(.01june9 07) The Adventures Of My Poems Poem by Max Reif
(.01june9 07) The Adventures Of My Poems
1.
My poems have their moods.
Sometimes they feel shy,
tired of the scrutiny of eyes,
tired of being undressed.
They come and snuggle
under me like baby chicks.
Rested, they venture forth again.
Now they become eyes,
buttonholing people on corners:
'Pssst—help you see? '
Each one has a mission.
Some reveal the hilarity
in the composition of matter.
Some spread the word
that the sky is falling.
Others announce a shout
of joy everywhere at 10 AM.
What do I really know about my poems?
They come from somewhere
I can't even see.
2.
My poems hang out on the corner.
They go for rides with strangers.
Like any parent I worry.
When they come home for the night,
some tell me where the've been.
Others don't say a word.
There's nothing I can do.
I gave what I could.
Now they're on their own.
3.
Sometimes the poems roost
in a tree outside my window,
making so much noise
I can’t sleep at night,
so I can scarcely wait
till fall, when they'll all
fly south.
4.
Once I lost my pen.
Words welled up inside my head
until I looked hydrocephalic.
They started to ferment,
and I walked around dumb
with a big smile on my face.
5.
My poems preen.
They need
to go out in the world
and get a job.
They're big rocks
that need to become sand.
6.
This is a bit off the subject,
but this afternoon I made soup,
feeling tired the whole time.
Ten minutes after I served it
at dinner, everyone
at the table
was asleep.
Got any of that soup left? This is a fine articulation of the poet's existential dilemma. We all long for connection but are locked within the perimeters of our consciousness, it is impossible to image the worth of what we do. In the meantime, please pass the soup.
Mood begets mood! ! You're a very clever man Mr Reif. But this was no soup. Saw your forum posting and remembered I hadn't been on your street for a while, or hadn't heard your poems shouting at my windows for some time. Global warming might be the cause. They go where they must and will not be compelled. There are simply so many writers on here Max, and so many new poems coming through that it becomes impossible to keep up - loved your image as fisherman in the stream! We start to spread ourselves around and soon holes appear in the net and we forget... and sometimes even forget to write. This was a pleasure to read - and was a fine example of the imaginative powers of a certain Max Reif. Glad you're still doing it. Will try to call by more often in future. The best to you, jim
This is a highly imaginative poem which is intensely appealing. The adventures of your poems - each so different that it's difficult to believe sometimes that they share the same parent. I could imagine this piece illustrated as a children's story. Quirky, cute and a wonderful inspiration for all writers, young and old. As for the soporific soup - now there's another story... love Allie xxxx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/8/2024 9:45:15 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Your poems came alive in groups in this piece and slept after having soup. Clever, Max!