This poem is definitely imaginative and descriptive. All I can picture while reading this is myself being on a picnic by the park and the sun is shining down on me so bright! And all the sun flowers are out and blooming! Poetry definitely is like painting. There is so many different strokes when it comes to painting and just like poetry, there are so many ways to write poems!
Hey Somiah, your August poem really got me. Couldn't get it out of my head, reminded me so much of my lake in Virginia in August. I wrote it over dinner. Here it is.
A Keatsian vibe here with Wordsworth’s philosophy of the aim of poetry. Nice job. As Romantic as it is Victorian.
The biggest compliments! Thank you :))
This poem is definitely imaginative and descriptive. All I can picture while reading this is myself being on a picnic by the park and the sun is shining down on me so bright! And all the sun flowers are out and blooming! Poetry definitely is like painting. There is so many different strokes when it comes to painting and just like poetry, there are so many ways to write poems!
Awww, thank you for reading, ate!
Hey Somiah, your August poem really got me. Couldn't get it out of my head, reminded me so much of my lake in Virginia in August. I wrote it over dinner. Here it is.
In August
There is something about August.
The mornings all begin
with fog on the water,
shrouding the banks
in a mystery
only a muskrat can break,
tumbling down the short slope
into the water.
By the time the sun
clears the treetops
the turtles have assembled,
stacked on the drainpipe.
The sunfish slowly appear
from below the dock,
lured by their namesake
high up above
where the clouds drift by,
slowly in July,
even slower in August.
If you are still enough,
the crayfish venture out
and surround their mound
with small balls of mud.
If you are still for long enough
you remember how loud
a bullfrog can be.
When he is joined, the chorus
sounds like an amphitheater
of cows coming in for evening milking.
Some of the milkweed pod shells
have an unlaunched seed
clinging in the tiny breeze,
the only kind in August.
Beneath the tall cedar
which sits in a notch
along the dam,
a large bass rests
waiting for sunset.
He may still have
a hook of mine.
I pull my sleeping bag up
as the bugs come out.
I can hear him hitting them.
It starts a tiny ripple
in the water and another
in my heart in August.
8/23
Oooo, it tickles me to know my words haunt you! I love your August poem! I’m so glad you uploaded it to your Substack page.
Don’t we all just love to haunt with words.
so full of sweetness ♡
Thank you for reading, Grace!
Man, I really dislike how the Substack mobile app messes up my line breaks.
I read just about everything poetry wise on my laptop for just that reason, I hate to misread stuff.
A bunch of yummy images meandering across the page capturing the heat, the stillness, the ripeness, the light. thanks
Thank you so much, Weston!
Thank you for reading! I tried to capture what you did with my senses in your last poem. I gotchu back!