Zanzibar's Random Poetry Corner:
(a note: Zanzibar is not necessarily the speaker in any of Zanzibar's poetry)

An attempt at iambic pentameter:
(This comes from a conversation we had in English once about the naming of houses among English nobles. There was a hierarchy among all living things, with God at the top, angels, humans, animals, and finally plants. The lion was the highest animal and the rose was the highest plant, but all animals were above plants. When we got to the War of the Roses, we wondered why the houses would choose a high plant as opposed to a low animal. We asked our teacher what the lowest animal was and she told us it was the oyster. Thus was born Sonnet to the Oyster.)

Nigh was the onset of the night
The air was full of moisture
Not for any cause of right
But for the honor of the oyster

I came from deep in blackn'd wood
To watch the flags unfurl
As if might determines o'er all who should
And in whose power belongs the Pearl.

(death of poetic structure...)

At last the will of those who win are pressed upon those who lose
Day breaks, it tears
The day is theirs
They have crushed the enemies' souls on the soles of shoes.

---

And all throu' the misty hills passed we
Not quick'nd to flee, or fancy free
But steadily, like the eroding fingertips of ocean foam
Weary but glad; we were on our way home.

---

It was Hell; I know for I was there
I smelled the rotting bodies; and chose my path with care.
You were not there, yet you question what I’ve said
You were not there, to look into the glassy eyes of the newly dead.

It killed my Soul; I know for I could feel it.
I heard its final anguished death as the Devil failed to steal it.
You were not there, yet you question what I’ve said
You were not there, to hear the screaming in my head.

It was Necessary; I know for I gave all
I tasted the bitter hopelessness of the pow’rless and the small
You were not there, but you dare to question me
You were not there to die to set those people free.

---

The Giants pass by and summon with a great magnetic force
And like a bit of iron I flinch and jerk at their proximity.

---

In my warm study there is a busy ticking
With earnest focused industry my pen is stead’ly flicking

At once outside a spirit’s fury rises; and blowing branches bare
It pulls with trembling wrath its fingers through the willow’s tumbling hair.
It is not ceasing! Violence, there still it blows!
A blackbird strains with northward purpose, but southward still it goes.
Like a gaggle of frenzied coyote pups it begins to yip and howls...
I look to the wall for friendly clock but back at me it scowls.

And then the storm is gone again, the wheezing willow falls flat
The returning sun slinks through my window like a lazy summer cat.
Before me lies my lifeless sheaths so long on which I’ve toiled
Still in my forgotten hand my heavy pen is coiled
Is freedom here inside my books? and in notes with care and gravity lettered?
No! I wish to escape by yonder window there and run through life unfettered.

---

and some awesome words from the professionals:

"I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the Beautiful even if my night's labours should be burnt every morning and no eye ever shine upon them."
-Keats?
and of course Blake:

"The tree which moves some to tears is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing that stands in the way"

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