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 Category:  Commentary and Philosophy Poetry
  Posted: March 31, 2017      Views: 232
Chapters:
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 ABOUT
ESTORY 
I am very happy to be back on this site once again after an absence. I used to be ekpoet here years ago. I hope to be able to contribute with lots of reviews and some new material which I have been working on for the last several years. I have writte - more...

He is also an active reviewer and is holding the #94 spot on the top ranked reviewer list.

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Chapter 1 of the book Patterns
prose poetry
"Forgotten Poems" by estory
I seem to have spent most of my life
Writing poems that nobody else wants to read,
Poems that end up as crumpled pieces of paper
On dusty desk tops in spare rooms of apartments
That nobody can see from the street.

Outside, the people that I write about,
The people I have always wanted to meet,
Walk, matter of fact, to the train stations
And the bus stops, the newsstands and the coffee shops,
The offices of skyscrapers, restaurants, movie theatres,
Parks where lovers steal kisses on the benches.

I, who never seem quite able to shake someone's hand,
To say something remarkable out loud,
Imagine the things they say to each other
And write them all down on little pieces of paper,
In all the myriad, brilliant colors of words,
Printed out in clear, bold print,
In the eloquent language of poets,
And paper the window with them,
One beside the other
Until the scenes in the panes of glass are gone
And the people in the outside world
Disappear.

Of course, nobody down there notices.
They don't see any of my silent messages.
The doorbell downstairs does not ring.
The mailbox is empty of letters.

In the dark, I turn on a light.
The light lights up my desk,
And all the blank, white pieces of paper
Yet to be composed into forgotten poems.

The book continues with Cold. We will provide a link to it when you review this below.

Author Notes
This is a poem about the distance between writer and subject, between writer and reader, between imagination and reality. Writers are observers of life; instead of holding a conversation, they listen to the conversation at the next table, sizing up the characters, imagining the plots, the theme, the climax of the story. But somehow, they often seem to miss being in the story themselves. I have to think of the ultimate romantics, John Keats and Fanny Braun, who loved each other in their poetry, but never consummated their relationship. And yet, the beautiful sonnet he wrote for her, Bright Star, would live on for eternity as one of the greatest romantic sonnets ever written, capturing for all time, the essence of romantic love. estory
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