My poem for August 18 2022 Thursday The Maze Jill

[jill stockinger]

I reworked this a LOT.

I added having a sword, as I noticed I had previously given no reason

for hunting the monster and appear woefully unprepared without it.

Although I have no sword by the end, I feel it is clear I feel I can't give up.

There's nothing else to do. I just have to keep going.

Jill

The Maze                by Jill Stockinger

I enter eagerly,

having heard the fabled stories

of the great and terrible monster

inhabiting its center. I raise a sharp,

shining sword.

 

There are yellow and white

daisies and lovely lavender.

Blue-black berries grow ripe

on bushes forming maze walls.

I share this abundance with

the ravens whose iridescent feathers

sparkle green, purple, and blue

in the sunlight. Though unseen,

I hear delightful birdsong of robin,

thrush and finch; I continue,

following the twisting turns. Turning

one more time, around and around,

I feel lost. Am I closer to the center?

The sword feels heavier.

I keep switching arms to carry it.

I persevere.

 

I walk and walk.

Days turn into years of wandering,

so many dead ends, the retracing of steps,

so many rights and lefts.

I am very tired.

In pale clusters on the ground

are sour-tasting mushrooms to feed on.

The berries and birds are long gone.

There is a pervasive smell of leaf rot

and mold. I sip dew from sharp

pointed leaves and my body is

raked by thorns that press in

from all sides. There is no light,

only shadow. I hug myself,

and my eyes fill with tears.

My sword is rusted, broken

and no longer sharp. It is pointless 

to carry this useless weight. 

I drop it and where it lays,

I bury it. Cold and weary,

I press on.

 

Suddenly, the center.

No monster. There is no monster

lurking in the center of the maze

who thinks all humans

his rightful prey.

 

There is only 

the remains of a corpse

becoming one with mother earth,

and for no reason I can understand,

I am afraid.

  

[patti santucci]

Because I struggle with poetry, I am going to share what I got from this and hope I am seeing it correctly. This is a poem about life. We spend a lot of our lives being afraid of what we will find at every turn, sometimes and "us" against "them" mentality. We walk through life waiting for the other shoe to drop or for the "monster" that will disrupt and ruin our lives. We carry our "sword" ready to do battle against. The "sword" is our youth, our muscles, our agility, our strength, even our tongue. The beauty is there (the birds, the fruit,the nature) and we do feed it but never put our guard (sword) down. As we age, we find that all the things that comprised our "sword" dull, fade, become less sharp. In the end, we discover there was never a monster. We wasted time being afraid or defensive against it. The only thing we find in the end is death and we are left feeling afraid when we discover this.

Okay, I may be way off base but that's what I saw.

Patti

The Maze                by Jill Stockinger

I enter eagerly,

having heard the fabled stories

of the great and terrible monster

inhabiting its center. I raise a sharp,

shining sword.

There are yellow and white

daisies and lovely lavender.

Blue-black berries grow ripe

on bushes forming maze walls.

I share this abundance with

the ravens whose iridescent feathers

sparkle green, purple, and blue

in the sunlight. Though unseen,

I hear delightful birdsong of robin,

thrush and finch; I continue,

following the twisting turns. Turning

one more time, around and around,

I feel lost. Am I closer to the center?

The sword feels heavier. (would this just be heavy as "heavier" indicates it was already established that it was heavy)

I keep switching arms to carry it.

I persevere.

I walk and walk.

Days turn into years of wandering,

so many dead ends, the retracing of steps,

so many rights and lefts.

I am very tired. Maybe show here. Something with body language? Or perception?) Although, now I see as I've read the rest of the poem, there is a consistency to stating it plainly.

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[curtis nelson]

Jill

I think Patti summed it up well. One thought I had is after life's struggle maybe seeing death would not be so frighten and there would be a release of fear and a building of contentment at reaching the end.

Curt

"Poetry is not for those without: a mind,

a sense of humor, an imagination, a heart and a soul."

                                                                      Curt Nelson

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From: writing...@googlegroups.com <writing...@googlegroups.com> on behalf of patti santucci <pattis...@comcast.net>
Sent: Tuesday, August 16, 2022 1:30 PM
To: Writing...@googlegroups.com <writing...@googlegroups.com>
Subject: Re: My poem for August 18 2022 Thursday The Maze Jill

 

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