Poetry Tuesday: XX

I’ll admit. I’m a sucker for personification. I love poems or short stories or narratives that give objects or abstracts a personality. I read a poem way back in one of my first literature classes written from the perspective of a mirror, and I kid you not whenever I’m having a particularly vain moment I wonder what my mirror thinks of me. I’m also a sucker for really old things. Sometimes I write with a quill pen, and I have old fashioned stationary and a wax sealingkit, because I can. So for today’s Poetry Tuesday, I combine two of my favorite things with work from Milton. Happy Tuesday!

On Time

FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace;
And glut thyself with what they womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth and Peace and Love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly guided soul shall climb;
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time! – John Milton

Poetry Tuesday: XIX

Hello! Happy Poetry Tuesday! It kind of happened on a spur-of-the-moment thing, but I think sometimes that works out for the best. This Tuesday is a Casey original, and I’m keeping with my unintentional theme of things that happen as I try to transition into graduate school life.

The Man on the Bus

I saw a man on the bus.
His face was perfect.
His skin was like the back of a Hershey bar:
unvaryingly smooth and glowing.

His teeth were straight like garden rows,
whiter than virgin snow and just as bright.

His angular jaw was outlined with a trail of salt
poured with the utmost care.

Above a slightly pointed chin sat his mouth,
sculpted in such a way that if a hunter
modeled a bow after its shape,
he could never miss his target.

Further up sat his eyes, deep-set and
the color of a cup of coffee:
no cream, no sugar, just pure.

This man on the bus had no nose.
Between his eyes and mouth were two holes,
separated by a scar, marking where a nose
might have been.

How he came to be without a nose is

I’m sure there is a story, but it’s a story
that has little to do with the story of
the man and me.

Society tells me it is unkind to stare-
for some reason this man is defined
by his nose.

But the man has a perfect face,
and I cannot look away,
at least not because of what others are
blind to.

I will look, and be in awe of such a
perfect face. – C.E.H.