A Preface to the Poems

In any case, besides occasional attempts to write original poems, I have tried to memorize some classics. As of the most recent update, "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley is here, and "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe is coming. In addition, I recently committed (mostly!) to memory "He Wished For the Cloths of Heaven", William Butler Yeats. My hope for my own compositions is to move beyond doggerel towards the heights of art reached by poems such as these.

I may fail, but that is for you to judge. I thank you for the time you spend reading these. Enjoy.

Note: All poetry on this page is copyright Robin Zimmermann, so please don't steal. If you want to use some of it, or if you want to comment or ask questions, you can email me - robin at umd dot com - or (if it's among the most recent ones) post on my Livejournal. Thanks!

Latest Poems

What is Poetry?
October 12, 2005
What is poetry? What is it? Is it words in lines the author chooses? What makes poetry? What makes it? What makes prose not poetry? Ancient poems in verse were written Rhyme and meter being sound and rhythm Modern Muses cast off scansion Writing, lacking meter, modern poems. Is just imagery sufficient? What do poets want to make in writing? Is mere metaphor unfinished When it lacks the form of ancient writing? What is poetry? What is it? How am I my poetry to write?
Odyssey
June 30, 2005
On the line between truth and delusion I stand With a mission to find that which nobody can: What is right, what is wrong, what is good, what is bad, What is virtue or honor; and whether I'm mad. On the line between truth and delusion I walk Every step is a risk; if I err, I may fall. But to flee from the edge? I would leave myself blind: There is nothing so crucial as the truths I must find. On the line between truth and delusion I sway As the winds of confusion don't drive me astray But they try; I am strong, I don't shift in my place, But they try; my eyes tear as they savage my face. On the line between truth and delusion I crawl What I know I don't know; I know nothing at all. What is bad, what is good, what is wrong, what is right... I still search for the answer; for truth I still fight.
Flashlight Music
June 1, 2005
'Tis dark and silent ere the songs begin; 'Tis dark, 'tis night, so dark no shadows fall, But in the silence preparations end And music stirs to life and starts to call. The concert opens with a single note, A gleam of light, a circle on the ground, But then arises shining out to coat The world with light and life, to make a sound. A wondrous sound it is that this light makes! It sets to ringing every frozen limb With echoes of the solid light they break And traceries of white around their rims. The symphonies of light I love to see I see in ice and light upon a tree. Inspired by Flashlight Music essay in ZhurnalWiki.
On a Blackboard
May 11, 2005
Entering an empty classroom Turning on the lights, I notice White designs in chalk adorning Planes of green, scholastic blackboards. No-one's here, and no-one tells me What they mean, the pictures drawn here, What they mean, the words inscribed here, No-one knows, and no-one tells me. Strange, it is, the lack of meaning, Lack of purpose, lack of value, Strange, that all these words and symbols Lack their truth without their writer. Are all words so empty, worthless When they are without their speakers? When I write, is there no meaning Other than for me, the writer? As I read the absent teaching Of a class I've never taken, Only images and contours Touch my mind to leave their traces. Soon, my teacher comes, and students, They'll erase the words and figures. When they do, I'll feel the absence Of a dozen words and figures. I'll remember not their meaning But their presence and their seeming.
For Mother's Day
May 7, 2005
One day, a seed was planted in a pot, And many days it spent there as it grew. One day, the plant was moved into a plot And given space to start its growth anew. The gardener put her years into the plant To help it grow unhurt and blossom bright. She watered it and kept away the ants That threatened it with illness, damage, bight. And when the plant awoke with thoughts and words She educated it in worthy things. She gave it books, those wondrous verbal herds Of life and wisdom, tales and songs to sing. And yet, the plant's uncertain what to do Or how to tell its gardener "I love you."
The Rail
May 5, 2005
Today is sunny, dry, and warm. I sit outside on every day, But every day is better warm, And better dry, and best, today. I'm sitting still; I always do. I never travel through the world. Instead, I wait for those who do And help them travel through my world. And as I sit, my neighbors stir, And wake me with their eager sounds. I hear them, and I know what stirs, They are the coming traveler sounds. I'm sitting, firmly anchored down Upon my bench of wooden ties. I'm almost still, still sitting down, And still I'm waiting on my ties. And then it comes, it runs across My sturdy back, my steely spine! I bear it gladly, help it cross The ground I'm bridging with my spine! And then it goes, it runs away, And leaves me sitting still, behind. The notes it sounded drift away, As does the heat it left behind. And as it does, I sit and shine For those who traveled on my line.
Creation
April 3, 2005
A sheet of paper, White, untouched by thought and mind: Possibility. A palette's colors; Paint, just waiting for a brush: Possibility. A noble artist Soul, that makes imagined worlds: Possibility. A painting, dreaming, Glimpse, display of newly formed Possibility.
Cooking
March 27-28, 2005
A pot of water meets the stove And gathers heat from burner's flame. The water stirs, its rest disturbed, And starts to quiver, shakes its mane, But soon it settles, for its heat, Its energy, is drawn away By cold intruders to the pot, By food uncooked that enters, stays. Despite this, soon the heat rebuilds As food and water both grow hot. When food and water shake again, The flame is cut beneath the pot. The water then sits quietly Until the cooking is complete. The food is done, and taken off The stove and flame, its source of heat. The meeting of the pot and stove Can now conclude, and both can go.
Being Ill
March 22, 2005
I cough, and cough again, and cough twice more. I try to stop, and fail. I drink more tea, And yet, I cough still more. My throat? Still sore, And worse, the coughs still come to torment me. I sit and read, and hope distraction cures. I sit and read, I sit and cough and read, And curse the rebel cough which still endures And curse again; the coughing takes no heed. I cough twice more, and moan of wretched luck; I cough again, and wish my cough would die And let me be. Instead, the cold has stuck, And neither tea nor pluck will make it fly. I have to wait it out, like storms at sea, And let the waves subside and set me free.
The Leaves
March 18-20, 2005
The leaves are shredded, stuffed in porous bags Like fine black powder, pencil-shaving fine. The bags are shut, are sewn together shut, Then tinned and sold. Now tin and bags are mine. The tin of shredded leaves adorns my desk. Inside, the bags a columned form, a stack. The column shrinks, and shortens, drops, declines As bags are stripped, are stolen from their pack. The bag of leaves is sitting in a cup Awaiting death by drowning, death by heat, Awaiting scalding water. Soon it comes, And boiling burns a brown from leaves' defeat. So take a bag of leaves from here, from me, And put it in your cup, and make your tea.
Meeting a Cat
March 9-13, 2005
I was reading when you saw me Sitting with my book alone. Maybe you were bored, and therefore Curious about your guest. So you wandered over, saw me Sitting with an empty lap. Did you find that lap inviting? Worth the walk across the room? Did you? Still, I found it shocking, Sitting with my open lap, When I felt a pawprint on me, When you stepped on me, your guest. Fool I was, I missed your meaning; Sitting, not to make a lap, But to read alone in comfort, Reading, sitting in your room. Though I knew you wanted something, Sitting there, I knew not what. Still, I didn't want to snub you, Not when I was just your guest. Petting you was my reaction. Sitting near you, petting you. Soon you bored of simple petting, Soon you left and crossed the room. Left alone, I soon returned to Sitting with my book again. You were gone and soon forgotten By your quiet reading guest.
A Letter
March 5-9, 2005
I write a letter to myself and send it out to everyone I tell myself, "Please write again, I love these letters you have done." But writing further isn't fun unless I top these things I've done. And so I slip away, I stall, I lock the door at Fortune's call And when my Muse begins to speak, I snub her, let her offers fall My fear of failure forms a wall; I know no way to make it fall. But fall it does. It could not stay. My thoughts are striving for the day And when a wall is in their way, they tunnel out through the clay And soon their tunnels undermine my fear to sculpt my words like clay. I write a letter to myself, another letter; I reply "I got your letter, self," I say. "And when I write again, I'll try To have the courage not to fly from words I fear and love: to try."
Rules of Poetry
January 3-4, 2005
This afternoon, I tried to write, And found it difficult to do. The words I wrote were rubbish, trite; I threw them out, began anew. "The words I write must all be true." That arrogance still held me back. This afternoon, I sat and thought; "What subject should I write about?" But every concept came to naught. The ones I tried, I soon threw out. "My topic must be grand." No doubt! Therefore, I sent my topics back. This afternoon, I said, "No more! I cannot write." But yet, I wrote. The certain failure of before, The block, the obstacle, I smote. "I write by simply taking note Of anything." My muse was back.
Dawn
December 20-24, 2004
The sun is rising slowly, bringing light, But twilight's dim is all that's here, so far. That's all I need so far, enough for sight. And so I write as brightness drowns the stars. The last has drowned; at last, the sun appears And shows a crazy filigree of brown. Because of winter, green has fled; it fears The frozen night, and cannot stay around. But night is over now, I look to see The sunlight soak away the frigid dark And leave the cold diminished in its lee. Though cold remains, the light has made a mark. So I shall make a mark as well - I'll write Of winter cold and darkness turning bright.
Online We Met
December 4-5, 2004
I met you recently - a month or two ago - And spoke with you. I wasn't scared. I wasn't there. Mere words on screens it was, so I was fearless. Brave. You couldn't touch me anyway, and so I spoke. And you replied to me. It seemed you liked my words. I spoke again. I stuck around. We both conversed, And verse is what it was. Not rhymed or metered; still, The back-and-forth discussion was like poetry. At times, the tempo slowed - andante, largo, slow - But soon would speed to allegretto, presto, fast. The metronome was broken, rhythm mattered not, Mere words on screens were everything, and so we spoke. To think that I don't know you ... it's a lie, I do. I've seen your visage*, read your mind - your words are here, And in your words is you. You have a rhythm, rhyme - It's like a poetry within you - like a name. I cannot call you by your name, if that's a name, It's not a word. It's not a name, it's something else. Your name is what I call it, you - but it is wrong. You're not a name, you're it, you're words, the words you spoke. And that is how I met you, several weeks ago: I met your words. That's why I gave you mine, in turn, And why I gave you me. * A reference to one of Desdemona's speeches in Shakespeare's Othello.
Fall
December 3, 2004
I sat outside one afternoon, Between my lunchtime and my class, Instead of going in, I paused And looked around. The grass was green. (It always is.) And there were flowers, still in bloom. The sun was bright above the trees And on the ground. After a week, that afternoon, Between the lunch and class again, I came once more; I sat outside, And looked around. The grass was green, but under leaves. The trees had dropped their coats, it seemed, And leaves were puddles at their feet, Across the ground. I came again, to sit outside, Between another lunch and class, Another week had passed since last I looked around. I saw that someone had been past They'd stacked the leaves in tall, broad heaps, To cart away - thus, no more leaves Upon the ground. The grass was still the same, was green, Between the lunch and class I'd checked, And flowers, still, were bright, in bloom, And all around.
Reflection
December 1, 2004
Colored light on ground Once was white, in air and space, But white is boring. Color comes only when The white has met the color And brought it ... color. Only then, color, The paints of life and nature, Can be seen at all.
Helix
November 11-12, 2004
I was walking up the stairs; I turned to see the flight above: I'd never turned and seen before I saw the stairs, above. The stairs had turned, a flight above. The stairs had always turned, I never saw the stairs before I turned. They were stairs, they turned. All stairs turn. A turn with every flight! I stared as turns flew up the stairs above. The turns made flights of stairs for me to turn and follow up. Above each turn came stairs and turns. Above me, stairs and turns had come. Above a world of turning stairs, Above the stairs, a turning world. I still walked the stairs and turned. I found a stair with no more turns - I'd reached my floor. I walked away. I wish I'd turned before.

Past Efforts

We reflect upon ourselves reflected
Paths reform when we turn around.
Things remake themselves from other angles;
Turn them upside-down, new things are found.
Light a candle in a darkened hallway:
You'll find yourself in a novel room.
Build it from the end to the beginning,
What was planned will plan itself anew.
Empty something out to fill again,
That container has a fresher spin.
Thoughts, when shown to other persons' minds,
Form themselves as many different kinds.

It is a rainy day, but bright outside,
as if the rain were nothing but a cloud.
On days like this, it isn't hard to think
that light is all that falls upon the ground.
But all you see is damp from hidden rain,
though it may be brightened by the sun.
Inside, the wet can give no cause for sadness,
Out there, the sun can give no cause for joy.