NO way, I SO thought I replied to this already. Well, I'll read it again and give you a reply this time. I'm really sorry for my lateness, JM, you'll have to forgive me... but hey, at least you're getting a bump to the top.
The overall impression I got from this poem was, "words cannot express." I've always hated that saying because it undermines the poet. But hey, you got all ironic and decided to write a poem about how weak poetry is, and even more ironically, you wrote an awesome poem in the process. Make up your mind.
I should lay down my pen ...
rather than do this view an inked injustice.
Words both pale and fail when compared
to dawn's dance upon day.
I love the second line, the internal rhyme bounces rhythmically and the alliteration afterwards is really nifty... that's pure style. I think this stanza is one of your stronger openings.
Each morn the cycle repeats its resplendence,
still no two scenes of renew are ever the same.
And here I sit in my room with a view ...
searching for words to convey what the
sky shares in it's dawning display.
Awesome contrastive scene. You sit inside, in the comfortable and mundane state of the indoors, admiring the outdoors and trying to capture it with your words, your "indoors..." trying to tie it down to the world of humanity. I really like that, the setting of sides is a true illustration of the nature of poetry -- we try to capture the wordless with our human words, and at the same time, try to use those words in such a way that they do not diminish the beauty of the actual fact, the wordless quality that we are trying to illustrate. It's difficult, yes... not impossible, or there would be no poetry... but difficult.
As if a mere poet could pen such grace, as if couplets of
cadence could capture the colors of the cloud's constance.
How would I resonate the reds ... orchestrate the orange?
To pen in pinks and purples couldn't come close to painting
upon creation's canvas. To write of violet hued views or
horizons of blue, could never do such brilliance true.
Yikes, my tongue is doing backflips here. I always quietly read with my mouth whenever you do that endless alliteration stuff. And I think I have it hard trying to fit words into meter, it must be even harder on you, trying to go word for word... but at least you can use a dictionary, right?
So I question the whys ...
Just who am I, to even try?
How would I ever explain the sky?
No dictionary could bind these colors to paper ...
How would hand written lines define the sun in shine?
Such splendor shouldn't be restricted by rhyme.
No pen stroke could portray the beauty that begins and ends
each day. What would the words say of the sky in sway?
Tsk tsk, you're getting really skeptical in this poem... is this really how you feel about poetry? Do you have a right to blaspheme the scene before you by trying to capture it in your human terms and words? Could the reader of your poem ever see the sky like you are right now? I went through a phase where I thought this too, and didn't bother writing imagery anymore. I still really doubt my writing of imagery, but now I am a believer that, even if you cannot capture the scene exactly, you can capture the feelings and response to the scene and allow the reader to understand just what thoughts the scene brings to mind, and perhaps even touch their heart in a way close to that of the scene.
You're one of the poets who does this, so I can see why it's heavy on your mind... you write mostly about the natural, scenes of beauty that inspire you. I understand that you'd start doubting your ability like this.
How could verses of verbiaged verbalize ever speak sure of
salmon streaked skies born to morn's salient sunrise?
Ink immersed images cant compete with crimson cast clouds,
with skylines surrendering to sunshine's saturation.
As if alliterated adjectives could ever be adequate ...
I have no answers ... I've only unadulterated awe.
Salmon streaked skies, crimson cast clouds, sunshine's saturation... you not only stir up the images in my mind, you do it with style. I really like this stanza. The succeeding pair of lines is important, even if you shrug at your own style and dismiss it as inadequate. You have no answers, just awe... the sublime in a nutshell.
What would justify a poet's pretense to try? Perhaps a need
for others to see the sky through poetry's perceptive eye?
Or is it that the clouds call out, that the sun summons ...
the sky sequesters as the scene serene stirs our muse?
Is it inspiration's ensue that our pens cannot refuse?
Why cant I be content to just witness the wonder?
Couldn't it be enough to frame the moment on film?
Shouldn't I be satisfied with making a memory in my mind?
From where comes this cadenced coerce to capture the scene
in metered verse or rhyme scheme?
It's inside of us, JM... have you ever seen a flock of geese stop their business to glance over the river, watch the sunset, and ponder it? We are creatures of thought, creatures of feeling and longing... we see so many things in a sunset that can only be seen by us. That poetic impulse is what sets us apart from the animals and makes us unique, makes us beautiful. We are nature's peanut gallery, and all we can do is scribble out the scene in our own thoughts, to try and capture the world of nature in the clutch of the world of humanity. Filming it is capturing nature as our senses do, remembering it is remembering it as our senses do... poetry is capturing nature with the mind, which is why it is so important. At least, in my humble opinion, that's why.
If I could, I would poetically compose this morning's blue hued birth,
if I believed for even a moment I might find words to write its worth.
As the sun stains the sky in scarlet baptize, my humbled eyes realize
somethings cant be contained nor explained in poetic reprise.
Dusk and dawn's daily sky dance ... holds my heart and pen in trance,
it takes but a glance to know the exquisite needs no eloquent enhance.
I love your conclusion... don't change, don't enhance, just capture the beauty for what it really is and let that be seen, because that beauty is more than enough. Some things can't be seen with poetry, you're right, but that doesn't mean we can't try... John Keats said "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," and I couldn't agree more. Poetry isn't enhancement or alteration, it is capture.
Wonderful meditations here, JM. Your style is sharp and rich as ever, and as usual you make me envious of your tongue-twisting, mind-numbing talents.
"Faith" means the will to avoid knowing what is true.
~ Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche