth admit,

That we is rarely kind to it,

The soul who just once does slip,

And falls beyond grace’s mit.

 

We spurn, we shove, we flee, and chide.

We never hug, comfort or revive.

Even though all hearts alive,

May someday slip down fate’s cruel slide.

 

—————————————-

Once I thought about how sad the poem was getting I wanted to turn it around.  But I didn’t want this story to be some kind of redemption story for the angel.  Or to show kindness.  It needed to be a sad poem.

So in order to fix my mood, but keep the sad, the poem became a fable.  To show light on an ever more visible, (to me), trend where we mob people who make mistakes and revile them.  I don’t think this is a new trend but it’s been something I think about more recently.

I’m not a huge fan of poems that overtly preach and because of this I don’t like this poem quite as much as others, the mummy, or the meeting.  But it still pleases because I’m pleased with the images and with the rhyme level.

Anyways, Mondays are supposed to be poetry days from now on according to Herself but I wanted to explain my approach to writing like she does her drawing.  At least once anyways.  Next Monday probably not.