  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Becky Simpson  
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3. Letter from the Editor
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The time has come for us to speak of….said the walrus. The time indeed has come, for me to step down as an editor for this newsletter and try my hand at something else. So realizing that I am about to leave those of you who so faithfully read my newsletters, I ask what would you like to chat about? Hmm unfortunately I am not able to telepathically communicate to hear your responses. I would hate to torture you with some boring and long winded one sided conversation, but I would like to leave you with something of myself. I don’t have enough hair to send you all a lock of it so something else perhaps.
First how about I tell you exactly what your many comments, suggestions, and tidbits of information have meant to me. There is only one problem, nothing I could say would come close to describing the gratitude I feel. The kindness you have shown I will take with me and cherish forever more. Then there is the bright side, I will now open the newsletter files to everyone. Finally, let me say each of you would be surprised to discover exactly how much inspiration you brought into my life as I read your works and studied others in preparation. Thank you for all of this and much more. Becky Simpson
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An author, poet, and even editors hope to leave their mark on their audience. That feeling is common to any who create for themselves and others. So, it is the same with me. To do so, your poems must work. The key to poetry is not a simple skeleton key that has a few prongs which must fit for the key to work. It is far more complicated and yet far simpler than that. What do I mean? The essence of good poetry is writing something your audience can relate to. My example is a little poem I wrote about an inch worm. A reader from Japan wrote me and said that the poem was lost on him because he did not know what an inch worm was.
We have discussed the keys many times, and I think you, my reader, know them by heart. So, we will not spend time reviewing them, but if you have trouble remembering, feel free to look them up in all of the editors past newsletters. So bypassing that, what is left? What is the essence of poetry? In my most humble opinion it is simply emotion. Yes, yes, I know, you’re asking, how can I ignore poetic language, or any of the other tools of poetry. All I’m saying is if we read a poem and all we get out of it is a description of some occurrence or nature’s beauty, there is something missing.
Poetry should make you feel something: anger, joy, love, despair, or simply something. I have never liked using my poetry as an example for others to follow. I have always felt it was barely good enough. Yet when we look at the portfolio of one Becky Simpson , we find a myriad of emotions for I am an emotional person. You will find despair, depression, love, happiness, doubt, fear, humor, faith, desire, and joy. Yep, it has descriptive language, but what really makes it work (for me) is that it captured what I was feeling at the time.
That leads me to what I am feeling at this moment. It is complicated because leaving something behind that is a love of mine is not easy, but there is the possibility that another love will be fulfilled. There is the possibility that my next endeavor will be with the spiritual newsletter. Would you mind if I ask you to cross your fingers and toes for me? I hope not. So, what did I hope to accomplish? It is simple, to learn enough to be able to do this:
The Perfect Poem
What indeed makes a poem perfect,
Its beauty created without defect?
Is it form shaped by deep reflection?
Can this make one's poem perfection?
We should not with meter measure
How simple poems give pure pleasure.
We shouldn't think its only rhyme
That makes a poem sublime
And brings us a poetic beauty.
Think you know? Then do your duty,
Tell me is it the voiced inflection
That assures a poem's selection?
Poetry is where my heart beats,
Yet its beauty my rude skill cheats.
My fate could be to write in prose,
Still one desire in my heart grows:
To pen a perfect poem for you,
This would be a dream come true.
Was the goal ever accomplished? No, afraid not, if anything as we studied together, I became ever more convinced my own works needed a ton of work. Meter is such a problem for me, yet calculus is simple, why? Why can’t I find the magic beat that would crown the rest of my efforts? One reader offered her help; she even gave me a test. Um, I became so confused I threw up my hands and decided my teachers in second grade had been correct. It is very possible I am below average intelligence. 
Isn’t it funny who they will let be an engineer? I’m teasing; you haven’t been listening to a complete idiot. Now, back to the original purpose of this newsletter, the pretense was to leave you with something. Please read the poem again, and allow me to leave you with this; the desire to write a poem that in the eyes of your readers is perfect. Don’t write it for them, write it for you; let them find you in the depth of your emotion.
Do so not for me, but for your reader. Help them to experience what you experience. Whether humor or one of the other less enjoyable emotions. Take them for a ride into your soul, bare it for them to touch and feel, then gracefully, ever so gently, bring them back home again. Do so and the applause will never end.
Okay, that’s enough of me and my thoughts. I hope you found something in the newsletters that helped you, and thank you for the chance to discover classic and new poetry. There has not been an effort here to bring you a lot of poetry but following this I would like to present to you my favorites from Writing.Com without comment. These poems speak for themselves. In closing let me beg a little for you each to send me a link to some poem of yours that you would like for me to look at. It would be an honor to discover all of those that were inadvertently not included.
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One last poem…
One last little verse
A few simple words
Or a mere hint of a rhyme
Would that be enough
To forget that winter’s day?
We hardly saw eye to eye
even in that distant world
those resplendent summers where
we seemed inseparable
and time forgave us for our innocence
but we did not care nor need to.
Games and toys and films of places long
ago and far away
let us linger for as long as we could
without worrying what had to be…
They caught up with us
and made decisions instead of asking
Not really selfish but focused on
doing the best with what they had
Understanding had to wait.
We held on but it cost us
forging a false jealousy I never could
comprehend.
Tearing at the fabric of our hearts
Those wounds took too long to mend…
One last poem…
One last little verse
A few simple words
Or a mere hint of a rhyme
Could that be enough
To wish this heartache away?
A wedge became a rift and
seeing each other seemed
trying making speaking even worse.
Sure we were older
and commitments got in the way
but too much became unsaid.
Others tried to stand in the path
Leaving us to shuffle and avoid
Frustrating giving in
Thinking we would have another day…
I did not say much on that bone chilling morn
A numbness overwhelmed what was left
in my heart
not even noticing the rip in my soul.
This blank shell of a man faced
with that piteous lifeless stare
crushing my spirit for how long
I did not care.
You always thought I had strength
Not then…
One last poem…
One last little verse
A few simple words
Or a mere hint of a rhyme
Should have been enough
To bring comfort on that day…
Waiting till they were gone
And it was just you and me
Had to say something
A word maybe two.
Just a reminder of our life that was
Yet thoughts of the words
Did not become a sound.
The anguish and burden too much
And instead of moving on
I moved away…
Five years gone
Thousands of tears shed
would think so much has changed.
Not really yet
All that I needed to say I finally can
No help from others running my life.
The rift healed alas too late
wondering if saying then would
Have changed all that was
Except maybe I could have
Said this on that day…
One last poem…
One last little verse
A few simple words
Or a mere hint of a rhyme
All that I would give
For my friend that I lost
The brother I still miss.
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He watched her down the hallway,
and he knew she was gone.
With nothing more to say to her;
he'd said it all along.
He'd given all he had to give,
yet it never seemed enough.
She was all he ever needed,
but he couldn't keep her love.
There were arms she would run to,
and a man who understood.
He didn't want to think of that.
It wouldn't do him good.
The night would fall so slowly,
precious memories stalk his mind.
The last thing he needed now
was another lonely time.
Just seeing her move away
was more than he could bear.
Her hair hung low across her back,
her scent still filled the air.
The sheets warm with her embrace,
his eyes filled up with tears.
He tried to speak but words were lost
like so many through the years.
How many times he'd seen her walk
away without a glance?
How many times he'd pulled her back,
and begged for one last chance?
This time he knew was different;
she needn't bother to explain.
There was no room for going back,
nothing more for love to gain.
Before the door was closed for good,
she smiled one more time.
Then she walked from his life at last,
he never tried to change her mind.
The silence closed around him,
as he hung his head to cry.
He knew he couldn't blame her;
she had given him her life.
A prayer was whispered silently
for the dream that she would live.
For a moment filled with promise,
and a love he couldn't give.
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What a sad world you have become!
Now when a man has an opinion,a style,
Unlike your own, he is wrong.
Where is the thinking?
You say I must do as you,
This way and that.
Have you ever
Stopped to think of Picasso,
If he had simply painted as those around him
Would we have "Breakfast of a Blind Man"?
If Shakespeare had written,
With the words of his fathers,
Would we have Macbeth?
You say I must be as you,
I must follow the patterns
You have laid out before me,
I must feel with your rhyme,
Flow with your rhythm.
To you I say this;
Lay down your pen and walk away,
For you are the death of an art.
You are slowly letting out the blood,
Of the thing you claim to love.
Poetry is as the wind; it has always been,
It will always be, and it will ever change.
What a sad world you have become!
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I fell for you online, anonymously smitten
Just reading the words your pen has written
You overcame my defensive skepticism
With your every phrase's pensive rhythm
In clever poetry or wishful prose
How this affects me, no one else knows
I tune in daily, hoping to find more
Captivated by your emotional outpour
Each confession of pain that you wrote
Lodges a lump of sympathy in my throat
Your mature resiliency amazes me too
I'm stuck to your journal like binding glue
Your way with words burns me with a fire
Hotter than anything else I could admire
I follow your story's every twist and bending
Wishing I could someday be your happy ending
I keep reading, knowing that I'll never find
Something of yours that doesn't woo my mind
And though I'm a stranger, still I wonder
What category you might put me under
If I spoke up and admitted this yearning
Would our age difference be stomach-turning
Would you smile and nod that I adore you
Secretly hoping I go away and ignore you
My fears keep me quiet but still I read
Your every doubt, inspiration, and need
Until the day I leave the shadows behind
And send you a message, trying to find
A place in your heart, for better or worse
I'll enter your life and exit this verse
Some Day
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel
Some day, my love,
we’ll stand hand in hand,
no pain nor worry
to tie us to this land.
We shall run nimbly
as children do,
jumping, skipping
across seas of cloud.
The toils and trials
we face each day
will not be ours,
but will be packed away.
Then you can again
look at me
through eyes young
enough to clearly see.
I’ll touch your face
with fingers
no longer gnarled
or twisted with age.
Some day, our treasure
of teeming joy
shall not be
tempered or spoiled
with earthly
trouble or despair.
Memory will not
any longer matter,
for our minds
shall be as new.
Some day, ah, yes,
a thought even better,
we will never
have to say adieu.
These are but a few and by no means a complete list of the jewels I have discovered on Writing.Com. To those not mentioned, let me say it does not make your work any less touching or perfect. I am simply getting too choked up to continue. I am always at your service.
Becky L Simpson
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The following members of Writing.Com are some of my favorite poets on Writing.Com. They exhibit and understanding and skill that, simply put, amaze me. I hope those I have forgotten will forgive me, but as time goes on and my memory prods, me this list will change.
Vivian 
reblackwell
COUNTRYMOM-JUST REMEMBER ME 
Ann Ticipation 
Tornado Day
b_boonstra
daycare
SUGGESTED READINGS:
My suggested readings for this month:
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CONTESTS:
There will be no challenge this issue for obvious reasons. I will take the time to once again enjoin you to send me a poem you would like me to see. I am a generous reviewer, and it would be deeply appreciated. |
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Questions and comments from last month my thanks to those who wrote in, if you wish to comment this month feel free, I shall answer them individually.
Submitted By: larryp
Submitted Comment:
An enjoyable newsletter Becky. Good Job!
As you probably know, I'm a big fan of rhyming poetry. Lots of that here, love the limericks.
kansaspoet
Larry
Larry,
You make me smile and practically laugh. I am basically a goof and a blonde and used the simplest things I could to keep from getting confused. Thank you for your kind comment. – hugs Becky
Submitted By: dogfreek21
Submitted Comment:
You have enlightened me! Revenge is sweet! I can't wait to put what I've learned to the test. I would get Jessiebelle for her reviews, but alas, it's already been done... a really long time ago actually.
I'll wait... I'm sure it won't take to long. What do you think?
Hi dogfreek21
Not sure what you are waiting on [ , ] but just remember you can’t leave any grounds for retaliation. I suspect Jessiebelle can fend for herself. – Hugs Becky
Submitted By: Come Fly with Me--Kiter
Submitted Comment:
Very good newsletter. I enjoyed all of it. You used a phrase I have never seen before. "Another words" as a preface to a restatement of fact or opinion is new to me. I have used "In other words" in this way. Maybe it's a regional thing. I live in Texas. Write on.
Hi Come Fly with Me--Kiter ,
Dang you caught me being blonde AGAIN!. All I can say is bad habits die hard, especially if you are older than three. - Hugs Becky
Submitted By: b_boonstra
Submitted Comment:
Hi Becky,
I just wrote a poem, out of frustration about what happened last Thursday. Strange enough no one believes what happened that afternoon; though there is a bus full of people who were victims in this. Ah well... my sore feet survived
"You have to love Rotterdam!"
Love, Bianca
Hi Bianca,
 Congratulations you have 20,000 points headed your way. The absolute strangest story I have ever heard was about a woman who was attacked by a Bengal tiger at her dentist’s office. So I believe. Hugs – Becky
Submitted By: scribbler
Submitted Comment:
I never thought my last duchess to be revenge poetry at all, rather I thought the duke to be a touch insane :D He never seems to think his action were wrong, justified, but they didn't cross me as revenge words. (untill now that is haha)
Hi scribbler ,
I will only say that the poem was pointed out by a friend. I think perhaps we do not use poetry enough for revenge purposes. Thanks for the comment. – Hugs Becky
To the rest of you kind readers who made comments about last month’s newsletter; thank you. If it were not for your kind words, I would be inclined to find another way to spend the time I spend here.
If you have a question, comment or just an observation concerning this edition of the Poetry Newsletter, please feel free to send it to me. I would also like our poetry newsletter readers to send me their favorite poem. Please include the poet’s name. I prefer poets from Writing.Com.
Next weeks editor:Stormy Lady 
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Poetry: July 19, 2006 Issue [#1151]
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