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Two poems.

A candle's scent.

When the fire burns

Does the wax fly into the air,

And perhaps alight on my eye?

I ask it not as a question of science, but philosophy

As if the wax were not itself,

or its selfness extended beyond the physical world.

As if it were a question that could not be proven or falsified,

But only pondered,

Wondered about with a faint loveliness of belief

Unable to answer “yes” or no”,

But only a resolved, though somewhat despondent, “I don’t know”

With perhaps some certainty

But certainty that exists apart from proof or knowledge.


Letters

She writes with a poetry not her own

My day lends poetry to her words

And gives more meaning and flow than she has power to make

And yet I admire her for it

As if somehow she were to blame, or be praised for how my mind projected her.

Response in anything other than likeminded poetry would seem false to me

But such poetry written would be out of place to her

For I am not writing to her, but my idea of her

But the real her must endure what I say to some Other.

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2 comments:

Art said...

The first reminds me of our conversation about questioning and answering. :)

The second is rather interesting, I guess since I don't know who it's about, or how your mind projects people. It's also fun to think about talking to mental constructs. I hope the "she" gets to read this poem, anyway.

Daughter of the King said...

Sometimes, the beauty of question lies not in the answer, but in the wondering itself, I think.

That said, I find your poetry rather original. Instead of using poetic elements to spice up your dish(as most poets do),you create potpourri.