Losing everything...

everything is slipping from me today
my memories, my past...
I bend over backwards to hold
but all the more is losing by
my laughs, my happiness...
with my mind I sieze them
in my heart I preserve them
not leaving behind anything
from the pile scattered around
of all precious things
my musings, my love...
as I sit in the middle of them
and think of staking them
gathering them together
from my arms they fall
my experiences, my life...

inspired by frost's poem...

THE ARMFUL
For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns,
Extremes too hard to comprehend at. once
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best.
To keep their building balanced at my ***.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.
1 2
inspiration of frost agin..

I wore the new moon on my heart
as you wear a jewel
I shone it with my tears
as you shine gold
I showed it to the world
as you show your beloved
I brought it over the water
as you see your image
I saw the wonder of colors
as you watch the rainbow.
I saw the flowers in the bouquet
Dancing with the wind in gay

I wanted to select just one
not sure which would hearts win

bluebells with open mouth
lupine come out of drouth

roses were so beautiful
plucking them would be dreadful

tulips were cute too
daffodils were beatiful so

what was really in my mind
No one could ever find

Heaven was visible in each flower
beauty with frangrance at its tower

I always had a glimpse of those
but never did look too close

But,I wanted to always go back
and of their beauty keep track
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Hello Anita!

This couplet I think has an authentic Frostian note:

'I always had a glimpse of those
but never did look too close' –

Maybe the 2nd line needs an extra syllable. ('But never cared to look too close'? Frost is very regular.)

You're right, though. If Frost saw a bouquet, he would imagine the components as they once were.

In your first poem, I think the image is of dropping papers (that's how it seems to me), whereas Frost seems to be dropping 'objects'. But I think 'papers' is good; I'm not sure why he chooses those objects. (He always has to be doing something 'solid'. You wouldn't find Frost walking along with an armful of papers...)

What do you think of Frost's last couplet, after he sits down in the road? It seems slightly weak to me.

Do you know e.e. cummings?

See you
MrP
Thanks Mr.P. As always, u have very constructive criticism. Do u teach poetry?

Well, I too couldn't imagine frost squatting on the road to pick up things...

U guessed right... they r papers dropping in my poem... more like letters!

Yes I read cummings long back.

Can u guide me in syllables in poems?
Hello, Anita – no, I've never taught poetry! It must be a strange job, especially in the afternoon. You would have to avoid very regular poems, after lunch. Thomas Hardy you would need to save for winter evenings, when it gets dark early; and I'm not sure you'd want to read Keats mid morning. With Browning, you would have to call the students back after 10pm; probably with candles. (There often seem to be candles and torches in Browning's poems.)

I'm quite worried by Frost's provisions in that poem. Buns and bottles. I think he could have done better.

'Syllables' – sometimes it seems not quite right to comment in too much detail on someone's poems; but I'd be very happy to say, (with an ever-present 'IMHO'), 'this line needs an extra syllable here', or 'this isn't quite the right word there', if that would help?

(But always, as I say, with an 'IMHO'.)

MrP
Students: Are you brave enough to let our tutors analyse your pronunciation?
Well, well, I appreciate your genius for poems. How do u know so much about poems if u don't teach them. Or maybe u are a research scholar in poetry genre, right?

Would u please see 'unfinished poem' and comment on that?
Another Frostian-inspired poem...

I'm at crossroads
of my this life
one road to beauty
one to the ugly death
one leads to immense happiness
one to the eternal myth
how do I travel now
which do I chose the best
a road of innumerable worries,
a road of eternal peace.
I stopped at the bend
I looked at the roads
I walked along the road
that few would take to please.
Mr.P would you like to comment on this please?
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